September 03, 2005
On one of my very first backpacking trips, I went with Recondo 32 and three other guys. Recondo, being an ex-LRRP and all, took some raw barley to feed us with. He swore it was excellent camping food and he used to eat it in Vietnam all the time.
We walked all day long. Everybody was beat, tired and hungry by the time we found a nice place near a stream to camp. I built a fire, we pitched the barley into a pot, along with some salt-cured ham, and started it cooking.
Two hours later, the barley was still crunchy in the pot. We were at an elevation of about 3,500 feet at the time. In case you didn't know this scientific fact, atmospheric pressure affects the boiling temperature of water. I'm not certain that the barley would EVER have cooked where we were.
I finally said, "To hell with this," and dug myself a bowl of half-done barley from the pot. I was starving. It really wasn't bad, except for the crunch. Everybody else dug in, too, and we devoured every bit of that shit before we passed around a canteen full of liquor and crawled off to go to sleep.
It was a nice place to camp. The water spilling down the creek sounded like a gentle rain. Frogs were croaking and cicaidas were singing. It was peaceful and tranquil--- until other sounds interrupted the night.
You never heard a case of the galloping farts like that in your life. All five of us were doing it and nobody could stop. That half-cooked barley in our bellies started percolating and we became natural gas wells.
Hugh cut a really good one and received some applause from his audience. "That's a TEN!" somebody said.
I farted in reply. "I give it a 9.2. It ain't a TEN unless you blow the head of your dick off and shit your pants at the same time."
Nobody farted a perfect TEN that night, but we did name the place "Camp Windy."
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