The Bus Stop

There's a bus stop in front of our apartment, visible from my office window. At least once a week I hear someone shouting, "Wait! Wait! WAIT!" as if it's the last bus out of hell, or perhaps a city due for nuclear incineration. Needless to say, this provides fodder for endless chuckling on my part. Where are these people heading that's so great? Probably to jobs, in other parts of the city. Or maybe some kind of camp, like archery camp, or tennis camp. If you could go to any kind of camp in the world, what would it be? Hot tub camp? Beer camp? I know what you're thinking: that dork Blogagaard would go to writing camp. That's where you're wrong, fool. I'd like to go to a camp up in the mountains somewhere, somewhere really beautiful, and play games like outdoor laser tag (not paintball), baseball, capture the flag, and chess. And we'd have great rock bands play every night, and campfires on the shore of some shimmering mountain lake, and we'd smoke hookahs and eat victuals prepared by a famous French chef named La Belle or something. Friendly bears would come down from the mountains and we'd get to ride them, and pet their soft bear fur, and we'd all get drunk, even the bears, and go on night walks with flashlights and sing songs with powerful chorus refrains, like anything by AC/DC. Now that's a destination worth running after, all dignity set aside.