Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Camp Tales VI: The Pringles Incident

The Pringles Incident, or What to do with Empty Pringles Cans

Ahhhh, to recall early camping days. The glory, the scatological humor and imbecile pranks. You have to remember, that camping in NEBRASKA is an endeavor into foppery of the highest kind, Tom Foolery, and junior high humor. Why? Because camping in eastern Nebraska sucks: no mountains, no privacy, tons of RV's, high impact, buggy, ticky, and WORST OF ALL, a "no booze in state parks" state ruling.

Neato. My jail sentence went from 1992-1998, 7 years of camping hell until I fled screaming into the Black Hills, grateful for camping sanity. HOWEVER, I had the best camping mate a camper could ask for from the newspaper: He wishes to remain anonymous (as if I were a famous author along the lines of say, Stephen King, which is rather gay, so I'll refer to him from now on as "Gaylord.") With an insane personality bordering on Einstein and a sense of humor only a comedian could truly appreciate, he made our adventures totally off the hook.

The biggest challenge of course was disgusing our beers as to not get ticketed or thrown out of the parks. We would do ANYTHING to try and find a remote place to camp. Towards the end, we had a canoe, which greatly helped getting away from the majority of campers.

After copious beers, some things would be fair game. And we had a lot of games we'd make up. Mostly dares. "I dare you to(something outrageous) or else (major consequence.)" Nothing was sacred either. Streak through campsite? Sure. Shoot bottle rockets at annoying teenagers across lake? Absolutely.

After a time, we'd run out of outrageous things to do. Til one day.

"Dare me to be the most disgusting bastard you've ever known?" Gaylord asked one Saturday afternoon as we were camping on the edge of Conestoga State Park.

"Yeah, right. I've seen it all," I replied, cracking a beer.

"If this doesn't constitute as the most outrageous thing you've ever seen, then I'll buy us pizza and beer at Piezano's when we get back to Lincoln," Gaylord said, polishing off the can of Pringles--this was no inexpensive feat, as Piezano's pizzas were a good $25 and up for a medium pie, let alone a couple pitchers of good beer.

I looked at him for a moment. What could that be? We've done about everything that two people could pull off while camping without getting thrown in jail. What was left?

"You're on," I said.

Gaylord proceeded to drop his pants, take the empty Pringle can and appear to take a dump in it.

Tears springing from my eyes, I jumped up from the rock and started to dry heave. "You are a sick mother fucker!" I managed to yell and started to run away.

"If you leave, no pizza and beer," he called. I closed my eyes and pulled my shirt up over my head.

An hour later, as we were packing up to break camp and head back to Lincoln, Gaylord says, "I'll throw in an extra pitcher of beer if you carry the Pringles can back to the car."

"Fuck you."

Well you know the drill, folks. "Pack it in, pack it out." But does that apply to Pringles' cans full of shit?

BTW, that pizza was stellar.

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