Situation: You and some friends want to go camping about two hours away from where you live.
IF THIS WAS NEW YORK: No one owns a car, so you all have to chip in to rent one, or invite along someone you don’t like as much so they can drive. You book the campsite several months in advance.
After getting in the car and surviving the stress of just getting out of Manhattan, you drive for a couple hours and arrive at the campground. It’s essentially a gigantic field, and it is filled with people that don’t really know what they are doing outside. In the campsite next to you, there is a large man and his wife that you can only assume is his mail order bride.
You finally get the tent(s) set up, and go about cooking. There’s a bunch of kids a few spots down that have decided to turn their spot into a rave, and a ranger comes over repeatedly to tell them to shut up. Most campgrounds turn a blind eye to alcohol, as long as people are respectful, but here a ranger is actively driving around through most of the night, mostly thanks to kids like this.
Eventually, you have had enough secret beer and decide to turn in for the night. For the first hour or so that you are in your tent, you can hear the large man one spot over farting every few minutes, and every time he blames his wife.
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