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aloud from a ripped spiral sheet both qualifies as a skit and warrants a standing O.
    Dave and Holly tolerate being mocked.

FLIGHT OF THE BORING
    Illegal elopement from the campsite constitutes the unfun child’s most drastic method of resisting our intensive treatment structure. Often times, the flight constitutes a last-ditch attempt at hanging on to what our little renegade deems his best self. As if he’s in an objective position to appraise his own personality! Four out of five times you’ll find him hiding out in that old bunker the kids think we don’t know about. You yell at him, freak him out, tell him about the Malhara that stalks these woods, or the Jackal looking to make a ritual sacrifice, or the peeved natives looking to re-gift disease blankets to the chilled ancestors of crafty pioneers—just wing it, really, get him crying. Drive slow on the way home so he calms down, then switch to Good Cop. Here’s where the camper will complain that the leaders of Fun Camp “just don’t get my sense of humor,” or he’ll fumble around with the idea that fun is neither an absolute nor a choice. The child’s views should be applauded for their well-intendedness, then refuted. A counselor’s greatest joy is when, in a Come to Fun Camp moment such as this, the boring child expresses true contrition, and repeats with you the three tenets of surrender: I suck but I know it. I’m bland but I’m working on it. I am hated by those who will someday revere me, for as their self-awareness slackens, my power grows.

SATURDAY

LADS OF THEIR NUMBER
    Who here can tell me how many bears came out of the woods and mauled the forty-two youths who called Elisha a baldhead? Who can tell me what God did to Uzzah when he steadied an ark he had no business steadying? Here’s a hint: The answer isn’t, “Normally, I could look it up.” Who can tell me what slithery creatures venomed the Israelites to death when they got to whining about their rustic living conditions? Anybody? This is bad news, children. I should’ve known the anti-memorization generation isn’t gonna make an exception for sanctified texts. You got the Word called up on your Ken-Doll right beside Vampire Angst Academy , ready to go, like your pocket is your brain. It’s not your fault, you poor damaged darlings, you one nation underdogs, you bushel-covered lights of mine. Your bankrupt public schools won’t even let you heed commandments in nice round numbers, rail on Darwin in a written-portion-of-the-Chem-test pinch, pray through first period in sleepy reverence, or perform any of the tricks that allowed me to clock in at school without absorbing their slop. If you haven’t heard it from anyone, you’re hearing it from me: You are what you memorize. Should we stand? Should we sing? You’d like that, but no. Instead, repeat after me: Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. Stop laughing.

LISTEN TO ME
    Because you are children and I am a man, and thus I’ve had more opportunities to notice patterns than you have.
    Because even as I stuff myself stupid at lunch, a controlling interest in me understands I’ll be starving by dinner.
    Because everything that makes me irrational has been tidily wrapped up in sex.
    Because a lady I knew would’ve signed on to pair up with me for the long haul if I’d asked her.
    Because my biggest gripes are with soft men I’ll never meet.
    Because I own my own house.
    Because I’ve cajoled barroom stories from mirthy Jacks who’ll up and leave a bar at the sound of the German language.
    Because I could tell you about Kansas and Kant, Ken Starr and cover letters.
    Because I know tricks for keeping myself from crying.
    Because I’d kick each of your asses at The Price is Right .
    Because I memorized the verbal fallacies and blow this whistle