My Beautiful Dark Twisted Camping Trip

                                       
                                          

       So a lot of you may not know this about me, but I totally love camping. I can't even tell you all how sick I sometimes get of being cooped up in my apartment, with my so-called "air conditioning" and all my other modern "conveniences." I find that in my apartment there is a serious dearth of venomous spiders and other things that could kill me such as bears and what not, and there is way too much of an availability for me to properly wash my balls. And just how am I supposed to dig a hole for me to shit in and wipe my ass with some bark from the so-called "comfort" of my cold, repressive apartment? Suffice it to say I think camping is the tits. I'm always trying to bring along people I know who have never been camping before, and who doubt the inherent awesomeness of it, so they can realize how fucking stupid they are. So this time I decided to bring my good friend Muammar Gaddafi, because let's face it, the dude needs some cheering up right about now.

       When I first approached him with the idea for this thing, he was as resistant to it as he was to the idea of giving up Libya, and all his power and what have you, but then I reminded him that for the entirety of his childhood he lived in a tent in the fucking desert. Or at least that's what the official reports say. So I told him to man the fuck and stop throwing his little pity party, and he said but what if I don't wanna, and I said fine then I'll just call for a wambulance, and then he called me an American swine, and we had a good laugh, because he knows I know full well that the wily old son of a bitch grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland.

       A good rule of thumb when going camping with Gaddafi is make sure to bring a shitload of Jheri curl grease, because God forbid he runs out of it and is forced to walk around with a Jewfro for the rest of the time, because you are guaranteed to have one whiny little poopy pants of a fervently anti-Semitic manchild on your hands, and I think we all know how much that can suck.

       Now some of my more pathetically out of touch readers will remember that for much of the 1980's, Gaddafi did in fact rock something that looked an awful lot like a Jewfro. Well that was before someone told him what that hairstyle was called.

Ignorance is bliss.

       Not cool, Idi Amin. I'm sure you don't give a shit though. You're not the one who had to listen to him sobbing on the phone for hours, and you are also dead.

       And the other thing I would suggest is to be respectful of his abstinence from pork. We're living in the 21st century here people and it isn't that hard to purchase turkey bacon. But I wouldn't recommend letting Gaddafi come into Walmart with you. He fucking loves those musical greeting cards and Walmart has like a thousand of them. He is also the consummate impulse buyer and wouldn't you know that Walmart does not accept payment in Libyan dinars, even if you are the person whose face is on the front of them, so guess who will get stuck footing the bill for over sixty decorative magnets.

That's right, you will.

       On the way out to the campsite we started to get bored, so we decided to sing some road trip songs. I decided to start it off with "99 bottles of beer on the wall," but he just sat there glowering at me all sinister-like and I could tell he really wanted to suppress my shit, so we ended up singing "The song that never ends" instead. But anyone who has ever sung that song knows that after about 30 minutes it really starts to get old, so luckily I remembered a game I learned from those epic road trips with my family back in the day. It's a little game I like to call "passive aggression." I was able to defeat him handily in that since he is much more accustomed to plain old aggression. Then he wanted to play a game called "Nevs have I evs." It basically consists of telling things you have never done before and then giggling like school children. Kind of immature I know, but it was actually a lot of fun. I told him that nevs had I evs worn a muumuu, and it was funny because he couldn't say the same. Now I know some of you will probably want to point out that the game is actually called "Never have I ever" and is a little more complicated than what I described, and involves a lot of drinking, and I think it's really smart and not at all egocentric of you to think that your particular version should be the same as Muammar Gaddafi's, you insufferable infidel twuntfucks.

       Now you would think that someone with a reputation for being this Bedouin badass would have no problem setting up your basic tent, or at least helping me out with it, but apparently his job in the tribe or whatever was more along the lines of jerking off the camels because he just sat there on his indolent tuchus and ate one of the twenty bags of Cheetos he made me buy for him while I sweated my nuts off. By the way, he is probably the only person I know who prefers the big puffy kind. Then after he polished off that bag he went for the chili cheese flavored Cheetos Fantastix!, and I didn't bother telling him that that kind contains porcine enzymes and is therefore definitely haraam.

       Well having that secret revenge on my hapless despot amigo helped me to get over my resentment a little, and the rest of the day went better than expected. We went for a walk through this lovely vibrant meadow and I could see my friend's mood start to lighten a little. At one point a monarch butterfly landed right on his shoulder and for just a glimmering moment I could see all the hate fall away from him and it was replaced by love, a love so exciting and new, the kind that if you just let it flow, it will always float back to you. But then all of sudden, like a boat of love, or "love boat" if you will, it was gone.

       Later we sat around the fire and roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories, and then I was feeling sort of sentimental since it was already our last night and we had had such an amazing time, so I busted out the guitar and started singing some songs.

       But Gaddafi all of a sudden became massively butthurt during my heartfelt rendition of Joni Mitchell's classic "The Circle Game," because he thought it was talking about reincarnation, so rather than have him launch a full-scale jihad on my ass, I decided to stop playing that song.

       But all in all it was a pretty amazing trip, and most importantly I believe it worked. Gaddafi is happier than I have seen him years. He is taking up new hobbies such as urban dance and rock-skipping, and he just got a NOOK and is reading Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and the complete works of the Dalai Lama. So who says people can't change. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my thirtieth consecutive vulgar display of comedic power, and I bid you adieu now.

Tweet