The best thing about Ocean Shores is that you don’t even need a conspiracy theory to explain the dysfunction — it’s all written down. Budgets, minutes, memos, public disclosure requests … it’s basically an open-book comedy routine. All you need is the ability to read at a sixth-grade level and the patience of a monk. The only mystery left is how we keep topping ourselves in the “what now?” department.

Start with the roads. Not potholes — no, no, that would be too simple. Instead, we’ve gone with a full-body massage experience courtesy of our bumpy asphalt, like driving across a herd of frozen manatees. Forget car washes; one lap down Pt. Brown shakes enough coins out of your cupholder to pay for lunch. The curves are engineered so poorly that your Prius attempts spontaneous drift racing like it’s auditioning for Tokyo Drift 2: Coastal Retirement Community. Meanwhile, Martha from down the block has to dive into the ditch just to avoid an oncoming golf cart with headlights brighter than the city’s budget outlook.

Then there’s the wildlife, who have officially taken over. Bears now serve as our sanitation department, tipping trash cans with more efficiency than Public Works. Coyotes have streamlined the pet-relocation program — because who really needs cats anyway — and deer are basically running a squatter’s union at the roundabout. At this point, we should just start swearing them in at council meetings. At least they’d show up.

Speaking of council meetings, leadership has become such a black hole of competence that we had to borrow the mayor of Westport to explain why foghorns are necessary. Imagine that: living in a coastal town and needing someone from another coastal town to teach you that foghorns stop boats from smashing into each other. That’s like bringing in a guest speaker to explain that fire is hot or that water is, in fact, wet. If Westport’s mayor starts running safety briefings on how to use a doorknob, don’t act surprised.

And then we reach the Fourth of July, Ocean Shores’ crowning achievement in self-inflicted chaos. Fireworks blast, tourists cheer, and the beaches wake up looking like a landfill sponsored by Red, White and Boom. Plastic, cardboard, toxic ash — it’s all there, glistening proudly under the morning sun like America’s dirtiest confetti. City Hall’s official line? “But fireworks bring in tourism!” Translation: “We’ll let visitors trash the place, then wait for volunteers, retirees, and anyone who can still bend over without pulling a hamstring to clean it up.” The unofficial slogan practically writes itself: “Ocean Shores: come for the fireworks, stay for the tetanus.”

Meanwhile, the residents have turned discontent into a competitive sport. Council meetings feel like reality TV — half debate, half cage match. The Facebook groups read like rejected scripts from Jerry Springer. Neighbors glare at each other across property lines like Cold War spies, waiting for the perfect moment to post about “that one person” who “knows who they are.” Employees don’t just quit their jobs — they flee the entire town like it’s a sinking cruise ship, waving goodbye as if they’ve escaped a cult. The most common farewell isn’t “see you later,” it’s “good luck with the bumps.”

And here’s the kicker: this isn’t rumor. It’s documented. It’s visible. It’s lived. When everyone says it, when everyone sees it, when everyone packs up and leaves because of it, it’s not negativity. It’s reality — our uniquely ridiculous reality.

So congratulations, Ocean Shores. You’ve managed to create a community where the roads provide a chiropractic adjustment, the wildlife has better attendance than the council, the Westport mayor is teaching remedial foghorn, the beaches are decorated with patriotic garbage, and the leadership is buried so far in the sand that the seagulls are charging them rent.

Welcome to Ocean Shores: the Dysfunction Capital of the Coast — now with free spinal realignment.

CJ Ripley is a self-described Ocean Shores survivor.