Stop inviting me to ruin your camping trip
From 1988 to 1992, I attended Girl Scout camp at Tomahawk Ranch in Bailey. It was awesome. We made tie-dye T-shirts, ate burnt s'mores and hunted for Snipes (a fictionalized skunk-rat that was rumored to live in the woods and could only be captured in pillow cases by Girl Scouts). The camping part, however, sucked. What appeal sleeping in a smelly, uncomfortable tent has for people, I will never understand.
There is no part of the actual act of camping that I understand as being fun and pleasurable. I didn't get it when I was eight, and I don't get it now. I also take way too many dumps in a day to be a person okay with not having a toilet available. (And no, an outhouse doesn't count, because Girl Scout camp also taught me that there is a man who lives at the bottom of those toilet holes waiting to snatch your bum with his hook for a hand.)
Car camping was also a favorite pasttime of my parents, and I spent countless nights in a VW bus at KOA campgrounds in scary towns along the West Coast, praying some random fool wouldn't break into our janky car. One particularly memorable evening, after a hearty meal of Kentucky Fried Chicken, my parents put us to bed in the van and set up camp in a tent outside the vehicle. Apparently, Mom and Dad forgot that if you locked the sliding door of our old bus from the outside, you couldn't open it from the inside.
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