Summer Camp for Mean Little Shits

Steve was offered a camp counselor job at the Summer Camp for Mean Little Shits. The pay was decent. The camp was located just ten minutes from his apartment. Meals would be provided. Yet he hesitated before accepting.

That’s an interesting offer, he said to the camp director over the phone.

The offer won’t last forever, said the director. I’ll need a decision by the end of the day.

Wow, that’s fast, said Steve.

We have a fresh batch of mean little shits coming in on Friday, said the director, so we need someone to start right away.

Makes sense, said Steve.

Several seconds of silence passed.

Do you have any questions for me? the director asked.

Um, let’s see…, said Steve. Your ad just said summer camp for kids.

Is that a question? said the director.

I guess not, said Steve.

I’m happy to answer any questions you have, said the director.

Steve’s mind raced. Was it inappropriate to ask just how mean the mean little shits were? No, he decided. It was an entirely appropriate question. Knowing the degree of meanness was essential.

Steve took a deep breath.

When you say mean, said Steve, how mean we talkin’?

Huh, said the director. No one’s ever asked that.

Really? said Steve.

Really, said the director. I’m not sure it’s an appropriate question, actually.

I’m just curious, said Steve. About the degree of meanness.

These are kids we’re talking about, said the director. Kids. Are they mean little shits? Of course. But they’re children. Have you read Lord of the Flies?

No, said Steve.

That’s good, said the director. It’s best to come in fresh. Fresh meat, as it were.

I don’t’ like the sound of that, said Steve.

Maybe you’ll like the sound of this, said the director.

But the director didn’t say anything more. In the background Steve could hear a child giggling.