One thing I don’t really think of often is the fact that I ceased becoming ill since my disastrous conversion to the questionably living dead. Considering the standard plight of the world, the amount of medication advertised and pretty much everything else health related, it would seem like a nice deal to trade the freedom from illness for the curse of the unholy vampire. Even if you are a short, fat, dumpy, unattractive one like me. I mean, for anyone else it might be. I happen to greatly despise myself so I would happily trade in the curse for a real life, sickness, death and all. But if you were an optimist or something, this would be a decent arrangement.
I recall from distant memories though. One joyless summer I was “encouraged” to go to this crafts camp. By “encouraged” I mean I was driven to camp and left there for seven weeks. I got to ride in the back of the truck for about 50 off road miles through the woodlands and unpaved trails, unbeknownst to my destination for the first half of what would soon become the worst summer ever. Camp Crafty was a retreat where the children were instructed on a number of creative outlets that broaden the mind and enrich the soul. This is another way of saying Camp Crafty is a concentration camp run by two fat nature beasts who once thought up a few cheap bead and pottery routines, rented some ranch in the woods and charged outrageously for parents to be rid of their nasty, foul mouthed children for half a summer while they celebrate their short sabbatical of un-offspringed delight. I never did get my revenge for being sent there.
It wasn’t long into the Camp Crafty tour that some culinary wizard decided that every child in existence loves an absolute horror of a meal called “Sloppy Joes.” While you may have fond memories of this sewer on bread, I absolutely do not. Sloppy Joes are not only an edible nemesis of mine, but they also happen to trigger some kind of gastrointestinal Jihad that will convert any standard day in the life of Guillermo into a screaming festivity of assal volcano, spewing feces like a water feature in a fancy mall. You can only reject food for so many days before you cave in a try to wade through the vile stench and viscous discharge of shredded meat and red barbecue goo. I thought it would end, but this was pretty much the only thing they served at Camp Crafty for every meal for 3 days! With no end in sight I finally bit down and choked through a whole appropriately titled Sloppy Joe before feeling the ooze of pain and the need to curl up in my hut alone. It was then that I discovered that every activity at Camp Crafty is mandatory. I was pulled in for a mosaic tile shop where I was placed in a seat and told to allow my creative juices to flow. It wasn’t creative juices that flowed. It was feces.
Since the cosmos has a hilarious way of showcasing my misfortune, the ambiance of a class full of kids of all ages, including some pretty hot girls, managed to lull itself into a near silence at exactly the same point where a particularly rotund child… me … burst out in a convulsing series of explosive defecation so loud and unforgettable that you’d think it was right out of a cartoon. My fat body squeezed canals with such perfect design that the feces explosion channeled itself straight out the legs of my shorts, flying in bursts like a soft serve ice cream machine. The spatter of this grotesque demonstration of guaranteed suicide echoed the way you’d think the bat cave would sound, and the sharp, fat rumbling pops of liquid poo only seemed to increase in volume and frequency. It seemed like forever before the circus of shame calmed down long enough for everyone in there to break out of the state of shock and retort with a wave of unbridled laughter that shook the cabin hard enough to knock a pair of antlers off a shelf. Their cackles amplified as my shorts soaked up the pool of feces I sat in. Globs rolling down my leg and over my socks. Naturally, I’m sure every one of us in that room that night saw the whole thing in slow motion. Every second committed to memory without flaw. I never recovered. Let me assure you, gorgeous girls are still gorgeous when they’re beet red from laughing so hard they can’t breathe.
Had I only been cursed with this vampire disease then it would never have happened. Who would have guessed the greatest plague of my life would end up being the universal cure for every ailment mankind suffers though… physically, I mean. The worst part is they served enchiladas the next day. I could have just waited it out.