This may explain my hatred for camping...until beer was introduced of course.
You see, the lack of adult beverages is why Girl Scout camp sucked. Sure, it's fun to wander aimlessly around in a circle with a ribbon in hand to make a Maypole with your fellow scouts, proclaim that sticks and rocks glued to paper is "nature art," sleep in wooden shelters on cots that embed spring marks in your back and have a bug the size of Alaska that has yet to be identified by scientists attempt to crawl up your ass, but I bet if we all had spiked our bug juice with vodka, we probably would have been more apt to become one with nature.
Not to bad mouth Girl Scouts. It’s a lovely organization that I think all girls should experience, but I’m just not too keen on beetles creeping around in my pants…pervs…
...Or you could just skip all that shit, hop in a big, rubber raft with several of your friends and float down a river in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere for seven hours while guzzling enough beer to not care that bugs of all kinds are crawling all over you instead.
Yes, the famous summer weekend pastime known as “The Float Trip,” which usually involves camping. Every time I’m asked to go on one of these trips, I think of giant, butt crack diving beetles and hesitate for a split second before remembering all the drunken shenanigans completely unique to a float trip and decide that there’s no way in hell I can miss it.
There's no better place to sport your Boone's Farm tee.
I may still have a small, overly flaily seizure complete with a string of high-pitched screamed obscenities each time a spider skitters across my path or *gasp* winds up in my tent…or a moth flutters past my arm…or I walk into a spider web…or I see something that looks like a bug, but later realize it’s not after said screamy, flaily episode – BUT, I still suck it up and camp…and find that these neurotic episodes seem to subside after a couple beer bongs and shots of Wild Turkey American Honey from a stranger on the river…See, I told you adult beverages make us one with nature.
Last weekend a group of about 20 of us headed down to Noel, Missouri to brave the
Kate and I became instant wilderness women when we were informed that our planned tent arrangement was already full and we had to pitch a tent by lantern light at 10 p.m. Good thing I’m actually a boy scout – always prepared – I research everything before I do it, I carry a pharmacy around in my purse and I threw my tent in the car before we left “just in case.”
After a while, security officers ninja-ed out of the darkness to tell us to turn off our music and shut up – quiet hours were now in effect on Wilderness Island, but instead of doing that, we wandered over to the Late Night Loop where the drunkenness raged until 2 a.m.
After my friend Tom chased me around the parking lot with a hot dog he found on the ground, we found some of Kate’s friends who just happened to camp in style in a short bus.
We then got the pleasure of experiencing the poop closets, also known as the unventilated, wooden bathroom stalls. Sure, there was running water and flushing toilets within walking distance, but there was often a line resulting in the chance that a large, drunken cowboy would come out of one of the stalls and apologize profusely with wide eyes and a sheepish smirk before the shat stank began offending your nostrils. Once inside said poop closet while breathing through your mouth, you almost always noticed a little friend watching you from a web carefully spun from one of the ceiling corners.
However, the real action began Saturday morning when we jumped on a bus, then on a raft and shoved off into the wild blue all while simultaneously cracking open the first morning beer and flinging Jell-O shots between our four rafts.
Ridiculousness ensued immediately when another raft’s offer of beads for boobs enticed one of our ladies to whip out the girls, which then caused her to face flop into the water. I also ended up in the water shortly after her because the force of Jeff diving off the side of the raft catapulted me into an involuntary back flip. I’m pretty sure beer came out of Kate’s nose and then she pissed her pants after that happened. I’m totally funny.
Pit stops are a must on float trips in order for people to jump off random cliffs and branches and, of course, to utilize the beer bong I so graciously remembered to dig out of my closet. That thing is a family heirloom – old, crusty and covered in stickers that say “I Got Bonged.” It was purchased by my older high school boyfriend in South Padre during Spring Break 1999, then brought back to my little 15-year-old self who so innocently asked, “What the hell is that?” My, how things have changed…
Unbeknownst to me, Jeff filmed all of the beach bonging and now there is a video of yours truly beer bonging in a bikini on Facebook. That’s Klassy. Note the capital ‘K.’
Making new friends is also a float trip tradition. I think our favorites were the Army cowboys from Nebraska, Steve and Gonzo, who we promptly nicknamed Stecarlos and Muppet.
Other people who made the friend list were anybody that had a dog, especially a tiny one wearing a lifejacket because there’s pretty much nothing more hilarious and any man wearing “jorts” (stands for jean shorts btw) because they’re usually the sexiest bitches on the river.
Me and one of my many jorts men
Our least favorite friends had to be the white trash couple who decided to have a marital dispute on the bank of the river in front of hundreds of people, which involved their canoe tipping over and the man standing over the woman, getting in her face to call her names and scream “I DON’T WANT YOU SHOWING YOUR FUCKING TITS TO EVERYONE!” while she drunkenly threw rocks and mud at his face.
This brings me to my next concern – why the hell would you bring children on a float trip? There were so many! Perhaps these places advertise some sort of “family friendly” atmosphere and then the parents find themselves surrounded by hundreds of 20 and 30-somethings that are screeching fuck, pounding beers and exposing their 8-year-old to his first boob flash. I mean, the kids (and dad) probably love the fact that their parents are incredibly retarded, but next year they’ll most likely be taking their family vacation at good ole Disneyworld.
By the end of the float, we were just stupid – face planting into the rafts, snorting, tackling each other into the river with full beers – it was time to drag our drunk asses back to the campsite where I nursed my fiery red thighs and a hangover at 10:30 at night.
Oh float trips – how I love thee. And, this one was definitely an outstanding one…even with the risk of ass crack beetles.