The Remote Island by Bryan Christian George Clooney reports to the ER one final time? Plus: Jessica Alba vs. Bill O'Reilly, the Lingerie Bowl and John Turturro's incredibly weird beer commercial.
PERSONAL ESSAYS
posted 7/26/2002
The day after I turned seventeen I was busted, along with some of my friends, for vandalizing a golf course in celebration of my existence. We had been under the influence of Milwaukee's Best Light. Although damage to the course was relatively small, I was humiliated
promotion
when my parents were informed that I had stolen several back issues of Penthouse from the office of the greenskeeper.
Instead of realizing that I was merely drunk, my parents concluded that wanton lust had bewitched me to the point that I needed serious help, and that the only person capable of curing me was the Lord. (I might have tried to dispute this point more vigorously, but when I slunk back home that night, my first official act as a seventeen-year-old was to jack off over those Penthouses while I leaned back on a broom handle I'd greased with Oil of Olay.) Because it was summer, my parents arranged to have me shipped to the mountains of North Carolina. I would be stationed at Camp Grier, a retreat for youth who needed to put themselves right with God.
When I arrived at camp (on a Friday the same day of the week as Jesus' crucifixion, let us not forget) I was shocked to discover that it was run by evangelical Presbyterians. At the time I was unaware that such freakish hybrids of Southern bible thumping and New England restraint existed, and I was even more dismayed that my parents would put me in their care for a month. My parents were not entirely prudish people, and I suppose they were more upset by the public nature of my criminal activities than the crimes themselves.
During orientation, which was attended by all the other campers and their parents, I noticed there were a tremendous number of girls present who could perhaps prove the existence of a benevolent deity. My friends had primed me with stories of their sexual experiments at summer camp, and their tales of pornographic archetypes games of Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare that tumbled madly into massive orgies; mornings spent watching budding teen girls soaping each other in the showers suddenly filled me with the desire to stand in praise of God. This was unfortunate, because I was wearing shorts with a propensity to "tent" excessively. It wouldn't have been a problem had I been able to remain seated, but as soon as my penis raised its head like a prairie dog scouting the grassy plains for predators, everyone was asked to stand and greet the people around them. I sat still for as long as possible, until my father yanked me to my feet and spun me around to face the most exquisite creature I had seen in my entire misguided life. She smiled and extended her hand. When I reached out to take it, she looked at my crotch and twisted up her face as if I had just presented her with a turd on a silver platter. I had just enough time to glimpse her nametag which read "Aimee Kapps," the "i" dotted with a heart before she turned coldly away.
This only added to my distaste for being stuck in the forest with people far more immersed in their faith than I, especially when Aimee's version of our meeting rapidly progressed through the camp gossip circuit. The sound of woodland creatures was often drowned out by the giggles of my Christian cohorts, who were clearly not well versed in that whole "judge not, lest ye be judged" bit. To make matters worse, one was never left alone even traffic in the bathroom was constant and before I knew it, I hadn't jerked off for a week. This was more than just an inconvenience. Very soon, it felt as though the ripe sap of my loins was backing up into my brain and that I would go mad. As if being under constant surveillance weren't bad enough, boys and girls were separated during the day. I longed so much to catch a glimpse of a tanned thigh flecked with light, downy hair that my evening prayers developed a singular focus, one I don't believe they were intended to have. I prayed for poontang so intensely that I began wanting to buy into all the camp propaganda: I really wanted to believe that God would answer my tortured cries for a release from forced celibacy.
For reasons I am unable to fully explain, at the beginning of my second week I was assigned to clean the camp bathhouses. I assumed that the camp counselor had noticed my well-maintained bunk area and decided that someone with my sanitary skills could be trusted to make the tile and porcelain sparkle. Or perhaps my liberal use of the word "cocksucker" had placed me on someone's shit list.
I confess that the workings of my bowels are of great interest to me, and pondering the size and frequency of my stools has helped me to pass numerous hours in a pleasing manner. However, I have never cared to know what other people's bodies are capable of producing, let alone having to dispose of it. My co-campers appeared to be youth of good breeding, but the amusement they apparently gained from not flushing the toilet or stopping it up with wads of TP told a different story: these people were filthy vermin. And it wasn't just the men. I had been sentenced to cleaning the women's restrooms as well, during lunch hour, when their side of camp was deserted.
would put me in their care for a month. My parents were not entirely prudish people, and I suppose they were more upset by the public nature of my criminal activities than the crimes themselves.
I longed so much to catch a glimpse of a tanned thigh flecked with light, downy hair that my evening prayers developed a singular focus, one I don't believe they were intended to have. I prayed for poontang so intensely that I began wanting to buy into all the camp propaganda: I really wanted to believe that God would answer my tortured cries for a release from forced celibacy.
