Read Fun Camp for Free Online Page B

whenever I hear one.
    Because I’ve raised brows by wit alone.
    Because I can tell you why certain movies are good with words you’d use wrong.
    Because I registered your sense of wonder and factored it into the way I regard you.
    Because I could trick even the savviest among you, and have already. And will.
    Because the sting of failure has humbled me without my say so.
    Because I annually get worse at lying to myself and better at avoiding bare truths.
    Because the worry my birthday causes me points to a big fact I’m beginning to allow myself to acknowledge.
    Because I’d do alright in the wild for a time.
    Because I could kill each of you with both arms bound.
    Because I know just when to kill a joke.

I KNOW WE’RE TRAMPLING HISTORY BUT
    If you think back far enough, what wasn’t built on an Indian burial ground? Was I the ghost of a native, I bet I’d be pretty understanding about where my conquerors build their resorts. The sacred’s got a clock like anything. Me, I’d like my grave marked and mowed for a solid century, long enough for everyone who could’ve ever loved me to join me. After that, they’re free to erect a fresh Dillard’s on my once-marked bones. I owe a shot at discounts to the not yet dead.

GROGG CORNERS A CAMPER
    Feel this knot. Yes, touch it. Post-veto, I was told my back would’ve been practed and kneeded had I narrated that my paindaggers had come on sudden in the a.m. Gander at a man’s leased camp shack, then ask me how long I’ll keep up the ole wince-and-grit for. Death, to thems, is the pickle you ask for none of, please. You might still get served a briny cuke in and on and beside your tray—it may yes happen—but some pimply shluck is gonna get the shitcan for it. That there is some blood-weary optimism in my spectation. Surprised for me, colt? This is worth leaping a parisian fence for, kiddo, unless your constituency cuts his own checks. A prior history is a costly flopping redundancy. My nightly prayers, in order of downward likeness: one is for said-mentioned outfromers to pod me in for a medicinal autotuning, two is for a blonde-bosomed young Montrealite staffer to arrive one summer, burned and beautiful, who’ll hitch me to her wagon and socialize me. Scram in case of either.

WE LOVE FUN CAMP, YES WE DO
    Damned if those kids don’t take some of the cock out of my walk, though. Delightful isolated moments, you bet, but after morning counselor meetings I get that pit-level dread, mouthing soundless expletives. Dread where the heart beats faster and the body deflates. Dread where they can smell that you don’t want to say hey or lead line-up cheers louder than the other cabins. They pick up on more than you think, yet they never pick up on that particular thing you’re so sure they know. Once-over a she-counselor and you feel a guilt the Catholics keep trying to claim for themselves, a guilt that goes, “If my kids only knew this heart, hoo-boy.” And if they did? They’re all spies ready to sell you out for an attaboy, new zeal smoothing their faces to bland mush. By the end of the week, I can’t tell my own boys apart. I cover it, addressing each of them with a “Cabin 3, what ,” which they’ve come to respond to more than their own names anyway.

THE MAGIC OF SUMMER
    I want us all to do an experiment together. Ready? [Pause ten seconds.] In the last ten seconds, each of you has forgotten just a tiny fraction of the math skills you picked up in school last year. Isn’t that wonderful? They can learn you up with whatever they want mid-August through early June, but in the interim, if you choose not to use it? [Clap hands free of unwanted math.] Gone for months. And that’s adulthood, kids: an endless string of summers full of sweet choice. It’s as fun as it sounds, and it’s never terrifying, not if you’re smart about it.

HELLO CLONE, I WILL SAY
    Myself having a religious background can understand your point. Sometimes I too wonder if identical twins