I say it's not a brag because I don't really feel ownership. In the first place, I lifted the rules right off of the popular TV game show Jeopardy! (note: check this before posting), and in the second, this is our thing now. The germ of the idea sprouted from my rather large and bulbous head, but now it's out there mixing with your creative energies and becoming whatever it's going to become. I love it. Thank you, everybody who's playing Donkey Island, everybody who's playing the tournies alongside, to Al for swinging some swag our way, and to Buddy Dank and Jo for emceeing and coordinating.
To those of you reading who haven't played yet: Come out! We had 42 in the Mookie on Wednesday and signs are it may be growing. Plus, the stakes here are comically low, so if the serious business of BBT (which I happen to love) turns you off . . . well, believe, me, you won't catch any of us taking this thing seriously.
So get in on one of the most fun poker tournaments to be found in one of the world's best American casino, Canadian casino, or online cardroom (that'd be our good friend Full Tilt Poker).
And listen to Buddy Dank Radio!
OK, on to my totally true and not-at-all made up account of life on Donkey Island. When last we left our intrepid island dwellers, the badly injured Riggstad had just been killed and consumed by his team, The Fish.
The Donkey Island Diary of Julius_Goat
|When Jamy Hawk gives you this look, you've probably been |
busted paddling the camp canoe.
Specifically, our architect Jamy Hawk is starting make both Uber Hipster Much Tim and recently-scalped college guy Jordan crazy with her adherence to what she calls "camp rules." These rules include (1) not letting the campfire go closer than 6 inches to our cook pot, (2) erasing with a stick all our footprints and sundry tracks within a 100 yard radius of the dwelling 'in case of baboon attack', and (3) not paddling the camp canoe without signing it out. Jamy may have tended to Jordan carefully in the first days after Numb scalped him, but now the same assiduity has made a rift there. He huddles with Much Tim, making snide comments under his breath as she schoolmarms them about the proper stacking of discarded cans of food.
And here comes paranoia, creeping up my ribs. I fear a Jordan/Much union could spell the end of me unless I can make a few friends around here. And I really doubt I can do that if I can't stop farting so much. And I won't do that, because if I give up my religion just to win, what have I become?
I thought that maybe Samuel would ally with me, but then I realized that Samuel was just a banana tree I'd been sitting under.
Hmm. Yep, I guess I'm crazy again!
|Pictured: Mr All-Can Tang and just a few of his many many cookies.|
The great thing is that one of the Fish, a large fellow with an amazing head of flowing golden hair, has brought treats! The treat-bringer's introduces himself as All-Can Tang, and he speaks in friendly tones with a thick Slavic accent. We all sort of like him immediately, and think what a shame it will be when we eventually have to kill him and eat him.
But never mind such unpleasant thoughts. Mr. Tang has brought us chocolate chip cookies! Wow, there must be like 400 of the things here! We chow down as friends before we race as enemies.
The race is going well. Heff Mike the hick (or "rural American", as I learn from Mike is the proper nomenclature) and I are doing great, at the finish line and well ahead of Mr. Tang (who happens to be the sole remaining Fish), when out of nowhere host Buddy Dank sets me on fire. I jump into the briny sea and Tang comes up to his kindling. Luckily, Heff is a born firebug and lights his pyre first. Victory is ours!
We're all pretty sure that the Fish are going to sacrifice this young girl who didn't even swim, but they rise up as one and attack Mr. Tang, and carry him off shrieking.
Huh. I guess they didn't like the cookies.
Images courtesy of Midday Escapades and Cheesy Supreme.