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Rancid Cheese Puffs'll Get Ya Every Time

I remember way back when I was about 13 or so, going on a camping trip with my mom, dad, dog and best friend Darrell. We've had plenty of camping trips up in the Ogden Canyon, however, this particular trip makes me chuckle/reel to this day.

A little background info on Darrell will really help in regailling this perusal of puke. This kid was a trash compactor. I swear his gut could process lead. And one of those metabolisms that allowed the consumption of 50 gallons of ice cream without a whit of weight gain. I've seen this boy consume items that since then have been banned by the FDA.

Back to the unsettling story. Darrell's parents were of a frugal sort, so they always groceried for generic snacks and drinks. Darrell had come fully prepared for the weekend camping trip - or so we thought, becuase he nearly consumed everything he brought before the end of the first day.

Here is a list of the 'foodstuffs' he was armed with:

1) 2 lb bag of generic icing cookies ( I got two cookies)

2) 12 cans of smoked oysters ( I got one oyster, not one CAN, one OYSTER )

3) a massive bag of generic cheese puffs

4) a 12 pack of generic fruit punch soda

5) various and sundry candy bars and what not

As I stated before, Darrell had managed to consume all these things before bedtime, along with several cooked trout, and grilled steak n' taters. However, with one exception:

Half the bag of cheese puffs was not consumed. (should've been a hint there)

We all retired to bed that night, Darrell and I in a little pup tent, and my parents and the family dog in the back of the suburban. Everything seemed to be fine.

The following morning I was startled awake by these harsh barks and the sound of wet things hitting wet things. I couldn't believe my senses - and how they were assaulted. I lay immersed a pool of vomit about a half inch deep in the bottom of the tent - thanks to the inch high lip of the tent on the door - a perfect bowl. Everything was soaked, and I think there's no need to explain the aroma, but it was dominating of processed cheese.

Remember how E.T. looked when Elliot found him at the bottom of the ravine? All pasty and grey? That's exactly how he looked. Pitiful site, this poor guy lolling around back and forth in a puddle of his own sick, gagging, wretching, gurgling back and forth, too weak to even get up and hurl on all fours. He was literally throwing up while on his back, spitting up like a fountain.

Anyway, my folks phoned his dad from a local forester station, and he was taken back to town. I had the wonderful task of cleaning the mess. I literally had to pick up the tent and POUR the puke out of the door. Fun redefined.

Anyway, my family picked up the camping trip where Darrell left off. The day was going as normal until my dad found this bag of cheese puffs. He was going to munch on them whilst poking at the fire, but thought twice after he sniffed the contents of the bag. "PHEW, Jesus Christ, it's no wonder that little shit farts heavy metal!". So, instead of ingesting them, he started tossing cheese puffs at the dog, who could catch them before they even hit the ground.

After a bit, the dog started to not like, grab them with as much earnst as before.

Before my dad could remark how unusual this was from the dog, poor mutt went in search for grass. Cross-eyed and staggering, a small mound of grass was consumed by the unhappy doggie. (for those of you who don't have dogs, dogs will eat grass to make themselves puke - since they don't have fingers to tickle the backs of their throats like us, they use grass)

Several dolops of greenish orangish gobs were laid to rest in the forest shortly thereafter.

Obviously wondering why his master had poisoned him, the dog came back all hunkered over and drooled on my dad pathetically. This was weirding out my dad so he grabbed that bag of cheese puffs and gave it a secondary inspective sniff... sure 'nuff they were rancid. Which is what set off the accute appendicitis that hit Darrell.

I will spare you the gory details of cleaning out the tent when we arrived home, after it had been packed in the back of a truck on a hot summer's day...

...however, Ernie insisted...

The first thing I was tasked to do on that hot summer sunday afternoon was 'Clean The Tent'. I typed it that way, becuase my folks weren't buying any of the excuses I tossed at them to spare me of such a job. (at least we'd burned or threw away everything from the tent while still on the campsite)

In the back yard, I had to pitch the tent again. As this was going to take plenty of soap and a hose. When I had unrolled the tent and started erecting it I nearly lost it when I saw these thick strands of orange tendon like strings open up before me. When the tent was finally up, the inside looked not unlike that of the insides of a gutted pumpkin.

So I started to hose it out...orange chunks just flying about. But the worst part was, I had to actually go inside of the tent to hose down what couldn't be reached from the outside.

I have smelled rotting animal corpses. I have sniffed the gooey stuff from my navel. I have experienced the wrath of flu-farts. None of that training could have strengthened me to the odor that physically assaulted me when I got inside that tent. I swear, it was permeating. What struck me as most odd, is that no holes were eaten in the tent material.

I spend all afternoon hosing and washing and scrubbing and soaping this tent, and when all was said and done, the tent only smelled of half rancid cheese puffs. There was nothing more I could do, so I called it quits and poured the tent out and rang it out like a soggy wash cloth.

I don't quite remember, but I vaguely recall the grass dying in the backyard where I had poured the tent out...

Needless to say, that tent was never used again.

-- Mike