The Hills Have Eyez.

About a month back I headed up to Salmon Le Sac, just out of Roslyn, to meet up with some pals for a little car camping and Yakima river rafting. I arrived in the shade of darkness, and the boys were already about 4 cases of ice cold Coors deep. I warmed my cockles next to the fire, and lit up a cigar kindly provided to me. Might as well settle in and commence maximum imbibing, I thought.

As the beer flowed generously, we made fun of people who rent camping gear at REI. We questioned the fortitude of those that view Airsoft as a competitive and worthwhile sport. We laughed about stuff, and drank more beers. Just as that warm buzz of 21st Amendment IPA was settling in, I realized my dear old dog Kubs was missing from his regular perch. The little bastard is getting up there in years, so I immediately calculated that he likely went wandering off into the woods looking for a place to find his eternal sleep. Turns out the little shit sauntered one campsite over to shack up with a couple of heavy-set girls in sweat pants. I donned my headlamp and went to investigate.

I'll never unsee what I saw.

I grabbed Lil' Lord Fauntleroy, who was in the midst of being coddled by a particularly surly young gal in full comfort regalia. They were feeding him fried chicken and potato chips.

I walked back to our site and approached the fire. The pals were wondering what I had witnessed. "You ever seen The Hills Have Eyes?"

About 20 minutes later, two snaggle-tooth ladies came stumbling towards our site. We exchanged pleasantries and they asked us where we were from. "Seattle," we said.

"Oh shit, we're from Seattle too! Where in Seattle?"

My buddy Dru answered without a hint of sarcasm, "Seattle."

"Oh...we're from Renton..."

We exchanged glances. Renton was a shit-hole hovel about 12 miles south of Seattle proper. As my friend Peezy would say, "it's one of those towns that you'll stop in just to take a dump in a laundromat dryer."

'Nuff said.

As the girls walked back to their campsite, the dudes and I conjured up a plan. As is customary on these rafting trips, a Flabongo was packed. A pink flamingo beer bong. We decided it was high-time we made a peace offering to our neighbors.



I assumed that this guy was a love interest to one of the snaggle-toothed sweethearts. He said the gloves were for "choppin' wood." I immediately thought "breaking and entering."



Here's me, the Flabongo and the pride of Renton.



Supersnagglebeast. I think this was shortly after she was lighting her own farts.



This red-faced dude was so stationary in his camp chair, I actually thought he was immobilized with polio or some shit. He sprung up quicker than burnt toast at the site of that Flabongo. Ice. Cold. Coors.



This old surly broad didn't take kindly to a camera up in her business. She gave me the Renton Salute quick like.



You would think this dude just passed his GED or something. Nope, pounding a Flabongo is cause for celebration. Those horns were locked up all night.



The. Best. Picture. Ever.