This summer, Every Time I Die went off to Camp Ozzfest for a couple of months… recently on Oct 15th, Keith (vocals) wrote a letter home… “First of all, let me start off by pointing out that this assignment is bullshit and me and the rest of your students feel that your moustache looks like a bird’s pussy. That being said, my summer vacation was pure balls. I was super bummed at first when my gaylord Dad and my dyke Mom told me I had to go to camp for two whole months, but if I could go back in time I would probably think twice about taking a shit in their car. Who would have thought I could have so much fun? The Camp Ozzfest counselors were all super nice to us. Every morning they would greet us with deli meats, soda, water and more beer than I ever dreamed of! Believe me when I say í¢äåñFuck! That’s a lot of beer I drank!í¢äå. After an unhealthy amount of them, the kids in Camp í¢äåñShadows Fallí¢äå and the long haired Lambs of God all started a bonfire in the woods and smoked cigarettes that smelled like a freshly cut lawn. Usually cigarettes smell like my grandpas hair, but not these kind. They smelled so delicious that I was easily convinced to smoke three. The next morning I woke up with 7 empty bags of Doritos next to my head and a henna tattoo that looked like the cover of the first Spin Doctors record. The next day at 5 pm, everyone in camp was required to attend a í¢äåñSuperjoint Ritualí¢äå in order to hear one of the head counselors, Mr. Anselmo, speak to us about the importance of í¢äåñeating pussy until our jaws fell offí¢äå. It was actually quite inspirational, and I believe that everyone in attendance walked away feeling-in a sense- lifted. He finished his lecture with words that struck a chord within the very essence of my being, advice that I will not soon forget, or understand. í¢äåñThis is something that our father did and our forefathers and their fathers did that I fuckin hope we can live and die by. Other than that, everyone else can suck my dickí¢äå. Single, tiny tearí¢äå_í¢äå_ I got along magically with the other kids in the camp surrounding the lake. Every night after we completed our mandatory daily activities of begging to see boobs, playing music and drinking, we would meet in the commons and take our shirts off. Ive never been a part of such an overwhelmingly coercive mob before, but our í¢äåñShirts Off Crewí¢äå was violently and unmercifully recruiting new members by the tens every night. It was a way for us to get to know each other, and also gave us the chance to laugh quietly at each others ghastly imperfections. Based solely on their physique, I would have granted Camp Unearth with the í¢äåñWorld’s Hairiest Grandmotherí¢äå award, had there actually been a contest. For weeks I found myself enthusiastically enlisted in activities that I felt would broaden my cultural horizons and refine my appalling social skills. I made 47 boondoggle keychains with my peculiar friend Ozzy, who used the activities as a way to distract himself from what he called í¢äåñthe seductive whispers of the white horseí¢äå. I’m not necessarily certain what that meant, but I never saw a single horse on the campground. Zakk Wyld taught me to whittle, and within the first week I had fashioned a triumphant, 3 minute blistering guitar solo out of the trunk of a maple tree. Counselor Halford often help to ease my fear of the germs that live and breed in the public showers by keeping a close eye on me through a hole in the bathroom wall. I found his level of devotion to this task quite unnerving at first, but he assured me that he was simply í¢äåñHell Bent for Latherí¢äå. On another afternoon 9 camp clowns taught me how to make a record that sells hundreds of thousands out of balloons, and Tom Araya and myself made a macromet bust of Kerry King who showed his appreciation by punching me unconscious and, according to witness reports, taking my limp body and spreading it eagle under the tires of a construction vehicle. The kids in Camp God Forbid are magnificent story tellers, as every night before retiring to bed, we would sit around the fire and hear terrifying stories of a monster who they called í¢äåñThe Man.í¢äå. Just thinking of the atrocities that they relayed sends shivers up my spine. Most impressive, however, was Jamey from Camp Hatebreed who proved to be an indispensable swimmer (and friend!). One evening a few kids from Camp Throwdown snuck out of their cabins after cerfew and headed downstream in a kayak which unbelievably caught fire just seconds before plummeting over a 40 foot waterfall! Hearing their death metal bellows for help, Jamey awakened from a deep sleep and responded by plunging into the stream in an attempt to rescue the forlorn children. However, in spite of all his efforts, Jamey could not pull Dave out of the fiery aquatic transport before they both tumbled over the falls and into a whirlpool! Seeing no other option, Jamey and Dave whipped up a circle pit that in the opposite direction of the cyclone and completely nullified the swirling dangers of the water! It was amazing! Once the danger was placated, Shagrath from Camp Dimmu swooped down from out of nowhere, grabbed the kids by the back of their shirts and flew them to safety before disappearing just as quickly as he appeared. The only time I saw Shagrath other than on that fateful night was at the camp bake-off, where he presented a mouth-watering recipe for what he called his í¢äåñBundt Cake Fruit Celebrationí¢äå. And celebrate we did. As one could expect from a gang of drunken teenagers on an unsupervised romp across the country, lust blossomed immediately and ended a few uncomfortable minutes later. My cabin mate Jeff romanced a sultry young vixen by offering her glass after glass of the finest whiskey available before leading her into his bunk for an evening full of awkward passion. He blushes whenever we bring up her name, mainly because he didn’t even know what her name was. He’s so funny like that. I think he’ll make a great illegitimate father. I have also developed an appreciation for what my guidance counselor calls the í¢äåñalternative lifestyleí¢äå after witnessing multitudes of the females at camp fondling each other after drinking something called Jagermeister, which im assuming is an ancient Chinese aphrodisiac. Whatever it is, it worked wonders in bringing kids of all ages and levels of physical attraction together for personal encounters behind the dumpster. I wish I could remember more of the exploits, the verbal toss-abouts, the proverbial oceans of tears we shed, the literal oceans of alcohol we ingested, the figurative í¢äåñgrassí¢äå we í¢äåñsmokedí¢äå, the specific name of the figurative í¢äåñgrassí¢äå we í¢äåñsmokedí¢äå, the reason I wound up in handcuffs, or what we did with that body we found. Unfortunately, life is not a catalog of events that blend into each other as seamlessly as the episodes of a sitcom. This summer was not something that can be indexed, relayed objectively, remembered fully or told, under any circumstances, to our girlfriends. It was an overwhelming, oft times surreal explosion of unfamiliar feelings, and the most we can do is to try to make sense of them before we die of cancer or anorexia. I still think this assignment is garbage, but I’m glad for the opportunity to realize that my life fucking owns.” If you didn’t laugh while reading that, you clearly have no sense of humour. Did you know? Keith was asked to write that for US mag Revolver. However, once he sent it over, they deemed it unprintable, and it never made the pages. So we thought we’d bring it to you by the powers of the internet instead. Rock on.