Humor by John Christmann
Girl Scouts Rule
Recently I was recruited to accompany my daughter’s Girl Scout troop to their annual Camporee as a First Aid Adult certified in CPR. I assumed there must be a high incidence of heart attacks among the Girl Scouts.
But I quickly learned that unless a fully trained and certified adult was present, the girls could not attend. These were the Girl Scout rules.
Let me tell you, becoming a Girl Scout Adult Leader is no easy task. On the lengthy application, which was clearly designed to weed out sociopaths, Al-Qaeda, and Boy Scouts, I had to provide three references that would vouch for my character. My initial submission was rejected because I could not list myself three times.
These were the Girl Scout rules.
But I dutifully completed my application to be a leader: It was important to prove to my daughter that I was Girl Scout material. Even if I wasn’t.
And as it turns out, it was fortunate that I was present at the Camporee. After a chaotic archery session in which the girls learned to sling heart-piercing arrows while I hid in a steel shed, a young scout approached me with a tiny splinter embedded in her finger. Being the compassionate man that I am, I got down on one knee to console her at eye level.
After some deliberation I gave my highly trained first aid opinion: Unless you are having a heart attack, there is not much I can do for you. Then I told the forlorn girl I could gouge out the splinter with a long, sharp sterile needle.
Suddenly, she felt better.
Being a useless male, I decided that maybe I should be more useful. Outside the bunking cabins I noticed a small, well-used fire pit encircled in stone. What better camping experience than telling nightmare-inducing ghost stories around a crackling campfire?
So I collected dry twigs and cut firewood to build a toasty campfire. Seeing my practiced handiwork, one of the Scout Leaders approached me. She wanted to know if I had been trained in Fire.
I paused briefly, not knowing how to respond. “I played with matches when I was ten,” I told her. “And I once torched an abandoned Boy Scout building for the insurance money.” This was not really the answer she was looking for.
My usefulness turned to ash when I was informed that I could not start a fire unless I had been trained and certified.
These were the Girl Scout rules.
Fortunately a large conflagration fueled by fire-trained teenagers adorned with ankle tattoos and lip piercings had been arranged for the evening. Just after nightfall 150 girls flooded to the organized bonfire tripping over roots and rocks because the unprotected string of bare light bulbs gracing the trees to the open spot in the woods had mysteriously shorted out.
Apparently no one had been trained in electricity.
The girls sang lighthearted songs about donkeys and man-eating sharks and bugs on windshields, complete with choreographed hand motions and gyrating body movements. One by one the participating troops performed skits while their scout sisterhood hooted wildly.
I realized that deep in the woods, far from civilization and eatible food, I was witnessing the secret life of girls. They operated as one, with endless energy and single-minded purpose. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. Neither did their screaming.
These were the Girl Scout rules.
But being the only male present, I felt a little creepy sitting alone among a gathering of 150 young girls. So I carefully removed myself and took up a secluded observation post in the dark woods well away from their rambunctious pyre.
This made me feel even creepier. But at least they would have trouble finding me when they got to the song about roasting useless males over an open fire. And I hadn’t been trained in ritual sacrifices.
Later that night, I hid alone in a large stark cabin filled with a winter’s accumulation of spider webs and dust and born again ants. In the heated cabin away from mine I could hear the echoes of raucous girls in the waning throws of a pillow fight.
In my solitude I reflected on the male condition in this country today. Fortunately I smuggled in beer to provide some answers. But I stopped short of actually drinking for I realized I had not been trained in beer.
These were the Girl Scout rules.
So instead I went to sleep, the last man on earth. I had nightmares.
A week later, safe at home, I received in the mail a small handwritten card neatly tucked in an ornate envelope. I opened it, curious. This is what it said:
Dear Mr. Dadinthebox,
Thank you SOOO much for coming with us to the Girl Scout Camporee! We had so much fun and you made us feel safe! Love, Amy
Screw the rules. I am proud to be a Girl Scout Leader.
© 2011 Dadinthebox.com