Better Dead Than Red

Where better to spend Memorial Day Weekend than the great outdoors? Who better to spend it with than drunken hillbillies?

Floyd and I woke before dawn Saturday, drove to southwest Missouri's Shady Beach Campground. After meeting our friends at the campsite, we headed upstream, grabbed a canoe, and began our eight-mile trek down the Elk River. After a grueling afternoon journey alongside tattooed, white males begging for tattooed, white females to expose their breasts, we made it back to camp. Unfortunately, we weren't the only ones to survive the float trip. Our neighboring campers - the ones that blared 38 Special from their truck, the ones that had a confederate flag flying from a pole, the ones that made the talking "Get Er Done" lighter a bestseller at the camp's general store - managed to avoid drowning and sun stroke, too. Amazingly, through liberal, frequent application of SPF 30, I managed to completely avoid sunburn.

I'm happy to announce we had a great time among the yokels. The highlight of the night came after sunset, as our friends shot the breeze around a crackling fire:

DRUNK CAMPER #1: "Did you hear they buried Tupac next to Elvis?"
DRUNK CAMPER #2: "Doesn't Elvis own everything, like, miles around his grave?"
DRUNK CAMPER #3: "If I was Elvis, I would have bought everything--"
DRUNK CAMPER #4: "If I was Elvis, I wouldn't have been such a douchebag."