I’m about to out a friend of mine.

Is she gay?

No.

Is she a drug abuser?

Not yet.

Does she tend to shit her pants on numerous occasions?

Yes.

And she’s quite proud of it.

I’ll never forget the first time I encountered her lack of bowel control.

We were in the middle of 5k foot race. 3.1 little miles.

Not a 5 day hike in the Andes.

She ended up discarding her panties in a friend’s trash.

This time I won’t mention her nick name as many of you know her by that.

I’ll just call her PS, lovingly.

Well, a small group of friends and I all rented a charming 100 year old house in Paso Robles for the 4th of July weekend.

We squeezed into two cars and drove up the California coast to wine country, where we would spend the next four days enjoying mass quantities of the stuff.

Only for the health benefits, mind you. Antioxidants and crap.

PS and her bf are Paso Robles enthusiasts, they go up there all the time and know all the wineries to go to.

AKA: “This is where we’re going people, I’m sure the wineries you guys like suck!”

Friday afternoon, we arrive at our first winery. Our group is so large, they usually give us our own table.

I was making internal bets on how many wineries in until we were asked to leave.

We’re a….gregarious group…

PS brought the fixings for a picnic, so after we got relatively loopy from our first tasting, we opened a few bottles of vino and dug into the cheeses, salami, crackers and grapes.

Several grapes were thrown at people’s heads, naturally.

We squeezed in a few more wineries before they all closed for the evening, got ready at the house, and headed out for a casual pizza dinner.

I felt like buying a trip to the salad bar (one trip per purchase, please)

PS took her bowl back a second time, barking “Who cares!?” to the one trip rule.

She proceeded to eat carrots and broccoli as if they were a final, death row meal.

PS, prone to bouts of severe, revolting gas, doesn’t seem to care when she crams cabbage and cauliflower down her gullet.

We’re the ones that pay the price.

After an enormous rat crawls over my foot, Loggie and I head home and the rest of them go out and enjoy the “nightlife” which included a bar called the Twisted Kilt.

I found out later that one of our party imbibed so much Jesus Juice, that he ended up disrobing completely on his way walking home. Arriving at our house in ONLY his flip flops.

The next day passes uneventfully. We have an early lunch at Farmstand 46.

I dig a potato chip so deeply into my gums, my mouth soon fills with blood and I can feel the flap of loose skin for a week after.

We spent the day driving around the beautiful Paso countryside, visiting 7 wineries, and petting the animals at each one.

There’s always a cute dog or a lazy cat at each one to play with.

There’s always a cute dog or a lazy cat at each one to play with.

We visit the winery at which PS will be getting married at next year.

I can only hope her wedding dress will have built in Depends undergarments.

By Sunday, I’m a bit sick of wine. And am exhausted. I usually just lay on the grass in front of every other winery, looking up at the wind blowing through the trees.

My purple stained teeth and my acid reflux began acting up.

Often times I turn to Chesty Morgan and ask “Do you like that wine?”

“Tastes just like all the others!” she replies.

We spent that evening playing the game Celebrity, kind of like charades.

Pretty soon the pretty house smelled like Satan’s basement.

Spilled beer, flatulence and someone had unnecessarily micowaved some Manchego cheese that smelled like a nuclear incident.

Monday, we pack up and head to breakfast.

A charming diner called HOOVER’S BEEF PALACE.

I’m surprised we got in, the place was so upscale and exclusive. I was worried my wardrobe didn’t contain enough denim.

I order the largest chicken fried steak on record. I believe it was actually chicken fried sting ray.

Then I felt the ½ order of biscuits and gravy that accompanied my light breakfast snack would not be enough, so I increased it to a full order.

Ridiculous.

PS ended up devouring most of my dish as well as her own Steak and Eggs.

After we were finished and some of us were waiting everyone to finish using the restroom, PS emerged proudly and proclaimed (laughing hysterically):

“Loggie, I just crapped my pants!”

“What?” Loggie (not too shocked) laughed.

“Seriously, my underwear is in the bathroom garbage!”

We all laughed (and then checked out her story).

Loggie commented “I love that you proudly display your underwear on the top of the trash, not even bothering to cover it with toilet paper!”

“Loggie, am I your little crapper? Am I your pooper?”

PS pouted as she threw her arms around her boyfriend, continuing to laugh so hard I feared there would be another accident.

Unfortunately, both ‘pooper’ and ‘crapper’ are not new terms of endearment for the couple….

And yes, they’re still getting married next year.