And Hold Their Manhoods Cheap

Let us return once more into the woods this August. And let us remember to pack lightweight long-sleeved shirts to protect our flesh from the flocks of ravenous skeeters who, as my and I hope all religions have it, are soldiers of the devil herself.

You guys in St. Louis, all you Pretty guys with your haircuts, you should come meet up with us this weekend in the woods by the lake in Wisconsin.

Those who do come will benefit from recalling our lesson learned earlier this summer. Which is this: should one find oneself lost in the woods, separated from one's mates by fault, folly, or having to piss and getting confused, the first step of survival is securing HIGH GROUND (which likewise proves valuable in times of flash flood and/or general low ground boredom). If the terrain is flat, one is advised to climb a tree so he can have a gander to locate one's mates or even one's campsite. If still one is lost, or if one is too fat or drunk to climb a tree, one should unholster one's handgun and fire two shots into the air, two shots being the camping code for "I am lost, and unable to find camp." One's mates should, if they have been trained, fire a single handgun shot into the air, translating to, "Camp is here. We have provisions, you fat fuck." One should not, above all things, panic, or even succumb passively to the pervasive and insidious enemy of all campers, which circles even more tightly than the skeeters about one's head. That enemy is fear, pussy. Let's go camping.