While sifting through both of our pieces of fan mail recently, we came across a letter clearly delivered to us by mistake. This made sense of course, as it was incredibly hard to believe that two whole people would send us fan mail.
The mysterious letter was addressed to the administrators of Camp Crystal Lake and was dated August 13th, 1982. Given our steadfast reverence for the sanctity of the federal postal service, we waited the entirety of twenty-two seconds before we tore into it. What we found was a formal complaint from a very unhappy female camp counselor.
Here’s what she had to say…
Crystal Lake Enterprises
CO: Summer Leisure & Hemorrhoid Ointment Division
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Betty, and I am a counselor at your supposed summer camp. I am writing you today to protest your inflammatory hiring methods.
I don’t know what rock you had to kick over on Whore Island and South Cantkeepitinyourpantsburgh, but these so-called employees you wrangled have not stopped humping since they arrived. I was actually worried that perhaps where you meant to hire eight youth counselors, you instead inadvertently added an octet of genetically enhanced rabbit-people to your payroll. As someone saving herself for marriage, I find this carousel of boning particularly offensive.
That is, except for one guy. He’s not had much success courting me or any of the other nubile females you sent. I guess you could call him “the funny guy.” He’s content playing practical jokes and generally acting like a creep. There’s always one “funny guy” isn’t there?
The point I’m trying to get across is that, besides myself, there is not one counselor here fit to lead an ill-advised solo midnight darkness hike, much less supervise children.
Oh, and while we’re on the subject, where are all the children? The other counselors and I have been here for a solid week and we haven’t been sent so much as one tow-headed mouth-breather. How do you remain in business? I am well-aware that in the past you’ve had a few (what is the kind way to say it) wet farts in the public relations department, but as a finance major at Local University, I feel I must inform you that in this economy, it is exceedingly unwise to operate a childless children’s summer camp for children.
But let’s get back to the unapologetic chromosomal mismatches with whom I am now forced to work. I hate to be a tattletale, but it’s now five minutes to noon, which means they have officially exceeded their allotted lunch break period by…three days. Apparently they all thought it would be hilarious to go into the woods for a beer-fueled picnic and then just go ahead and not be seen since. The nerve! That is, unless you count the guy wearing the blood-stained burlap sack on his head I keep seeing looking in my window. Yeah, real original, “funny guy.”
Oh, and I really don’t like pointing fingers, but I’m pretty sure that at least one of these wayward wanks is also a thief. I can’t even count how many power tools, gardening utensils, and pieces of sports equipment have gone missing since we arrived. I know times are tough, but how much money could anyone really hope to acquire by hocking stolen machetes, chainsaws, garden sheers, and hockey masks? I guess there is benefit of doubt to be lent here, but unless a down-on-his-luck Bobby Orr is stalking the area AND hellbent on clearing storm debris from his backyard despite the financial troubles that drove him to steal from a kid’s camp, I’d say it’s time to check some staff bunks.
So here I sit, all alone in a creaky cabin on these now deserted campgrounds with nary a hatchet nor lawn dart with which to occupy myself. I’ve made the most of it; taking long steamy showers and dancing around in my underwear to both rock ‘n’ roll. I think the missing degenerates left a bag of smoking drugs behind as well as some alcohols, but I don’t touch that stuff.
At least the scenery around here is nice. The lake is positively choked with majestic nature weeds and ominously upturned canoes. The insects chirp the night away with a relaxing “ki-ki-ki-ma-ma-ma,” and some native bird’s song sounds oddly reminiscent of blood-curdling murder screams. It would be perfect if not for the chunks of bloody flesh from what I assume are pigs that were mutilated by what I assume are coyotes that instinctively leave shreds of clothing on their prey.
I hope you like the taste of sarcasm, because I just eye-fed you a shovel-full. All those things serve to NOT make Camp Crystal Lake the “idyllic and relatively murder-free natural paradise” advertised in your brochure. In fact, I’ve heard many a townie describe this place as “Camp Crud.” Yeah, I’m almost positive that’s what they said.
Ah, I hear the insects now. Strange, I haven’t heard those birds since yesterday. Oh look, there’s the “funny guy” again. Yeah, I see you out there! Well at the very least, those of you reading this can now call off your search for the missing hockey mask.
In any event, Camp Crystal Lake administrators, the situation here is untenable. If drastic changes are not made to your hiring standards, I can assure you I will be the final girl…to ever apply for this job. Sorry, I don’t know why I added an ellipsis there. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to stick this letter in the only mailbox within a ten-mile radius; the one outside that grimy old hunting shack deep in the forest.
Consider this my resignation, and do not for a moment think you won’t be hearing from me again.
To all our horror movie brethren out there, we wish you a happy…
Sure, that fake letter was silly, but at least Jason found it funny. Right, Jason?