Summer Camp for Radical Leftists

I wrote this piece about a year ago. I probably should flesh it out a bit more, and it's one of those things I've been putting off because I've got the luxury of doing so. As it stands, it's a short story that is a parody of UU young adult cons.

I mentioned this during the Skye live chat we had over at Blue Gal's place last night, so if any of you are curious, here it is.

Summer Camp for Radical Leftists

One of the most brilliant people is O’Daniel, who makes constant, highly distracting head bobs up and down.

A rumor surrounds the camp that he was born autistic. In actuality, he prefers to bark at you that he is not actually autistic. Instead he has a a rare form of the disorder that is not technically autism.

In long accustomed fashion, just like your parents told you to… you nod your head up and down and agree with him.

The Evil Queen draws these men into her fold easily. They quickly collapse at the knees and beg for punishment. They are sufficiently trained to follow the plan of the manifesto, and begin taking upper level management jobs within the inner works of the machine.

During the numerous training and promotional videos that we are required to view for a good six hours prior to hiring, we are taught step-by-step how to be a model radical. Having good hygenic practices is considered a plus, as well as a winning smile.

This highly offensive form of new employee orientation was the Wicked Queen’s idea. She had “connections”, she said. To me, “connections” looked a lot like tired old B movie actors talking in monosyllables. They knew they couldn’t act and guiltily spoke their lines as though their earnestness in their own mediocrity could redeem the fact. The spoke as though the person across the camera was threatening their lives, much like those hostages held captive by other competing rival groups, or OCRG.

I wish we had a good digital camera like the Islamic Jihadists. Ours hasn’t been the same since the Christmas Party. This was the first year in five that we haven’t beaten them in the pick-up softball game arranged after the generic summer holiday fireworks show. They’ve got this new guy, with a really gigantic turban, who can pitch like nobody’s business.

It was time for the morning meeting around the campfire. Plans were announced to have a meeting of prayer or silent contemplation or any such higher form that you might hold true to yourself. Extremely over-dramatical gestures were made for the sake of emphasis and it was sagely concurred that this was indeed a safe space where we all are present.

The Pagans amuse me greatly.

They dress much like the garden gnomes one sees in the sides of yards in selected Scandinavian countries. They act like them, as well—theatrical overacting common to Vaudeville and silent movies. Sometimes they scare small children in the daycare that was thoughtfully provided this year yet again. This is really just a response to Kathy Ronti who insists taking her whole family with her everywhere. The twins, as they are known, look harmless enough, until they start quoting Marxist conflict theory rhetoric verbatim.

They run around and tell us that they have been well informed about matters of contraception and show us how they are skilled in knowing about multiple forms and methods.

The reason the daycare even existed is because of the unfortunate incident this time last year. Everyone’s trying to forget how the boys deliberately started knocking over the artistic rock structures in the river. Building artistic rock structures is a way that we all bond. They are so important to us that they are scheduled three times daily.