And Back To Chicks...

I am home safe. No major collateral damage to report. I am rested. I have dirt on my face, that I'm starting to think isn't dirt. My mouth tastes like a foot. and I am a Tic-Tac away from 200 pounds. I am man. Hear me sob.

This past weekend, I had the distinct privilege of camping out with 10 of my best buds. It didn't take very long for me to realize that I am living in a complete bubble. My normal existence is a true life fairy tale. I might as well be living in a Ginger Bread house, paved with Gumdrops, on a street lined with Candy Cane trees. My bed is soft, like Cotton Candy and it welcomes me like a warm, bosom. I am well fed and spoiled, like a fat cat that won't die. I am well dressed. I wear the finest of cottons and denim. My wardrobe is plentiful and clean; magically arranged by the Armoire Fairies in the middle of the night. I come and go as I please and I'm constantly greeted with kisses and hugs from the kind, Munchkin people that dwell in my castle. I live like a Prince, adored by his loyal subjects and revered by his kingdom.

My three revelations from the camping trip:

1) My Wife Buys Me Turkey Bacon For A Reason.
She loves me. We went through over 500 slices of real bacon in 2 days. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck and I can taste blood in the back of my throat. It hurts to breathe when I bend over to tie my shoes and I have experienced an altered state in which I have seen from the eyes of an ancient race of swine people. I am not a religious person but tonight I will pray to the lord, to give me back the 3 years of my life, I just flushed down the toilet. If you ever see a can of Bacon walking towards you, please walk to the other side of the street and for heaven's sake, do not look it straight in the eye. It will destroy your soul.

2) The More You Eat, The More You Shit.

Yes. This is true. Go figure. I was not aware that my body isn't hollow. I had assumed that no matter how many ribs I consumed, there would always be some sort of compartment for the food to settle in. This is not the case. It seems as though the food needs to have somewhere to go. When there is no more room for the food, it simply comes out of your ass. Not a situation conducive to a 200 yard walk to the bathroom. Have you ever heard the expression, "It's like trying to stuff 10 pounds of shit into a 5 pound bag"? Well, if you just do some simple arithmetic, you can calculate, (with fair accuracy) that it is impossible to stuff 200 lbs of BBQ into a 175 pound man. Bon Appetit.

3) The Older You Get, The More You Pee.

There is nothing more pathetic than ten grown men, sitting around a campfire, doing funnels of beer. Oh wait, there is something more pathetic. When those same ten men have bladders, weaker than that of a ninety year old woman in Depends. I'm not sure when it happened but apparently my bladder can't hold more than one beer at a time. Luckily, all of my friends have the same problem. If synchronized pissing were an Olympic sport, we'd have won Gold. Busby Berkeley would have been proud. Our campsite could have been an open casting call for the next Flomax commercial. If our campsite were a castle, we could have filled our own mote. I'm sure we drowned a family of possum that night. We're not proud of this.

I did a ton of reflecting this weekend. I thought about life and about how lucky I am. I thought to myself, "Why are all of your friends so damn hairy?" and "Do I smell my own breath?" These are the types of things a man ponders, when left alone in the woods. This is why we only go camping, once a year.

This past weekend, it was the possum that were Out-Numbered...