All Ashore That's Going Ashore

The ragged remnants of Altair Flight 815 we gathered about the beach.

"I suggest we eat some of the tastier, less important passengers" declared a corpulent gentleman who tugged on his pants to keep them aloft. Curiously he wore both a belt and suspenders, neither of which seemed to be serving their purpose.

"Egad, man," the Admiral interjected, "We've only been ashore for 3 hours, surely you're not that hungry"

"Sir, I am absolutely famished, all I had before ditching we pretzel sticks" He paused, "and, they made me thirsy too" he added for good measure a bit sheepishly.

Another passenger, this one with a young lad in tow remarked that the lush greenery didn't look a bit sinister and that the propeller half-buried in the sand might make a useful tool. He'd seen as much on a popular television show.

The handsome chap, also known to his friends as Woody or Woodpecker-Smythe, to his legion of fans and adoring public, stood atop a small mound of bleached skulls to make the following announcement of duties:

"I expect this will be quite good sport until we are rescued - Lady Marzipan, why don't you go with Lady Lyme Weoghe and search out some coconuts and tropical bananas as is your wont. Turnips, why don't you get a start on the fire. I as party poet should begin a diary or poem to record or adventures. Admiral, perhaps you could mix us up a calming tonic. And, DeBock, why don't you build us a shelter, I'll need an extra wide bunk if you don't mind - and please, don't get sassy this time. I know your type."


"May a rabid wyvern use your femur as a toothpick" muttered DeBock under his breath.