I woke up before Lady Luck to find my tongue stuck in quicksand, my mind stuck in neutral and my pillow stuck to my face with drool. With BYO booze, my wallet had been a superfluous accompaniment to the night but had somehow managed to get lost in its uselessness. I had totally packed the back of the car before I decided to make an earnest search for it. My obscenities must have woken Lady Luck and the tide of the day turned for the better. My wallet was found to exuberant celebration that almost survived Jimmy finding his used condom littering some tree roots (pun not intended). He had been ostracised for his environmental disregard but I secretly lauded his non-Jimmy proliferation policy. Like a radio station advising that the upcoming song lyrics containing profanities worse than poo, wee-wee and fuck, the forth coming section comes with an advisory. It deals with the last taboo. Polite company make sly references to it. Impolite company like that I found myself with talked about it only when we needed a break from sex talk. It's common amongst travelers because of its amazing variety. Shit. Faeces. Poo. Back door chocolate. Please skip to Part 4 if I have already succeeded in offending you.
We stopped at some random point for a stretch and a joint. And in precise recreation of last nights failed camouflaged and covert 'smoke Class C's discreetly mission', we pulled up right in front of some relaxing grey nomads. Four hairy, smelly, tattooed belligerent youths fell out of their smashed up rental car with pre noon beers and toilet paper in their hands. The joint got passed around with habit forming discretion and talk turned to going au natural with the laying of waste cables. I wandered off to find a satisfyingly secret spot to be able to enjoy the closest thing to child birth a male will experience. That's probably why we're so fond of our shits, they're like kids to us.
I found a nice level patch that offered world class views for the task at hand. Thankfully I realised I had come up onto the shoulder of the distant highway before I had ankled my shorts. My mind quickly harked back to a 1997 festival where I'd gone on a 25 minute hike to find enough privacy. Unfortunately I had taken a rather circuitous route, ending up about five metres from the camp and getting caught out too far into it to dash off.
So I headed back down towards the creek. I started digging a little hole and saw cows watching the trouble I was going to with bovine disinterest. They were probably miffed by the bald monkeys efforts while they chewed their cud and let shit just fall out of them in close quarters. Thanks to the anatomical perfection of squatting, my potato based business exited in a relatively calm and orderly fashion out of sorts with the weekends long straining sessions of futility. It was definitely croc country so adrenalin was possibly helping things along. Nothing has more of a laxative effect than staring at deaths cold reptilian eyes with your pants around your ankles. Ultimately I'm not sure if I am advocating a toilet technique, traveling, talk about taboos or all of the above but they were all combining to create a memorable weekend away of epic proportions. Even though it was a pretty small shit I had.
