Do you have any idea how difficult it was to spell a snore sound?
And if that happens to be someones surname, it's quite unintentional. Sorry.
Unfortunately for my fiancée, I snore. Depending on sleep position my snoring can be likened to the susurration of an electric motor or the growl of a 500 hp Chevy big block V8. It's not my only bad habit during my hours of sleep. Sometimes I also like to slay pythons. But I digress.
It was March of '99. Ken - a buddy of mine - thought it would a great idea for the two of us and his dad to go on a weekend camping trip: Real men in the real outdoors. We spent the night at Ken's place to get an early start at the butt crack of Dawn. Ken's dad sprawled on one couch, me on another. Ken comfy in his own bed.
We piled our gear and ourselves into Ken's Eagle Talon. Yes, three grown men in a two-door coupe with an almost non-existent backseat. As I sat hunched in the backseat with camping gear surrounding me I couldn't help but think of a clown car. Hey, I've got the red nose, after all. After a few hours of driving we reached our destination of Robbers Cave State Park. Luckily Ken's dad opted to take one for the team and sat in the cramped back seat for most of the drive. I almost felt guilty. Almost.
We pitched our tent (No, seriously. It was an actual tent) on the edge of Lake Wayne Wallace and commenced doing manly stuff, like finding wood for the fire and chopping it down with a horribly tiny hatchet. But we made it look manly. Finally with the wood chopped we started a fire while Ken's dad walked to the water's edge to catch dinner. All freakin' night. That man did not sleep.
We stayed up into the night - enjoying the brisk cool air flowing in from the lake and appreciating the natural beauty of the Earth and the crystalline night sky dotted with brilliant stars. Then one of us may have farted or belched; because we had to keep it manly while enamored with nature.
After midnight or so we turned in. And by "we" I mean Ken and myself, because Ken Sr. was god-knows-where walking along the lake's edge still trying to catch a fish. The night got damned cold. I'm talking 34 degrees cold. I was still wearing all of my clothes, sweatshirt, down coat, hat - while hunkered in my sleeping bag; teeth chattering. As I shivered I bitterly mused to myself, "We actually thought this was a great idea?" Unfortunately for Ken it seems the cold, well, enhances my snoring. I was nudged by him more than once; "Dude, you're snoring." 'Kay, thanks.
Morning found me alone in the tent. Ken was in his car, asleep with the engine running. Ken Sr. was up making a fire and coffee. Ken's dad told me he heard the sound of a hot air balloon's flame blast earlier, and he almost expected to see one come up over the tree line. Until he realized it was coming from the tent. Me, snoring. Did I mention the cold enhances my snoring? Yes. Yes I did. Ken admitted that was the reason he retreated into his car. Not surprisingly, that was the last time we went camping.
So yeah, I don't really go camping anymore.
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