No doubt those who consider themselves ‘glampers’ would proudly raise their flaccid arms if asked who in the crowd were also foodies.
Glampers and foodies make me want to take a pistol to the back of my head and aim directly at my brainstem.
Glamping? Really? Honestly darling, quit trying so hard because clearly you’re an asshole.
Harsh? Too rough? No, camping is rough darling. That’s what it’s supposed to be. It’s a communing with nature, respecting her delicate boundaries, and not dragging more than you can carry into her great, sacred, naturally dark and wonder-filled interior.
Patio lights and designer melamine dinner ware? Thank you for ruining the planet sweetie. Thank you for numbly buying every-freaking-fad-advertised and keeping our city planners building daycare centres on top of carcinogen-leaking landfills.
Oh, what’s that my sweet little ball of dumbass? You’re also a foodie? Well, isn’t that swell.
Pour me a nice glass of bourbon sweetie, yes please, yes. That’s right. Pour it in that plastic tumbler that cost twenty-five dollars. That’s right. Oh yes, ice from the cooler you run off a gas-powered generator. Mmmm, does that ever hit the spot.
Mmm, what’s that? Heirloom tomatoes you say? Delish. You drove all the way to the other side of town to get them at the market? You’re an idiot. Do you even know what an heirloom tomato is without looking it up?
I’m continually astounded that you can prepare a delicious meal, and talk it to death at the table. I find that almost fascinating. Just kidding. No I don’t.
Next time I’m just going to bring an old cow and let you bore it to death in front of the barbecue. By the time you’re finished critiquing something you’ve never experienced, and only watched while scratching your Calvin-Klein-wrapped-package in front of the latest Food Network atrocity, the poor cow will be wrestling me with it’s hoof for the pistol.
Say, it’s so nice to have this conversation whilst enjoying the sensual pleasures of mother nature. It’s so relaxing with the stars out overhead and the sound of bullfrogs. What’s that you say? It’s a jazz station, and those stars, that’s right, they’re the twinkle lights you bought on sale for $59.99.
Thanks for the totally gobsmacking glamping experience my foodie friend. If you hear a gunshot, please don’t roast my trendy ear and jowl bits. Just let the wolves get me.