|"I'm gonna cut that guy who came up with beets"|
For, despite our very best efforts to build a rocket ship out of marsh reeds, a sweater out of beaver pelts, or soup out of guano, it was painfully obvious that, if pressed to fend for ourselves, we’d freeze to death and starve.
You’d think the staff would’ve figured that out after Pioneering.
|OK, who's the jackass that forgot a toilet?|
|What? Nothing to frikkin' read!?|
As impressive as it was, I realized it would be used as much as a diaphragm at the Octo-Mom’s house. If the call of nature ever hit me while moseying around the woods, no way would I squat like some lunatic goony bird on a wooden perch. Not while there were plenty of bushes to be had.
Nights at camp gave us a chance to work on our sharp sticks, gamble for cheezits, listen to endless renditions of-what else?-Layla (Sugar, Sugar long since ended its life at the skeet range), and try to keep Timmy’s last pair of shoes away from the fire.
Nighttimes were also a great time to toss small woodland creatures into the latrine, watch The Great Jimmy Woznick Fart Lighting Show, and tell outrageously bawdy stories whenever Father Karl wasn’t in earshot.
Following a particularly uproarious story about the consequences of giving certain body parts ridiculously improbable nicknames, we then proceeded to regale each other with the most horrific ghost stories imaginable.
Usually involving someone’s golden arm or a zombie who lived under our beds, it was great fun until some wise guy swore he heard there was an escape at a local insane asylum.
|Seriously, anybody got any Bactine?|
Only to be rudely shaken awake by that damn owl which made Timmy wet his sleeping bag.
Jeez, between that, melted sneakers, and a case of poison ivy that made him look like the Elephant Man, he really wasn’t having a good week.
To be concluded (thank God)...