Mr. Nutley isn’t really cut out for this sort of thing, poor guy.
He was probably okay with Mrs. Nutley and the kids taking up bicycles and all, but I don’t think he’s constitutionally prepared to join in, himself.
If you need someone to drop you off and meet you at the end of the bike ride with ice cream, though… I bet he’s that husband and father.
At the end of the canoe run: “Where’s daddy?”
Dad: “At the last rest stop, passed out in a nest of funnel cake wrappers and Slurpee cups.”
Food coma. Snerks!
Kids, let’s count how many funnel cake plates there are. That way, we’ll know how many days it will take for him to recover.
Let’s see now… One, two, three, four, five… six… seven… This may take a while.
Sometimes that’s the best time of all. A few camping trips I’ve been a part of, sometimes one of our group couldn’t participate. Oh dear, yes, they just loafed about the tent while the rest of us got black-shoe-polish-looking FILTHY (Manganese) going hardcore spelunking. I’m slightly claustro, I got stuck at one spot, and it was a GLORIOUS trip. Not even Comet and a scrub brush was going to get that black off, it was in the pores. Still had to envy the one that got to loaf, but we EARNED that huge slice of peanut butter pie at that one little restaurant… I think Mr. Nutley had a good day in his own way. Now if Mrs. Nutley just gets the spare key out of the key box hidden on the car, they can all go home… after they shovel the nest so they have room to fit.
Oh dear. I think maybe he needs a little insulin. He may have just killed his pancreas.