Here's one: What's green and pink and red all over? Give up? Why it's ol' Roger "Bermuda Shorts" Dudek back from a sunny weekend in Pennsylvania! That's right, folks, I finally took a vacation after years of avoiding the sunlight like an Irish vampire who works the nightshift. I packed up all of my luggage—and by that I mean my wife and kids—and spent some time in a beautiful little place called the Poconos (which is Native American for "the Great Wallet Emptier"). But as the old saying goes, "No good vacation goes unpunished."

I thought I was in for a nice, relaxing weekend in the woods, but right off the bat I ran into trouble when I found myself face-to-face with a snarling, vicious, bloodthirsty animal who wanted nothing more than to devour me whole. And that was just the travel agent! Two tickets to bankruptcy, please! Now I know why all planes have oxygen masks—it's for when you see the bill! Looks like the airplanes aren't the only things that are soaring. (It's also the prices of tickets!)

And speaking of flights, is it just me, or are the economy seats on planes getting a little more economical? Coach class? They should call it "crunch class." I've got more legroom in my Dockers! Thank you for flying with us, next stop, Cramp City, with a stopover in Las Of Feeling In My Feet. Please transfer for your connecting flight to San Fran-squished-toes.

All aboard!

I've heard flying somewhere exotic is a good way to get closer to your wife, but this is ridiculous. Last time we spent an hour this close together, we had twins!

Thankfully, there was a whole lot more to my vacation than just problems with the flight…. There were also plenty of problems once we got there! One afternoon in the sun watching other people play boccie ball and I was redder than a lobster dressed up as Santa Claus. I just burn like a matchbook soufflé. I was peeling like last call at a banana strip club. I didn't just soak up the sun—I drowned. Oops! My phone's ringing. Oh, it's my good friend Noma. First name Mela? As in Melanoma? The cancerous kind!

Did someone order Extra Crispy? Stick a spork in me, Colonel Sanders. I'm done!

Now, as many of you know, I'm not one to complain about hotel accommodations…but in this case I'll make an exception. It was unkempt, hard to find, and looked like it had been around since the 1920s. And that's just the front-desk staff! I'm telling you, the Howard Johnson's idea of continental breakfast is a stale Danish and an "Adios." Thanks, but no thanks. If I wanted burned sausage served with a scowl, I'd ask my wife.

And what's the story with these all-inclusive vacation packages? It's all-inclusive all right. In just one room I've got my wife, Rosemary, the kids, six suitcases, three guidebooks, and a headache. I'd complain to the management—but I'm afraid they'd give me an extra night free! No, but seriously. If I ever stayed in one of these self-contained lodging, entertainment, and dining facilities again, it would be my last resort.

Now that's suite!

Fortunately for us, there was plenty to do in the Poconos, so we didn't have much time to spend in the hotel room. I mean, after a full day of paying for movie tickets, paying to get into the Glass Museum, paying for a taxi to take us downtown, and paying for my kids to buy up half the clothes in northern Pennsylvania, I hardly had any time to pay for the 12 long-distance calls my wife made to her mother! I guess E.T. isn't the only one who likes to "phone home."

Sheesh! You know, for someone who spends all day lying in bed and holding a blank baby book, she sure is good at running…up a phone bill!

I guess I should count my blessings. A lot of men get mixed signals from the women, but with Rosemary, it's always the same one—a busy signal!

Well, loyal readers, that's all the excitement I have for you this time. We've had fun, haven't we? (Don't answer that.) Make sure you check out next week's column, where I'll tell you all about the trip I took to an exotic place where no one speaks English and the dollar bill isn't worth a dime. Maybe you've heard of it? It's called the Gas Pump! See you next week!

Roger Dudek's column, Write On The Funny, can be read in more than 200 newspapers nationwide—and in his father-in-law's bathroom!