During our recent camping trip on Mt. Hood, The Wife and I drank some brew doggies and sat in the sun. And by sat in the sun, I mean we cracked a few PBRs and immediately lost track of time. We let that almighty bastard in the sky work us over for 5.5 hours, which wasn’t a huge problem for me — I had a decent tan in place — but The Wife was paler than that God-awful pickled herring she loves so much. If she’d been any whiter, she’d have been listening to NPR while composting her vegetables. If my wife had been any more white, she would have purchased the complete DVD set of The Wire before riding a Vespa scooter to Whole Foods.
What I’m saying here is my wife got sunburned. Bad. Even the knot loops on the back of her bikini top were seared into her flesh like a hilarious Colonel Sanders string tie. Of course I laughed, and of course I was somehow to blame for this sunburn (totally worth it). And God bless my wife, for she — unlike me — is not a complete pussy; she ignored the burn and informed me it was time to go for a walk.
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