Trail Trash #002: Campground Karen and the Case of the Sewer Hose
- Trail South
- May 23
- 2 min read
Location: The Deep South, obviously
Vibe: Uninvited. Unhinged. Unflushable.
So we roll into this modest campground somewhere humid enough to steam broccoli in your pocket. We’re tired, low on patience, and running on beef jerky and 5-hour energy shots.
All we want is:
One night of peace.
One hose that connects poop to ground.
And a working air conditioner.
Instead... we meet Karen.
Now I didn’t see her materialize — she just kind of appeared, like a cursed fog when you say "HOA" three times near a mirror.
Within five minutes of setting up:
She’s inspecting my rig like she’s the Department of Homeland Slide-Out Security.
She’s got a clipboard, a dog that looks like it regrets being adopted, and a husband who hasn’t blinked since 2004.
And she’s got questions. Oh boy, does she have questions.
“You planning to use that power pole?”“What kind of mileage does that dinosaur get?”“I usually tell people not to park that close to the fire pit — but it’s fine I guess.”
I said, "Karen, ma’am... I have known you for 4 minutes, and you have already diagnosed my transmission and judged my dog’s dietary needs."
But here’s the kicker.
Dinner time. We’re outside, trying to eat. Kala’s chewing on a bone like it owes her money. The sun is setting. Everything’s peaceful...
And then she strolls over — no hello, no warning — holding a Solo cup of pink wine and says:
“You wouldn’t mind if I borrow your sewer hose real quick, would you? Ours has a little crack and the Dollar General’s closed.”
Ma’am.
MA’AM.
You’re asking to borrow the item responsible for transporting raw human shame from my RV to the earth — during potato salad — like this is a Tupperware party. (I thought to myself).
I didn’t even answer right away. I just looked at her like my brain had blue-screened. Kala stopped chewing and squinted. You could hear a mosquito pause mid-flight.
I finally mumbled, “I think it’s… uh… kind of a one-user tool.”
She frowned like I’d said her casserole sucked, then left in a huff — dragging her cracked sewer hose behind her like it was a leash on a ghost.
We left the next morning before she could ask to borrow a toothbrush or my Social Security number.
Moral of the Story:If you meet a woman in Crocs and a visor who knows everyone’s water pressure stats by memory — run. That’s Campground Karen, and she’s one unpaid HOA fee away from installing speed bumps on your soul.
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💬 Got Trail Trash to report?
Drop it. We’ll name and shame (with fake names) so the rest of us can sleep safely by the sewer hookup.
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