 Now
that I'm back from my annual trek into the mountain wilderness I can share
with you, oh avid reader, the joys of freeze-dried food, and the hours
of fun that come as a result. Heck, there ain't nothing better in
life than three grown men, methane, and a pack of matches. I'm sure
that there are people that will swear that for a few nights the Northern
Lights shone brightly in the heavens. Early on into our adventure my father set down the law: "NO FARTING IN THE TENT!" I crossed my fingers and promised that I would behave myself this year. However, no sooner had we turned in for the night when the mean old bugger Pearl Harboured me. In retrospect I should have seen it coming. The signs were all there: His back was facing me, and his butt was angled all wrong to be comfortable for sleeping. What he had done in a sense was set up a human Maginot Line - (one the French would have been proud to have had), all I could do was try and cover up as best as I could and hope that the old man would (pardon the obvious pun) run out of gas soon. I don't remember much more after that. I either fell asleep, or passed out. I woke to the sound of the tent's zipper going zip. I looked out through groggy eyes to see that back half of my dad. I barely had time to think "Oh no!" when he cranked out a morning salvo. Sadly for the rest of the hike I wasn't able to gain my usual momentum. The wind had been knocked from my sails. Oh, I did managed to produce a number of wonderful surprises, but sadly they were nothing more than poor guerilla tactics that harried the enemy, but couldn't secure victory. All I can say is that I may have lost this fight, but I'm in training for a rematch. If you're going to get beat, get beat by the best. Learn from your mistakes and kick butt next time. Jevster,
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