This post was submitted by Summer Camp

What Would Summer Do? is an advice column for TNG readers posted every other Wednesday. Do you have a question for Summer Camp? Send it to her at wwsd@thenewgay.net.

This past Sunday, I attended a very classy cocktail party at Cornholia’s Boulangerie (and backroom). My attendance was contingent upon performing for the talent-starved crowd. Along with two fresh-faced ingenues, I sang and danced my heart out! Needless to say, I was drunk and don’t remember any of the affair; however, I woke up with cheese dip all over my red dress and matching turban. Apparently, in addition to performing, I actually talked to guests at the party. Like I said, I was shit-faced and I don’t recall any conversations, but apparently I spoke to someone named Pappa Bear. I don’t know who he is, but he’s my new favorite person. That’s because he sent me ten questions! Not just one, but ten! Normally, it’s like pulling teeth to get you lazy TNG readers to send me questions to answer. I mean how hard can it be to think about your pain-filled and pathetic lives and send me a question? Hmm? So thank you, Pappa Bear!

Dear Ms. Camp,

Thank you for coming on Sunday. I was so fascinated by our conversation that I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions that I have received in the last 24 hours:

1. Why did J.C.’s underwear combust so quickly?
2. How did that drunken fraulein who was dancing on our back deck keep such a teeny tiny flacon of gin in her gaping twat for so long, and how did she finally find it? And why did she not know that juniper berries are an essential ingredient in the gin that made her puff-out like a sumo-wrestler?
3. How many ways are there to make egg salad?
4. Can hard-boiled eggs be frozen? For a whole year?
5. Do you know the name of the whore who rubbed Bavarian beer cheese all over my showering towel upstairs?
6. We were taking bets – how many prostitutes do you think there were at the party on Sunday?
7. Can you identify the prostitutes who left the smoked bowel, an open package of pocket lube, and a puddle on the floor of our guest room?
8. Is it true that J.C. is really 89? How does he stay so young looking?
9. Why can gays drink so goddamned much booze? And why did those inconsiderate sissies not finish all of it?
10. How tight is your vagine?

Well, thanks Ms. Camp. I sure did like visiting with you on Sunday.

Yours truly,
Pappa Bear

Dear Pappa Bear,

I must apologize. As I’ve already stated in this column, I was seriously fucked up on Sunday. I don’t remember anything. I blacked out during my performance of “I’m A Little Teapot” and came to at McDonald’s eating a 24-piece Chicken McNuggets around midnight. So, in order to answer your questions, I’ve had to rely on my natural advice-giving instincts, the memories of other guests, and bald-faced lying.

I’ll answer your questions just like I pop my zits: one at a time.

1. Regarding the flammability of J.C.’s underwear…I assume you’re using J.C.’s initials to protect his innocence. I don’t like initials. Let’s call him Jesus Christ. Though I was drunk, I do remember this part of the evening. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the mob attack Jesus Christ. I laughed when they threw Jesus Christ on the ground, ripped his underwear from his body, and set them on fire. Everyone laughed while Jesus Christ’s stinky diaper smoldered and turned into a black pile of soot. I believe that Jesus Christ’s undies combusted so quickly, because he’s a whore who never changes his underwear. Those ratty-tatty panties looked more like a bird’s nest than a garment. Not to mention the incredibly high levels of methane that circulate in Jesus Christ’s nether-regions.

2. Regarding the dancing fraulein who hid the flask in her cooter, I’m not allowed to divulge another performer’s secrets. Regarding her juniper berry-induced anaphylactic shock that resulted in her passing out on your couch…well, she’s dumb ass.

3. There is only one way to make egg-salad.

4. Yes, hard-boiled eggs can be frozen for up to one year. I’m keeping mine in my freezer until I find the right sperm donor.

5. Yes, I do know the name of the whore who rubbed Bavarian beer cheese on your showering towel. It’s SUMMER CAMP. But it’s not beer cheese. May I suggest you taste it. I’m sure you’ll recognize the taste of my ass since you had your face in it for nearly an hour.

6. A simple equation reveals the number of prostitutes at your party: Add up all the people who RSVP-ed “Yes.” Add 2. Now, subtract 2. That’s your answer. (Thanks to Portia Blanca for this answer).

7. At first, this question confused me. I assume you mean “smoked bowl” not “smoked bowel.” The former is a what we potheads refer to as breakfast. The latter is either a Scandinavian delicacy or a terrible affliction that needs immediate medical attention. And no, I have no idea of the name of the whore who left those things in your bathroom. But if you find my I.D., can you let me know?

8. No, Jesus Chris is not 89. He’s only 40. And he’s not young looking.

9. Don’t call me an inconsiderate sissy.

10. I think the following joke illustrates the tightness of my vagine. The other night I was getting busy with a client. I told him to stick a finger in my vagine. He did. I told him to stick another finger in my vagine. He did. I told him to put his whole hand in my vagine. He did. I told him to stick his other hand in my vagine. He did. I told him to clap his hands. He tried and then said, “I can’t.” I responded, “Tight, huh?”

Well, Pappa Bear, I hope these answers clear things up for you. Thanks again for inviting me to perform at your tasteless function. And may I remind all of you that I’ll be performing next Saturday, June 27, at CRACK: Suburbia…There Goes the Neighborhood at TOWN Danceboutique. The doors open at 9 PM and tickets are only $8. For more information, please visit the CRACK website.

Yours Truly,
Summer Camp

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