Campsite Cleanup #9: Hillside, Where All I Found Was Old Toilet Paper And A Pair Of Underwear
After our recent adventures in Westcliffe, I and my unshiny wild-eyed and oft-shittyfaced little Subaru, Yolo McFukitol, were tired and dirty and yearning for some kind of new place nice and quiet and irrigated for to go get cleaned up and fucked up and maybe even a little bit rested up in.
So we soared out of town and went roaring north on Highway 69 till we found ourselves a campsite that just might do the trick somewhere up in the hills near Hillside, Colorado.
Once we'd made our worthy presence and benevolent intentions known to all nearby trees of good standing and had sacrificed the appropriate number of litterbugs in the local firepit of yore to appease the region's legion of anti-trash fairies, we got right into it.
Firedog whiskey for me, and a raging flaming Texan pumpjack for YMF.
Behold the fruits of our drunken labors:
Those aren't my undies you idiot. Were you drunk when you wrote this?
No. Will you please reblog this?
No.