Suburbs of Our Discontent

Last week I got my first taste of that timeworn literary tradition: The Homesick Camper Letter.  It began "I hate camp" and ended "Please, please, please come get me." And those were the up-beat parts. Seeking solace from my go-to therapist, Mr. Shakespeare, I was happy to find these Camp Letters from the Archives:

To: Claudius and Gertrude

Dear Mother and Unkind Brother of My Father:

You are perhaps surprised to be hearing from me so soon. Perhaps you thought I happily would submit to your plans to ship me off to England camp with my "friends" Rosencrantz and Guildenstern so that you could engage in sweaty incestuous activities all summer in my absence. Perhaps you underestimated me and my pirate friends. 

See you soon!

Hamlet

p.s. If you see the Rosencrantzes or the Guildensterns, tell them that they shouldn't expect any letters from their kids. Ever.

To:  Polonius

Dearest Father:

I am writing to you in the earnest hope that you will allow me to return home early from Virginity Camp.  I do not mean to sound ungrateful. I know that you have only my best interests at heart. It’s just that my chastity belt has given me a terrible heat rash, and I am finding it difficult to concentrate on all of the fun activities like Trust Circle and “Duck, Duck, Whore.” Please send for me, father.  

Yours always,

Ophelia