August 1st: Dropoff went according to plan. I’ve secured a bed in élite Cabin Eight [$50—gratuity] to better observe alpha camper R., as instructed. I am at present in a lower bunk, and will need to gain an upper berth to have access to the high-level talks that occur up there after lights-out.
A tense moment at First Fire. During the recital of “Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts,” I sang “little dirty birdie feet” instead of the local perversion, “chopped-up baby parakeet.” My error was pointed out by E., an overweight boy seeking to deflect negative attention from himself. My response, that E. had not heard me correctly owing to the obstruction of his piglike ears with fatty fat, made E. cry, provoking hard laughter among the others. The head counsellor gave me a demerit for poor sportsmanship, which is sure to stand me in good stead with the most important campers. To the greater glory of Sleeping Bear!
August 2nd: After only one day, I’ve isolated a crucial factor in Screaming Eagle’s continued dominance at All-Lake: the breakfasts are amazing! The eggs are fresh, not powdered military surplus, the bacon crumbles warm and chewy, not chemical pellets. There are at least seven varieties of sweet roll—soft, with no discernible insect parts—fresh fruit, and a nearly endless selection of brand-name cereals served with whole, reduced-fat, skim, and even soy milk, upon request! If we were to institute such a hearty regimen, I believe our performance at All-Lake would dramatically improve, and there would be fewer swoonings.
After lunch (all-beef burgers, with a choice of real cheese!), I was hog-tied on the orders of R. and stowed under my bunk, and thus am unable to report on the afternoon’s activities. My fears for the mission were allayed by Counsellor K., who heard my strategic whimpering and freed me before afternoon snack (pineapple on the husk!). He explained that the bondage and humiliation of new mates is a tradition in Cabin Eight, and signifies my initiation into the group. Objective achieved.
To solidify my newfound position, following dinner (chicken cutlets—all white meat!) I treated R. to his choice of ice creams at the canteen [$24—entertainment]. He sampled several, tossing them unfinished to the ground, before settling on a Choco-Taco similar to his first selection. The obese E. watched us with growing fury. He may have to be neutralized.
On a separate but related matter, I wonder whether we might devise a better mode of exchange. It’s difficult to find fresh animal scat, especially after dark, and the monies I retrieved from your last drop raised questions at the canteen. The designated old oak has several hollows and crannies that might suffice just as well, I respectfully suggest.
August 3rd: I am under the impression that C. views my stay here as an indulgence, and believes that I’m being corrupted by bourgeois “treats.” I’d like to assure you that I remain committed to our goal of crushing Camp Screaming Eagle at the next All-Lake, and that I partake of their superior cuisine and comforts merely to avoid suspicion. I would rather share a single desiccated carob biscuit with my Sleeping Bear brethren than partake in the whole of the Sundae Bar promised us this Thursday.
Now, if we’ve put that matter to rest, I am pleased to report a small but significant victory. Utilizing the warm-water torture technique from training, I induced L., my bunkmate, to micturate in his sleep. Having previously obtained an extra set of clean sheets [$20—laundry], I traded these and my silence for L.’s superior berth. I’m an Upper!
I purchased Northwoods Canvas Utility Pants, Merrell Chameleon Gore-Tex Ventilator Hikers, Barz Cross-Sport Goggles, and an L. L. Bean Neoprene Wet Suit from the camp’s pro shop on the advice of R. [$289—equipment/camouflage]. These will allow me to move inconspicuously among the other campers, some of whom have made note of my attire. At Morning Roundup, fat E. commented cryptically that I looked “like something the bear dragged in.” I was forced to savagely pink-belly him as a diversion.
August 4th: My infiltration of the upper sleeping echelon is paying dividends, well worth the additional outlay to Counsellor K. to overlook bunk seniority regulations [$60—gratuity]. Last night, R. regaled us for more than an hour after lights-out, artfully melding terrifying stories with ribald sounds, and then, as we were falling asleep, he quietly revealed the familial circumstances that have resulted in his summer-long stays at Screaming Eagle, which he referred to as his “real home.”
August 5th: I do remember why I am here. Nevertheless, nothing of value was learned today. In consideration of our previous communication, I made only two trips to the Sundae Bar this evening.
August 6th: Despite strong reservations, I carried out the attack tonight precisely as directed. I am unable to report success. While I did manage to replace the hundred Hershey bars with Ex-Lax [$500—explosives] before the Great Bonfire, the rigged s’mores were quickly detected by the lardy E., who knows his chocolate. He attempted to blame me, having amassed an impressive dossier, including a murky cell-phone video of me inadvertently singing “Hail, Screaming Bear” at Sundown. (It’s the same melody, and I was looped on tiramisu!) R. rose to my defense and, invoking the smelt-it-dealt-it rule, accused E. of the sabotage, and of being fat. The missing chocolate was found in E.’s footlocker, of course, and he took quite a beating.
Unfortunately, in the end, the Screaming Eagles, rather than being drained and debilitated on the eve of All-Lake, have emerged revitalized and determined to exact vengeance. And so it is with great regret that I must inform you that we’re going to totally kick your butts tomorrow.

A Cowboy from Laramie , Wyoming , walked into a bank in New York City and asked for the loan officer.
He told the loan officer that he was going to Paris for an international rodeo for two weeks and needed
to borrow $5,000 and that he was not a depositor of the bank.

The bank officer told him that the bank would need some form of
security for the loan, so the Cowboy handed over the keys to a new
Ferrari. The car was parked on the street in front of the bank.
The Cowboy produced the title and everything checked out.

The loan officer agreed to hold the car as collateral for the loan
and apologized for having to charge 12% interest.

Later, the bank's president and its officers all enjoyed a good laugh at
the Cowboy from Wyoming for using a $250,000 Ferrari as collateral for a $5000 loan.
An employee of the bank then drove the Ferrari into the bank's private
underground garage and parked it.

Two weeks later, the Cowboy returned, repaid the $5,000 and the
interest of $23.07. The loan officer said, "Sir, we are very happy to
have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely,
but we are a little puzzled. While you were away, we checked you out on Dunn & Bradstreet
and found that you are a highly sophisticated investor and multimillionaire with real estate
and financial interests all over the world.
Your investments include a large number of wind turbines around Laramie, Wyoming.

What puzzles us is - why would you bother to borrow $5,000?"

The good 'ole Wyoming boy replied, "Where else in New York City can I
park my car for two weeks for only $23.07 and expect it to be there
when I return?"

After being married for 40 years, I took a careful look at my wife one day and said, "forty years ago we had a cheap house, a junk car, slept on a sofa bed and watched a 10-inch black and white TV, but I got to sleep every night with a hot 23-year-old girl.. Now ... I have a $500,000.00 home, a $35,000.00 car, a nice big bed and a large screen TV, but I'm sleeping with a 63-year-old woman. It seems to me that you're not holding up your side of things."

My wife is a very reasonable woman. She told me to go out and find a hot 23-year-old girl and she would make sure that I would once again be living in a cheap house, driving a junk car, sleeping on a sofa bed and watching a 10-inch black and white TV.

Redneck Therapy---

Cletus is passing by Billy Bob's hay barn one day when through a gap in
the door he sees Billy Bob doing a slow and sensual striptease in front of
an old green John Deere. Buttocks clenched he performs a slow pirouette
and gently slides off first the right strap of his overalls, followed by
the left. He then hunches his shoulders forward and in a classic
striptease move and lets his overalls fall down to his hips revealing a
torn and frayed plaid shirt. Grabbing both sides of his shirt he rips it
apart to reveal his stained tee shirt underneath. With a final flourish he
tears the tee shirt from his body and hurls his baseball cap onto a pile
of hay.

Having seen enough Cletus rushes in and says "what the heck are you doing, Billy Bob."

"Jeez, Cletus, ya scared the bejeebers out of me," says an obviously
embarrassed Billy Bob, "but me and the Ole lady been having trouble lately in the bedroom department, and the therapist suggested I do something sexy to a tractor."

A man was brought to Mercy Hospital, and taken quickly in for coronary surgery. The operation went well and, as the groggy man regained consciousness, he was reassured by a Sister of Mercy, who was waiting by his bed.

"Mr. Smith, you're going to be just fine," said the nun, gently patting his hand. "We do need to know, however, how you intend to pay for your stay here. Are you covered by insurance?"

"No, I'm not," the man whispered hoarsely.

"Can you pay in cash?" persisted the nun.

"I'm afraid I cannot, Sister."

"Well, do you have any close relatives?" the nun questioned sternly.

"Just my sister in New Mexico," he volunteered. "But she's a humble spinster nun."

"Oh, I must correct you, Mr. Smith. Nuns are not 'spinsters - they are married to God."

"Wonderful," said Smith. "In that case, please send the bill to my brother-in-law."