Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Does a Bear Shit in the Woods?
I don't know about the bear, but I shit in the woods. Once, anyway. And let me tell you, if you're looking for a good indignity to thoroughly scrub away those last few pesky shreds of self-esteem, squatting down pants-less in the brush to let one rip will do the trick. My sense of self-worth was shot off in the war many years ago, of course, but I feel that I can speak authoritatively on this matter nonetheless.

I was camping Saturday, you see. Enjoying the natural splendor and blah blah while drinking myself cross-eyed at Blue Springs State Park. By the time I hit the sack that night I was exhausted. That morning I had my first kickboxing sparring session (an experience you can recreate at home by wrapping a moist dog around your face and letting a laughing guy punch and kick you while you wave your arms around at random, and girls laugh, and also you must stuff a large hunk of plastic in your mouth and be very tired), it was a fairly long drive to the campsite and the afternoon had involved lots of strenuous bottle lifting and standing around holding a fishing pole. So when I went sleepies I crashed hard.

This didn’t prevent me from waking up at four in the morning, guts all a-churn. Was it the cookies? The supper of nearly raw steak? The estimated 14 beers? Who knows, but it was itching to find its way to the outside world, and like pronto.

In vain, I tried ignoring the low-end rumble coming from my nether regions. It was to no avail. After a several torturous minutes of trying to go back to sleep while feeling the pressure build, I knew I had no choice but to get up and relieve myself if I was to reclaim comfort. I crawled out of my tent, grabbed my flashlight and, half-delirious from sleep and booze, stumbled out into the night in search of succor.

The campground featured a large bathroom and concession stand, located about a 10-minute walk from my site. All I had to do was follow the path through what the map called the Midnight Death Forest of Spooky-Ass Horror and sweet relief would me mine. I squinched my ass cheeks together as tightly as I could while still retaining mobility and toddled down the very dark path. At some point during the day, thoughtful children had chalked inspirational messages along the way: “My mom is STILL a bitch,” “Hell Road,” “Haunted,” and, my favorite, “TURN BACK!”

Woodland goblins and vampires, disturbed by my frenetic waddle, rustled in the brush alongside me. I paid them no heed, remaining intent on my mission and trusting the yellowing light of my flashlight to keep anything nefarious at bay. Plus, I am a big boy now, and do not need daddy to hold my hand in such situations, no matter how comforting it would be.

Fifteen terrifying minutes later I found the bathrooms. Like every other damn thing at the campground, it was totally dark and scary. “I hope there’s a damn light switch inside,” I thought as I pulled on the door. But the darkness soon became the least of my worries: the door was locked. “Fuck it,” I thought, “It’s 4 a.m. I’ll go on the ladies’ side.” But no, I wouldn’t go there either. The entire thing was locked down.

Tired, boozy, sick and experiencing severe gastric discomfort, I stood there, reeling, and briefly wondered if this wasn’t some kind of stupid nightmare. No, it all pretty much fell right into line with the rest of my stupid life, so I re-squinched my butt and hobbled back toward what the signs said was the Soul-Chilling Forbidden Path of Inescapable Bloodcurdling Pants-Shitting Doom.

I hit the path and had a little conversation with myself: “What if you’re walking along, and all of a sudden there’s a guy, just standing there?” Fuck, that’s scary. Better cut that shit out. “What if he’s standing there, just staring at you, like he’s been waiting for you? And his skin has the chalky pallor of the grave?” Holy shit, where are these thoughts coming from? “And what if he’s holding a knife?” Oh my fucking god, brain, I have to take a dump so bad I can taste it so I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop with that Stephen King shit RIGHT. NOW.

Suddenly there was some kind of spastic commotion in the bushes right next to me. I jumped about six feet, somehow managed to keep my poo in my ass, and swung the flashlight around so I could get a good look at the chalky white evil ghost dude that was fixin’ to knife me. The light uncovered a small alligator that I had apparently startled. He wouldn’t make eye contact — in fact, he seemed embarrassed and was acting like he didn’t see me. So I split before he called up his friend the Pale Stabbing Ghoul of Creepy Woods to do me in.

Back at the campsite I tried to stop hyperventilating and climbed back into my tent. My intestines continued their protest and relief was nowhere to be found. I knew I had no choice but to go natural if I was to make it through the night.

I crept back out of the tent and, quietly as possible, rummaged around looking for paper towels. I grabbed a handful, removed my shorts, removed my underwear, removed my fishnet stockings and stood for a few moments, bare-assed, and contemplated the step I was about to take. After a deep breath, I squatted down, did my business while praying that nobody would wake up and take pictures, wiped and got the hell out of there. The deep sense of shame and revulsion was overcome by my physical relief and I was soon asleep.

The next morning, I asked my buddy Brian if he had brought a shovel. “I woke up in the middle of the night and had to take a shit,” I explained, pointing to the mess just a few short feet from our tents. “I need to bury it.”

Understandably, Brian looked disgusted. He stared at me for a minute and asked, “Why didn’t you go to the bathrooms?”

“Believe me, I tried. I had many adventures and the bathrooms were locked. That path is scary as shit at night, too.”


“Yeah, I took that dark-ass path and saw a fucking alligator.”

Brian pointed to a break in the brush across from the campsite, maybe 20 feet from where my tent was set up.

“The all-night bathrooms are right through there, dude.”


Girls are awesome.

Brian wearing a sarong and holding a bag of cookies is awesome as well.

The women-folk go off to rustle up some grub while clad in traditional Frankie Goes to Hollywood-brand native garb.

As a child, Becca was rushing through a busy airport and briefly brushed against famed jazz guitarist Al DiMeola. Eerily, more than 15 years later the spot where he touched her is the only place on her body that wont sunbun.

The photo on the packaging showed the tent as being a neutral green color, so imagine my delight when I unpacked it and discovered it was actually made from gay pride flags.

We went to fish off this dock and these two fucking giant owls would hang around like two feet from your face, swooping in to steal any fish you caught. Disconcerting. We dealt with it by not catching any fish.

Check out these meaty guys watching one of the owls. Right after I snapped this pic, the owl started flipping out and getting all burly, so the dude on the right scared it off by squirting it with some of his breast milk.

Sign warning park visitors about the manatee child molesters.

The people running the place had installed animatronic pirates along the boardwalk, which I thought was cool.

James knocks over our last drink while Oliver tries to comprehend the horror.

Right after I snapped this, Oliver says, "I just squeezed out a fart when you took that." Awesome.

Brian wins the stick-fishing competition by reeling in a stick. Good job, dude. Nice stick.

Back at camp, grilling out around the fire. Adam told me some story about how the night before I got there raccoons got into the provisions and ate everything, but spit out the tofu hot dogs. I responded that I knew how the raccoons felt and pulled out the steak I brought to grill, generating oohs and aahs from the guys. Seconds after hearing the first sizzle, Brian and Adam drove to Winn Dixie and sensibly bought several pounds of meat.

Steak good. Civilization bad. Give up.

Drunk Ann, part one. Yay!

Drunk Ann, part two. Party!

Drunk Ann, part three. What the fuck!

Alcohol is prohibited in all Florida state parks.

The morning after the poo adventure. Hello, ladies!

Feelin' groovy!

A lot of people think Oliver is a kid, but he's actually 28. He's got that weird Webster shit or something.

Smores for breakfast. Awesome.

Natural splendor blah blah blah.


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