My Lesbian Kiddie Camper

Some of you might know that recent times have had me making frequent treks back to the motherland. Evansville, Indiana that magical little river town where at any given moment while driving, if you peer into a neighboring vehicle, you will notice that the driver and/or passenger is consuming a sandwich with a diligence and fervor only a real Hoosier can understand. Or, fried chicken. Or, a sandwich with a side of fried chicken. Yep, those are my people. (They also recently discovered a way to deep fry Pepsi, but that is for another entry).

I'll start by stating that deciding to eat at the Indian restaurant in Evansville is ALWAYS a bad idea. Unless, of course, you are seeking a day's ride on the poo poo choo choo. All aboard!

Anyway, a friend and I moronically decided last Saturday that trying the Indian place was probably the best idea ever. With visions of Masala dancing in our heads, we cruised down Green River Road ("the strip" for high school kids seeking a fuck, a fight, or a place to display their vast assortment of Confederate apparel). We found the place, took our booth, and perused the menu which included "Eastern Fries" and "Kurry (with an K?!?!) Chicken Fingers". Yeah. That bad.

It was then my friend's face completely dropped, shortly after a couple of early twenty looking girls walked by. One of them was a girl he had dated. The other, I soon realized, was a girl who had been my little camper at a YMCA camp where I worked when I was 16. She had also been the prissiest, most high maintenance, scream at the top of her lungs at any insect sighting, make me want to club her in her sleep little red headed nightmare. A camper of legends. She had to be about 20 or 21 now. My friend promptly informed me that the girl he had dated had decided to "switch teams", and was currently "doin it" with my little camper. Who, incidentally, is now adorned with dreadlocks (bright red) a mustache (again, bright red), and armpit hair (yeah, flamin'). I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'. Neither of us really wanted to face the situation, so we slid our menus in front of our faces all Meg Ryan rom com style, and silently contemplated these now fully realized facts:

A. We are fucking old
B. We are fucking retarded

and the kicker

C. We are two old retards sitting in a McIndian joint on Green River Road avoiding 20 year transitional lesbians.

Without a word we got up from the teal pleather elephant patterned booth, and bolted for the door (all the while trying not to pee our pants in hysterics as we hit the parking lot and jumped into my bright red Chevy Impala geriatric rental mobile).

That my friends, was far from glamorous.