Grover is Gone! – Letter 10

Chief Chesterfield,

When I saw Estella, my wife, walking up the driveway with Grover, our chubby, hate-filled yet so-lovable son, I shed a tear. My son used this showing of emotion as an opportunity to give me a swift punch to the stomach. I fell to my knees, half in thankful praise, half in winded-pain.

Estella told me the truth about the whole debacle. The truth that I always suspected and that you had confirmed in your previous letter: she was only using your fragile please-love-me emotional state to acquire more information about the whereabouts of our son. She told me that she had suspected you may have kidnapped Grover in the hopes that she would come to the camp and fall in love with you.

I so desperately wanted to believe that you had kidnapped our son so that I could hate you EVEN MORE than I do now. You humiliated me, Chief. Even though it was a façade orchestrated by the symphonious Estella, it hurt watching you win her in our Tri-Battle. It hurt more than taking a wheel of Stravecchio Parmigiano-Reggiano to the head.

But now, I have my wife back, my son back, and my cheeses…well, still. My cheeses were the one thing I always had. It truly is a man’s best friend.

So, I will end this letter by saying that while I hate you, and while you caused me nothing but trouble, I must admit that Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size, has done nothing but help my family.

Yes, Grover is still “of abnormally large size,” but his attitude has changed for the better. After he punched me in the stomach he whispered “I missed you Dad” in my ear. Estella and I have been having a large amount of passionate hugs, kisses, and “bedroom-time.” This whole situation has made everyone more positive.

Grover told me that he learned from his time spent living in the kitchen of an Applebees that he truly does value our family — even if I am “a weird cheese dork.” Before that, the nicest thing he’s ever said to me was “make me some mac and cheese, Cheeseballs!”

Thinking about it now, it is actually impressive the way that you martyred yourself to bring the Conroys closer together. We all despise you and your camp; but your camp has given our family unit a stronger bond.

So, thank you, Chief. But please remember, I still hate you and never want to speak with you again.

I will, however, give you a good rating on

Filled with hate, cheese, and respect,

– Leslie Conroy

Grover is Gone! – Letter 8

Chief Chesterfield,

Upon returning home from our Tri-Battle at Camp Kerchoki, I found the letter you had sent before I left warning me that I would be making a “huge mistake” challenging you.

It wouldn’t have stopped me anyways. And despite the fact that you broke a few of my bones, what hurts the most is my broken heart. I can not believe that I lost in EVERY ROUND, thereby having to forfeit not only my wife to you, but $100.

I still believe that I would have done far better in the cheese connoisseurship round had I not suffered several concusions in our boxing match. It’s a shame that you had a flashback in the ring and thought I was an enemy you had to brutally assault. But, c’est la vie, I suppose. Just please alert everyone in the camp that normally I am nothing short of brilliantly educated when it comes to fromage.

Also, I believe that in your specialty round, Performing Motivational Speeches from Sports Movies in Costume, I was cheated out of a victory. While it is not a movie, my portrayal of Hayden Fox from the series “Coach” in the episode where he and Christine go away for a weekend for marriage counseling was nothing short of RIVETING and APT. If series creator Barry Kemp were to have seen that performance back in the late 80s, it would have been I that got the role instead of Craig T. Nelson.

However, the truth of the matter is I have lost, and I must be mature about it. So, as per the beautiful, deadly Estella, I have attached the divorce papers. Please take a look

WOOPS. I accidentally enclosed a graph indicating your VERY HIGH smell factor! This graph shows you at a Level 13 “PowerHouse Smellburger,” meanwhile I’m down there at a level 0, or “Musk-licious.” I guess Estella’s trip to Camp Kerchoki made her fall in love not only with you, but with a world of STENCH.

If you can find time between your busy job of STEALING PEOPLE’S WIVES, please let me know if you have found my son, Grover. Once I know he is safe, I can probably start to move on.

I hate you.

– Leslie Conroy

Grover is Gone! – Letter 7

Mr. Conroy,

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.

Chief Chesterfield

Grover is Gone! – Letter 6

Chief Chesterfield,

First, let me start off by saying that my wife is a TREASURE. I would sooner close the doors of my cheese caves than I would close my heart to my sweet, deadly Estella. I am now offended on three fronts:

  1. You have called me “a peculiar, somewhat lame, weird-metaphor-making father.”
  2. You declined our Tri-Battle for Estella’s love.
  3. My son is still missing in the woods near your campgrounds.

I am sorry if you find me “somewhat lame” and my metaphors “weird.” Perhaps you would be happier if I made camp metaphors: I miss my son as if my heart was a campsite, and my son was a camper who had gone missing from it.


So that’s numbers 1 and 3. As for number 2, I refuse to let this Tri-Battle be denied; and not only because I made a really cool binder for it with a wonderful front cover.

But, I also won’t give up on the battle because it is for my wife’s honor. Whether or not you say you have romantic feelings for her, I can feel in my heart a sense of longing for Estella.

This is why I am also driving down to the campground to initiate this battle with you. I will send out this letter, with the attached picture of the binder’s cover (so you know what you’re in for), and then I will leave in 3 days. This will allow fear to settle in as you read over the letter which tells you of your impending humiliation. Also, I’m expecting a fresh shipment of cheeses in 2 days that I must tend to.

It will be wonderful to be by Estella’s side once again. I know I will win in the Cheese Connoisseurship round. Even though I don’t know you, I must say that my “smooth as mozzarella, sharp as farmstead cheddar” approach to boxing makes me feel that I will take you down in the ring. As for your specialty, “Performing Motivational Speeches from Sports Movies in Costume,” I will spend my 3 days doing a bit of research. If I could win all 3 categories, you would owe me $100 in addition to forfeiting Estella’s love. Standard Tri-Battle Rules.

Oh, and while I’m at the campsite, I’ll assist in looking for my son who is VERY ALIVE, NOT LOST OR DEAD, and who is probably just FROLICKING IN THE WOODS.

Be prepared.


–          Leslie Conroy

Grover is Gone! – Letter 5

Dear Mr. Conroy,

I am beginning to see the root of Grover’s weight problem, and it just may be you and your wife. With an extremely aggressive, Amazonian mother and a peculiar, somewhat lame, weird-metaphor-making father, Grover most likely became very confused by you and your wife’s mixed signals. In order to shield himself from this confusion, he turned to the comfort of eating. Trust me, I took a Child Psychology Class at Clackamas Community College. I definitely remember the chapter on parents that make too many career-specific metaphors.

Speaking of Grover, he’s definitely not found yet. Everyone has given up hope besides me and your wife, but we both have this feeling that he’s still out there; clothes covered in animal blood, heightened sense of hearing, slowly forgetting the English language and developing a more simple series of grunts to express himself. Your wife seems to think that a bit of her killer instinct transferred to him, and I can’t quite disagree. In his time at Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size, he definitely tried killing some things/people.

On to the matter of the Tri-Battle. With all-due respect, Mr. Conroy, you are very much mistaken as to my intentions towards your wife. Don’t get me wrong, she is a wonderful, strong, deadly female with thighs that can cut an oak tree in half. However, I tend to be more attracted to women who don’t wish to control every waking hour of my existence. It’s just a personal preference, of course, to each his own. So, unfortunately, I may have to decline your Tri-Battle offer.

If I were to accept, my category would most certainly be “Performing Motivational Speeches from Sports Movies in Costume.” I usually don’t like to toot my own conch shell, but my Kurt Russell as Herb Brooks in “Miracle” will make you want to shoulder-check the next Russian you see onto his filthy commie ass. Yes, its that good.

Your wife asked me to tell you hello and that she anticipates coming home with your VERY ALIVE son and wrestling you until you start screaming in tongues, like you apparently always do.

So Mr. Conroy, as always, I will contact you as soon as I have more information about the whereabouts of your son. Until then, enjoy that whole cheese thing.

Chief Chesterfield

Grover is Gone! – Letter 4

Chief Chesterfield,

For the second time now, I have read a letter you sent me and have been both disappointed and frightened that my son’s whereabouts have not yet been discovered. Being left alone to tend to my cheeses has been rewarding, yes. However, I can not shake that feeling that hits a man when his son may or may not be dead, and his wife has taken on a manservant at a summer camp in order to search for him. It is a feeling of remorseful, angering confusion.

There is an old cheese monger saying that goes “if it has not aged in the natural Combalou caves of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, it is not Roquefort.” It’s a saying because the name Roquefort has a protected designation of origin; therefore, no cheese may be called Roquefort unless…well…you know the saying.

I bring this up because I always liked to think of Grover, my son, as having a Protected Designation of Origin. His PDO was his house — my home. I want Grover returned to my home as soon as possible. Right now, I am feeling the same anxiety I would have if I were to open a shipment sent to my cheese shop that was labeled Roquefort, and notice that it came from WITHIN THE UNITED STATES!

But enough of cheese-related figurative speech. The stool sample you mentioned containing Ring Dings is a good sign. I am going use that to cling to hope with reckless abandon. My son is still alive, still in good health, and I’ll be back to making him macaroni and cheese at knife-point again in no time!

The information you gave me about my wife is the part of your letter that comes as no surprise. Estella once threatened a security guard to drive her two thousand miles to attend a Poison Concert. Once the Stockholm Syndrome faded, their new marriage ended as quickly and strangely as it began. I still stand by my statement that I am the most caring of her 3 previous husbands.

I am pleased that she will be paid (I assume) for doing your job, and doing it better than you all have been; yet, at the same time, I am annoyed that she has taken you on as a “manservant.” This is often the way she flirts. When I first read that, my fists clenched so tightly that even the most aged cheddar would have crumbled under their power.

Once my VERY ALIVE son has been found, I will have to challenge you to a Tri-Battle for the love of Estella, my beautiful and deadly wife. The Tri-Battle will be in the areas of: Boxing (to prove our manliness), Cheese Connoisseurship (my specialty), and an area of your choosing…I don’t know…using a positive attitude to support the dreams of America’s youth or some bullshit.

Excuse the swearing. I am just a bit emotional now between my wife slapping you on the rear and my son’s HAPPY AND VERY PLANNED, NOT AT ALL DANGEROUS WOODLY EXCURSION.

Please let me know when you found my son. Also, keep me updated on our Tri-Battle. I will begin making a spreadsheet and a binder about it, so I would like to know what area you have in mind for the third round. Having a binder labeled TRI-BATTLE with only two Divider Tabs looks pretty absurd.


Leslie Conroy

Grover is Gone! – Letter 2

Chief Chesterfield,

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.


Leslie Conroy