Camped Out – by Brendan Bruce
My five year old son wants to go camping with me. I have a choice: I could run screaming to the garage and bury myself in an “important” project like scrubbing the Rorschach-like oil stains from the floor, or I could take this chance to bond with my little guy and let him have a blast.
I’ve never liked camping. My idea of roughing it is buying generic toilet paper, and I’ve even been known to go so far as to purchase day old croissants. I’m not saying I’m not a manly-man… I mean, I can build stuff, kill bugs and I’ve yet to meet a pickle jar I cannot pop open in less than three grunts – and oh yeah, I don’t eat quiche.