The one where camp ends


“Do you think it’ll be normal this time?” Mac asked me.  I grunted and turned my gaze down the short hallway, upon the arena floor.  My eyes were momentarily blinded from overhead light’s sheen on the plastic floor below.

“Nope.” I growled, squinting.  I had forgotten my lucky running shorts.  Damn.  “Never normal.”  Mac only nodded and followed my gaze.

“You do realize I’m going to win, don’t you?” He asked.

“Maybe.”  I admitted.  “There’s been others that have said that, and looked what happened to them.”


“No.  But they wish they were.”

“It’s true,” said Mac.  “If I was missin’ out on this chance to win $75, I’d fucking kill myself.”  He turned to the left and spat, and then continued staring.  We could hear a dull roar from the crowd, like the sounds of surf crashing on a beach, heard distantly through a window, or perhaps an open door.  It was intoxicating.

It was hard to believe that we had been through eight weeks of hell to get here.  Eight weeks of screaming children, insect bites, sun burns, nauseating adolescents and bizzare, sometimes idiotic challenges.  Eight weeks of forgotten lunches and visits to the nurse for scraped knees, or bruised arms, or more insubstantial injuries, whose only remedy was an ice pack and attention.  Eight weeks of bus rides.  Eight weeks of clubs.  Eight weeks of summer camp.

“You remember that one time when timmy beat everyone at gaga, like he was King Leonidas or something?”  I asked, a faint smile playing across my face.

“Yeah,” Mac chuckled, “You remember when my team beat your team at lacrosse-volley-basketball?”  My hands involuntarily tightened on the shafts of the two lacrosse sticks I was holding, whitening my knuckles as I frowned

“Yeah.”  I growled, “We better not play that stupid fucking game again, or I’m liable to spear Ray Jay with these lacrosse sticks.  Then I’ll just take the money.”

“Yeah, but you’ll be a wanted killer.”

“Not in Tijuana mate.  You know how many lacrosse sticks $75 can get you down there?”


“A.  Fucking.  lot, mate.”  We stood in silence for a while, each thinking about the riches we would be able to afford with $75, especially in Tijuana.  I decided that if I did indeed lose, I probably wouldn’t spear Ray Jay with his own lacrosse sticks.  It would cause too much of a scene, though I’m sure it would help sate the beserker’s bloodlust that most of the campers have during these exhibitions.

“BLOOD!” Little Timmy the camper screamed, leaning over the railing, frothing at the mouth and dribbling pop tart crumbs across the gym floor.  His eyes flashed feral, like a wolf sensing its prey is near, and he beat his fist against his chest.  His cry riled up the campers behind him, who began to roar like little lions.  “BLOOD AND DEATH!” He roared, turning towards them slowly, arms upraised.  The crowd repeated his macabre cheer.  I remember them being disappointed that day.  There was no blood, only bitter defeat for my partner Amy and me.

This day was no different.  I could hear distant chants of “kill!”  and “maim!” coming from the second grade boy’s section of the lunch area.  I was becoming worried.  What if they didn’t see any blood?  It was the last day of counselor survivor, and the last day of camp to boot.  Would they riot, like angry, english soccer fans?  One would think the concept of 2nd grade boys rioting would be humorous, but I can tell you it is anything but.  They have incredibly bony knees and elbows, and teeth as sharp as knives.

“Where are the girls?” Mac asked, referring to Amy and Pristine.  I shrugged.

“They went into the gym locker to get something for the final challenge.” I muttered, wondering what in god’s name they could be getting.  The lacrosse sticks had not reassured me.

“Maybe we’re just playing lacrosse.”  Mac offered.  I shook my head.

“That’s normal.  Lacrosse is normal.  It’ll be something harder.  Something weird.”  We fell silent, and waited.  I amused myself by playing with the rubber tread that was peeling off the bottom of my ratty old sneakers, while Mac picked at the plastic trim on the wall.  Finally, I saw two figures approaching us through the glare.  I nudged Mac in the ribs, and we both stood up.

“Well,” he asked “what is it?”

“We don’t know.” Amy responded.  “He wouldn’t say, but he had us get two scooters and 6 volleyballs out of the supply closet.”

“Bloody hell,” I breathed, anxiously brushing back my hair, “what’s he up to now?”

Ray Jay suddenly appeared before us, materializing out of the glare like some sort of djinn.

“You ready?” He asked us, holding his hands on either side of him in a welcoming gesture.

“Yeah sure,” I growled, “But what are we doing?”

“Does it matter?”

I stood silent and thought for a long time.  The roar of the crowd washed over us, growing in volume and viciousness with every swelling cheer.  “No.”  I finally answered, hefting my lacrosse sticks on to my shoulders.  I glanced at Amy, who nodded slightly.  “Not one bit.”

“Good.”  Ray Jay said, clasping his hands together.  He moved to the side of the passage and bowed low.  “After you.”  I gave Mac a look, and he just nodded, and so the 5 us went, into the brilliant light of the arena floor.

100 Years of Solitude

The beginnings of Lego City are as mysterious as they are trivial, and as mythical as they are stupid.  I was there, at the beginning of things, and I am quite certain I shall be there at the end, quite certain indeed, but despite concentrating all of my mental faculties and straining them to the breaking point, I cannot recall it’s founder, nor even when it’s first brick was laid.

Some say the great builder Osferth the Selfish built the first structure, a low ceilinged bunker, resplendent in its multicolored bricks of glimmering plastic, and that it was he who first discovered the mysterious orbs that the settlers later used as a currency.  I tend to agree with this opinion.  Osferth’s mother works as a secretary at the school where we have camp, and he was always in the room early.  He would have had ample opportunity to begin the initial construction, an the drive and willpower to do it.

Others say that Martin the cruel, upon discovering the mysterious orbs, was the creator, and that he used a vast slave army to build the metropolis that he later ruled with an iron first.  It is true, I admit, that Martin was and is Lego City’s chief supporter, and that he was among its first citizens, but Martin lacks the creativity and intelligence to begin such a great project, though he does posses the tyrannical disposition to see it through to the bitter end, regardless of the cost.  It is therefore unlikely that he started lego city, but he did end up ruling it as Lego Cities Dictator and Grand Generalissimo.

Pictured: Martin in the future

Perhaps it was his south American heritage that gave him the propensity toward totalitarian rule,or perhaps he was simply dropped as a baby. Perhaps he regretted his decisions when the bombs began to fall, and the once gleaming towers of the business district were reduced to so many brightly colored bricks, and his empire crumbled around him, but I doubt it.  Repentance is a mysterious, unknown concept to Martin, one which he treats with a sort of bemused curiosity, like one would a dancing squirrel.

Still others believe that the city was constructed by the old ones, in the ancient times before camp had begun, and that all of the lego leaders of the modern era “were merely pretenders, desperately clinging to the past and monolithic structures they could not understand.  I do not give much credit to this theory, either.  I was there at the beginning of camp.  It was Schultz and I who cleaned the room, and put up the decorations, and I do not remember anything being on the fabled Lego table, other than barely perceptible memories of Lego Cities past, like faded ruts in an old dirt rode.

lego futurama

I’m so happy Futurama is back on TV.

Regardless of its creator, Lego City quickly took the group of second grade boys into it’s room temperature, polymer embrace.  Houses, offices and stores began popping up at an alarming rate, like weeds in a neglected garden, or perhaps like overused memes on Facebook.


But things were growing too quickly.  Far too quickly.  Being second graders, the boys had no concept of economics or conservation, and were unaware that the capitalist society they were nourishing into adulthood required a constant influx of new materials to survive.  Growth, it is said, was it’s beating heart, and growth, it is said, would be its doom, but for now, the boys merely built, blissfully unaware of the deadly quagmire into which they walked.

“This will last forever!” Martin cheerfully told Timmy as he added yet another brick to his mansion.

“Yeah!” Timmy slobbered, “We’ll never stop!”

Interestingly, the economy and culture of lego city evolved at an accelerated rate than regular societies.  In the early days, Lego city was a lawless frontier, where a ship got you a job, and a gun helped you keep it.


Bank robbing was the citizens main source of income, but there was a sharp falloff in profit when everyone realized that A: Banks weren’t a safe place to keep their mystical orb money anymore and B: they were doing nothing but stealing their own money.  Everyone began to build lego safe rooms in their lego houses that had lego drawers that were perfect for holding their lego money.  The lego economy then evolved to simply hoarding as much money as possible and not letting anyone else take it.

Things were coming to a head, and it was around this time that the first lego governments began to form.  Martin was unanimously elected by himself to be lego president and mayor of Lego City, due to his being the only surviving “founder” of lego city since Osferth left camp for a family vacation, and his constant and unstoppable bullying.

With Martin’s ascendancy to the presidency of Lego City, things took a turn for the worst.  His first act was to take most of everyone’s money, which angered all of the other campers.  I never found out what his reasons for stealing the orbs were, but I can only assume it went to feed a bloated lego military budget and lego social programs, which he plundered at whim.  This happened during the second week of camp, and schultz and I had noticed a subtle shift in the group dynamics.   Kids seemed angrier than normal, as if some unseen force was slowly draining all their happiness.  By the end of the week, kids were fighting all of the time, arguing with one another and even punching and kicking occasionally.

“Charles!”  Timmy complained, running up to me and tugging on my athletic shorts, nearly pulling them off.  “Martin’s stealing all of our money!”

“It’s not money!  And Stop pulling!” I growled, slapping his hand away.  “It’s just little plastic orbs.  They aren’t worth anything.”

“They are too!”


“Because we said they are!”

“Do you even buy anything with them?”

“Um… no?”

“So why does it matter?”  Timmy paused, staring up into the ceiling, lost in thought.  I can only assume that he was formulating various arguments.  He finally decided, after around 4 minutes, in which I just stood there, glaring at him, to go with

“But Martin stole my…”

“It’s not real!  None of it is!  These orbs are worthless!  You here me?  They have no intrinsic value!  Your getting upset over nothing!”  Timmy stared at me again, slowly cocking his head to the right, looking at me as if I were some sort of madman.  He took a few hesitant steps backwards, not looking away, and then ran back to the group.  I’m not sure if anything was ever reconciled with Martin,  but I had a good shout at Martin to share and be nice, and the mere illusion of punishment might have been enough to calm the kids down.

It was at the beginning of week three that the true disaster struck.  The Lego mine beneath the table ran dry, and the growth came to a screeching halt.  Their lego economy had been built assuming that there would always be an unending stream of legos, and worse still, that they would never have to recycle any from the already built buildings, despite the fact that many of them were not being used.  The citizens turned to Martin to lead them through this crisis, and he initially sought help from a higher power, me.

“Um, Charles,” he said in his latin accent, “we’re out of legos.”

“Too bad.” I said.  Legos were none of my concern.  Trust me, I checked my contract.

Martin then decided to try and redistribute the legos, but it was too late.  The other citizens had been displeased with him since his ascendency, and that displeasure turned to dislike when he stole from them, and that dislike turned to outright hatred when he failed to solve the lego crisis and tried to steal even more of their legos.  Things were looking very bleak for Martin, very bleak indeed, and so he did what all desperate leaders do when there is no clear solution.  He declared war.  On Lego China.

It probably looks something like this

Now, let me make it clear that there is no Lego China.  Well, at least not in our club house.  I assume that Lego has a Chinese branch, and I’m sure there is a Chinese themed set of legos, but as far as Lego City was concerned, they were at war with, well, nothing.

I’m not sure what Martin hoped to accomplish.  I suppose he was hoping that he could distract the other campers from the present economic crisis by giving them a “real” enemy to fight.  He immediately set in motion a draft of all of the legos campers had at home, in order to build warships, x-wings and light sabers, the staple of any modern army.  Supplies, however, were few and far between, thanks largely to the campers’ parents’ blockade of all lego goods leaving their houses.  Tempers began to rise, and Martin was once again in need of some outside help.  Fortunately for him, Schultz, my co-counselor, had a hatred for Lego City as irrational as it was voluminous.

He had been secretly stealing legos from the campers for days, and had thrown his lot in with the fictitious Lego Chinese and constructed a gargantuan nuclear lego bomb.  Schultz warned the campers that the Lego Chinese were none to pleased that the citizens of Lego City had declared war on them, and had prepared a preemptive and unstoppable nuclear attack.  He warned that they had one day to evacuate Lego City, before it was burned to the ground.

The reactions were mixed.  Some prudent campers, like Chris, Martins cousin and second in command, built lego caravans to carry their vast lego goods out of town.  Others were more doubtful that any attack would be forthcoming.

Flee! Flee!

“He can’t blow up our city.”  Timmy slurred to Roger, another evacuating camper.  “He just can’t!  Counselors can’t drop nuclear bombs, right?”  Roger shrugged, and strapped another lego bundle to the roof of his lego car.

“Of course not!” Said Martin, standing tall in front of their magnificent city.  “I urge all of my Lego Brothers to stay.  We are a safe, thriving community!  The idea that some “lego Chinese lego nuclear lego bomb” can destroy our mighty lego city is simply preposterous.”

Only about a quarter of the campers evacuated that day.  They were they lucky ones.  Around 9:07 A.M the following morning, an unusual object was reported to be flying at an alarming rate towards Lego City.  The authorities attempted to explain it away by claiming it was nothing but a rogue lego weather balloon, but as the object grew neared, it became clear to all watching that it was not balloon shaped at all but was, in fact, a gigantic cube.


The cube came into a holding pattern over lego city at 9:08.  Martin assured everyone that it was nothing to be afraid of, but then the bay doors opened, and Schultz’s cube began to rain unholy lego nuclear fire down upon the decrepit Lego City.

It was a massacre.  The populous had been taken completely unaware, and were therefore unable to defend themselves from the lego onslaught.  Whole skyscrapers were smashed to their foundations with but one mighty swoop of Schultz’s right hand, while the left smashed houses to bits in seconds.  A mere minute later, Lego city was completely gone, wiped off the face of the lego table, and all the blocks had been relocated to the cavernous drawer beneath.

The first democratic and fair lego elections were held soon thereafter, and George, the nicest and most level headed of all the campers, was elected to be the new president.  The office of mayor was done away with, and George’s first act in office was try Martin for treason and criminal negligence.  He lost, and it was decided that he should face the wrath of the lego firing squad.  Martin protested, of course he did, but his pleas were silenced by the the supreme court judge, Schultz.

A short time later, as he faced the lego firing squad of his former friends and subjects, generalissimo Martin was to remember that distant afternoon when he and his friends at camp built a city out of nothing but legos.


The first day of summer camp has come and gone, and as I lay sprawled across my couch, my corpuscular body wheezing pitifully for air, my mind races, recalling the events of the day.  It analyzes and categorizes all of the children i had met that day, organizing them into groups based off of likability and obedience, and yet through all my searching, and despite all of my categorical machinations, I had yet to find the one perfect camper.  I searched high and low, of course I did, but he or she remained as elusive as help at a best buy.

“Is it you?” I would interrogate each and every one of my campers as they came through the door, grabbing them by their shoulders and gently/violently shaking them as a surveyed they terror stricken face.

“Wha-?” they would start to say, right before I suddenly released them.

“Are you the perfect camper?”

“Yes!” They’d always lie, enthusiastically.

“Nah…” I’d say, shaking my head and frowning.  “You talk big, but you’re just ordinary.”

And they were all just that: ordinary.  Well, that’s not entirely fair, many of them were extraordinary in certain aspects: intelligence, drooling, crying, screaming, legos, but they were all ordinary kids.  You take the good with the bad and just roll with the punches.  I’ve found that being able to laugh at annoying things that kids do makes life infinitely easier than if I allowed myself to be annoyed.  For instance, the difference between “Timmy why the hell did you vomit in Rotund’s lunch pail” and “Timmy, you rascal, you vomited in Rotund’s lunch pail!  Ha ha!” can save your brain from a catastrophic implosion.

I’ve seen it happen.  We had a counselor last year named Paige, and she always got upset at all of the impish tricks her kids played.  One day I had by chance walked by her room’s window and saw her yelling at her children.  Her face was beet red, the muscles in her neck clearly outlined as she screamed at the kids.  I must have gasped, for she turned and looked at me, and I was afraid that her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets as her rage increased by a factor of 12.  I could tell that she was going to start screaming at me through the thin glass that separated us when a sudden quizzical calmness came across a face, and for a moment, at least, she was at peace.  And then, suddenly, her head consumed itself.

Paige’s face, moments before the event occurred.

It was over in a flash, almost to fast for the brain to comprehend.  I caught a glance of what appeared to be her head, but it was now shaped like a watermelon, and had a massive black hole in the middle.

“Paige, yah damn fool!” I cried out, banging a fist on the window as the rest of her body was consumed by the mighty gravity well that had once been her brains resting place, “You can’t lose your cool like that!”  She could have saved herself.  She could have just laughed it off, but she instead paid the horrible price of getting mad at a group of first graders: head implosion.  Turns out she was just ordinary too, though her passing was anything but.  Those kids still remember it, too.  Most of them aren’t even allowed to go to art anymore, the pictures they draw are just too… disturbing.

Alas, perhaps any quest for perfection is doomed from the start, for no such thing exists.  Maybe it’s a bad idea to look for perfection anyway, because what happens when you find it?  “Fuck!” you say, licking your fingers clean,”there goes the only perfect french fry in the world!”

“It’s ok, i’ve gone some ordinary ones I can share,” your friend consoles you.  You take a bite, and it tastes like concrete by comparison.

“This tastes like concrete.” You say angrily.  And it would, trust me.  It’s why I kind of wish I would have never had any craft beer or gourmet coffee, because then I could be happy with keystone and maxwell house, but I can’t.  My taste buds hate me when I try, and I don’t blame them.  Once you’ve had the best, everything else is just… ordinary.

The frozen pinkies

First off I would like to thank everyone who takes time out of their busy schedule to read my blog posts.  I have fun writing them and I’m glad  that other people enjoy them.  And for those of you who don’t take time out of your busy schedule to read my blog… by merit of reading this you just joined the other group.  Congratulations!  You will be spared.

Secondly, I’ve changed the layout of my blog a lot.  I’ve got a new theme, and fancy new side bars where you can like me on facebook and subscribe via email if you so wish.  And you do wish to.  I can tell.  Do it.  Now.

Second off, here’s the actual post:

The Frozen Pinkys

We have a science lady at camp named Kara who runs the Science club and other science related activities.  That’s why I called her a science lady.  Kara has honduran milk snake that she keeps in a terrarium in the room and is, or course, either of infinite fascination to the campers or a creature from the stygian depths of their darkest nightmares. Incidentally, these are the only two opinions people ever have of snakes: they either love snakes or they hate them.  No one ever says “Snakes?  Those things are boring.”  I think those people died out thousands of years ago, because snakes above all things hate to be ignored.

Honduran milk snakes, though they look kind of like the dreaded coral snake, are not venomous and are apparently quite good with kids.  More’s the pity, I say.  I think a good ol’ venomous bite from a reptile is just the sort of thing some of these kids need to set them on the straight and narrow.  It’s good for your character.

Pictured: Character growth

Anyway, snakes, like all living things, need to eat stuff.  “And what is it snakes eat?” you’re probably asking yourself.  Well, stop interrupting, I was about to tell you.  Snakes eat frozen pinkys.  If you are anything like me, when you hear the word pinky you either think of your smallest finger on your hand or the  lovable cartoon mouse from the classic 90’s show Pinky and the Brain.  That pinky looks like this:

How adorable!

The frozen pinkys look like this:


Can you spot the difference?  It’s easy: the frozen pinkys are more pink.  Hence the hillarious name.  Oh… and they look like unborn fetuses.  But don’t worry, you don’t actually have to touch frozen pinkys.  They come in handy little cigarette style boxes designed for easy dumping, though the mere knowledge of their existence will weigh heavily on your soul for years to come if you were to ever come into contact with them.  I’m told, however, that snakes love the things; they think they’re popcorn chicken or something.

Possibly the most disturbingly obvious part of frozen pinkies is that you must keep them frozen.  This wouldn’t present in problem in a zoo or the Slytherin common room, where I’m sure there are literally tons of the things secreted in special frozen pinky freezers.  But where do regular, non zoo keeper/dark wizard people like Kevin James and Kara keep their pinkys?  The answer: a normal freezer, right beside the popsicles.  Sometimes even lying horribly in wait among the popsicles!   A tasty surprise indeed.

You sick bastard

There is something fundamentally wrong about keeping frozen pinkys in the same place that you keep normal food.  I wonder how many frozen pinky owners have inadvertently had a late night snack of frozen pinkys instead of the klondike bars they were oh so hungrily reaching for?

Judging from his face, it looks like the answer is at least one.

And in the end it doesn’t really matter

As we enter into the last 6 days of camp I find it interesting to reflect upon the changes from the first several weeks, when the campers feared and respected me, to now, where they, to put it simply, don’t.  They have realized that I am all bark and no bite, I’m serious 23% of the time, I am more scared to take bad campers to the office than they are to go to the office and that, for the most part, I just don’t care anymore.  The children have gone from this

I love camp! And Bears! Hooray!

To this

I love to cause nothing but misery. Oh, and fuck camp.

Incidentally, that Santa Clause is one of the most disturbing pictures i have ever seen.  Anyway, I just dont care anymore.  On the playground today Timmy, damn him, found a wasps nest secreted under the slide on the jungle gym… or whatever those things are called now.  Giant metal and plastic play fort with slide.  Accident machine.  Law suite.  Whatever.

“Charles, um, there is a wasps nest under the slide” he told me as i reclined on a picnic table, hoping that just such a thing as wasp nest discovery wouldn’t happen.  I had been an uneventful day for me up till that point.

“So don’t go near it.”  I replied, not even looking up.  This logic, however, was completely lost on timmy.

“Yes buuuut…. it’s a wasp’s nest and I am a seven year old boy and am therefore compelled to go over and bother it with no regards for my personal safety.  If, however, i am injured I will of course blame it all on you and cry.  FOREVER.

A terrible sense of doom shivered down my spine as timmy turned away from me, a wry smile on his face and a wicked song in his heart.  Damn him.  I sat up and shouted.


“A wasp nest, you say?” inquired Jimmy, turning away from the pile of dirt or whatever he was fucking playing with and looking straight at me.


“What slide?  Where?” he asked”

“THAT ONE!” I said, pointing “And just there, between the second and third joint, just to the left of that shiny bolt.”

“Indeeeeed,” mused jimmy as he left the dirt alone and began to stroke his chin contemplatively.  He walked over the slide and began to poke the nest with a stick or something.

“Yeah that one.  NO ONE GO NEAR THE ONE THAT JIMMY IS FOOLISHLY PRODDING WITH A STICK.  OK?”  No one seemed to listen. It was as if the slide was a giant electromagnet and all the children were bars of iron.  They slowly floated over to the slide, looks of awe upon their faces for they and they alone, had been blessed with a chance to see wasps, real wasps, in a nest under a slide.

“Oh well.  I suppose i fulfilled my contractual obligations in this particular instance.”  I said to my fellow counselors, who nodded sagely.

“In my opinion,” said one of them as the children began to pelt the nest with mulch and small stones, “a good stinging is just one some of these kids need.  Teach them a thing or two about wasps!  And life!  If you throw stones at something, you can expect the thing you throw stones at to be fucking angry.  I think that’s a chinsese proverb or something.”  The other counselors, myself included, nodded sagely a second time and went about our business.  Remarkably, no one got stung.  The wasps stoically took their punishment with an air of grace I had never held their species to possess.  All that happened that day on the playground was that the children had fun and a little bit more of my soul died, much like Voldemort when harry and his annoying friends kept destroying his horcruxes.  Poor Voldemort.  All he wanted was to be loved.

And seriously, who couldn't love that face?

All in all it was a typical day at camp….

Can you hear the cries of the children?


I have landed a summer job at a summer camp this summer.  I wont say which camp however (I wouldn’t want to make an assassin’s job too easy).


Anyway, the more and more I work at camps, the more and more I come to understand how insufferably stupid children are.  Especially first and second graders.  I am fully convinced that if murderers were stalking the halls of the camp and the children were ordered to remain silent lest our hiding places were discovered, the kids in my group could last at best 100 seconds before a cacophony of fart noises and giggles brought the killers running into our carefully concealed sub basement and we were promptly slaughtered.

Firstly, leading kids in a group larger that two is akin to herding cats.  As soon as you look away from one, he finds something interesting on the wall and stops moving to stare intently at it for just enough time so that when he finally realizes that he has not been in line the group is no where to be found.  An example: I for one find little interest in normal, every day leaves.  If i happened to see a leaf with red barbs that dripped acid/poison and growled whenever you walked near, then sure, maybe i would give it a second glance.  To the eyes of child however, every leaf is a gateway into the magical land of leaf-narnia, and must be closely scrutinized for hours on end.

Everything else ever is also equally as interesting.  Mulch?  WOW!  I’VE NEVER SEEN THAT BEFORE!  A bottle cap?  WOAH!  WHERE THE HECK DID THAT COME FROM???? A dirty old sock?  FUCK!  THIS SHIT IS JUST INSANE!!!!  To make a long story short, children cant do anything that takes more than 6 seconds of concentration.


Secondly, I have come to believe that 93% percent of children are only able to get attention at home by force.  They either cry whenever ANYTHING goes wrong or they are just bad kids and do things purposefully to piss me off.  I don’t even know how many times i have told this one kid to not run ahead of the group, and yet he does it every time.  Oh, and we cant forget the tattle-tale kids who narc on everyone always, even if they were the instigators of the situation.  I call these kids tattle demons.  They’re are many varities of tattle-demons.  The most clever ones carefully plant the seed of a wrongful act in another campers mind, most likely via inception, and then wait an hour or so for the camper to perpetrate the unauthorized act.  He then can claim he had nothing to do with whatever happened, since it was so long ago and no one saw it.  This kids just suck and are total assholes.

Thirdly, most kids lose everything always.  I am always impressed to discover that a camper has wandered off without noticing he has no shoes on or he has forgotten to grab his lunch when i SAID GRAB YOUR LUNCH 30 FUCKING TIMES AND I GRABBED HIS SHOULDER AND SAID “LOOK INTO MY EYES TIMMY AND SEE THE SUFFERING THAT AWAITS YOU WHEN YOU FORGET YOUR LUNCH BOX AGAIN”  Children are even quick to forget punishments.  Today a camper threw a tennis ball over the fence after i had repeatedly warned him against the folly of such an act.  After he did it anyway i was forced to prevent him from playing gaga later in the day.  When the time for Gaga arrived, little timmy jumped into the arena and began to play.  I however had other plans.

“Timmy” i called across the room, “you have lost your privilege to play, and must sit out this game.  Your atrocities cannot go unpunished.”

“What did i do?” shouted the ever defiant Timmy.


Timmy, realizing i had his number, angrily takes a seat as i turn to the rest of the kids in my group.

“LOOK!” i shouted to them, pointing at Timmy.  “LOOK UPON TIMMY AND SEE THE FATE OF THOSE WHO DISOBEY!!! LOOK UPON HIM AND TREMBLE!!!”  The children quaked in fear as my maniacal laugh swept across the gaga dome like a terrible wind of doom.  10 seconds later everyone was playing gaga, completely ignorant of the chastising they had received, and Timmy went in the next round and all was forgotten.

In short, kids are dumb.  Given the choice, i would almost pick cat herding over camp.  Almost

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