Coffeehouse Chronicles …and What’s Propane Got Ta Do Wit’ it? (Channel your inner Tina)

Goooooood morning Chroniclers!

Everybody got a cup? Let’s go! Sunday was uneventful. It pretty much started off the way Saturday ended, with Cmdr. McCroc’s stove still refusing to cooperate. We tried everything: matches, lighters, tiki torches, and he’d even resorted to primitive methods like banging two rocks together. But alas, the stove remained unlit. 

Sunday morning, a weary Cmdr. McCroc turned to his last hope, the Doc. 

Doc meandered over toward the McCroc mobile; he walked around the entire coach, looking it up and down inspecting it. All of the men folk wanted to learn his ways, so an audience had developed. That’s exactly how he likes it. The Doc thrives on attention. He held up his hand for silence as we watched the wizard intently. He thumped the left rear tire using his thumb and put his head down to the wheel as if listening for a noise. We listened too. He stood up abruptly. We all gasped because this startled us. Most of us had only known him to move this fast when he was chasing an ice cream truck. Doc removed his pipe from the corner of his mouth and tapped it a few times on the heel of his Birkenstock clog to dislodge the ash clogging its airflow, then stuck the pipe thoughtfully back into his mouth.

The Good Reverend Doctor could stand the suspense no longer and blurted out, “WELL?! WHAT IS IT?!” 

We all leaned forward in rapt attention so as not to miss the diagnosis. Doc stated plainly, “he’s outta propane.”

“Ohhhhh,” we all said in unison and went back to the breakfast area.

Breakfast was DEEE-LISH-US! We had eggs made to order, pancakes, bacon, country potatoes, and, yes, Mr. Ingram, there were grits as well. The Mayor, Doc and I verbally assured bystanders that sugar on grits is not a bad thing. 

Mrs. Coach threw herself across the breakfast table and shrieked, “NO!” She wiped the pancake syrup from her Nike running outfit, which was perfectly color-coordinated with her Nike Pegasus running shoes, her matching Nike headband, and Nike wristbands. She straightened her Nike golf hat and carefully used the same hand that her Nike golf glove, she gave us the stop sign. There’s a rumor floating around camp that her contract with Nike rivals that of Tiger.

“There will be NO sugar on the grits today!” 

The Mayor, Doc, and I all shrugged and said, “Okay.” 

Mr. Ingram, please feel free to check with Cmdr. McCroc at your convenience, sir. As a certified gritologist, he can affirm that not a grit was defaced in the making of my grits yesterday morning. 

Hey! I have news! Mr. McRib had been under investigation as a possible serial killer. No one could attest to his whereabouts at certain times nor from where he’d gotten his famous mouth-watering ribs. After checking the wanted posters at every post office and through confidential, reliable informants, it has been determined that McRib’s BBQ is indeed a reputable establishment and that the ribs had not been obtained during some murderous nationwide crime spree. The initial warnings not to be lured into the woods by Mr. McRib have been rescinded. The townsfolk can go about their everyday regular routines.

I can also report that Mr. McRib is a fond purveyor of “As Seen On TV,” and he brought hand

trays to breakfast for everyone's convenience. Thank you, Mr. McRib. Bee Tee Dubs he will hold a demonstration of his K-Tel fishing rod and the K-Tel Dial-O-Matic and Veg-O-Matic food choppers at his coach today at 4:30 PM.

Ever since the Mayor decided, “HEY! I have an idea! Let’s gather as many motorhomes as we possibly can and drive them all the way across the country to fun places and do fun things. How does that sound?” 

Oh boy! The shenanigans. 

Well, everyone wants to play in our pool, and we took a look around and said, “Eeek. This thing has gotten pretty big.” We also took a straw poll and decided that Cmdr. McCroc was deadweight and should be voted off the island. 

Full disclosure: it was me. I nominated him to go, but there was no second, and no one else raised their hand when I asked for a vote. 

I. Demand. A. Recount! 

The Mayor thought it might be a little awkward. 

Shhh. Don’t tell him. It’s supposed to be a secret ballot. I’ll break it to him on Monday, just before we leave. Sorry, McCroc.

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles