Dinty comes through

September 5, 2022 Comments Off on Dinty comes through

… and through … and through.

Eight days in and I was getting pretty tired of my nightly dinner fare, consisting of dried mashed potatoes mixed with raisins and tuna. Not that it’s anything but a luxury meal, but after that long even such a kingly feast gets old.

You can imagine how thrilled I was to see, there on the canned food aisle, Dinty Moore beef stew. “Yum,” I thought. “Now that’ll fill a man up right proper!” I checked the calories, 400 per can, and bought two.

I tried to remember if I’d ever had Dinty Moore beef stew before. Seemed like I had back in the prehistory of childhood, but for some reason it never became a staple; we always had Campbell’s. I got situated and added some hot water so that I wouldn’t be eating cold beef stew out of a can, which is truly the next-to-last-step of having given up all hope, and that was a mistake.

It didn’t affect the taste negatively, but it thinned the chunky broth so that you could actually see what you were eating. There was no visual difference from dog food, but it tasted fine. Maybe Alpo does, too. I wolfed down the first can, ate the first half of the second can with greatly lessened vigor, but hit the wall with the rest of can #2 and literally had to choke it down. Then I had some coffee and went in search of a place to sneak off into the woods and camp.

No sooner had I found my spot than the lower G.I. rumble began, one of those volcanic tremors that starts around your ankles and crescendos about six inches above your gray water port with a speed and shaking immensity that lets you know shit is about to go down. I tore my shorts off quicker than a contestant in a drawers dropping race, and none too soon as the first can of Mr. Moore’s finest came to rest in a pool of fertilizer rich and wide enough to grow a hundred giant sequoias.

Can #2, unsure whether to stay or go, hung out until about 3:00 AM, which is when I concluded that my super stealth campsite behind tall firs on the edge of a granite precipice was fraught with the risk of either defiling the area just outside my tent or, worse, a mis-squat resulting in a 50-foot fall. Preferring death to dishonor, and failure not only being an option but a highly likely outcome, I executed the squat-aim of the century, cleared the ledge, fertilized another sequoia grove, and kept my campsite’s Class A hygiene rating for at least another day.

I promised myself thereafter to stick to the taters, which seem to do a better job of sticking to the ribs … and elewhere.



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