Was camping the other day. I had to take a dump so I walked to an out of the way location and did my business. I’m not all that picky about where I take a crap, like some people are. I figure that if I’m getting all the waste out of my body I don’t mind where the smelly, nasty, shit goes as long as it is far away from where I am. However, I refuse to wipe with anything that nature provides. So, my girlfriend was nice enough to buy a roll of toilet paper just for our excursion. This, in theory, was great. But the problem was that she somehow bought the cheapest, roughest, toilet paper ever created. It was like wiping my ass with a cactus. It was so bad that it brought me to tears. Let me tell you, those were two actions that were never meant to go together. I’ve wanted to cry before a poop before, and I’ve wanted to cry during a poop, but usually the wiping stage is the relief stage of the bowel-movement process. Not so in this case. I actually began to wonder why someone would release something so torturous into the world. I would have gladly accepted a bidet-waterboarding over the painful glass-shard-toilet-paper-wiping. In fact, I think the experience did irreparable harm to me both physically and mentally. Now, no toilet paper seems to be good enough. I yearn for a TP that is softer than any material on Earth. I want to wipe my ass with a cloud. Its so bad that I’m thinking of starting up my own business of making toilet paper. I’ll make the TP out of butter, and my tagline will be “Don’t Hate Your Anus.” I’m sure it would sell like crazy. I mean, who doesn’t want to wipe their ass with a stick of butter? Think about it.
Posts made in May, 2012
Our fist day of camping actually had a highlight. We decided to camp the first night along a river. This part of the river was actually frequented by visitors canoeing and kayaking. We chose an area that formed a small peninsula in the river, but we had no idea that our spot was as good as setting camp on a goldmine. When the first canoeist (I had to look that up, I thought it should be conoer… but it didn’t look right) came by we saw the value of our campsite. There was a large rock just a little upstream from the peninsula, and the waters were really swift at that point. Then, just at the peak of the peninsula there was a large tree that had fallen into the river, so that it only left a narrow, swift, channel between it and the land. So, when the first canoeist came by we saw a scene that was repeated at least 20 times before we even had our tents up. The canoe hit the rock with a THUNK, then the canoe was dragged along the rock and around it where the water swirled. The people and contents of the canoe were all thrown into the water. Then, canoe, former conoeists, and contents all thudded into the tree, bounced off and were carried around the rest of the peninsula and then out of sight around another bend. The first time we thought we were just witnessing something special, but, as I said, it happened many times after and only varied slightly from one indecent to another. Sometimes a rider would hang on after the collision with the rock, but then they were doomed at the tree. Other times, they’d see their fate coming and would row away from the rock, but against the current. But that only made everything happen slower. In some ways I enjoyed that more. It allowed me to savor the moment in slow motion. However, there was one case that was exceptional. The pinnacle of the day. There was a kayaker who was barreling down the river at top speed. He was in a bright yellow kayak, he had no shirt on, and he had sunglasses on. Just by the look of him I knew his type… I’m sure you do too. I was looking forward to watching this. But, as fast as he was going the kayaker still dodged the big rock deftly, somehow, and started down the swift current behind it going almost sideways, but at top speed. Impressed I yelled out “Wow, good job, man!” The kayaker looked over at me and gave a sly, cocky, smile. Maybe too cocky, because by turning to look at me, he neglected to notice the large tree. THUNK. He hit the tree hard, skidding sideways into it. His paddle flew from his hands and was swept off in the current. He hit with such force that his kayak actually slid up the tree a bit, but partway up it turned over due to being top heavy. The kayaker flipped, and was upside down in his kayak for a moment or two as the current carried him around the peninsula, then he flipped upright and tilted left and right a few times, dunking him halfway each time, his arms flailing. Just before he turned the corner out of site he screamed “FUCK YOU.” And he was gone. It was the only time I can remember truly enjoying hiking. I’m still not sure if he was yelling at me, or himself, or the tree, but I like to think that it was all three. A perfect circle. In that moment, I actually understood what some hiking fanatics rant on about with being one with nature… me, the tree, the cocky douchebag kayaker… in that moment we were all connected. In a perfect, beautiful event that I will tell the story of to my children and their children, and will probably be continued to be retold for generations.
On the way to go camping we had to drive over a road in great disrepair. Off of the shoulder of the road on one particular turn with large potholes and a close, dizzying, vertical drop there was a sign that said “Adopt a road” and it had a person’s name on the sign. I don’t remember it exactly but it was something like “Larry ‘Buzz’ Smith”. I remember thinking that it was sad to see that the adoption system for roads is as bad as for kids. Someone needed to either call Larry to tell him to get his ass out there with a shovel and some asphalt, or call the road-repair equivalent of CPS. Though what I found more amusing was how they added the guy’s nickname, “Buzz”. I’ve seen that before on road signs dedicated to people. It makes me wonder if they’d add that if someone had a nickname that wasn’t so conventional. For instance, what if it was dedicated to someone who had an ‘interesting’ college experience which his Frat brothers monikered him after. It would be funny to see one of those signs with “Larry ‘Jizzface’ Smith” or “Chad ‘Dirty Broomhandle’ Moore.”
A little while ago I went camping. The next few updates will be excerpts from the notes I made on the trip. I wanted to preface it with saying that I went into the trip thinking that, as a stroll is a euphemism for a short hike, camping is a euphemism for a multi-day hike. But I was wrong… oh so very wrong! Each day of a camping trip is exponentially worse than the day before. Camping is like a torture that gets progressively worse over time. Like being tied down on a bed of bamboo plants. Or getting married.