Well, this is awkward...
And now, for the THRILLING conclusion to "PAHTHAHLS: 2010"! The story of a young moisture farmer raised on the desert planet of Tattooine who grows up to become a Jedi Knight and takes up his mantel of destiny in order to stand against the Galactic Empire which, as it turns out, is forefronted by his long-lost FATHER!
...wait...sorry, I got mixed up. I'm a little out of it today. Right! POTHOLES!
We last left our hero staggering around a sand dune in the middle of a desert thunderstorm attempting not to puke her guts up while some dude with a flashlight is telling her to strip...
Although hang on...I may have jumped ahead a bit here. It's been two years and I'm a little rusty.
So LAST TIME I left you hanging at my fantastic decision to go take a nap in my tent:
By now, most of you realize the mistake in my judgement at this point. But for those of you who don't know the issue here when it comes to the following three variables:
...and the laws of thermodynamics, allow me to illustrate the process of essentially baking oneself alive.
So here we have my tent which is a small, compressed and resealable heat-absorbing tarp-oven for which I have mistook as a haven from the desert. Above the tarp-oven, we have the malevolent sun barreling down heat rays on everything below it. All one has to do is insert misjudging desert succubus into tarp-oven, crank up the temperature at high-noon, bake for ninety minutes and you have got this result:
Thus, when I emerged from my sauna two-ish hours later...
...I took one look at the water and, forgetting that it was EIGHTY DEGREES and would therefore do just about nothing for me, stumbled over like a drunk giraffe and fully submerged myself in nature's hot tub.
From here on out, I can only describe things from my perspective (which, as you will find, exponentially deteriorates as the story goes on). I had already had one or two hallucinations by now, but as my head came above water, I was starting to suffer from the tricks of my now brain-raisin.
As the afternoon progressed, things began to feel less and less like a camping trip and more and more like a Beatles' movie. And the further my sanity slipped through my fingers, the less I was able to reconcile anything that was happening around me from my own mental sludgery. So, again, I didn't tell anyone that I was significantly dehydrated and sunstruck. Instead, I floated around on cotton candy sea serpents attempting to catch the Snitch in my mouth:
Now, what I remember here on out is this: the Council of Elrond and myself enjoyed very cold, semi-raw hotdogs and pipes of rancid Hobbit tobacco:
Followed by a chain-saw fight between giant preying mantis' for my entertainment:
Followed shortly thereafter by a pleasant moonlit walk accompanied by Richard Nixon's ghost (though I believe he's not even dead yet):
At some point after all this, I crawled into my tent and (I'm assuming) started dreaming. And here is how my dream played out:
Around this point, things started to blur: reality and dreaming started to fuse together in a semi-wakeful state. So while Screaming Gnome was having a prophetic fit of doom and Piccolo was snacking down on my dog, what was really happening was a huge, flip-off desert thunderstorm shredding up our camp, coolers, tents, and boats. The tent Catwoman (who was over in the corner of the dune having a clinical panic attack) and I had been sharing was now completely water-logged. And so was I. Hence, Brandness, galantly sprinting about in his underpants, flashlight in hand, was screaming at me over the pelting rain and thunderclaps to strip out of my wet clothes so I wouldn't get hypothermia.
Then, my sense of reality wavered totally and completely and I was fusing into a Decepticon and wading through lava fields...
I would later be informed that I was actually being ferried off the dune and onto one of the boats by Cinnamon Juice (a.k.a., the lower half of the Decepticon).
At last Lids, Catwoman, and I were now being kept on the boat for the remainder of the night, each of us having lost our tents to the elements. Also, by this point, I blacked out. Until morning.
What is the ultimate result of dehydration, sunstroke, raw hotdogs, and pride? You wake up the next morning in a strange boat wearing someone else's pants...and alone.
Upon further investigation, I found that I was in one of Brandness' boats, drifting just a couple yards offshore. When I managed to paddle back towards the dune, I escaped through the cabin hatch and stumbled back onto the beach where I found the wreckage of our camp and the relieved, home-like faces of my friends rehashing the night's event around a fire. Everyone was kind enough to fill me in on the details of that night, including the revelation that Ando (now the proper skin pigment) had donated his pants to my hypothermic cause. Creepy, but flattering.
So boys and girls, Potholes 2010 began with a very shaky, hot and thirsty twenty-four hours, and I can tell you now that I have learned my lesson: drink water, stay cool, and communicate! Don't let your pride get in the way of a good, safe time.
Otherwise you'll end up in Ando's pants.
P.S. Merry Christmas to Sarah Ade, to whom I owe this post because she emptily threatened suicide multiple times in order that I might finish it, and yet somehow I STILL managed to procrastinate two years. I apologize for my apparent lack of empathy towards human life. Cheetos are just far too much of a distraction.