Every year, around the same time, all the guys from work get together and head for the lake.
They spend the whole year bitching about how their girlfriends or wives nag them about every little thing they do.
So they plan a long weekend away from all that shit and disappear into the woods.
That?s right.
No women.
Just guys being guys.
They load up their vehicles with tents, fishing rods, junk food, bags of weed, and enough liquor to shut down a small town.
It?s a weekend of digging at your crotch, eating as many bags of chips as humanly possible, drinking until you puke on yourself, and seeing who can fart the loudest without shitting their pants.
On the drive in, you tell your buddy not to try to outdrink anyone at this function.
You know he?s not going to listen, but you tell him anyway.
He?s nineteen and full of confidence.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that thinks nobody on earth can drink more than him.
Judging by the mountain of empty beer bottles hauled out from last year?s trip, he wasn?t even close.
These guys can drink.
By the time the sun is setting, your buddy is shirtless, yelling at trees, flexing like he?s on stage at a bodybuilding competition nobody asked for, and trying to get everyone to arm wrestle him in the dirt.
He?s slamming his elbow into the ground, making dust fly in the firelight, convinced it makes him look tough.
It doesn?t.
They say your true self comes out when you?re drinking.
Some guys tell jokes.
Some guys get quiet.
Some guys want to fight.
Your buddy,
He turns into a full-blown pain in the ass.
Eventually, either you get used to listening to him bounce around like a fuckin idiot, or he finally passes out somewhere behind a tent.
Either way, the forest settles back down.
You can hear the frogs peeping and the stream running behind the camp again.
Peace.
Which means you can finally enjoy your two packs of wieners, your big bag of barbecue chips, and the rest of your two fours without sharing a damn thing.
When you crawl into your tent for the night, you hear moaning.
????
Your buddy is sitting in the middle of your tent, holding his head, puke everywhere.
On the walls.
Down the front of his shirt.
Hanging off his chin.
He?s trying to tell you he didn?t do it.
Apparently, he is trying to say that one of the other guys staggered into the tent, puked all over him, and wandered back to his own tent like nothing happened.
Sure they did!!!
SURE!
That?s when you make a decision.
You give him your tent for the rest of the weekend and take his.
You?re not sleeping in a tent that smells like that.
And that, boys, is why you always tell your drunk buddy to get in his own fuckin tent.
??????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of
The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre
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