Ah, camping. There’s nothing like being one with nature, being free of the hassles of the daily grind, hanging out with Satan…
Wait, what?
Here’s a picture I took of the roaring firepit where we made S’mores on Saturday night:
Do you see what I see? No? So go ahead and click on this one already, ya yutz!
ZOMG!!1! It’s the face of The Dark Lord himself! Beelzebub! Mr. Scratch! Old Nick! Belial! George Bush! Mephistopheles! Der Leibhaftige!
STEP AWAY FROM THE FIRE, YOU MOTHERFUGGERS!
Ahem. Come on now, people. You know damn well that that’s not Satan so don’t embarrass me. I mean, you’d expect him to be in a pit of fire, right?
But I’m sure he’d tell some kick-ass campfire stories…
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Now playing: The Alan Parsons Project – Lucifer
via FoxyTunes
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Holographic Meatloaf: The Official Blog of Some Guy Named Dave 
That’s why I don’t camp. Oh, and because of the bugs and dirt and no room service…
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Oh, come on now!
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I hate camping. I’ve had horrible experiences with camping. I could write several posts on my horrible camping experiences. Now give me a log cabin with running water, hot showers, comfy beds, and a kitchen with refrigerator and I would be okay for a week or so.
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You might as well go to Las Vegas, man!
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