The Picnic

People go on a picnic. Maybe they've never been on one before, but there's an expectation that events like these are supposed to be nice. But things happen. It's quickly discovered what a pain it is to keep paper products from flying away on a windy day. Bugs want some of your food. Flies abandon dog poop, then crawl over your tater salad. 

News flash: its not comfortable sitting on the ground when you're overweight. You notice just how jacked-up your feet look up close, so just leave your shoes on, get dirt on the blanket. Of course you forgot the knives, forks, corkscrew, napkins, wine glasses, bugspray, whatever.

The chicken is cold. The salad is warm. A Busch tall boy would look ridiculous here so you left it in the fridge, but you sure wish you had it.  No one told you merlot isn't your thing, or reisling, or zinfandel. They all taste like...wine. 

But the food is over, time to sit back, relax. Just in time, too, because that's  when you notice the storm clouds rolling in. That "20% chance of showers" has just become 100% chance of melt down. And these are no ordinary rain clouds: they're pitch black and they're pissed. When they roll over, it's goin to become night. They whisper: "Don't bother getting in a big hurry; I'm definitely beating you to the car."