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 9

Dear Mr. Conroy,

You’ll be pleased to know that we’ve located your son. He strolled back to camp yesterday after apparently having gone on a multi-week Oreo milkshake bender in one of the neighboring towns. He explained to us that the local Applebees waitresses thought he was “sooooo cute,” and they “just had to keep him.” So he lived in the restaurant and was fed nothing but free Oreo milkshakes and french fries because these extremely dense individuals felt it was appropriate to keep a child as a pet for a couple of weeks. He presumably got so tired of the same two foods everyday for a couple of weeks that he just up and left one day without saying goodbye. I sincerely apologize for the oversight of only exploring the surrounding woods and not visiting any of the surrounding neighborhoods. Once again, I’d like to thank you for choosing Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size, and hope you will choose us in the future.

On a more personal note, you’ll be pleased to know that ever since I turned your face into the North West’s premier summer excursion for my fists, I’ve been living in a type of hell normally reserved for child molesters and people who hit priests with baseball bats. My wife (formerly yours, if you recall) Estella has been a bit testy ever since I thrashed you in the Tri-Battle for her custody. She’s been saying some very hurtful things like “I’m still married to Leslie you dumb shit,” and “I only pretended to show interest in you so you’d find my son.” When I explained to her that she wouldn’t be going home once we found Grover, she ran down to the mess hall and threatened to break every bone in poor Rusty Bunckle’s particularly round body if I didn’t let her leave.  Needless to say, Les, Estella is none too pleased with the Tri-Battle results.

And so, with a heart heavier than Grover after weeks of 1,000+ calorie beverages for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I’ll be sending Estella and Grover home in a few days. Please, take good care of my wife. For these past 2 weeks, she’s been everything to me.

Chief Chesterfield

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 3

Mr. Conroy,

I suppose we’ll start with the matter that you are probably most concerned about: No, we haven’t found your son yet. We even checked the caves, as you had asked. However, we’ve found a couple of clues that are very good signs that he is still possibly alive. First off we found his “Camp Kerchoki” Hat dangling on a branch 3-4 miles from camp. Although this is no guarantee he’s alive, It’s a much better sign than finding the hat dangling off a bear’s ear.

We also found a stool sample consisting almost entirely of Ring-Dings that was only 2 days old (we have a fairly sophisticated science and nature cabin, as you may have read in the brochure). Apparently Grover had been a very untruthful Husky Hawk. This makes us almost certain he is still alive and frolicking through the Kerchoki Forest! Unless, of course, a bear tore your son open and ate only the contents of his stomach and we found the bear feces. But… um… I doubt that happened.

Your wife has been here for only 3 days, but ever since she pulled up to the camp on her motorcycle (which she apparently “procured” from a gentleman when her car ran out of gas), the camp has been VERY different. In a good way, mostly. Your wife has certainly taken a leadership role in not only finding your son but in the weight-loss regime of the kids, as well. The campers have been losing weight at a record pace thanks to Estella’s “Terrify the Chub Out of Them” program. Basically, this program consists of your wife threatening to give the campers a “back-alley liposuction” if they didn’t get their acts together. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I’ve never seen the Large Lemurs run so fast!

She’s quite an aggressive lady, Leslie. In the time that she is not searching for Grover or pointing knives at the campers, she has basically harangued me into being her personal manservant. I’ve been personally preparing and delivering her meal of whatever animal she decided to kill that day as well as massaging her feet. After every massage she gives me a robust slap on the rear and yells “Mission Complete, Soldier!”

I hope this letter brings you comfort that we are still hard at work finding your son and your wife has settled in quite well here. I’d like to thank you again for choosing Camp Kerchoki, the North West’s premier summer excursion for teens of abnormally large size. Keep in mind that losing children is NOT a company policy and is a very rare occurrence. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Chief Chesterfield

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