Hello, Muddah. Hello, Faddah. Here I am at, my rock bottom. I know it’s been years since we last spoke, and I’m sorry I threw up inside your foyah. I’m very drunk. But I can’t put this off any longer. It’s time you know the truth.
Muddah, Faddah, you ruined my life.
My torturous two weeks at the sleepaway hellscape known as Camp Grenada has weighed heavily on my mind for nigh-on three decades. And to this very day I’m dealing with the repercussions of that fateful summer.
Do you still remember that letter I wrote home from camp? The one you so coldly dismissed as that of a homesick, highly imaginative boy? Well, every single word of it – the freak hailstorm, the parasitic outbreak, the sadistic counselors, the frequent alligator attacks – was the truth. And all of that occurred just on the first day.
By the way, have you any idea just how revolting a malaria infection looks up close? Or how difficult it is to compete in a three-legged race when your partner has dengue fever? Because I do. Even now I still have a crippling fear of insects. At this point, I’ve lost count of how many sexual encounters, job interviews, and court arraignments I’ve ruined by insisting on wearing a safari-grade mosquito net hat.
But night time is the hardest. Laying in my bunk at the halfway house causes painful flashbacks to the boy from camp with ptomaine poisoning. My poor bunkmate Tommy, shitting and puking himself to sleep after ingesting tainted pudgy pie. I remember how the kids at Grenada would tell ghost stories, not to scare ourselves, but to gleefully imagine an escaped serial killer with a hook hand slaughtering us all and ending our collective misery.
We also played baseball every once in a while, and that was bettah. But the rest of it? Terrible.
Weren’t you at all suspicious when the bus that brought me home only had three kids on it? Where did you think Jeffrey Hardy and Leonard Skinnard went? At the very least you should have asked for a refund.
And of all the places to send me, why did you choose a summer camp in a tropical rainforest where malaria and alligators run wild? We’re from Long Island. Surely there was a place upstate I could have gone instead.
I must look terrible, I know. Besides the drugs, booze, and compulsive ingesting of hydroxychloroquine and s’mores, I’ve never been able to step foot inside a gym. Too many bad memories of the camp’s head coach declaring he “wants no sissies,” and then forcing us to listen as he reads from “Ulysses.” Which, I realize maybe doesn’t sound as bad as all the other stuff. But believe me, that book is, like, super boring.
My question for you is, why? Why did you send me away but allow my little bruddah to stay home?
I pleaded and begged. I told you I wouldn’t make any more noise or mess the house with the other boys. I even promised I’d let Aunt Bertha hug and kiss me. Speaking of Aunt Bertha’s hugs and kisses, let’s unpack that trauma some other time. But still, you sent me away.
You ruined my life! And I’ll never forgive you for that, you heartless muddahfuckahs.
I’m sorry, I’m just so overcome with emotion. Kindly disregard this drunken rant. Sorry, Muddah. Sorry, Faddah. And could I borrow 40 dollahs?
I really wanted to sound smart here with my pick but if I’m being honest, the funniest and most enjoyable thing I’ve seen in the past 5 years or so is the Important Videos playlist on YouTube.