There is No “I” in “Camp Songs” the commune's Rok Finger does right by our kids, scout's honor
Monday, Dec. 10, 2001
Kind friends, I'm more than aware of America's fondest for the individual. Actually, strike that, I'm simply aware of it, I doubt it's possible to be more than aware of something, it's the knowledge-based equivalent of being more than dead, you either are or aren't. Suffice to say I know of our need to be individuals, I myself am an individual along with my wife and friends, so I do not suggest we all needlessly conform. And even if I do suggest that, I'm willing to understand when people don't obey. But one thing is damn sure, and there is no quarter given for this fact: There is no "I" in "camp songs."
As Den Boss (I am neither mother nor father to any of them, it's shameful to lead them on like some adult den leaders do) of Troop 54, I am the short, thin green line between fascism and full-out hippie love fest. I will have neither, particularly the latter. I will even take a significant helping of the former in order to avoid any smidgen of the latter, to be blunt and honest. And until last week, order was held and maintained by Den Boss Rokwell T. Finger. Until a freckled kid, I'll refer to him as "The Turd" in order to protect small children from the shame of their actions. Okay, I can give you a hint, his real first name is Todd and his last name begins with a C., he's roughly 9, but that's all I can give you without incriminating him. If you write to me here at the commune I'll send a discreet e-mail sharing his name, just between you and me, but otherwise, "The Turd" thing is still in effect.
During an especially well-tempoed version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," I heard a clattering off-key voice chime in, a second late I might add, and bring the whole thing tumbling down like a fat man on glass platform shoes. This voice was high-pitched, so I knew it wasn't my own, again starting up without my control under the boisterous sway of the song's appeal; it was one of the boys.
The freckle-faced Turd was the culprit. It was more than poorly-executed singing; I could tell by his flustered face, the squeaks of giggles from others, and the half-smile his wide-open pie hole was curtained by that the Turd was a revolutionary, a Che Guevara amidst my stolid camper robots. Well, naturally I warned him it was fruitless to defy our singing rules, and I thought that would work. Needless to say it did not.
"The Wheels on the Bus" did not go 'round and 'round, my friends. Old McDonald's Farm was full of blithering, retarded animals, including cats that mooed and chickens that made farting noises. And instead of coming around the mountain when she came, the bitch downright derailed. I was furious, more than furious, which I think may be possible to a reasonable extent.
I had a choice, right then and there: Allow my authority to vaporize to a pudgy anarchist or make an example of him to the others.
It wasn't a pleasant choice, obviously, but I took the only realistic course of action: I abandoned Turd to the wilderness as Troop 54 packed quickly and left. He believed his punishment was gathering nuts and berries, and in a way it was since he must have done that to survive his long stay in the woods and find his way back to civilization. I received stern criticism, true, and lost the command of my scout regiment, but at least I have left an indelible lesson of the importance of conformity impressed upon them, especially one arrogant young boy.
Turd has since managed to find his way back, judging by the signatures on the legal summons, and nobody is happier than me. Hopefully he'll grow up one day and, when a gaggle of young boys are put in his custody, he'll realize a stern rod can shape any young Jimmy Dean Rebel-Without-A-Cause into an impressive soprano.
Milestones
the commune's scratch 'n sniff look at last year's office potluck
Opportunities
Pants a Capitalist
Free Virus Baggies
Take a Kitten, Please
the commune book selections
the commune's Bear in Rearview
the commune's Big Book of Duke
Faces of the commune
the commune 100: Leaders and Revolutionaries
the commune 100: Traitors and Noodledicks
FAQ Shwartz |
Site Map's Somewhere in the Glovebox |
Search In Vain |
Contract Ick
Privacy Police |
Terms of Gary Busey |
Reprints & Persimmons |
Press Eject Now
There's A Bustle in My Hedgerow
I'm not sure the exact length of time Jimmy Page is planning on staying. I wouldn't feel right asking him to leave, I'm all too aware of that magic dust in his suitcase.
I Am A Failure As A Physical Trainer
It takes a lot to shame Rok Finger, friends. Three counts of indecent exposure, a national trial for treason and a bastard child in Spanish Harlem have all failed in the past.
Someone is to Blame for My Sofa Stain
Who’s to blame, good people? That’s what I’ve been asking myself all week: Who’s to blame? That and, on an unrelated note, “Why did they cancel ‘Gunsmoke’ when it was just getting good?”
I Have Just Seen American Booty
Good people, it is not very often a movie can make you feel good to be alive, and can make you feel, after all, maybe the world is not a heaping pile of dung.
People Think I'm Johnny Carson
Anyone familiar with me knows I tire of the French fairly quick, and the only thing that irritates me worse is the French-Canadians. A people so wishy-washy about their country of origin shouldn’t be allowed independence; I’ve said it and I stand by it.
The Joker
Some people call me... the "space cowboy." Some call me the "gangster of love." Some people call me "Maurice"--wahnt wah--because I speak of the pompatus of love.
I Can't Get Up
Help me! Good people, this is not a lark, I’m serious--I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.