Two nights ago, when I was camping in Wimberley, I drank too many beers and, as a result, ate too many chili dogs.

I ate six chili dogs in all, spaced out over time, of course. That actually might make it worse, since the last one went down around 3 a.m., after the following exchange took place:

Me: "Is there a reason no one ate this last one?"

People at the table: "I don't know man, it looks kinda sketch."

Me (looking for the approval of at least one person, which would thereby make it possible for me to blame someone else should something go awry as a result of me imbibing this cold, "sketch" hot dog): "Really?"

One person at the table: "I'm sure it's fine, man."

Me: "Yeah, I'm sure it's fine."

And then I went over to the gas stove, which had been turned off for hours at that point, and scooped out a cold serving -- two cold servings, to be exact -- of inexpensive chili, to put atop my cold hot dog, which was enwrapped in a cold bun. And then I put some cold cheese on it, and some lukewarm mustard. And then I ate it.

I regretted the decision almost immediately. Laying down in my sleeping bag -- as someone who suffers from acid reflux, I was very thankful to be sleeping on an incline, with my head above my feet -- I literally felt pain in my back, that's how full to the brim I was with disgusting animal parts and other yummie shit.

"This stuff has got to find an exit at some point," I kept saying over and over again yesterday, during a full schedule of Bacci ball, warm beer drinking and getting burned as shit by the Texas afternoon sun. And it did, last night. And this morning. And again in mid-morning. And now I'm almost late for work. Shit!