First of all, I was looking for an excuse to post this lovely artwork depicting the manly joys of PBR. (This has to be an oldie, as the beer cans have no pull tops – something that wasn’t invented until 1963.) The strange thing about this artwork is that it doesn’t make me want a Pabst or pan-fried trout. There’s something oddly creepy about it that I can’t put my finger on for some reason. Maybe it’s because I know that PBR tastes like piss that’s been sitting in a rusty bucket.
So, this weekend we are “camping” with my nephew – and by camping I mean we are setting up a tent in our back yard and cooking and sleeping outside. This means I can use a real bathroom, take a shower, wash dishes in the dishwasher and go inside and watch TV if I so desire. This is what I call camping! Not that I don’t enjoy the regular kind – we go up to Michigan once or twice a year to do that – but somehow this seems more up my alley.
I’ll be drinking like it’s “real” camping, though.