Fuck For The Motherland

As a child, I loved camp. Some of my fondest childhood memories were formed there, like the time my four hundred pound friend Merlin locked himself in a room with me and told me about his testicular electroshock therapy and genocidal fantasies, or the time I accidentally heiled Hitler in front of five hundred middle schoolers and a Jewish camp director. Both of those things actually happened, by the way, and the distressing clarity of the recollection serves to prove my point about camp in general.

See, while parents send their kids away to become better at soccer or ballet or not being gay, every kid knows the true purpose of summer camp is to knit traumatic memories into the fabric of the mind. Even the blindest drunk, ignorant of his own name and age, remembers with sublime terror and exquisite detail the counselor who locked him in a dormitory closet overnight.

Perhaps this ability to assist the alcohol-addled explains the current camp craze in Russia. I don't mean to imply that all Russians are drunkards, although my good friend Maria has enough ethanol coursing through her veins to legally qualify her blood as biodiesel. This article just makes more sense if we assume their burgeoning social and economic depression has driven Muscovites to moonshine. I do not see how such a scientifically advanced society could, without being blackout drunk, seriously believe that skimpy panties cause impotence, especially when Pasteur proved they cause leprosy like two hundred years ago. Frankly, our Siberian siblings have got me worried. Most political scientists agree that this reckless behavior could trigger a second Cold War and I don't care for summer sequels.