Aunt Mark Goes Camping and Pitches a Tent Over It

Dear Potato Bugs:

     Aunt Mark decided she needed a break from this frosty, wet weather (reminds me of sex with my ex husband) and she decided to head to points south. Funds are low, as you well know, and Auntie hasn't been able to whore herself out at the Super 8 like she used to. A new plan was required to make this jaunt affordable. My solution: CAMPING!!!!

      As a child, Aunt Mark was schlepped to Bowman Lake State Park with mumsy, daddems and the siblings for a delightful weekend of pissing behind maple trees and arguing. I was never a fan of the outdoors, nor did I enjoy the smell of the tents, the damp, chilly mornings or the incessant birds chirping. I'm an indoor gal. Yes, there were a few things to recommend like the smells of coffee brewing and bacon cooking mixed with the morning air. That was pure heaven. But lets face it, they could be frying bacon in a septic tank and we'd all come running. Nope..by and large, Aunt Mark prefers to cuddled up on the couch sipping warm Ovaltine and watching Nick at Nite. So, camping is not the usual "go to" option for me.

     Until this week. I wanted just a few days in the warm sun, and looking at the nation's weather map, there were not a lot of choices that didn't require a passport. Global warming MY ASS! This country is colder than two feet up a polar bear's ass. My bones and my joints are aching and my toes and nose are froze. So...after checking out all my options, South Florida SEEMED like the best choice. So, I threw the tent, the Coleman stove, the sleeping bag, a lantern, and box full of supplies (aka Little Debbie Cakes, Matches, Dinty Moore Beef Stew and toilet paper) into my Cadillac and strated the long drive to the Everglades.

     Upon arrival, I had to convince myself it was safe to get out of the car and that the season guest star of Dexter was not dumping bodies the next campsite over. Fears abated, mostly from a need to pee, I climbed out of the car and ran for the tall grass to crouch. In a position most gals should not get into unless the guy has paid for a really nice lobster dinner, I began the tinkle process. Out of the corner of my eye, there I saw a big, long scaley body sunning itself in the Florida heat. My rear end to the wind, I have no idea why all I could think of was Gilda Radner's song "Let's Talk Dirty to the Animals" and the specific lyric "Never Tell an Alligator Bite My Ass." As humorous as this was, the pee kept a coming and once its going, there is no intermission to run from reptiles. My heart beating a million beats a minute, I tried to finish my business when I remembered I had left the toilet paper in the car. How can you run with your pantyhose around your ankles without tripping? I started to understand what the dumb blondes in horror films must feel like when their heel breaks just inches away from a chainsaw wielding republican.  So...I stood there and dripped dry...and I'm pretty sure that alligator was smiling. Now Auntie is no spring chicken, but that perverted gator grin made me feel spry...like he was liking what he was seeing. Then I realized, eating me was definitely the plan and NOT in the good way! No...I slipped up my hosiery, and tiptoded back to the car and headed for teh Super 8.

 I guess this gal had a   few free nights left in her after all.