Campy Camper

Mom calls. Can I speak with the kids about any camp updates?

I say, “You shipped me off to Sleepaway Camp for 8 years in a row for what felt like 3 years at the time, that went on longer than Paul Resier as the MC during the 92nd Street Y series on why Baby Boomer arrogance never dies. As I counted the days till Color War was over, which always made me feel whiter than White man’s Disease, at a Jew boy sleepaway camp in Kent, CT no less, especially knowing how I was the second worst athlete after the Shiek’s son from Great Neck. Yet I don’t recall you ever asking whether I was gay about going back to camp again mom or ever bothering to ask me how I liked being called Homo Head or Sphincter Clit, after you packed me jars of Vaseline like I was about to be shipped off to gay conversion camp despite that jar of Vaseline getting less touches than a Bible in a Bathhouse colony in Pronvincetown. Where Bathhouse Barry was broken in by Michelle Obama, What’s Talent Got To Do With It Turner, during their honeymoon phase. But at the time, I still had no understanding of how Vaseline was the AJAX’s man’s grown-up version of Slip and Slide with the Village People. Before Harry Styles came out as a Cherry Blossom Popping lube enthusiast under his new line of lifestyle lubes, Pan Sexual Brits Are Us. Because my sex education back then mom, was only limited to Taste Of Amber, Topless Tudors and Mountain Of Muff, on the VHS Tape mix tape that my Japanese American friend Kohji Toung made for me, that was a true labor of love on par with the chiseled lats on David that pointed you straight toward his gluteus maximus, which in Latin means, “Sphincter on Fire.”

Although I was super gay about the time when I jerked off in the bunk bathroom once and had to wipe up with the cardboard roller and decided to put it back inside the holder. Only to laugh the hardest I’ve ever laughed after this fat troll from Dalton prep yells, “Gross”, before realizing that his hand was covered in cum while trying to wipe his own ass. I literally turned the toilet paper dispenser into my own glory role repository. And I’ve never laughed harder, having to the bite down on my crusty blanket to prevent myself from being busted as the sole source behind such perverse howls of merriment masked delight. So, blowing 4 grand on camp that summer was totally worth it ma, Vaseline coupons included.”

I was written off as a nutty fruitcake by my mother and was written out of the will in real time in case you’re wondering despite my happy ending to that call. Can I get a Challah, for Love Limit Limitations? Last time I checked, Gropin Biden’s expired.

Fake news friend from college who pretends The Icky Shuffle actually beat Trumpy Poo says, “What do you think about Roe vs. Wade? ” I say, “I never get personal. But atheist cunts always act like they’re on the rag regardless.”

He didn’t laugh.

I text back, “Did you grow a vagina overnight? If so, I’d stay away from Biden in Delaware during local stump speeches on Making Skinny Dipping great again in front of his secret service agents stationed at his Greenville estate home, while murmuring to those female agents stuck on Presidential security detail, “I told you I was bigger than Boogie Boarder. Icky Shuffle showers with his daughter according to his daughter’s diaries. So, unlike Trumpy Poo, the Icky Shuffle is less likely to discriminate against who rubs against his dirty grandpa goo.”

Love limit limitations live, Challah.

Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

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