Artimus Pyle 'Artimus Venomus'

I’m being taken to something tonight that concerns me… A parent’s night at a Boy Scout camp.

I had brief history with Scouts that lasted about three months. I never wanted to join in the first place, but my parents insisted and kept telling me how fun it was. I would get to go camping and I could learn different things to earn badges.

There was one camp out that took place while I was in, but I purposely lost the forms and information that I was to turn back in after being signed by my parents. I didn’t and still don’t like camping.

The field trips to Krispy Kreme and WFMY were pretty cool, but the overall experience did nothing for me.

My father took me to an evening ceremony at a small church on Sixteenth St. in Greensboro. There were a lot of parents there that night. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the night they passed out awards or badges or whatever it was they were passing out.

My father and I clapped for every kid that was called up in front of everyone. And when the ceremony was being wrapped up, my father leaned down to my left ear and asked, “Why didn’t they call your name?”

“Because I didn’t do anything,” I said.

He had a combination of hurt and confusion on his face. “I don’t like Scouts,” I confessed again.

In hindsight, it probably did hurt his feelings. He was an Eagle Scout and here he was with his son at a Scouts award ceremony that his son couldn’t give two piles of dog turds about.

That was the last time I was forced to go to Scouts. I was back to watching ‘Star Trek’ and ‘Gilligan’s Island’ instead of reading some book to memorize things that didn’t interest me.

I felt that Scouts was too guy-intensive. There was nothing but guys around with the occasional mother or two.

I’ve never been good around “guys”, if you know what I mean. They’re constantly talking about sports complete with statistics or they’re talking about cars. I didn’t keep up with or care about such things. For me, it was a whole lot easier talking to girls and blending right in. And if I didn’t know what the girls were talking about, I could crack a few jokes and everything was cool. Try that with a group of guys and you’re out of the club.

So I stopped trying to blend in with the guys. They’re not as forgiving when you don’t know what all the other guys know. I just didn’t care about keeping up with hitting averages of baseball players. I didn’t care about the power plants or horse power of American Muscle cars.

And besides… Girls were so much more fun to be around, if you know my meaning.

I talked to Chigger about my apprehension concerning the parent’s night… I just have visions where half-naked boys are running wild like natives from a distant land. They’ll be painted up and making lots of noise. There’s a whole ‘Lord Of The Flies’ thing going on in my mind and I’m just not comfortable with that.

Too many guys on the island. Not enough girls.

She, of course, laughed it off.

I’ve never been one for “ceremonies” either. They have rituals that, in my opinion, are bastardized rituals of Native Americans. It could be the Cherokee blood that’s coursing through my veins that propped that chip upon my shoulder. Or it could be that it just seems silly to me.

Sooooo… We shall see. I agreed to go and I’m going to try to keep my mouth shut.

That’ll be best for everyone.

Chigger insists that I try to keep my mind open.