We look forward to it every summer. Our annual camping trip on the lake surrounded by mountains and good friends. Letting the elements run free in the elements. We've been doing this so long we know exactly what to expect and we plan for it. Bringing extra food, sunscreen, towels and life vests. Except we didn't expect her. Doreen. Camp host and resident camp Nazi for the summer.
|A rare sighting of Camp Nazi in her Nazimobile|
How could this be?
None of this tent pad nonsense was enforced before.
It didn't make any sense.
The way regulations rarely do.
Our thoughts on this bullshit is best represented by a photo of my friend Ken holding the regulations.
Which we used for kindling soon thereafter.
And then we handled the situation like adults. We took to the lake for happy hour and talked about Doreen. Pranks that we could pull, like TPing her camper. Or putting honey around it to attract the bears. We came up with condescending names for her. Like Latrine. And Doron. But in the end, we did nothing. Because we're mature adults. Most of the time anyway.
The next morning, after that first cup of crappy camp coffee, the walk of shame to the commode to excavate one's bowels began. And what's worse than taking a shit in a camp toilet already filled with shit, flies and the odors of a month's worth or more of the shits of strangers?
Not having anything to wipe your ass with because the camp host, that doron, Latrine, didn't stock the toilet paper.
We so should have TPed her camper!