Friday, July 08, 2005

A Letter to Melvin While She Works at a Camp

Dearest Melvin:
I've been hearing some extremely vicious rumors about Camp Nawakwa this year, and was hoping that you could put them to rest.
1) Is it true that the kitchen staff has switched from peanut butter pie to tofu salad? I heard it on CNN and was hoping it was just a rumor. Replacing peanut butter pie with tofu salad would be the ultimate slap in the face, and I won't have it. If they actually have replaced peanut butter pie with tofu salad, here is what I will do. I will take monetary contributions from the entire family camp population. With their finances, I will buy the following things:
One ( 1 ) Fireman Hose
One ( 1 ) Large Canvas Bag
Two ( 2 ) Buckets of Yellow Paint
One ( 1 ) Can of Tuna Fish in Lite Syrup
Four ( 4 ) Small Mexican Chihuahuas
Eighteen ( 18 ) Kernals of Sweetened Popcorn (or kettle corn, to those of us who live down southwise)
Zero ( 0 ) Tubes of Suntan Lotion
One ( 1 ) Frenchman
With close study of those fine ingredients, I'm sure you can see the conclusion at which I am arriving: I can make my own peanut butter pie! And how!
2) Is it true that large portions of the Nawakwa woods have been cut down and paved over? If so, was a hootin'-tootin', rip-roarin' heavy metal arena built there? A heavy metal arena would be the only innovation that would make me okay with the deforestation of vast amounts of campground.
3) Moving on from such tomfoolery for one second, how was Canada? Is it true that, in Canada, everybody speaks Spanish? Wouldn't that be irritating.
Everybody in Harrisburg is fine. Well, most of us in Harrisburg is fine.
I've been whittling away the days by whittling. Upon your return, I will have built a fully functional kayak for your own personal use. It will be sitting on your bed. I created it out of a poplar branch. I built mom an oboe and I built dad a television. The reception is great, but HBO is still blurry. I'm thinking about whittling up an illegal cable box.
Scientology is treating me well. The Sweet Leaders of Mercy tell me that if I give them $13,762 more dollars, I'll be guaranteed a spot on the spaceship to the planet Xyxxxstyzzx, where I will meet the galactic overlord Xenu. They also tell me to stop calling them the Sweet Leaders of Mercy, and that I should simply call them Maury and Chet. If I call them by the name "The Sweet Leaders of Mercy," it feels more like a real religion and not just a scam to sucker me out of my hard-earned dough (and also my money).
Other than that, my life has been pretty hectic. I've been working on my tan by laying over the deep-fryer at Long John Silver's. They tell me that I'm actually getting no tan, and that in reality I am receiving third degree burns. If that's so true, why are the attractive women fawning all over me more than ever before? I have all kinds of nurses rubbing salves and lotions on my body, and giving me sponge baths, and feeding me through a tube in my gut. I AM ROLLING IN THE WOMENS!
Dan, on the other hand, accidentally fell into a pit of fire ants, spiders, and poisonous snakes (the very pit that I was storing under his bed for a special occasion!!!!111). The klutz would lose his head if I didn't freshly staple it to his knee every morning.
I'm sure there is other news that you will receive upon your revisitation to the planet Earth. Give Xenu my love.
Spoodles, The Purple Pie Man of Porcupine Peak

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