You know how it is. There's always one person who just doesn't get it.
Allow me to illustrate my point in the form of a camp story.
At this camp, the kids are divided into two teams, "tribes" if you will. These two tribes compete in various athletic events throughout the month for no reason other than to have another excuse to laugh at the few morbidly obese children. Traditionally, one of the first competitions held is known affectionately as the scream-off. In this amazingly nonathletic challenge (although the fat kids look comically like heart attack victims), the two tribes sit down facing each other in the dead of night. Their leaders, or "chiefs", guide them through a series of chants. They are judged on volume, coordination, and cooperation. Cooperation points are the proverbial biggies.
So after all of the main mantras have been exhausted, one tribe starts the very corny "We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit, how about you?" The other tribe replies in turn. They end up screaming at each other in unison, "We've got the most!" After a short amount of time, their chiefs cut them off with hand signals; cooperation points are subtracted for any campers still shouting after that time. Now, this takes place right after the term has begun, so the new guys - most of them aged 6 to, say, 10 - have no idea what the hell's going on, even though they've been prepped for over an hour beforehand on the procedure. So a few years back, the screamoff was taking place. It was going particularly well, with a minimum of extraneous chatter, until the point where the chiefs cut their tribes off with swooping "stop" gestures after the spirit chant. It was amazing how silent everyone became, how well coordinated the cessation of sound was. But then, just as the judges gave each other impressed looks, one child spoke up. This kid, about seven years of age, had been a problem the whole time he had been there - he couldn't sit still. He bawled, as vociferously as he could, "We've got more than the most!"
There was a disbelieving silence. A few mutters. Someone managed to get the youngster to sit down. The judges' pencils made ominous ticks on their clipboards. The competitors tried to decipher, using only the hand movements the evaluators made by the act of writing, what exactly it was they were writing down. Necks craned. The judges retired to a corner and conversed for several minutes. There was silence, except for a few scattered coughs. It was announced that the loudmouthed tyke's tribe had lost. Whispers of exultation fromt he one side, sighs of acceptance from the other. Above everything else, though, was the sound of the aforementioned urchin shrieking "Curse you!" at the top of his little lungs. He was taken out back and, presumably, shot shortly after.
Wherever you go, whatever you do, there will always be someone present just like this child. Accept it.
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Happy December. Now let's save Christmas.
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Once again, if you want your very own story idea to be featured in next week's post, email.
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