The art of beach creeping began long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away called the Jersey Shore. There, spray-tanned guidos and guidettes were born and bred to lurk along the mighty Atlantic hunting their prey, tramp stamped-ignoratti ripe for the taking.

A migratory people, several years ago the Jersey tribe learned of a land of milk and honey, a paradise where the number of box stores was as numerous as the number of out-of-state license plates, a place called Myrtle Beach. So the New Jerseyans departed their beloved shore and headed south.

Why do I tell this tale? Because that, my friends, is how the Beach Creeper came to our South Carolina shores. Today there are a variety of creepers. Allow me to name a few:

The Laid-Back Local

This creeper checks out gals and grenades from the safety of his folding chair. His key to creeping surfside is to feign nonchalance. He’ll maintain an air of disregard when a 36-24-36 sista comes walking by. He won’t pounce — oh no — he’ll stay seated and maybe give a nod that suggests, “Hey beautiful, here I am. Ninety-four pounds of man meat packed gingerly into an extra large pair of Tommy Bahama board shorts. Come and get me.”

The Ubiquitous Frisbee Dude

You think this guy really enjoys playing frisbee? You think he’s actually on an ultimate team? Hell no. The frisbee is the prop, and you are the prey. The goal is to bean you in the head with the plastic plate in order to be granted an introduction. He’s banking on his frisbee-playing ineptitude to win your heart. That’ll either repulse you or charm your pants off.

The 98 Degrees Guy

No, I’m not talking about Nick Lachey. I’m talking about the guy that, come high noon, decides to train for his next marathon. The sun, at its peak, has beach-goers diving for the ocean, and yet this guy is running wind sprints past your towel. Dude, we get it: You’re built, and I could use your abs as a cutting board. But we’re all here to relax, not feel guilty for the 10,000 calories of MGD we just imbibed. Take your training roadside. Your Usain Bolt act is getting you nowhere.

The Adorably Belligerent

In the long line of beachy creepers, this guy is a classic. Note I said classic, not class act. Likely working off the remnants of the past night’s debauchery, he arrives at the beach with a bath towel and, instead of a cooler, a Piggly Wiggly bag full of beer. His swim trunks may or may not be of the denim variety. Once swollen to a smoldering lobster red, he’ll decide to mingle. Though his Zach Galifianakis impression will be mesmerizing, you’ll quickly notice his slurred speech and a penchant for belching. This guy needs aloe and an IV drip, not you. Leave him on the shore.

The Pack-a-Day Tanner

Now gentleman, I hate to hate. There are plenty of female creepers out there as well. Perhaps you’ve spotted a woman who from behind looks like a young Sofia Vergara. Her body is by all accounts banging, but when she turns around you realize she’s not a gorgeous South American beauty, but rather a white girl from Greenville who’s been tanning so long she’s managed to genetically alter her ethnicity. You know those anti-smoking commercials where the gal has the hole in her throat. Yeah, that’ll be this girl in 10 years, only instead of a hole, her face will look mummified. Ain’t nothing sexy about skin cancer, people. Puff, puff, pass.

The High-Maintenance Beach Goer

This lovely lass approaches beach-going like she’s prepping for the GREs. A bag of sunblock, a magazine, and some beer is not acceptable, ho ho no. Little Miss Sassy Pants will be camped under an umbrella, tilted at a 53 degree angle, just enough to catch the perfect amount of rays. She brings a timer to know when to flip every 15 minutes and keeps a small bag of low-calorie chips next to her vitamin water. And don’t you dare step into her sun unless you’re OK with never having children. She will cut you.

The Attention-Deficit Amiga

There’s nothing wrong with wanting a little attention, but this gal treats the surf like a stage on opening night of her one-woman show, Look at Me. You’ll hear phrases like, “Turn the music up. This is my jam,” “Carry me to the ocean,” and my all-time favorite, “Do I look fat in this bikini?” Relaxing at the beach is a foreign concept to this girl, like asking her to talk without using jazz hands. It’s hopeless. Ditch the drama diva and find someone chill to chat with.