My life is like one big vaginal roller coaster ride.
If my life were an attraction at Disney World, it would be called, "Estrogen Mountain." Or perhaps, "It's a Small Ball World." There would be big headed, lovable characters like "Menstrual Mouse", "Whiny the Putang" and "Peeterless Pan" roaming the park, nagging people until they got a new Ipod, a Nintendo DS or one of those piece of shit FurBerries. By the way, have you seen these friggin FurBerries? They are these demented little, hybrid stuffed animals. I'm telling you, they are straight off the Island of Dr Moreau. Evil little creatures that fold up into a ball with a hard outer shell, like a fucking potato bug or something. But my kids want them, so it's cool. Anyway...
I am constantly surrounded by girly stuff. Sometimes I feel like I'm a pair of panties away from turning into a hairier version of the Little Mermaid. Just slap a pair of seashells on my tits and I'm finished. I need to man it up. I need to fight back. I need to...
Run away!
That's exactly what I'm gonna do. This weekend, as a matter of fact. I'm going on my annual "Dudes Only" camping trip. Once a year, a bunch of us sorry sacks, pick a place in the middle of nowhere and disappear. Most of us are married with kids. A high percentage of us have little girls. It's a pretty hard core sausage fest. If we were a movie, we'd be a Dick Flick. It's a weekend to take back your manhood and heal.
We sleep in tents and build fires. Sometimes we sleep in tents that catch on fire. We eat sausage, beef jerky and skirt steak. We drink Pabst Blue Ribbon from a can. We smoke cigars and stuff. And that's just for breakfast. We take to the river and battle nature. We shit in the woods and don't shower for days. Sometimes we don't even shit for days and shower in the woods. We don't care. It's our call. We have nicknames like Quato, Pooch, Grits, Spanish Rob, Angry Mike and Shit Leg. We talk about baseball and debate who's hotter, Valerie Bertinelli circa 1978 or Valerie Bertinelli circa 2009? We wear work boots with black socks and shorts and nobody says a damn thing. We listen to AC/DC and Lynyrd Skynyrd and sing out loud. Everyone carries a Leatherman Knife and no one ever uses it for anything. We smell like bug spray, smoke and burnt hair all weekend long. No one gets hurt that badly and no one complains. No judgement is passed.
I packed a case of canned bacon. That's 12 cans. Each can has 50 slices of bacon. That's 600 slices of canned bacon. Suck on that. What ever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Unless it kills you. I'll take my chances. I can think of worse ways to go.
We don't need to pack a suitcase and a carry on. We don't need to take a toiletry bag or a hair dryer. Actually one guy packs a toiletry bag and a hair dryer but he's kind of a clean freak. Whatever. It doesn't matter. It's our time. It's go time and it's now.
This weekend I will not be Out-Numbered...
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