Seriously, dude. It's gross.
You're supposed to be our camp counselor; a person the rest of us campers can look up to. A pillar of strength. A childhood hero. A friend that we can come to in times of need. I don't know how to put this, but seeing your fleshy ballsack every morning at the "Rise and Shine" campfire, well, it's hurting your reputation, man.
I wasn't even going to say anything; I mean, I'm not even in your cabin. It's just that I don't understand how you can't know what's going on. Those blue running shorts you wear each morning ride up so high that you must get a breeze or something up in there. I mean, there's sunlight hitting your churchbags. Sunlight! Even when you're standing up and wearing them properly, those tiny pieces of satiny cloth that you call "running shorts" are so tight it looks like you're smuggling plums or audtioning for the Russian Ballet Academy or something. Get me? You're giving everyone full disclosure on documents that should remain Top Secret. Capiche? Maybe this will be slightly more clear: YOUR BALLS ARE HANGING OUT OF YOUR SHORTS.
Maybe the problem is the seating arrangements. Is it fair that you counselors have to sit on logs instead of chairs? No, I guess not. It's certainly not fair to us, seeing as the log angles your pelvic area (and surrounding burly genitals) straight up at our fearful virgin eyes like a one of those giagantic SETI satellite dishes homing in on an extraterrestial signal. It's like an eclipse; my mother and my teachers tell me to not look at it, but my eyes are instantly drawn there. I can't look away. The way your potato sack jiggles just so Oh Jesus. Please cover your Nutty Gorgon. I CAN'T LOOK AWAY.
I have two words, man: SWEAT PANTS. Wear them. If not for me, then for the children. The younger ones are so innocent and pure. Please. I'm begging you.