Neighbours ...
One fine summer weekend my associates and I decided to go to a campsite on the shores of Lake Huron (Ontario, Canada).

We assembled two vans, one car, ten guys, ten cases of beer, a pound of local stuff, and a loaf of bread. Didn't need tents - we had vans.

Arrive, build a fire, roll a few, smoke'em, and crank up the tunes on the van sound systems. Sit down with cold ones and feel the bliss rolling on.

Police arrive, see a case of beer, decide spontaneously that it is illegal and confiscate it. One of our entourage goes for a walk in the dunes and happens across the two constables finishing off the case. Oh well.

Break out some more beer, smoke a few more, cavort on the beach. Dusk falls, stoke up the fire, and start visiting the neighbours, all friendly like. Big mistake. All families with kids and station wagons. After a few introductions, the police re-appear, and inform us that we must leave.

We take all of the unopened beer, throw it in the back seats of the various vehicles, and try to find our way back to our home town.

I can still remember the highway numbers, so am elected to act as wagonmaster, and lead the convoy home. We stop at strategic points along the way, reinforce the buzz, and strike out again. At the city limits we wave goodbye, and hit our favourite tavern for nightcaps and more weed.

At least we didn't have to waste the weekend getting sand in our shorts.
(Just a stub, Fri 16 Dec 2005, 20:55, Reply)