by Dave Eggers
Our camp kids were involved in many positive activities: we had junior Cheese Criers, and other things that encompass the Theme Farm life. We think, for example, there is no better way to learn about the value of money and dairy products than through the age-old practice of wooden-wheelbarrow-based Cheese Crying, which started in Norfolk or Philadelphia upwards of 250 years ago. We carry that through today, and some of the campers had even incorporated rap music into their cheese hawking. It was wonderful, but minus the cheese end of things, it will just be raps that probably contain swear words, because no parents will be around, because we at Wallup’s refuse to be taunted or under exposé by a TV station with an ax it chooses to grind on us.
Many of these kids will now have a bridge of one month between camp and school. In the past, out of courtesy, we at Wallup’s determined that any gap, or camp-to-school bridge, shouldn’t be more than ten days, nor should it include more than two weekends. We are disheartened then to see this one-month bridge, because in talking to drug and graffiti specialists, we surmised that a one-month bridge is dangerous in that illegal way, and also in simpler (but costly) ways like the amount of groceries and additional electricity the kids will use at their homes by not being at camp.
Now then, were there sores?
I will address that by saying a boy, at camp, picked a knee scab on a popular day at the Theme Farm. Many visitors saw this, and one reported it to the Health Board, who we squared things away with, and then the media got involved. It was nothing more than that, and some minor impetigo cases that always occur near busy drinking fountains anyway. We always have had strong relations with the media, and even when PETA got on us about the donkey who was on the tightrope, we all worked it out, even though the donkey was a tightrope specialist (better than most humans) and always had a net beneath it.
People will know the truth, and following a few safety procedures, I ensure you the camp will be back next summer. Workers can pick up free passes to Atlas Water Park for their families, to be used on their days off at Gate H from 12–3 on Thursday, as our way of saying sorry.
Sincerely,
Bob
COMMENTS WRITTEN ON EVALUATIONS OF MY SPEECH ON NEEDLE-EXCHANGE PROGRAMS
Andy Rathbun
I like your visual aid—creative!
Great visual aid
Creative visual aid
Good job on the drawings!
I liked the visual aid it was fun and educational.
Your visual was great!
Good use of visual
Visual aid was appropriate and colorful.
Very nice visual
Visual aid assisted in keeping the audience interested.
THE NEWEST FROM JOKELAND
Brodie H. Brockie and R. J. White
BAR JOKE #1
A man walks into a bar. He has a few drinks and chats with the bartender. Later that night, he goes home alone and reflects on the poor decisions he’s made in life.
RELIGIOUS JOKE #5
A priest, a minister, and a rabbi are walking down the street. They discuss, together, the various traditions and beliefs of their different religions. Each leaves with a greater respect for the others and a deeper understanding of the world.
DOCTOR JOKE #5
A man goes to his doctor. The doctor tells him he’s dying.
The man says, “I want a second opinion.”
The doctor gives him the name and number of a specialist in the type of cancer with which the man has been diagnosed.
POLISH JOKE #21
A gentleman is of Polish descent. His heritage is not discernible to his neighbors and co-workers, save for the letters ski at the end of his surname.
GENIE JOKE #3
A man and a woman are crossing the desert. They find a lamp in the sand. The man rubs the lamp and nothing happens. Afterward, he feels a bit foolish.
CHICKEN JOKE #63
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because the chicken lacks any reasoning or decision-making capabilities, it seems unlikely that the chicken’s action was spurred by any particular motivation.
DEATH JOKE #5
A man died. What transpired after he passed the veil of death is beyond the knowledge of the living.
KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE #8
Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
John.
John who?
John Wilson, your old friend from college.
What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.
BAR JOKE #17
A man walks into a bar with a dog. He orders a drink.
The bartender says, “Hey, we don’t let dogs in here!”
The man says, “But I’m blind, and this is my Seeing Eye dog. According to the Americans with Disabilities Act, you have to allow him into your establishment.”
The bartender gives him his drink, which he consumes.
WIFE JOKE #2
Take my wife, please, as I can no longer afford to pay for a nurse to come and care for her on a daily basis.
LAWYER JOKE #7
What do you call a room full of lawyers?
A group of highly educated legal professionals.
BLONDE JOKE #116
How do you brainwash a blonde?
A rigorous schedule of psychologically breaking down her confidence and resistance to outside suggestion.
FARMER’S DAUGHTER JOKE #13
A man is driving down a country road at night when his car gets a flat tire.
He stops by a local farmhouse and asks the owner if he can stay there for the night.
“Sure,” says the farmer. “As long as you don’t touch my three beautiful daughters.”
The man did as he was told because, frankly, he didn’t find the girls nearly as attractive as their father seemed to.
EXCERPTS FROM MY SPEECH ON FOREST-FIRE PREVENTION
Arthur Bradford
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, this is the time of the year that we really have to watch out. Every day now, as we sit in our homes, thousands of acres of good forest are burning to the ground ... and there is nothing we can do about it! We sometimes fly helicopters over forest fires and drop sacks of water on the flames, but that’s just for show. It doesn’t do any good. Even those ditches we dig and those smoke jumpers we employ have no conceivable effect on the course of a raging fire. But listen, if we put all that energy into simple PREVENTION, then we’d be a lot better off. It’s a lot easier to put out a fire which has already been prevented. A LOT easier.
YOU DON’T JUST LEAVE A CAMPFIRE UNATTENDED! It could go off and destroy a national park while you weren’t looking. DON’T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THAT FIRE! Another thing which can sometimes happen is that a fire can creep along underground, unbeknownst to the firekeeper, and then it pops up fifty yards away—a forest fire. This is why I think you should always have plenty of water nearby. And don’t be afraid to use it. People these days are always talking about saving water and conserving it for this and that, but what’s more important, water or trees?
Well, let’s look at it this way: you can make an awful lot of paper out of just a few acres of forest. And most of the animals we really love—deer, rabbits, hippos, goats—they all live in the forest. Imagine all of them burning up! Fish, for the most part, are unaffected by forest fires, which is probably why you don’t hear much from water conservation activists on this subject.
I suggest we put up a fireproof barrier or something. Keep the kids out of the forests if we must. Let them play on supervised playgrounds, or indoors, at least until they can learn to handle matches properly. Also, maybe if we were to make sure things weren’t so DRY out there then our hillsides might not go up in flames so easily. This gets back to my point about water conservation. We could prevent a lot of fires if we just moved a few lakes around. I understand that much of the technology which I am discussing here tonight might not actually exist, but that is no reason not to mention it.
Also, I understand that if you leave c
ertain glass containers, like soda bottles or jars, out in the middle of a dry field, the containers can act like magnifying glasses and concentrate the sun’s rays onto specific points on the ground. This, too, can start a forest fire. Someone once told me that forest fires are natural and we should let them happen. This is a lot of crap. Trees turn carbon dioxide into oxygen, which is probably the single most important gas on this planet. We probably wouldn’t have any oxygen at all if it weren’t for trees. I think people who believe forest fires are natural are just like people who don’t use deodorant because they think the way they smell is good. No one really likes to be around such a person.
In conclusion, I’d like to make a few points about bears. Many people are afraid of bears. Small children, in particular, find them terrifying. So why, I ask you, do we employ a bear, Smokey the Bear, as our national spokesperson for forest-fire prevention? I would imagine that some children see him up there with his hat and big teeth and they think, “Let him burn.” That is awful! How can we let our children feel this way? Some recent statistics have shown a startling trend toward arson-induced forest fires. That is to say, fires started by people on purpose! Damn it! What is wrong with the world today that some sick child would burn up all those trees? And bears! And frogs and foxes and all the things that call our forests home. What greater waste is there on this earth than a goddamned forest fire? When I think about all those trees out there in Idaho burning up like matchsticks just because we don’t have the sense to protect them, it makes me want to puke.
Thank you for your time. Good night.
AS A PORN MOVIE TITLER, I MAY LACK PROMISE
John Moe
When Harry Met Sally, They Had Sex with One Another
The Matrix-sex
Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines Are Humping
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington Whilst Having Sex
American History XXX
Reservoir Dogs Humping All Over People’s Legs
All Quiet on the Western Front Except for All the People Having Sex on the Western Front
O Brother, Where Art Thou Doing It?
Sex Degrees of Sexparation
Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams About Having Lots of Sex with People
You’ve Got Mail, and Also Tons of Sex!
It’s a Wonderful Life When You Are Having Scads of Sex with Others
Some Like It Hot, e.g., Hookers
The Day the Earth Stood Still Somebody Somewhere Was Having Sex
Schindler’s List of People to Have Sex with a Whole Lot
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TWO MOONS AGO (THE REVENGE)
Brian Kennedy
SIGHING LAMB OPENED her large, brown, doelike eyes and stretched languorously atop her pile of furs. The morning sun filtered in through the walls of the wigwam, caressing her nubile young body with its gentle warmth. She rose to her hands and knees and peeled aside the entrance flap—and jumped back with a start as a young brave’s face peered in.
“Good morning, little wood mouse,” said the tall, lean warrior, his smile revealing clean, straight white teeth.
“Good morning, Wind Runner!” Sighing Lamb chirped, and yawned mightily. She raised her arms and stretched, raising her large, firm, melon-shaped breasts under her buckskin nightshirt. She stifled a giggle as she caught Wind Runner staring down at them. “Do you hunt today?”
“Yes, of course!” said Wind Runner. “Today I will catch the biggest deer you ever have seen!” He smiled again. “And bring it back, just for you,” he added flirtatiously.
Sighing Lamb blushed red and blew him a kiss. “Well, good luck, then!” Wind Runner smiled at her again and darted off to join the rest of the hunting party.
The Indian maiden sighed wistfully as she watched the Squab braves prancing off to the hunting grounds, their tight buckskin breeches flapping in the spring wind. Why couldn’t she go too? she thought to herself. She wanted to bathe in the blood of Brother Deer, to bring home provisions for her tribespeople. But no! She was a woman, and destined to a life of mending buckskin breeches, digging in the dirt for roots and tubers, nursing babies at her teats. Why couldn’t things be different?
“We come together to celebrate the opening of our new Burial Ground,” said Chief Falling Owl, speaking stiffly from behind a podium hewn from a great tree stump. “May this land help our people find their way to the Spirit World; may it be forever free from the Wendigo’s predations, from the Water Monster’s rages. May it find favor with the Manidog and the Wenebojo, and may they deem it worthy of their protection.
“And now let us feast!” said Chief Falling Owl beatifically. The Squab uttered a ragged cheer and descended upon the long tables groaning with venison, roots, tubers, berries, and other victuals.
Unseen in the bushes, something watched them.
“This is a horrible thing,” Grizzled Fist said, squatting on his haunches and staring at the two corpses. They had been killed while making love—a single primitive flint spear transfixed the naked bodies, pinning them to the bearskin bed and thence to the floor of the wigwam. “Yes, it is horrible,” Grizzled Fist continued. As assistant war chief, it was his job to investigate such occurrences, but he had never before seen something like this.
“I also think that it is horrible,” said his rookie partner, With-Great-Hair. “Who would do such a thing?”
“I do not know,” snarled Grizzled Fist. “But we must not rest until we find him. And give him a taste of his own medicine.” Grizzled Fist had a reputation as a “loose arrow” among the warriors of the Squab; he was a man who preferred actions to words, who had no patience for the inconvenience and tedium of tribal regulations.
“You mean ‘arrest him and bring him to justice,’ Grizzled Fist.” With-Great-Hair was more inclined to play by the rules; the two made an excellent team, With-Great-Hair’s cautious nature proving the perfect foil to Grizzled Fist’s reckless tendencies.
Grizzled Fist merely snarled and stared out the door of the wigwam. With-Great-Hair wrapped a piece of rawhide around his hand and carefully removed the spear. The roughly hewn flint spearhead fell off. With-Great-Hair gently picked it up with two sticks and placed it in a hemp bag for later identification.
“Did you hear?” said Lips-Like-Sugar at the ceremonial dinner that night. Her father was Chief Falling Owl; he had given her a beautiful white horse and lavished upon her many glass beads and other expensive baubles. This made her the most popular of the daughters of the wealthy tribesmen; she ruled the other Squab girls with an iron fist, and brooked no dissension. “They found Little Dove and Prancing Cricket,” she said, and then her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dead! And guess what they were doing?”
“What a slut,” cackled Lips-Like-Sugar’s friend, Climbs-Over-Boulders, nibbling daintily on a piece of dried venison. “And with Prancing Cricket! When was the last time he slew a buffalo for the tribe’s provisions! Do you remember last hunting season, when he ran in terror from the stampeding herd?”
Sighing Lamb looked up from her meal in shock. “Why do you say these things?” she asked, amazed. “They were fellow tribespeople, and now they are dead!” Tears began to flow from her beautiful brown eyes. “How could you be so cruel?”
Lips-Like-Sugar turned toward her, scorn in her eyes. “Why, you seem very interested in this,” she said. “Very interested. Perhaps you had feelings deep in your Inner Heart for Prancing Cricket yourself?”
The other girls cackled with delight; Sighing Lamb’s cheeks burned. She stood up from the communal fire and took her earthenware bowl to the washing place. What was happening to these people? she thought to herself, and her eyes filled with tears. What was happening to them all?
Skritch. Skritch. There was something at the flap of the wigwam. Grizzled Fist jerked upright from his pile of furs and grabbed for his tomahawk. Stay calm, he told himself, and remember to slash at the throat. He jerked the flap aside and raised his tomahawk. “AIAIAIAAAA!!!” he cried, and raised his arm to strik
e.
With-Great-Hair fell face-first through the opening, a primitive stone spear protruding from his back. “My back,” he moaned. “There is a primitive stone spear in it. I fear I am dying.”
“Do not worry! It will be all right,” said Grizzled Fist. He bit his lip in anger—truthfully, he knew that there was nothing he could do. With-Great-Hair would be dead soon.
“I do not know who did this,” said With-Great-Hair, his teeth clenched in agony. “A dark, shadowy figure, dressed in untanned skins, with strange hair and clothing ... agh!” And then he died.
“Rest in peace, brave With-Great-Hair,” said Grizzled Fist, and gently closed his dead partner’s eyes. And may I avenge you and put an end to this horror, he thought to himself.
´ ´ ´
Lips-Like-Sugar sprinted through the forest, her mind numb with terror, branches whipping her face and tearing at her hair. She could hear footsteps behind her, and a dry, husklike, rattling breathing.
Why had she gone with Sings-With-Trees to the Burial Ground? She cursed her stupidity, and her attraction to the Indian lacrosse athlete-warrior. She should have known there was something wrong with that place. Now Sings-With-Trees lay still in a pile of broken limbs, joining the other corpses in the graveyard—and Lips-Like-Sugar was running for her life.
The Indian maid tripped on a branch and fell to the ground, skinning her knees and elbows. She wiped blood from her mouth and staggered to her feet, and began running again. The breathing behind her was closer.
You can beat this! Lips-Like-Sugar’s mind screamed. She was the Squab’s fastest woman sprinter; she ran miles every day to maintain her slender figure and to one day attract a husband of high status who would maintain her in the manner to which she was accustomed. Her expensive beaded moccasins pounded at the soil as she ran faster and faster. The ghoulish breathing behind her slowly grew fainter as Lips-Like-Sugar gathered speed. “Just try to catch me, Wendigo!” she yelled in triumph.