Jamesvansteel By Jamesvansteel, 10th Apr 2015 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Humor

A few funny stories that blend together regarding a hiking mishap when I was younger and the conversation going on between my roommates when I tried to write about it.



My face is sunburn red and my neck and head are rigidly locked in a forward, slightly down position. We trudge along in a line, silent but for a few snickers coming from somewhere behind me. Added to the peripheral soundtrack of chirping birds and rustling leaves of the northern Michigan woodland we are marching through are distinctively unnatural sounds: a rhythmic squeak and squelch.

“Don’t eat those eggs dude, they’ve gone bad for sure,” my roommate admonishes.
“Nah man, eggs don’t go bad,” is the monotone response. A loud and distracting discussion between my roommates is gaining traction, and I keep scanning the same lines over and over again. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on writing a humorous story because, although their banter annoys the hell out of me, on some level I’m interested to see where it goes…

Having come to a river about a mile back, the group of other 14-year-olds and I were instructed by our “adult leader” (he was 18) to find a narrow crossing point and man up, walk across the shallow water, and brave the wet shoes that would result. I, being of sound mind and above average intelligence, resolved to find a better way.

“James, you’ve been appointed the royal Googler, check what the interwebs knows about this,” I’m implored.
“Apparently you’ve got 3-4 weeks past the sell-by date as long as they were consistently refrigerated,” I elucidate. It’s becoming both intolerable and unavoidable; I’m clearly sitting here trying to type something and not engaging in your idiotic debate about the safety of poultry products that you discovered in the back of the fridge. It’s one A.M!

I pick my way through brambles and above ground root networks toward a log that traversed the river, although the slow moving creek was much deeper under it. I climb up and steady myself with a nearby branch, making absolutely sure that my boots clung fast to the rough bark. Slowly, I place -

“I’m just gonna toss these out the window”.
“Dude, you’re going to be arrested if you do that, just throw them out,” retorts John, leaning into the corner of the counter with his arms crossed knowingly. I’m subsequently assaulted by requests to be the “voice of reason” and “co-guinea pig”, as Sam makes the poor decision to cook them up after all. I close my laptop and stand up, moving to the kitchen to examine the packaging.
“I feel like the king’s royal food taster, hopefully there’s no arsenic mingling around with the Salmonella in these,” I remark with a grin. This kind of late night absurdity is commonplace in Apartment 311, especially as we’re all night owls with a penchant for watching movies until the wee hours of the morning. Maybe I’m taking schoolwork too seriously; maybe I’m being too serious about my humor…

The bacon is sizzling and my balance is holding as I make my way carefully across the natural bridge that will surely lead me to the other side dry and smug. But as I inch along, the thinner than anticipated middle section begins to sag. The further toward the middle of the log I get, the closer I get to the river until my feet are actually submerged. At the nadir of my brilliant show it’s clear that I’m already more soaked than I would have been crossing. I jump off the side in resignation… Splash

The unborn chicken mixes in with copious amounts of grease. My cheering is met with laughs and somewhere along the way I forget to finish the story.


Apartment, Eggs, Funny, Hiking, Humor, Roommate, Scouts, Story, Writing

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