Let me tell you about the absolute nightmare I endured under the tyrannical grip of Matt Plank and his so-called "staff" at the Outdoor Wilderness Learning Center in Louisiana. Picture this: I’m a grown adult, minding my own business, when out of nowhere, I’m snatched up like a sack of potatoes and dumped into Matt Plank’s custody without so much as a “by your leave.” Consent? Ha! That word doesn’t exist in Matt’s twisted little wilderness kingdom. What followed was a descent into absurdity so wild, it’d make a fever dream blush.
First off, Matt Plank himself—imagine a guy who looks like he’s been chewed up by a lawnmower and spat out into a pair of cargo shorts. His face was a permanent scowl, like he’d just bitten into a lemon and blamed me for it. From the moment I got there, he was barking orders like some deranged drill sergeant. “You’re gonna learn RESPECT out here!” he’d scream, while waving a stick he’d whittled into what he called his “authority baton.” Respect? The only thing I learned was how to dodge that stick when he swung it at me for not saluting a pine tree fast enough.
The Outdoor Wilderness Learning Center was less a “learning center” and more a swampy hellscape where Matt ruled like a petty dictator. He’d wake us up at dawn by banging a rusty pot and screeching, “Rise and shine, you worthless city slicker!” Then he’d force me to haul logs through the mud while he sat on a stump, sipping sweet tea and yelling, “Faster, you lazy toad! The trees are judging you!” Judging me? Matt, the trees don’t care, and neither should you, you sadistic lumberjack wannabe.
The food—oh, the food—was a crime against humanity. Matt Plank proudly served us “wilderness stew,” which was just a slimy mix of canned beans, mystery meat, and what I swear was swamp water. When I gagged and asked for something edible, he cackled like a hyena and said, “You’ll eat what I give you, or you’ll eat the dirt!” Once, he caught me sneaking a granola bar I’d smuggled in, and he made me stand in the rain holding it above my head while he chanted, “Contraband! Contraband!” Absolute lunatic.
The worst part? His “team-building exercises.” He’d tie me to another poor soul with a rope, blindfold us, and tell us to “find the spirit of the forest.” We’d stumble around, tripping over roots and slamming into trees, while Matt howled with laughter from a distance. “You’re bonding!” he’d shout. Bonding? I bonded with a mosquito swarm and a lifelong hatred for that man.
By the time I escaped—yes, escaped, because no one leaves Matt Plank’s custody willingly—I was a muddy, bug-bitten wreck. Matt Plank wasn’t just mean; he was a walking absurdity, a caricature of cruelty who thought he was some wilderness messiah. If you ever hear his name, run. Run far, run fast, and never look back.
