The Night of the Joke-Telling God

One night at Scout Camp, I was the embodiment of comedy.

At thirteen, I was a lanky Boy Scout with a penchant for adventure and a knack for tripping over my own feet. That summer at Goshen Scout Camp, nestled in the rolling Virginia hills, my troop embarked on a week-long hiking expedition. The days were filled with dusty trails, map-reading mishaps, and the occasional raccoon eyeing our poorly secured food stash. But it was one night—around a crackling campfire—that became the stuff of legend.


We’d set up camp in a clearing, the stars piercing the black sky like pinholes in a velvet curtain. After a dinner of slightly burnt hot dogs and lumpy instant potatoes, we gathered around the fire. The air was thick with pine and smoke, and someone—probably Tommy, the kid who always carried a harmonica he couldn’t play—suggested we tell jokes. The usual groaners came first: “Why did the scarecrow become a motivational speaker? Because he was outstanding in his field!” Laughter rippled, but it was tame, the kind of chuckles you’d expect from tired kids.


Then something shifted. I don’t know what it was—maybe the way the firelight danced in my eyes or the sudden hush of the wind—but I felt a spark deep in my chest. I stood up, my scout uniform still dusted with trail dirt, and started. “Why do programmers prefer dark mode?


Because the light attracts bugs.” The laughter was louder this time, a rolling wave that egged me on. Another joke tumbled out, then another.


“What’s a bear with no socks on? Barefoot!” The troop howled, clutching their sides. I was unstoppable.


It was like I’d been possessed by some ancient joke-telling god, a spirit of wit and timing that had chosen me as its vessel. Jokes I hadn’t thought of since second grade poured out—knock-knock gags, puns, riddles, even that one about the chicken and the librarian that nobody ever got. I paced around the fire, my voice rising and falling, hands waving like a stand-up comic on a Vegas stage. “Why did the tomato turn red? Because it saw the salad dressing!” The guys were rolling now, literally tumbling off logs, tears streaming down their faces. Even grumpy old Scoutmaster Jenkins, who usually just grunted at fun, was wiping his eyes and snorting.


For hours, I held court. The fire burned low, but my energy didn’t. I was a machine, pulling punchlines from some cosmic comedy vault. My best friend Mikey kept shouting, “One more, Danny, one more!” and I’d deliver, each joke sharper than the last. It wasn’t just the words—it was the delivery, the pauses, the way I’d lean in like I was sharing a secret. The troop was mine, and the night was electric.


Finally, Scoutmaster Jenkins called it. “Bed, all of you! We’re hiking at dawn.” Groans rose, but we obeyed, stumbling to our tents. I crawled into my sleeping bag, still buzzing, the echoes of laughter ringing in my ears. I felt invincible, like I could’ve kept going until sunrise.


But morning came like a sledgehammer. I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a moose. My head throbbed, my throat was sandpaper, and my body ached like I’d hiked a marathon. I could barely sit up. Mikey poked his head into the tent, grinning. “Dude, you were a legend last night.


You okay?” I croaked something incoherent and collapsed back onto my sleeping bag. Scoutmaster Jenkins took one look at me and declared I was “sicker than a dog eating bad chili.” They let me rest in camp while the troop hiked, and I spent the day sipping lukewarm Gatorade, wondering what had hit me.


By evening, I was better, but the mystery lingered. Had I burned myself out? Caught some weird campfire flu? Or had the joke-telling god, having used me as its mouthpiece, left me drained of mortal energy? The guys didn’t let it go. For the rest of the week, they called me “Joke King” and begged for an encore. But I never quite recaptured that magic. The jokes were still there, tucked in my brain, but the spark—the divine comedy mojo—was gone.


Years later, around other campfires, I’d tell the story of that night. Some said it was just adrenaline, or maybe I’d pushed myself too hard. But deep down, I like to think I was touched by something bigger, a fleeting gift from a trickster spirit who wanted to give a bunch of sweaty Boy Scouts a night they’d never forget. And me? I got a story—and a lesson: even gods leave you with a heck of a hangover.