Camp Gooseneck is as wonderful as I could have ever imagined! How silly I feel that I was so nervous before. You were right, this is turning out to be the best two weeks of my life so far!

My counselor’s name is Chadwick and he is a righteous cool dood. He has curly hair and wears plaid pants and plays Sister Hazel songs on his acoustic. He says he doesn’t like to wear shirts because they stifle his nips. He says his nipples need to breathe or else they get dry and when they get dry they get cracked and when they get cracked they get chapped. He says if he showed up for lifeguard duty with chapped nappies, it would beget a pussy drought dryer than the Dust Bowl of the Dirty Thirties. I don’t know what that means, but I believe it. And Mumsy I must admit, his nipple breathing techniques seem to be working. They are the healthiest in the whole wide camp. With the circumference of a Sacagawea golden dollar, they are truly a sight to be seen. They are THE wonder of Cabin Apache.

Some nights Chadwick lets us sneak out and play pranks on those cuntdicks in Cabin Sioux. “Everybody knows that the Sioux are a bunch of sackless dickheads, who wouldn’t know a piece of pussy from a pile of hamburger meat if it smacked them on the chodeshaft.” That’s what Chadwick says. I don’t know what it means, but I believe it. Anywho, one night we painted our faces all camouflage-like and snuck down to their cabin and pissed all over their clothes and in their shoes and duct-taped this one codpiece named Jacob to his bed and put a plastic bag over his face until his eyes rolled back in his head and his breathing stopped while Tommy whispered “Don’t you ever let me catch you even looking at Cynthia Mossberg again, you pot-marked tampon string!” It was CLASSIC!

I made all my bunkmates friendship bracelets in Arts’n’Crafts as a symbol of our being bros and all.  We also made a blood oath that we would die for each other. We all pricked our fingers and rubbed our blood all together. Nothing brings a group of young men closer than rubbing their open sores together. Black Bobby wasn’t allowed to take part in the blood oath though, because Clarke said that if we caught any of Black Bobby’s sickle cells in our bloodstream, we would all turn black and we collectively decided that we’d prefer to be white. Nothing against black folks, you understand, it was just a personal decision. You know, you always hear that there is this hidden cost to being African-American. Whether it is the statistically lower pay or the higher rates of heart disease, HIV/AIDs, and diabetes or just the subtle everyday racism of the white hegemony. The only way to make it as a black in this country is to sell crack rock or have a wicked jump shot. I think I’d rather just stay white, thank you very much.

Last week, me and this girl named Sharon from Cabin Cherokee went on a canoe ride around the lake. It was a blast! We parked our canoe behind the big branch that hangs over the edge of the lake and she took off her bikini bottoms and showed me the little brown hairs she had sprouted on her hoo-hoo cooch that everyone in camp was talking about. She pulled out a baggie from her satchel and emptied it into a spoon. She dropped some lake water in and then used a match to heat up the bottom of the spoon. She sterilized her needle in the lake, after finding the biggest vein in my arm, and gave me a shot that she said “would make me forget about when Daddy would rub his zipper up and down my spine.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I believed it. We sat in that canoe for what seemed like hours, sipping from her canteen, listening to Break On Through by the Doors, and slobbering on ourselves. I don’t want to speak too soon, but Mumsy, I think Sharon might be the ONE.

There is a large creature that lives in the woods behind the ropes course. At night we hear his blood thirsty howls and the cries of children he has trapped in his forest cave. Camp lore says that he devours the souls of campers and  drains out all their blood and innards into a large gourd. Then he takes their bones and grinds them into a fine powder. Once the blood gourd has been brought to a steady boil over an open fire, he mixes in the bone meal and a pinch of brown sugar. Let that simmer for about 15 to 20 minutes, just long enough for the flavors to really coalesce. Then let it cool for about 5 minutes to seal in the taste, and you are left with with what the counselors call Gooseneck Bloodmeal.

Chadwick says as long as they give the monster 3 campers from every camp session, his appetite is quelled long enough to prevent him from attacking the whole camp. It’s for the greater good he says. Campers should feel honored to be selected for the sacrifice. For the greater good.  It is through the spilling of their virginal blood that the monster is satisfied and lets us play capture the flag and go canoeing and have talent shows. For the greater good. Baxter Culpepper, from Cabin Chickasaw, went missing several days ago. The other campers and I have begun to speculate that he has been selected. Probably all that is left of him by now is a pile of hair and teeth. For the greater good.

But that was days ago. The creature is hungry again.His howls have been louder the past several nights. It’s about time for a new selection to be made. Oh! Mumsy, you will never guess what just happened. As I am writing you this very letter, a group of counselors in dark hooded robes have burst into my cabin. They are currently binding my feet and hands. I will admit, it does make writing this letter a bit more difficult. Now they have put a burlap sack over my head. I apologize if my handwriting is suffering, it is difficult to see with the sack and all. Now they are dragging me by my feet through the woods and chanting ominously. I must give credit where credit is due, it is sort a catchy little number. Well, the creatures howls are now upon me, so I must be going. For the greater good!

Give Papa and little Susanne my love! Ta-ta!

Love,

Pudding Dickenson

P.S. could you send me some of those toffies I like so dearly?