faster than the blog

I've been told to write something here. At first, I thought that the People in Charge had finally recognized that my awesomeness could not simply be contained within the meager confines of a website and had spun me off into my own exclusive blog. After scanning the page, I find this is not the case. It makes me sad.

I'm no stranger to sadness, though. I was given up for dead in the dank, putrid swamps of the Okefenokee and fended for myself until a kindly Indian chief took me to his lean-to and lashed me to a tree. The tree was about three feet from the water's edge, and when I asked why he tied me there, he told me that I was bait for Roger Kowalski, the craftiest gator in the Florida swampland.

You see, the Chief had a grudge against this gator since it ravaged his village many moons ago. His people were attempting to build a nice, respectable casino out in the swamps to attract tourists. They had hoped that it would one day be a major alternative to Orlando, but the lack of roads or navigable waterways stymied progress, leaving sad Indians standing behind makeshift blackjack tables, as well as gift shops full of authentic Indian blankets with authentic smallpox infections.

It was around this time that Roger Kowalski showed up. You see, Roger always had a snout for business and he knew a golden opportunity when he saw one. One day, he scooted up to a riverbank and ate a small child to get everyone's attention. As the people raced to the riverbank, the Chief implored them to stay a their gaming tables, as a carload of wayward tourists from Poughkeepsie was bound to show up at any moment. Besides, he said, that gator ain't never been anyone's friend and you really shouldn't trust anything that evolved over 200 million years ago. Nothing good ever came out of the Triassic, not the least of which was Roger Kowalski.

But the people would not listen to their Chief. They remembered the good old days, when they sat around complaining about how snobby the Seminole were and how they were too good for the swamp. Every now and then, a Seminole would come by in his flashy blue jeans and fancy '74 El Camino to rub their faces in his tribe's good fortune. They had a football team named after them, after all, and what higher plateau of success could anyone ever hope to achieve?

Roger Kowalski knew all about their resentment and used it to his advantage. He told the people that the reason their casino had failed was due to a lack of advertising. After all, how can anyone come out here if they don't know you exist? Roger told the people that they had to build a sign tall enough to be seen from the highway. That meant a huge tower needed to be erected right on this very spot.

The Chief warned the people not listen to the gator's smooth words and pleasant promises. His way led to ruin. After all, he reminded his people, it was the gators who served as scouts and guides for the German army that conquered their people and sold their powdered organs as aphrodisiacs on the Asian market. But the people would not listen. Seduced by dreams of neon and steel, they erected a huge tower and placed upon it a massive sign that read, "Indian Gaming!" A large arrow pointed downwards, just in case.

The tourists did come and they did game. They brought with them their children and pets, their greedy land developers, their corporate sponsors, and their nudists. Roger Kowalski negotiated several important deals, including the development of hotels, restaurants and a theme park. The Indians, though, increasingly felt left out of this newfound wealth. No one bought their blankets or misshapen pottery, nor were they dumping buckets of cash at their gaming tables.

Nope, everyone was flocking to the flashy new casino that had just gone up: Stalag Nights. With its cinder block walls and romantic guard towers, the casino attracted and delighted crowds with its hourly "Escape from Stalag Nights Extravaganza!" show, featuring an authentically simulated escape that ended in a blazing gun battle as the escapees crossed the wire, were blown to smithereens by the minefield and then finished off by rabid German shepherds. After the show, entrants were then treated to a unique experience seen nowhere else in the world: a train ride inside cattle cars to the "depot" where they were "deloused" with pure, Columbian-grade cocaine and then marched off to the gaming tables.

The Indians, though, were not happy. While everyone else seemed to be having a good time, they were still sitting in the swamp and complaining about the Seminoles. They complained to the Chief, but he would have none of it. He told them that they would not listen to him before, so he would not speak now. The Indians then went to see Roger Kowalski, who thrice daily entertained crowds with tricks and amazing feats of feasting. As he sat in his multi-million dollar tank fashioned to look just like the swamp surrounding it, the people complained that they were not seeing any of the good fortune that the tourists had brought. Roger promised them that they had come at just the right time for an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime offer.

Since their casino wasn't doing very well, he told them that he'd take pity on them, seeing as how they were old friends and all, and buy it from them for a full 35% stake in Stalag Nights. This seemed like a good deal to the people, so they took it, but first, they had to agree to work in the casino for 30 days before they received their share. That was a fair deal, considering Florida's obscure labor laws, so the people agreed to Roger's terms and readied themselves for the first full day of employment any of them had ever seen.

When they arrived, the casino handlers instructed them to remove their clothing and wear official Stalag Nights attire. Afterwards, they were told to wait in a holding area for their assignments, which would be forthcoming. After waiting for an hour, the people became unsettled, but one of the casino bosses finally appeared and directed them face the door behind them. Once it opened, there were told to run out and greet the guests.

Afterwards, the German shepherds reported that the Indians were "tasty" and 9 out of 10 would recommend the dish to their friends. Of course, they didn't have much time to sit and quietly digest, as the earlier explosions from the minefield had unsettled the swampy foundations of the freakishly huge advertising tower. It groaned and squealed as the stresses ran up and down its spindly frame until it finally began its inexorable fall to the ground. The tourists' screams were quickly silenced from tons of falling debris that choked the very breath out of them, while others barely escaped the catastrophe, only to find themselves lost in the endless wastes of the Everglades.

Roger Kowalski collected the insurance claims from the destroyed properties and sold the remains for scrap, leaving nothing of the casino megaplex's existence behind except for a trail of crushed beer cans and broken promises. He slid back into the water, never to be seen again.

After the Chief told me his tale, I spotted two iridescent eyes glittering at the water's edge. Consumed by fear, I pointed at the water. The Chief took a long, hard look and let out a belch of disgust. "That's just Dean. No matter what he says, those damned car stereos don't have Blaupunkt guts."

Soon after, I traded a used gum wrapper for my freedom and made it out of the swamp. I emerged on a lone highway that appeared to be losing its battle against the invading kudzu. I headed north for the promised land of Tallahassee. But that's a different story.

-- Paul