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 The Winnebago To Lambeau FieldPosted 12.06.2005 by Ollie Norge (10)
I had never tailgated before. In fact, I had no idea what it was. I'm not a sports fan at all, and I have only been in this country for a few years, teaching mathematics at a medium-sized university in the Midwest. I speak native English because my parents served in the military and were stationed in D.C. when they were first married. They taught me the language. But I have an accent that people always ask me about. "Where you from?" is the usual greeting I get.
Where I'm from, soccer and tennis rule the day. American football is basically a game we watch once a year during the Super Bowl, and even that we watch the next day on tape delay. It is exceedingly violent. Some people watch just to see how huge the asses of the football players are. But when another Ph.D. in my department said that his brother-in-law had a Winnebago that he took to Wisconsin to "tailgate" at Packers games, I agreed to go along. I needed to have some fun, experience the life Americana, and get away from my workaholic scheduling. I waited out in front of my apartment for the luxurious Winnebago to pull up. I was amazed that anyone could own such an expensive vehicle, probably because where I come from gas is over five dollars a gallon. Most people drive economy cars. Or walk. I had been warned that I was expected to contribute twenty-five dollars to the gas pool, and that there were seven other men expected to participate in the ride. I anticipated a wonderful afternoon in a luxurious American vehicle with seven other American men who would most likely be professionals, given that Walt (not the real name of my colleague) had three PhDs to his credit. I was dressed in my Sunday best -- tweed trousers and two wool sweaters -- and I carried a fox parka from the old country. I had purchased a Kodak camera for the occasion, and I anticipated sending scanned pictures back to my friends in Europe of me and my new rich American friends cruising to American football in a luxurious Titanic-like home on wheels. I saw it coming from two blocks away. It was a hulking, smoking, disgusting eyesore. I have seen better-looking seventy-year-old blimps in museums. I couldn't believe that anything like that could be street legal. Where I come from, Communism is not that far removed from the memory of anyone over forty; anyone seen driving or riding in a rotting capitalistic corpse like this would be dragged out of there limb by limb, handcuffed to a donkey, and stoned to death by the police constable. Not to mention the public shame of riding in such a gaudy enterprise. For a brief moment I considered tucking trousers and leaving before they pulled up. How could Walt not warn me about this? He knows that I don't like being around anything unorganized or filthy. I can't go to the bathroom in the university buildings as I'm concerned that I'll catch a disease from this country that they don't have in my own. I am a germaphobe. I also hate being around cigarette smoke, bad breath, and body odors. The smoking hulk pulled up and I could hear loud music coming through the windows. I relaxed because the music sounded like the old country! Some kind of polka waltz. Maybe these guys were not as bad as I thought. Stepping into the thing, my worst fears were realized. The driver of the bus looked like a cross between a vampire bat and Hillary Clinton. He was missing at least three teeth in the front and I am not sure how many in back. He gave me a smile that could have made Jell-O melt. "Welcome aboard the Packermobile," was his greeting. "Where's my twenty-five bucks?" Walt's brother-in-law was one of the shiftiest, ugliest, dirtiest people I had ever seen. It looked like he hadn't taken a shower since his first day of school. I instantly regretted getting on the bus. "Walt is sick, so he's not coming." I felt sick, myself. I staggered toward the back where a group of bozos were playing a card game around a crude wooden table. Then the smell hit me. It smelled like an embalmed monkey. The men introduced themselves to me and then explained: "Don't go in the crapper unless your life insurance is fully paid." Laughter. The thing was busted and backed up. I wanted to vomit. I was stuck on this sinking Hindenburg with six walking yeast cultures for the next twelve hours. They were covered in tattoos, drinking some form of cheap American beer out of cans, and smoking -- all six were smoking the whole time; two of them were smoking disgusting black cigars that smelled of like armpit of crackwhore. The truth was I did need to use the bathroom. I suddenly realized that I wanted to puke. Opening the door of the bathroom, I nearly purged the contents of my stomach right then, but I tried to keep it back. The men laughed. "The door don't work, so if you have to download, hold the door shut with your hand." I was horrified. Gripping the doorknob with my left hand, I kneeled over like a pregnant giraffe and pointed the pie hole toward the pot. It cannot be described, the image of human waste. Flies were everywhere and I simply could not hold back. I spewed a churn of vomit on to the smoking shit. There was a burst of applause. The walking Petri dish of humanity apparently approved of my performance. I had never felt so awful. I wanted to die. I was stuck on this thing and these cavemen for the next day. When I came out of there they asked me if I was okay. I told them I wanted to be left alone for a few moments. I landed on the bed in back and somehow fell into a fitful, nightmarish sleep. I awoke when we got to the game, but I told them I was sick and wanted to stay in bed. They left me there. I was still sleeping when the game ended. I think it was a form of instinctual hibernation. My mind and body simply shut off and rendered me nearly comatose. The Packers lost. The men were dejected. And I still had to go to the bathroom. But there was no way I was going to re-enter that filthy Winnebago bathroom. I waited until I got home to defecate. By that time I was hunched over -- it had been nearly twelve hours on the Winnebago and more than a day since last plopping. I was overjoyed to be sitting in a warm, clean bathroom again, and away from those monkeys. It came out faster than an anorexic that had been force-fed a Whopper. After this experience, I am more of a Shameful pooper than before. I think I need therapy -- but how could I ever tell a psychologist the story about the Winnebago restroom without getting nauseous all over again? So it's much better to remain a Shameful pooper for life -- and to stay away from Walt's monkey friends, Winnebago tailgating, and college restrooms. Post new comment
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