Dear Thanksgiving: Bunting Camp Attendee,

Congratulations on your admission to Thanksgiving: Bunting Camp! It’s the participation and support of alcoholi– er, “campers” like yourself that have made T:BC the proud holiday tradition it is today, and (we hope) will remain for years to come.

Before you arrive at T:BC, you’ll need to take care of just a few administrative details. First, fill out your housing form, marking your accommodations in order of preference. Please note that cat-free lodging is extremely limited, and that due to certain unpleasant realities of Brooklyn living, we cannot address requests for counter space larger than two square feet.

Next, you’ll need to send in your non-refundable bottle of riesling.

Finally, look over the enclosed list of items that we suggest you bring with you to T:BC. T:BC alumni have found all of these articles indispensable to their enjoyment of the T:BC experience.

Walkie-talkies. In days gone by, campers communicated down the lengths of the Fifth Avenue Key Food’s vast aisles using semaphore flags, but after The Three Bottles Of Worcestershire And No Pie Incident, Joe R has endorsed the use of more modern technologies.

A roast chicken and several Cornish hens. You would think that a pre-cooked turkey ordered November 10 and sent via FedEx would arrive at its destination in time for the Thursday meal. Alas, campers, you would have to think again, for the sage-and-butter-rubbed bird ordered for this year’s feast got “mis-sorted.” We at T:BC HQ still have not figured out quite what this means. Said turkey never showed up, and its absence left us no choice but to imagine it mired in various misadventures: circling the conveyor belt at the Memphis sorting depot, shivering in its dry-ice blanket, so cold, so lonely…snapping a picture of itself at the top of the Arch in St. Louis…getting married to a leg of mutton it had only known for a few hours in a poorly lit wedding chapel on the outskirts of Vegas…hitching an unwitting ride with the I-78 Cold Cuts Killer…driving off a cliff in a blue convertible…waking up in a bathtub full of ice with its giblets missing to find a note reading “CALL 911″…we cannot adequately express our despair. We tried to express our despair, but Photoshopping a picture of a turkey into vintage postcards from around our great nation proved too time-consuming, so instead, we ask campers to bring emergency back-up poultry.

A case of wine per 24-hour-period on campus. You will find yourself tempted to under-pack, because the wine is so heavy, but resist. Nothing soothes the wailing of a pulled deltoid like the cheeky little Santa Rosa zinfandel that caused it.

Alka-Seltzer.

A copy of the sheet music for “The Ballad Of Uncomfortable Truths Guy.” Mikey The K has many awkward facts to share: how stupid it is of you to have ordered a turkey online; the internet’s deleterious effects on real community, and more specifically your responsibility for the decline of cultured conversation; correct butter-stirring technique versus your technique, which, if it is counter-clockwise, is wrong; and so on. Mikey The K is benevolently intentioned, but campers may find it reassuring to have all the verses of “The Ballad Of Uncomfortable Truths Guy” on hand in the event that they need the eleventh verse:

He’s Uncomfortable Truths Guy!
Give him a chance!
He’s cool to talk to, though he doesn’t approve
Of your wearing a dress over pants! [bah diddly boo bah…hey]

Shiny cutlery. Invaluable if you wind up in one of the unlucky seats that puts your back to the football at the dinner table. Watching key plays reflected in a knife is not a perfect substitute, but it is an adequate one.

An Old-Fashioned-to-English dictionary. The counselors may know what you mean when you ask how much Marker’s Make drink into this went — Counselor Sarah certainly will — but in order to avoid confusing other campers, bring a pocket guide or translator.

A midwife or Lamaze coach. The fact that you don’t eat any meat the rest of the year, coupled with various unbelievably rich and delicious chocolate desserts, may cause you to become pregnant with twins named Chick and Coco, whose unborn forms you will stroke lovingly through your dress while thanking God you chose to wear stretchy vintage polyester.

Sunglasses. Someone will fall down between the couch and the table. If it is you, we caution you not to try to break your fall with the nut bowl. If it is not you, sunglasses will help you to disguise your relief/surprise at that fact. (See also: Alka-Seltzer.)

A paper bag. Post-prandial hysterics are an integral part of the T:BC experience, but on occasion, the wheezing and guffawing can get out of control. At those times, campers might like to have a hyperventilation receptacle available. You’ll definitely want to bring your sack to the doing-the-dishes sing-along, featuring favorite ditties like “Do You Want Any Help In Here Oh I Didn’t Mean I Would Help You I Was Just Wondering,” “Do I Have To Do Everything Or Are You Going To Bring The Damn Dessert Plates In Here Sometime Before I Die Of Old Age,” “Oh Where Oh Where Have The Drier Towels Gone,” “We’re Out Of Shiraz Start Making Our Excuses,” “The If This Glob Of Slick Brussels Sprout Leaves Doesn’t Come Out Of The Drain Soon I Am Going To Barf Talking Blues,” “Erin Hates Us All And Can’t Breathe,” “Oh My God I Should Really Stop Eating This Cheese Someone Tell Me To Stop Eating This Cheese I Said Tell Me Not To Eat The Cheese Not Slap My Hand,” and “For The Nine Hundredth And Hopefully Last Time No We Do Not Want To Watch An SNL DVD So Stop Asking.”

A pre-selected persona for photographs. For reasons that are lost to T:BC history, every photograph taken of an individual during T:BC will feature that individual doing a variation on the same mood. AB went with “inconsolable” this year, Counselor Sarah drew “dissociative,” Joe R had “edgy,” the Couch Baron had “patiently bemused,” and Chairman Chao chose “sleepy but hostile.” Whether it’s Polaroids or digital pics, once you make a face, it will stick that way, so bring one you like.

Your Celebrity A game. We at Thanksgiving: Bunting Camp do not take a round of Celebrity lightly. Prepare yourselves both to hurl and to endure accusations of pre-reading clues, time-shaving, miscounting correct guesses, sabotaging both teams by including tertiary Star Trek characters and/or late-’70s baseball players, thinking Bea Arthur is a man, thinking Bea Arthur is a woman, failing to act out a clear distinction between “singing” and “giving a blowjob,” failing to act out a clear distinction between “Molly Ringwald” and “Dirty Sanchez,” giving your teammates the incorrect and time-wasting impression that Moses spoke Spanish, not committing fully to a boy-band imitation, committing too fully to an imitation of giant teeth flying an airplane, drinking the last beer just to psych out the other team, being mean, being stupid, screaming “HE THREW AWAY HIS MUSTACHE IN SPACE!” so loudly you scare the cats, bringing bad luck, killing tiny puppies, making the team lose, and sucking ass. Prepare also to endure gloating and sulking.

A cellphone. Why confine your drunk-dialing to a land line?

You may want to bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush; we leave that up to you. Either way, we look forward to seeing you at Thanksgiving: Bunting Camp.

Yours truly,
Sarah D. Bunting
Head Counselor

November 27, 2006

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