A single bead of sweat slithers down the small of my back to join the damp waistband of my imposter Calvin Klein boxer briefs. My hair wilts like daffodils upon the intense heat of the blazing sun. The realization of the hardship that pickers experience sinks in as I dig my fingers into the moist soil and pick out freckled strawberries as if they were red headed fetuses. Fruit picking is a popular option by many backpackers, but for me, 45 minutes was plenty of time as I needed to keep my hands in ripe condition to purse my dream of becoming a hand model.
Some questionably Mexican migrants are just happy to have a job
The result of eating strawberries prior to washing them
As if downing 4 pounds of strawberries didn't bloat my bowels like an Ethiopian child full of sand, I thought the leaning tower of strawberry ice cream and a large strawberry milk shake could assist in curing my lactose intolerance
My ice cream pleaded for mercy by singing, "I can't feel my face when I'm with you,"... so I befriended him
After an intense hour of picking, "let's hit a brewery" proclaimed the alcoholics...who was also our driver
As the alcohol settled in, our drive for creativity heightened as we came across an old dirt bike trail. We constructed a fortress that would protect us from the strongest of mimes even while the men went out hunting and the women gathered....stories about how much their man sucks in bed
We caught and cooked our prey that just happened to be in the shape of choad-esque weiners and cheap cuts of steak
We even took in the local "special kids" to help us make strawberry mojitos (pronounced mo-jai-toes)
Turns out that they laced the beverages
...with anal beads
...op, never mind... turns out that we were all just really horny...and slightly shriveled