Thing a Week 15: In Which I am accused of Being a Worse Person

So an unnamed brother of mine (hint: he has a predilection for murder whales) has threatened to sic Cyber Weasels on me if I don't finish my story. Since the only thing worse than a Cyber Weasel attack is a Murder Whale attack, although (as my educated audience will doubtless know) Professor Lucifer Von Rathsburg has recently published a paper theorizing that a Dire Bactrian attack would not just be as painful as Cyber weasels, it would also be more humiliating. I'm off topic. Anyway, he convinced me that finishing one of my writing attempts for once would be preferable to horrible virtual mutilation, and so I will do my best to finish recollecting the events of the previous Saturday.
Anyway, the first group of drunken collegers I ran into were by far the most interesting, in the sense that most of them were apparently white supremacists. It was awkward. Funny, but awkward. I extricated myself from their inebriated fingers, but I must confesss they plied a strange fascination upon both me and my fellow campers (the two who were stupid enough to stay awake with me until 2 in the morning). We returned to our campsite, but the sound of their drunken laughter wafted through the treetops like a (slurred) siren song. No matter how entertaining our conversations at our own campsite, they could not, in the end, compare. The chance to study the effects of alchohol on the human at such close range was a FASCINATING oppurtunity, and as long as we were willing to stand the verbal abuse and edge gently around any topic that could be construed in any way as even remotely resembling something that could possibly be put in as part of the race argument, then everything was good.

I can't think of a decent way to end this right now, and it's nearly midnight, so I will have to finish this fascinating slice of life tale in a third installment.
However, I promised my brother that I would give him a bonus item to read, so here is anohter small piece of writing i did a while ago. Interestingly, it isn't a finished piece either.

The Child was not an optimist. It wasn't old enough to know about things like that, and besides that, it had led a life sheltered from things like three syllable words. Nonetheless, It had managed to achieve the opinion that overall, life was probably Pretty OK. It was because of this conclusion that the Child felt it necessary to consult with the Old Man on the day It didn't feel all that Pretty OK.
Said the Child, and I quote: "Old Man, I'm bored, and nothing seems interesting, and I feel sad for no reason in particular, but quite a few reasons in general" Replied the Old Man, "That's because you live in a cruel world full of Unloving People, Misery, Skulduggery, and Humbuggery, and you'll die early because of all the fattening foods this self indulgent nation tells you to eat".
The Old Man was a pessimist. In news that might be unrelated (but isn't), he was also clown. He loathed his job, and took great pleasure in terrifying small children by shoving unnecessarily squeaky balloon animals into their faces. No one was really sure why the Child ever spent time with him.

P.S. I realize this piece is horribly structured form a purely technical stndpoint, but I'm honestly too tired to care right now. Maybe I'll proofread and correct it when I finish the story.