I must admit that while I am appalled that your camp has lost my son, Grover, it does not come as much of a shock to me. Grover’s weight problem was always fueled by his attitude problem. There have been many days where he would hold me up at knife-point and force me to make him a homemade Macaroni and Cheese. Given my passive nature, I would oblige until my wife came home to disarm him.
My wife, Estella, is an ex-marine and martial arts expert. I own a cheese shop, and while I must say that my Macaroni and Cheese made with abelgian Chimay a la Bier, Swiss Gruyere, and a Montgomery farmhouse Cheddar would certainly knock your socks off, I’m sure it has done nothing but aid to my son’s weight problem.
That being said, I convinced Estella against military school for Grover, in the hopes that a summer at Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size, would help him slim down and improve his attitude. However, the stabbing of a fellow “Husky Hawk” leads me to believe I was as wrong about this as I was when I began burning Limburger incense in my store.
Upon reading your letter, my wife got in our car and started driving the long trek towards Camp Kerchoki in order to get Grover back herself and “make that camp understand how it is you whip people into shape.” I must say, she’s a bigger fan of unpleasant boot-camp styled programs over ones that try to promote self-confidence and use happiness to further help achieve your ultimate goal.
I am not sure if this letter will reach you before Estella does, but if it does, just be forewarned: when she’s serious about something, she means business. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife. When things are pleasant (such as when Grover is on a sedative), we’ve been known to laugh and enjoy some Appenzeller cheese with an aromatic Gewürztraminer wine. But, when push comes to shove, she doesn’t hold back the punches.
As for the whereabouts of my son, I must admit that I am worried. If there are any nearby caves, you may want to check those out. Grover has learned a thing or two from me about the ancient art of aging homemade cheese in caves. I wouldn’t doubt it if he gathered himself some animal milk in the hopes of beginning this process.
Even though my wife will be there shortly, I ask if you can please keep me informed as to the progress towards finding my son. Even if she managed to smuggle a working phone onto your premises (I am aware of your strict “no phone calls” policy and cell-phone reception blockers from your pamphlet), she tends to be very short with details when she is “on a mission.”
Please find my son. He is the only thing whose meticulous upkeep I valued over my cheeses.