This past Monday night I was over at my friend Brent's house watching some football. After a little while his Dad comes into the room and we all just sitting around bullsh*ting as usual when something must have sparked his Dad's memory prompting him to tell us an incredible tale.
So the story goes that when he was a little bit younger him and some buddies were out camping, not because they are outdoors-men but because they wanted to get hammered drunk where there would be no witnesses and no rules. I can only imagine the amount of Schlitz Malt Liquor and moonshine that was consumed that night. The next morning Brent's Dad and a couple of them wake up feeling hungover and sick to their stomachs. This is the point of the story where Brent's dad was faced with a crucial decision... does he go into the woods next to a tree and let nature take it's course or does he go over to his friend's tent while he is still sleeping, quietly unzip it and release some of the most deadliest flatulence ever recorded in history? He wisely chooses option 2. When finished, he zipped the tent door back up and him and his buddies stood there and waited for the show.
Minutes later they hear some rustling in the tent followed by the door trying to be unzipped with the kind of panic one only experiences during a gang rape. Once he is finally free from the tent he hits the ground on his hands and knees and proceeds to vomit... over and over again... all while Brent's Dad and friends laughed their asses off. I say, WELL DONE SIR.