I’ve sent this letter through next-day mail in hopes to catch you before you make a huge mistake. Please, I beg of you, do you make the trip to Camp Kerchoki. You see, the only thing you will return home with will be your beautifully designed binder, a broken and bruised body and (hopefully) your son. Your wife, well, her and I have become extremely close over the past couple of weeks and I feel its time that I step in as her new (and significantly more manly) husband.
At first her incessant demanding and controlling nature were quite difficult to deal with, but recently I’ve learned that its much better to put another person first instead of only caring about myself. Its been so long since someone has forced me to care as much as Estella has forced me to. I’ve finally found what I can only presume is love and I’ll be damned if some scrawny little Curd Nerd is going to take that away from me. Few have faced the wrath of Chief Chesterfield and lived to tell about it.
Wait, sorry, that’s not true. I got a little carried away. I won’t kill you, I promise. I’m just stealing your wife.
Bring on the Tri-Battle, Leslie. I’ve taken a couple cheese books out from the local library and have a mind like a safe (that’s why I have all those Nam flashbacks!).
And as always, thank you for choosing Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size.