The Tale of Pa’ll Paul (Do not read if you are a conventionally ‘good’ person!)
The summer of 2010, I learned a lot about people, myself included. It was my seventh summer attending Camp Chi (which now serves to me as an acronym for “Crappy Hebrew Institution”), and I expected a laid-back four weeks of doing whatever the fuck I wanted whenever the fuck I wanted, as I had the year before. However, thanks to a trifeekta of Judaism, smelly morality-infused administration, and newly instated blocked mandatory programming, I was denied that privilege.
The primary source of my summer misfortune was a cancer named Jeremy. Jeremy was on the high-functioning (relatively speaking) end of the autism spectrum, so while he could speak intelligibly and control his actions, he wielded an impenetrable shield of moral sympathy which exonerated him from any blame for anything he did. Equipped with this massive boon, an equally massive 250lb (or as he would put it, “I’m only toounderdtwennyfivepounss”) frame, and all the confidence his big ol’ straining heart could muster, Jeremy soon became as intolerable of a burden on my whole cabin as he must have been for his parents to unleash him on the Chi premises. Like King Midas with a touch of shit, Jeremy (pictured below) proceeded to ruin everything.
Every meal, two people were selected from each cabin to refill what are essentially small serving troughs of food when it ran out, whereas in the past, whoever finished the last of the food would go get more. Chi administration deemed this procedure unfair to fat fuckers and banned the “kill it, fill it” rule, as it was so called. This meant that every single meal, Jeremy would ravage the serving bowl continuously, leaving two cabin mates on their feet the whole meal. In a single day, Jeremy ate enough calories to equal the energy of a small star; Michael Phelps would be impressed. We, on the other hand, were disgusted and frustrated, but it didn’t end there.
I had bought and brought a hammock for my cabin mates and I to use as a place to relax, unwind, and hopefully hook up with bitches. Everyone in my cabin chipped in (hammocks are not cheap) except, of course, for Jeremy. Even so, he claimed that it was his to use as much as the rest of us. The hammock is now ripped in 3 places despite being made of parachute material and stained thoroughly with the greasy residue of epidermal condensation.
His personal counselor (pictured below in a brief montage in a batman costume amongst teenage girls) was of no help at all, partially due to the fact that he involved himself in a questionably sexual but unanimously inappropriate relationship with a 15-year-old girl who resembled a frog, and refused to intervene whenever Jeremy was being too overbearing, loud, obnoxious, unsanitary, defiantly nude in the cabin monopolizing of conversations with “Jeff Dunnum (Dunham)’s the best!”, etc. After I had him fired for disgusting and ineffective conduct, Jeremy’s behavior only worsened, turning from annoying to hostile and violent.
One day, he tried to drown a kid in the lake. Another, he punched a kid in the face for juice. He would incessantly ask the two kids that brought guitars if he could use them to “play ressleen muzik” (nobody was quite sure what this meant, but it entailed slapping the front of the guitar repeatedly) and sometimes take the instrument if they declined. He constantly threatened to punch people in the “bolls” if he didn’t get his way, referencing his brother in a commonly heard story, “Y’ow whuh I diddoo my brudder? I punchim innis bolls!”
Our eventually necessitated catharsis was simple and fairly harmless. On a field trip to the Mount Olympus waterpark, Jeremy bought (i.e. had someone buy him) a paddle ball, which, due to the ‘tism, he pronounced “pa’ll paul”. Naturally, we thought this was hilarious, mostly out of desperation. One day, as Jeremy futilely tried to beat his record of one consecutive hit, the cheap toy broke. In all our subversiveness, we decided to have a funeral for Pa’ll Paul, complete with a eulogy and masking tape tomb on the back of the cabin. As expected, the kikes at Chi got their tallis in a twist and reprimanded us sternly for “making fun of kids with disabilities”. It should be noted here that we got along just fine with the 3, yes, THREE other kids with special needs in our cabin.
After much dispute about the nature of morality (I smell a near future post), things settled into a comfortable routine of misbehavior and exasperated consequence. On the final night of camp, we held a traditional dedication ceremony, where kids dedicate pinecones to special parts of the summer. My “special” dedication went something like this: “I dedicate this pinecone to Carlton Clyde, (a 90’s charicature made up by the only good special needs counselor) codenames, (we codenamed every time we snuck out of the cabin to fsu) and moral subjectivity. Oh, and Paul.”
(Oh yeah, we pissed on the grave too. Yes, I am wearing a dragon bathing suit and water shoes. Now you know I mean business in not giving a fuck.)
With those final three words, I was banned from returning to Chi ever again. I left lawling all the way.