By XXXXXXXXXXX (Name Redacted)

The Guardians of the Orb–who are they? Sure, they’re our rivals–a fraternal lodge nearly as old as the Order of the Grand Lock. They kidnapped our leader. They beat our butts seemingly every year at the inter-lodge beach volleyball tournament. Some rumors suggest that they’re in fact a “crime organization” responsible for “most of the crimes.” But just who are they–really? And what do they want? To that end, I have infiltrated their ranks as one of their own. My years of service as United States Army Green Beret, third degree black belt in Krav Maga, and father of twin girls have prepared me. I am behind enemy lines.

For the past three months, I’d been hearing chatter at RV shows and in Guardians of the Orb adult intramural hacky-sack games of “something big” going down in February. My line of questioning seemed to go nowhere–I was only given replies such as “a crawdad jambalooza” and “a heckin’ big gumbo-nera” in a “Texas City.” Thinking this to be some kind of code, I resorted to extreme measures; one “van ride home from hacky-sack practice” and 150 grams of 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate later, Cheeseburger Gary was singing like a canary.

As it turns out, the event really is called the “Crawdad Jambalooza” (roughly translated to “seafood stew party”) and is held annually in a place literally called “Texas City, Texas.” This invitation-only Orb barbeque on the Galveston Bay serves as something of a quarterly shareholders meeting for Orb operations. Even better, three Orb Marshals would be in attendance–Travis, Randy Jr., and a rare appearance of Trish. When Cheeseburger Gary recovered consciousness, he found himself on an Indonesian grain-transport in the Pacific with a steerage class ticket to Jakarta and a backpack full of Slim Jims (hey–everyone’s got to eat). As for me, I had a first class ticket to Galveston and a personalized Crawdad Jambalooza invitation; I was Cheeseburger Gary now.

On the morning of the event, I arrived early to Bay Street Park to gather intel under the cover of a game of “disc golf.” Unfortunately for me, I again underestimated the Orb’s penchant for “tailgating” and even at 6:15am, the main parking lot was nearly full. I made my way to the outer orbit of a family greeting the sunrise with camp-stove hot dogs and a ukulele jam session from the stoop of their fifth wheel camper. Luckily, my time with the Orb had well prepared me for such an occasion and I impressed the patriarch by finger picking the melody of “Sloop John B” on an errant baritone uke purloined from the dew-soaked grass of the pet relief area. He introduced himself as Craig Nelson (“Like coach from the show “Coach!”) I admitted to my new acquaintance that it was my first “Jambalooza” and that I had a case of the jitters; he responded that he’d be delighted to show me around.

Craig Nelson proved to be a consummate guide–expertly introducing me into cornhole games, RV tours, and a seat at the banquet table adjacent to Randy Jr. himself. I pointed the listening device hidden under my trilby towards the Orb Marshall table. Sadly, the conversation held by Orb leadership proved to pretty boilerplate: destabilizing Israeli/Palestinian relations to increase  Sodastream sales, pre-determining the winners of the Columbus Day Miami regatta, getting KISS to lip-sync on their farewell tour–that sort of thing. I knew that the real conversations had to be happening somewhere and I had a feeling it was in “the grotto.”

At the northern edge of Bay Street Park is a gazebo; for the event, it had been decorated with tapestries and transformed into something of a makeshift bedouin’s yurt. The Orbs call it the “the grotto” and Craig seemed somehow to always have a reason why we shouldn’t go towards that part of the park throughout our amblings and walkabouts. My curiosity piqued, I finally excused myself from the crawdads with a case of the “tummy rumbles” (aside: they’re gross–like weird bugs). I summoned all of my Green Beret training to move stealthily move towards my target.

As I peeled aside a wall hanging and slithered into the gazebo behind a pile of beanbags, the secrecy of this grotto made itself suddenly obvious. There sat Trish herself and a retinue of Orb faithful sitting in a circle, legs akimbo, smoking marijuana cigarettes. That’s correct–illegal narcotics have infiltrated the Guardians of the Orb at the highest echelons of leadership. I snapped a couple photographs with my hidden trilby cam and made my way out of the park. I had seen enough.

We knew that the Guardians of the Orb were rascals of the highest magnitude but my findings have elevated them to previously unimagined levels of villainy. Such a thing is literally unimaginable in the noble Order of the Grand Lock. It’s crystal clear that sound minds and sober judgement is not steering the Orb ship. Be vigilant. Orbs are everywhere–working at toll booths, running face-paint stalls at carnivals, teaching liberal arts at community colleges, everywhere. You stay safe; I’ll remain here–reporting the hard facts from behind enemy lines.

From Volume 873 Issue 11 – Subscribe here, members, to be the first to get the next newsletter!