Mancamping
Epic.
The weekend of mancamping was epic.
Pure chaos and excess stretched over two days in which seven buddies left the girlfriends and wives home and got ridiculously drunk at a cabin in a trailer park of sorts. Fueled by a sense of removal from the normal world of actions carrying consequences (as well as over $200 in liquor), it was only inevitable that the weekend would result in a veritable cornucopia of morally questionable stories.
Most of which I'm not going to share with strangers on the internet.
One of the humor highlights, however, occured on Saturday night. I was leaving the wedding we had crashed to check on Mike who was laying in a drunken stupor on the lawn. Just as he was asking me not to make good on my threat to pee on him, a guy entered our peripheral vision and started crossing the parking lot to enter the bar. It was dark, and in my half-blind state I thought he might be one of our crew.
"Hey!" I shouted, "You look like one of ours! Who are you?!"
There was a momentary pause as the guy stopped, his face a shadow as he sized us up. Finally he spoke, his words escaping in a low, terse drawl. "I ain't one of yours."
Undeterred, I asked," Yeah, well then who are you? What's your name?"
"Dale," he said.
"I'm Bill. Are you going to the wedding?"
"No, just the bar," he said. And then it came out, a deep, grumbling shot that bordered on threat: "You got any more questions?"
Somewhat disarmed at the sudden menace in his tone, I combed through my hazy brain for something that would ease the tension.
"Just one." A brief pause, then: "Are you bringing sexy back?"
He pulled down his hat, turned to enter the bar, and muttered out, "Yep."
The weekend of mancamping was epic.
Pure chaos and excess stretched over two days in which seven buddies left the girlfriends and wives home and got ridiculously drunk at a cabin in a trailer park of sorts. Fueled by a sense of removal from the normal world of actions carrying consequences (as well as over $200 in liquor), it was only inevitable that the weekend would result in a veritable cornucopia of morally questionable stories.
Most of which I'm not going to share with strangers on the internet.
One of the humor highlights, however, occured on Saturday night. I was leaving the wedding we had crashed to check on Mike who was laying in a drunken stupor on the lawn. Just as he was asking me not to make good on my threat to pee on him, a guy entered our peripheral vision and started crossing the parking lot to enter the bar. It was dark, and in my half-blind state I thought he might be one of our crew.
"Hey!" I shouted, "You look like one of ours! Who are you?!"
There was a momentary pause as the guy stopped, his face a shadow as he sized us up. Finally he spoke, his words escaping in a low, terse drawl. "I ain't one of yours."
Undeterred, I asked," Yeah, well then who are you? What's your name?"
"Dale," he said.
"I'm Bill. Are you going to the wedding?"
"No, just the bar," he said. And then it came out, a deep, grumbling shot that bordered on threat: "You got any more questions?"
Somewhat disarmed at the sudden menace in his tone, I combed through my hazy brain for something that would ease the tension.
"Just one." A brief pause, then: "Are you bringing sexy back?"
He pulled down his hat, turned to enter the bar, and muttered out, "Yep."