I’m back from wilderness, where I am now forced to trade pissing wherever is convenient to pissing in the appropriate designated areas. This is turning out to be a lot more of a problem than anticipated.
Now, for some of the finer moments from the past five days spent alongside the Wolf River in lovely Wisconsin:
Playing Men at Work’s "Land Down Under" so many times in a row that the poor radio’s batteries finally gave out. This song, coincidentally, became our campsite’s mantra. Next year someone will have to bring vegemite sandwiches.
Having my friend Michael walk up to a girl in a Graceland T-shirt and tell her with a deadpan look on his face: "You know, if you rearrange the letters in Graceland, it spells Cleveland."
"But there’s no ‘V’ in Graceland," she replied.
"Yes," Michael said, "It was a joke."
Seeing an excessively drunk camper, who we later would dub "Bernie," wander into the vicinity of our campfire and pass out -- only later to have one of our own pose for a picture with his balls resting gingerly on "Bernie’s" head.
At a more sober "Bernie" sighting the next day, the look on his face when the ball rester told him that he had his cock in his face the previous night: priceless. It seems "Bernie" had absolutely no idea who any of us were.
Getting the nickname "Dick Face." A long story, which has nothing to do with actually getting a dick in the face like ole' Bernie. It actually has something to do with a food fight years back involving hotdogs.
Trying to make blueberry pancakes on a campfire. In theory it sounds like a good idea, but theory don’t make those damn pancakes flip. We ate more of a blueberry crumble with syrup that morning – amongst the mockery of all the other campers enjoying their more wilderness suited sausage and eggs.
Being "smoked" out of my tent with the noxious fumes from my boyfriend’s ass, rather than woken up with a simple: "Hey, nap time over." Thanks honey!
Rafting with a very drunken, very flexible girl named Nikki. Now I am not familiar with yoga positions, but Nikki claimed that her constant sitting -- in the raft, on the rocks, on the bus back from rafting, in front of her tent, on her boyfriend – with her legs spread wide open on either side, grasping each foot with her hands, were legit yoga positions. "Okay, Nikki, why the need to strike such flashy beaver poses while in your bikini? Uh huh, that’s what I thought."
Not making the smores we brought camping while we were actually camping, but rather trying to make them last night in my kitchen. Again, another case of flawed theory. I can’t say that I would recommend toasting marshmellows over a lighter.