The frozen pinkies


First off I would like to thank everyone who takes time out of their busy schedule to read my blog posts.  I have fun writing them and I’m glad  that other people enjoy them.  And for those of you who don’t take time out of your busy schedule to read my blog… by merit of reading this you just joined the other group.  Congratulations!  You will be spared.

Secondly, I’ve changed the layout of my blog a lot.  I’ve got a new theme, and fancy new side bars where you can like me on facebook and subscribe via email if you so wish.  And you do wish to.  I can tell.  Do it.  Now.

Second off, here’s the actual post:

The Frozen Pinkys

We have a science lady at camp named Kara who runs the Science club and other science related activities.  That’s why I called her a science lady.  Kara has honduran milk snake that she keeps in a terrarium in the room and is, or course, either of infinite fascination to the campers or a creature from the stygian depths of their darkest nightmares. Incidentally, these are the only two opinions people ever have of snakes: they either love snakes or they hate them.  No one ever says “Snakes?  Those things are boring.”  I think those people died out thousands of years ago, because snakes above all things hate to be ignored.

Honduran milk snakes, though they look kind of like the dreaded coral snake, are not venomous and are apparently quite good with kids.  More’s the pity, I say.  I think a good ol’ venomous bite from a reptile is just the sort of thing some of these kids need to set them on the straight and narrow.  It’s good for your character.

Pictured: Character growth

Anyway, snakes, like all living things, need to eat stuff.  “And what is it snakes eat?” you’re probably asking yourself.  Well, stop interrupting, I was about to tell you.  Snakes eat frozen pinkys.  If you are anything like me, when you hear the word pinky you either think of your smallest finger on your hand or the  lovable cartoon mouse from the classic 90’s show Pinky and the Brain.  That pinky looks like this:

How adorable!

The frozen pinkys look like this:

WHAT THE FUCK ARE THOSE???

Can you spot the difference?  It’s easy: the frozen pinkys are more pink.  Hence the hillarious name.  Oh… and they look like unborn fetuses.  But don’t worry, you don’t actually have to touch frozen pinkys.  They come in handy little cigarette style boxes designed for easy dumping, though the mere knowledge of their existence will weigh heavily on your soul for years to come if you were to ever come into contact with them.  I’m told, however, that snakes love the things; they think they’re popcorn chicken or something.

Possibly the most disturbingly obvious part of frozen pinkies is that you must keep them frozen.  This wouldn’t present in problem in a zoo or the Slytherin common room, where I’m sure there are literally tons of the things secreted in special frozen pinky freezers.  But where do regular, non zoo keeper/dark wizard people like Kevin James and Kara keep their pinkys?  The answer: a normal freezer, right beside the popsicles.  Sometimes even lying horribly in wait among the popsicles!   A tasty surprise indeed.

You sick bastard

There is something fundamentally wrong about keeping frozen pinkys in the same place that you keep normal food.  I wonder how many frozen pinky owners have inadvertently had a late night snack of frozen pinkys instead of the klondike bars they were oh so hungrily reaching for?

Judging from his face, it looks like the answer is at least one.

And in the end it doesn’t really matter


As we enter into the last 6 days of camp I find it interesting to reflect upon the changes from the first several weeks, when the campers feared and respected me, to now, where they, to put it simply, don’t.  They have realized that I am all bark and no bite, I’m serious 23% of the time, I am more scared to take bad campers to the office than they are to go to the office and that, for the most part, I just don’t care anymore.  The children have gone from this

I love camp! And Bears! Hooray!

To this

I love to cause nothing but misery. Oh, and fuck camp.

Incidentally, that Santa Clause is one of the most disturbing pictures i have ever seen.  Anyway, I just dont care anymore.  On the playground today Timmy, damn him, found a wasps nest secreted under the slide on the jungle gym… or whatever those things are called now.  Giant metal and plastic play fort with slide.  Accident machine.  Law suite.  Whatever.

“Charles, um, there is a wasps nest under the slide” he told me as i reclined on a picnic table, hoping that just such a thing as wasp nest discovery wouldn’t happen.  I had been an uneventful day for me up till that point.

“So don’t go near it.”  I replied, not even looking up.  This logic, however, was completely lost on timmy.

“Yes buuuut…. it’s a wasp’s nest and I am a seven year old boy and am therefore compelled to go over and bother it with no regards for my personal safety.  If, however, i am injured I will of course blame it all on you and cry.  FOREVER.

A terrible sense of doom shivered down my spine as timmy turned away from me, a wry smile on his face and a wicked song in his heart.  Damn him.  I sat up and shouted.

“HEED ME CAMPERS!  I WANT IT TO BE UNDERSTOOD THAT NO ONE WILL GO NEAR THE WASP NEST.”

“A wasp nest, you say?” inquired Jimmy, turning away from the pile of dirt or whatever he was fucking playing with and looking straight at me.

“YES! THE ONE UNDER THE SLIDE!” I called back

“What slide?  Where?” he asked”

“THAT ONE!” I said, pointing “And just there, between the second and third joint, just to the left of that shiny bolt.”

“Indeeeeed,” mused jimmy as he left the dirt alone and began to stroke his chin contemplatively.  He walked over the slide and began to poke the nest with a stick or something.

“Yeah that one.  NO ONE GO NEAR THE ONE THAT JIMMY IS FOOLISHLY PRODDING WITH A STICK.  OK?”  No one seemed to listen. It was as if the slide was a giant electromagnet and all the children were bars of iron.  They slowly floated over to the slide, looks of awe upon their faces for they and they alone, had been blessed with a chance to see wasps, real wasps, in a nest under a slide.

“Oh well.  I suppose i fulfilled my contractual obligations in this particular instance.”  I said to my fellow counselors, who nodded sagely.

“In my opinion,” said one of them as the children began to pelt the nest with mulch and small stones, “a good stinging is just one some of these kids need.  Teach them a thing or two about wasps!  And life!  If you throw stones at something, you can expect the thing you throw stones at to be fucking angry.  I think that’s a chinsese proverb or something.”  The other counselors, myself included, nodded sagely a second time and went about our business.  Remarkably, no one got stung.  The wasps stoically took their punishment with an air of grace I had never held their species to possess.  All that happened that day on the playground was that the children had fun and a little bit more of my soul died, much like Voldemort when harry and his annoying friends kept destroying his horcruxes.  Poor Voldemort.  All he wanted was to be loved.

And seriously, who couldn't love that face?

All in all it was a typical day at camp….

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