Oregon Tavern Age: Roseburg Camping Bitches

I stepped inside my local OTA joint and a large, tattooed woman with enormous breasts barely contained in a halter and wearing a camo trucker hat that read “Camp Bitch” jiggled toward me on a collision course.

Sweet country Jesus!

At the last minute she swerved around the pool table and I was safe.

Bad dance music played and two other women danced along. The Camp Bitch joined them and there was plenty of profane hootin’ and hollerin.’

Obviously tourists, but all the great coastal OTA joints are great because of the occasional mixing of local and tourist and the stories that result.

The women were hitting the sauce hard and appeared in what I would describe as camping or rafting attire. They were all in their 30s.

I sat a high table across the room and the OTA bartender brought my usual ale. I asked about the ruckus and she informed me that the women were the self-described Roseburg Camping Bitches and were camping at the county beach park about ten miles away, which of course meant they were drinking in nearby bar.

Time to eavesdrop because it was impossible to write with all the hell raising going on.

“No kids, no dogs!” one of them yelled.

There also wasn’t any men with them. Maybe they were past men. Can you blame them considering the state of the American male in his 30s?

They carried on for 15 minutes, slammed some shots, and then I overheard them say they were going to hit the Coos Bay thrift stores. For sure treasures abounded that the thrift hounds hadn’t discovered.

It had been a long time since I’d seen tourists fired up like this and I relished the sight. And not once did I observe any one of them doing anything of their phones for social media purposes.