Evil, Thy Name is Precooked Camp Food. (410 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 0.5 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Rude (View user info) at 2004-02-09 23:08:21 EST
It was a chilly fall eve. Cold mist and fog blanketed the landscape. Inhospitable to say the least. This band camp would be hell.
The students saddled up with their various belongings; instruments, sleeping bags and the like. The convoy of the geek headed drearily towards the main lodge. I was stuck helping the polish drummer carry the kit in along with my bass, bags and amp. Oh woe is the Bass player/ 2nd percussionist. Overburdened like a whore who missed her last protection pament I stumbled away to the lobby of the main hall.
"Dinner! Shut up and Line up!" Sweeter words had never been uttered by the effeminate band teacher, or so I assumed. It had been a long day, all I had eaten previously was 2 beef jerky's, a large cookie and a 751 ml coke, same as every day. Unfortunately there is no such thing as good camp food. The truth punched the soft underbelly that is my apetite and ran away giggling to itself at a job well done.
Spaghetti. The bane of all camp patrons. Not good spaghetti like mom makes (or dad if its that sort of household). Sticky, overcooked, white as snow spaghetti. Spaghetti so badly made that satan himself would not wish it on the worst of the parades of rapists, murderers and single mothers in hell. Dinner was a silent occasion for me, perhaps I sat in silent retrospection of my life as it was to this point, perhaps I spoke not a word because I feared the retrobution of the camp administration had I said the spaghetti was killing me slowly in both body and spirit. In the end i choked down the spaghetti with some sulfuric fruit juice. My colon was not happy to say the least.
I stumbled slowly away from the table disgusted at what I had just endured. I am not one to step sheepishly away from a challenge of taste (having once licked the floor of the local subway) but I was disgusted.
Later, I had recovered slightly, it had been a couple hours and i had had some pudding, pudding makes the world a better place. Some of the boys were setting up a game of Jenga Xtreme! in our slanty shanty of a cabin. (Jenga becomes Xtreme when played at a 30 degree angle, a fruitless exercise to say the least.) There were also some Übergeeks in the corner playing D&D.
Suddenly there was a mighty belch by a nearby trumpeter, as a man it was my responsibility, Nay! My duty to outdo it. I prepared for my moment of glorious expellation of air. I swallowed some air, Arched my back, placed my hand on my stomach and pushed the air out of me like there was no tomorow, that this was it. The only thing that mattered right then was the sound.
There was no sound, well there was a slight gurgle then nothing but half digested spaghetti.
I had puked at band camp, I had made a fatal error. I was now to be the butt of many jokes and nicknames. Barf, Barfolomew, Sir Barfalot and so on. The polish Drummer would, everytime the words band camp were spoken, say in his broken english. "onetime at band camp..." and soon I would be re-telling the events of that fateful night.
There is a moral to this story, always bring your own food to band camp. Also proved by the next night of the camp when we ate meatballs in pinapple sauce and rice that came in perfect icecream scoop shaped domes.
User Reviews
Submitted by NavyJester (user info) at 2004-02-10 01:21:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
+2 because this was so well written
-1 because it was only mildly entertaining
I liked the writing style, though. I'd like to see more of this.
Submitted by neomage (user info) at 2004-02-10 00:01:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
That picture looks like little aliens floating in worms and barf.