For more than three decades, Herb and Jean Ganser have run the Captain Shea Inn where New York tourist Tyler Donaldson stayed with his family during a recent visit to Turner’s point this fall. According to Donaldson, he quickly grew “sick of their bullshit.”

“First Jean bakes my kids cookies and then Herb invites me to his Wednesday night bridge game,” Donaldson recalled as he sipped one of Herb’s famous Bloody Marys on the porch of the inn. “Who the hell plays bridge? It’s like, give me fucking a break with all this quaintness. It’s cloying, you know?”

Lisa Gianos, another inn guest, went berry picking at Sanderson’s Farm in northern Turner’s Point during her stay. According to Gianos, the second she and her daughter saw the family-owned farm, they were “punched in the goddamn face by the quaintness of the place.” When it came time to pay, Farmer Sanderson hopped down from the bed of his charmingly aged pickup truck, told Gianos to keep her pail of blueberries free of charge, and offered to play harmonica for her daughter.

“I threw him a couple bills and told him to cut the jolly-fucking-farmer act,” said Gianos. “Feel like I’m in fucking Grovers Corners, for Christ’s sake.”

Though the town’s economy is booming, whenever shopkeepers offer visitors some old-timey honeycomb soap or a bottle of the town’s locally brewed apple cider, customers often lash out at them, yelling that they should stop dicking around, trying to live out Norman Rockwell’s wet dream.

On Donaldson’s last afternoon in town, he noticed a group of local teens sitting on the beach with a cooler. “I hoped they were gonna start playing loud music or smashing beer bottles or some other kind of unquaint shit like that,” said Donaldson. “Instead, the kids all cracked open soda pops and started flying kites.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” he added. “Get me the fuck out of here.”