October 18th 1:31pm - Leonard: My Camel

Aside from the German, Scot, Kiwi, and myself, two Brits and an Irishman were on our camel safari. My camel, Leonard, had the IQ of a fruit fly. While boomeranging around on the saddle, I would consume a bhang cookie, close my eyes, and fabricate flying. I envisaged spiraling sand dunes and a blushing apricot sunset. Leonard would tear into a thorn bush.
The other camels halted to eat. Leonard Iron-Man-propelled through them, knocked two back, who stumbled to keep their footing, and then stopped to eat three feet away.
When Mr. LaLoo veered to the right around a bush, Ivan and Julian circumvented to the left. Leonard thudded through it.
The camel drivers, sensing our aching legs and backs with a sixth sense fueled by our moans and groans, made the camels run. It aggravated the agony but abbreviated the time. We joggled in our saddles, faces pleated in pain. To combat the misery, the Kiwi and Scot passed a Bagpiper Whiskey bottle between them as if it was an alcohol ball. What they had purchased for three days, they consumed in one. They voiced their concern to a camel driver. Desert orbited in every direction as far as we could see. Within an hour he procured another bottle. It was cheaper than the one bought in the city.
Camels sit down two feet at a time. They lurch forward, fold their feet beneath them, and then jerk backwards, folding limbs and settling on their legs. When our camels sat for the first time, we egg-rolled off and crumpled on the sand.
"My internal organs are damaged," the Kiwi announced.
"My balls died," one of the Brits countered.

The first day, the camels smelled like burning cat poop. The second day, we couldn't smell them. The third day, even the flies couldn't distinguish between the camels and us.
By the third and final morning, the Scot had a shirt of flies and the Kiwi a halo. Flies mated on me.

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