It’s Sunday afternoon, and we’ve finished unpacking the camper from our weekend at Seven Lakes State Park in Holly, Michigan.
My personal blog will talk more about our trip; this post is to gripe about our rude camping neighbors. And perhaps stir the endless discussion on campground etiquette.
Everyone has a story about rude camping neighbors. Typically, it’s the loud music past quiet hours or the dog that won’t stop barking.
Our neighbors — Elvis and Ozzy and the kids — were just plain rude.
Okay, one we named Elvis because he looked like he was an Elvis impersonator. I’m sorry, an Elvis Tribute Artist (they can be touchy about that). And we’re talking Fat Elvis, too. Definitely not skinny Elvis. Ozzy was actually a woman, but she looked like Ozzy Osbourne, right down to the tattoos covering both arms, the long greasy hair and the heavy mascara. She also had Ozzy’s “spaced out” look down cold.
But their appearances did not make them rude.
What made them rude was walking through our campsite on the way to the bathroom and/or lake (assuming they didn’t use the lake for both).
What made them rude was throwing their pizza crusts into our campsite so our dog could eat them.
What made them rude was allowing their empty ice bags, empty beer cases, empty McDonald’s bags, empty Arby’s bags, empty Big Boy bags (are you noticing a trend here? They never once cooked their own food) to blow all over the place.
What made them rude was when Elvis, trying to take an afternoon nap, yelled out from inside their tent to Ozzy, “Hey hon, come here and pull my finger!” “Haw, haw, haw! Pull it yourself,” Ozzy shouted back. “Okay!” Elvis answered, then seconds later came a sound that proved he did indeed pull his own finger.
What made them rude was when Ozzy, each morning as soon as she woke up, would step outside their tent to smoke a cigarette. To each their own, but she would stand literally less than five feet from the slideout of another neighbor, hacking away as only a lifetime smoker can. Mind you, this is early enough where Ozzy was probably waking up our half of the campground, let alone the people in the camper within spitting distance from her coughing.
Their choice of music didn’t make them rude so much as reinforced their unstellar status among the rest of us. Their mix tape played polka (“…in heaven there is no beer …”) and John Denver before it moved on to Outlaw Country. In fairness, they did turn their music off at 11 p.m. Curiously, we heard nothing from the Presley or Osbourne library.
So what did I do about it?
I cleaned up their trash that blew around, shooting them a dirty look each time. Ozzy just stared into space. Elvis was fishing (where he left his pile of empty Keystone Lights on the shore, by the way).
I took our dog inside our camper when I realized he was eating their pizza crusts. I then heard Elvis tell his son to go pick up the rest of the crusts. The son said “Why Dad, you were the one who threw them.”
My uncle asked them to please not cut through other people’s campsites. They ignored this request.
Oh, and as we were leaving we noticed park personnel were cleaning out all the trash they left in their campfire pit.
Should I have gone to the park office and complained? Maybe. Probably. Next time.
I guess I don’t know the purpose of this post, other than for me to vent.
What are your thoughts?
From the personal blog: As I mentioned, I will be posting more about trip on my personal blog, including the Friday night storm and my cousin’s recipe for “Bacon Explosion.”
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