An American, an Irishman, and a Chineseman get stranded on a deserted island.

I finished up an old notebook the other day and found this silly retelling of a common middle-school joke.  It was mainly just a way to pass the time on the bus.  I like it, though it has no chance of ever being published by anything with any amount of respectability.  However, there is a message in here and I had fun writing it, so I didn't want to just have it waste away in My Documents folder.  Plus, I got to make fun of two literary giants of the early-20th century.  Enjoy.

When the American, the Irishman, and the Chineseman found themselves stranded on a deserted island forty-six nautical miles off the coast of Molikini, none of them realized that it was all a joke. Nobody panicked; the closest was the Irishman who realized he only had but one bottle of Bushmills stored in the empty fishing compartment. Rational minds make plans and the three immediately gathered onto the beach, sinking their toes into the slushy sand, that even wet, was still the temperature and texture of recently abandoned porridge. The Chineseman wrapped a towel around his head to protect himself from the sun and the other followed suit.

The American had always viewed himself a leader, the type who could even run a whole nation if only given the chance, but thus far nobody had followed him. The three stood in a circle. The Irishman kicked the muck. The Chineseman stood deep in thought. After waiting a polite thirty seconds, the American began the speech he had been composing since he first heard the boat scrape upon the coral.

“I guess nobody expected when the three us, the Irishman, the Chineseman, and the American walked into a bar that we'd find ourselves improbably washed up on a deserted island, but here we are. Thankfully, we've all been calm; nobody has been tossing around blame.”

“That's cause it was your bloody fault! And Americans are the ones who always have to talk about everything.” The Irishman was not angry, but nobody could tell.

“I was merely steering. The Chineseman was in the front keeping watch.”

“Yes, but I scleamed 'Lock! Lock!' But you do nothing.” The Chineseman, of course, had trouble differentiating his l's from r's, a common affliction among his countrymen that find themselves trapped in an unlikely comic situation. The two sounds are not so different when one actually thinks about it, but I implore you to not, for that would detract from the punch line.

“Yes, you said 'lock lock' which I interpreted to mean that I should lock the wheel steady, not veer. I can hardly be held responsible for your inability to speak clearly.”

The Chineseman brought his hands together and said, “Oh, me so sorry.” and the American continued his speech.

“Well anyway, we're here, three fatefully met men, who have found ourselves the victim of a snorkelling excursion gone wrong. Now, although this has never happened to me before, when I was getting my boating license, we learned a bit about survival. The four elements of living through these types of situations are food, water, shelter, and communication with the outside world.”

“Have you tried the radio?” asked the Irishman.

“It seems our communication capabilities were severed in the collision. Now, to secure these four things, it is best if we split up and do the jobs most suited to our characters. Now, Irishmen are skilled at the following things: growing potatoes, drinking, fishing, and Catholic guilt. There are no potatoes here, so you should just grab a spear, a bag, and one of the snorkel sets and see if you can't wrangle us some fish. These waters are teaming with hummuhummunukunukuapua'a.”

“You realize you're an arsehole right?”

“I don't even know what that is. Why can't anybody on this island speak good?”

Neither answered.

“Ok,” continued the American, “we all know that Americans are born leaders, hardworking, and industrious.”

“What about Chinese? We all industlious! We buird youl lairloads. We make canar from Bejing to Shanghai. We make a giant war!”

“That's nothing to be proud of” said the Irishman, “plus, it's the bloody Americans that are best at making war.”

“No, a war! A war!”

“Can we all agree that you can't build anything? You can't even talk.” The American shut him up. “I'll build us a shelter and collect wood for a fire. Chineseman, you can use sticks and stuff to write 'Help us' in the sand, then go down into the boat, empty out all the cupboards and see if you can't put together supplies. Got it? Good!” He clapped his hands and they went off to work.

The Irishman grabbed all the equipment he needed and floated out above the barrier coral in search of fish. The sun shined above and his body cast a shadow above the ocean floor that was unmistakably like a crucifix. It reminded him of his childhood. Cloppclopping on the wet cobbled stones of the Dublin streets, watching his boots splash the unfinished mosaic.

“Hey ya Irish bastard, get in here, you'll catch a cold,” he could hear his father yell.

His father was British, a protestant, fell for the sparkling round green eyes of his mother like they were the rolling hills of the countryside. His fiery-haired matriarch would slap his behind if he found himself too wet. 

No flashbacks, just fish but none seemed to work only floating in vast repercussions of the days past and God's plan oh did he even have a plan hummuhummunukunukuapua'a church four times a week Catholic mass Kalvinist teaching fiery brimstone falling falling into the twice damned hell of the eternally conflicted to be not burned but infinitely wet and yes also burned hummuhummunukunukuapua'a coral spotted like the walls of O'Malley's blood spattered butchers walls shadows soaring looming over the aquatic kingdom as if he's the grace of the world or just Poseidon trident ready to strike down in fury in lasivation smite or salvation spear in the slithery shark water filled with crimson blood like the flowing red hair he'd never see again especially if he never made it from this bloody island hummuhummunukunukuapua'a.

The American stood looking at the impenetrable rain forest before him. Death was beyond and so was life. The sun bore down upon him mercilessly and he sweated and he pondered to figure a way to fell a tree. He wished to use it to build a splendid tiki hut. It would have a thatched roof and a bed of coconut shavings. The American spent his boyhood summers learning lashing, camping, camaraderie, and how to use a knife. His father was a doctor at the Indian camp. He taught him the skills one needs to be a true man. His father taught him how to fish. He taught him how to find the best grasshoppers for trout fishing. What Americans call grasshoppers are locusts and they are terrible for fishing. He knew that the best grasshoppers are found under rocks in the dawn when the grasshopper are drowsy and do not hop. There were no grasshoppers here. He saw the jungle and the darkness inside and knew he could enter unhindered. He collected dead-fall for poles. He cut down vines and stretched them out to test their elasticity. He would use these for rope. He pulled off the bark from the trees and he would use it for kindling. He used a shingle from a palm as a shovel and dug a series of seven holes into the sand. These holes were laid out in a quadrangle. He had made such huts before in the war and knew that needed exactly eight holes to build a strong hut. He drove eight posts into the ground methodically. He slung the vines from one post to the other. He placed palm fronds over the top and made a roof. He admired his hut. He grabbed the poles and shook the hut andsaw it was true. It would withhold much. It was a good hut. It could not withstand a storm.

When he finished, he sat in his shelter and watched the Chineseman drag logs and sticks to beach to make his message to the world, before heading back to the boat for the supplies.

Shortly after, the Irishman emerged with three hummuhummunukunukuapua'a and a meter long coral shark. It would be a feast. Together they built a spit, lighting the first with the Chineseman's glasses that were stolen when he had set them down earlier. They smelled the sweet smell of smoking meat and smiled, knowing they wouldn't die that night.

They walked along the beach reading the message left upon the sand. They passed an H, followed by an E, then a mysterious R.

“Damn Chineseman!” the Irishman muttered.

Next was P, then some space. The next letter was an E and finally an S.

The Irishman burst into laughter. “Yer man just spelled Herpes!”

“Nobody will ever save us reading that!”

“Where is he anyway?”

“Last I saw, he was heading to the boat.”

The two waded through the water to the dinghy and pulled themselves on board. It was eerily quiet with no signs of life.

“Do you think he fell in?” asked the American.

“No, we would see his body floating.”

They went below deck and it was also empty. They were about to give up, head back to the beach enjoy some fresh BBQ shark, when one of the cupboards popped open and out sprung the Chineseman, arms extended. The other two jumped in shock.

“Supplies!” he yelled.