Loser News

So, we stopped at Santa Rosa Lake State Park, ranked 87th in Forbes “Gems of the West”, and, early worm that I am, I was up at the crack of 9:14. Seeing as it hadn’t become “sweltering” as of yet, I decided to take a swell run on one of the parks two numerous trails. After sweating off a couple pounds and puking up another five, I decided to take advantage of the parks complimentary perks, a shower.

Donning my stylish Ocean Pacific (a clever twist on the large body of water bordering the coast of Californian and Cuba) flip-flops, and grabbing a fresh pair of choneys, I headed off for the surprisingly clean and ever inviting “poupre/douche” (French for a combination bathroom/shower; not that the French shower or use a toilet, preferring to take a dump off the side of their gondolas right into the Louve and then jump in and baste in the frothy soup of cultural contempt. But I digress…), when suddenly a surly sexagenarian approached me, sun visor pulled suspiciously low, nearly touching the hyper-hiked elastic waistband of her capris. I immediately took the defensive stance I learned in my three month Tae Kwon Do training back in ’98. She was obviously impressed.

She then introduced herself as the Campground Host, which must make her a Chieftain among the wandering herds of hard core vacationers halting their leisurely pilgrimage to pay homage to her. It was then that she told me the strangest thing I may have ever heard. She said that the water here at the state park was non-portable. I had her repeat herself roughly eighteen times before she began to get agitated and wandered off. Non-portable water?

I continued my trek, contemplating the acute incongruence of her comments upon my supposed reality. I approached the hospitality center with a fresh suspicion and unsheathed switch-blade comb.

Entering into the source of New Mexican grey water, I bypassed the sinks and went straight to the nearest stall, thrusting my hand into the commode and hauling out (among other things) a handful of water. As I peered at the liquid resting peacefully in my palm, I scoffed at the Campground Host’s warning. During my leisurely shower, I contemplated her stupidity and questioned her mental state and pant size, gaining an appreciative chuckle from my Id.

Once fresh and dried, I located a Mr. Pibb can in the garbage and filled it with several ounces of “unportable” water, which I stealthily chucked at her camper on my way back to my campsite. How’s that for “not portable”?!?