Here is a lesson on why you should not be an ass hole. The gods pay attention and can be quick to tap you on the shoulder. Their taps are like getting hit by a sledgehammer.
I went on a vacation to Moab recently with several friends. We planned to visit Arches and Canyonlands National Park, while camping and involving ourselves in other unsavory activities favored by the degenerates I hang about with. Before leaving I could not help but point out to my snowbound colleagues at the Eternal Winter Ranch YMCA in Granby how awesome it would be to experience the heretofore-only-rumored warmth of the sun. This cruelty turned out to be beyond the tolerance of the sexy and awesome man/woman/men/women in the sky that I have always had the most profound respect for.
Vengeance came within the first day. We drove down in the middle of the night, reaching Utah by early morning, where we gaped like drooling morons at the towering sandstone canyons dominating the horizon in every direction. Turning onto Potash Road we searched for campsites and had little trouble finding one we thought to be perfect, tucked underneath a high wall and shaded by small berry trees. This was a rare green spot in the midst of an arid and barren land. We probably should have thought to ponder what might bring about this lushness or why no one had claimed such an ideal location on a busy weekend. Alas, our keen deductive powers fail to equal those of Scooby Doo and the Gang. Cue the evil and ominous music.
There was rain scheduled for the forecast, but I thought little of it. Moab regularly receives 9 inches a year of precipitation, so I assumed any shower would be minor and of little concern. The skies did indeed open in the evening for short periods of time but we were inconvenienced little, hidden as we were underneath a canopy of leaves. The rainfall was intermittent and did not pick up seriously until I decided to go to bed. Crawling into my tent, I drifted off into sleep.
An uncomfortably cold wetness ripped me from slumber. I groggily felt about my head and realized that my pillows were soaked. I was using an old tent that had been in storage for awhile, so I just figured the waterproofing had faded out of existence. I left my gear "safely" on top of the pillows and made for the truck to sleep out the rest of the night. After a half an hour or so, as my brain slowly awakened, it dawned on me I had made a mistake leaving my clothes in the tent. My T-shirt and sweatshirt were wetter than I had at first thought. I was starting to get a serious case of the chills. The rain had picked up further and I was loathe to make a run for what I had left in the tent. I took off the wet clothing, which slightly improved my condition, but there was another, more immediate problem.
Water clears out of the desert like an intestinal tract after the consumption of an entire bottle of ExLax. My own digestive system seemed to enjoy the concept, for it had decided to follow suit. Suddenly I needed to take a shit in the absolutely worst way. With nothing but a dry pair of boxers and jeans on I did not like what that might entail. I stayed inside, clenching my buttocks and wracking my brain for a solution. After minutes of searching and pleading out loud in vain to various deities to make the need to poo go away, I came upon a possible solution. A bag of napkins lay in a flimsy brown paper package - toilet paper and a toilet. My odds of cleanly executing this feat of evacuation within the confines of the vehicle were low, but I felt I had no other choice. I took off my pants and leaned onto my back, raising my legs and buttocks off the reclined seat. I held the small target underneath me with my left hand and prepared to let go. But I could not. The thought of fouling a friend's car was to much to deal with and I backed off. Besides, the rain continued to fall hard and the way the campsite was filling with water, my friends would be joining me in the truck soon. I didn't want them to escape the flood only to be stuck in my impromptu toilet.
Even so, my butt still demanded prompt attention. After a few more minutes of clenching and dithering I finally made the move. I took off my clothes to preserve them and stepped naked into the night, dashing out, planting my legs and firing, shitting so rapidly that one might have thought my hair was on fire and crap was water. I raced back inside and cleaned up, but I was still cold. Luckily, a little more searching turned up the bag of one of my friends, which contained a T reading "Bach is My Homeboy." This helped warm me a good deal and I managed to fall back to sleep.
Round two did not last very long either. I awoke to the screaming of my friends. They were standing in the downpour and shouting my name repeatedly. Jacob kicked forcefully at my tent. At this moment I also noticed the fall of water sounded particularly powerful from that direction. Squinting into the darkness I saw the source of all the commotion. A waterfall had formed on the wall against which I had set my tent and was relentlessly pounding it into non-existence like a boxer repeatedly bashing an opponent in the face despite the fact the man has already given up and passed out. I yelled to my friends from the truck to let them know I was okay and they fled to join me there. One might think I would have sat up all night lamenting the loss of so much gear (a lot of it did end up being salvageable) but I'm not a very good capitalist so I said fuck it. We were together and everyone was safe and that was the important part. I went back to sleep.
Postscript: later the next day when I told this story to my friends Jacob started to visible turn white when I mentioned the napkin container. Apparently he had picked up some similar looking trash the next morning. Needless to say, he was relieved at how the story ended.
