This Scout Can

A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

It's unfortunate that I have to defend the fact that I was a Boy Scout. But there was the whole GOD thing back in the 80's and now the GAY thing; the fact that people have seen them as a para-military group since the 'Nam, and lay on top of that the GEEK thing and you'd just as soon have your kid join the "Dungeons and Dragons Club". I'll wager the D&D may have TALKED about killing, but they never did. (I'm convinced that if the Boy Scouts of America hired the publicist the truckers had during the 1970's they wouldn't be in such piss poor shape. But I digress.. )

A "Camporee" in the B.S. vernacular is a gathering of troops, generally of the same Area Council (ours still being the Stonewall Jackson Area Council---don't even go there) for a weekend of camping, competition and LEARNING. This particular Camporee was to learn how you could survive in the wild with only your wits, a knife, two matches, a tarp, a compass, a length of rope and whatever you could hide on your person. We were given coordinates to a field strewn with potatoes (I think they referred to them as "Brazilian nuts"). Another set of coordinates took you to a field laden with carrots. You gathered your food, built yourself a shelter, started your fire and waited. For what? FOR WHAT? I'll tell you for what.

Yonder came a tractor-trailer loaded with live chickens to be released in a fan fare worthy of Les Nessman. When I see pictures of soccer crowds in England going on a rampage, or footage of the Ayatollah Kohmeni's funeral, or the Christmas Season that cabbage patch dolls were the toy to buy, it reminds me of the sight of four or five hundred starving twelve to fifteen year olds chasing after twice as many chickens. Mankind hasn't come that far, let me tell you.

One scout in our troop, and I won't name him (Macon Coleman) was lucky enough to be among the first to snatch a bird, and before anyone could think he smacked it's head against a tree trunk. Job done. And done well, I might add. We had that yard bird plucked, gutted and cooked before ANYONE. We were ready to chow down so quick that we almost missed the scoutmaster running from fire to fire telling everyone NOT to eat the birds. Somebody figured out that they weren't FDA inspected, and the last thing the BSA needed was a lawsuit...

It was then I looked over at the campsite next to ours, and saw a lone scout holding a live chicken in his arms. He was crying. I guess the chicken was too. He couldn't bring himself to kill it.

I guess it would be here you would expect some sappy ending, but those damn city troops were a bunch of wimps. He'd probably make his parents stop off at KFC on the way home because he was hungry and not give it a second thought.

I guess to be a scout you don't have to kill chickens, just choke 'em.

BUT IN CONCLUSION:

To all you "crunchy granola suites" out there, when you're having a meadow party and you have your kegs but no one can build a fire because it's raining, who can?
This scout can.

When you're drowning after diving into the town duck pond drunk as a skunk, who can save you?
This scout can.

When you're moving home from college and you're trying to tie down your Morrisey poster so it won't fly off your parents' car, who can?
This scout can.

When it does fly off your car and causes a huge accident, who can treat the wounds of your soon to be accusers?
This scout can.

Who can out-smoke, out-drink, out-cuss and then (and only then) out-argue you about the worthiness of The Boy Scouts?
This scout can.