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I don't know who missed it, but next thing you know we're miles out to sea, not a soul in site. Our cell phones were dead from sending each other text messages rather than speaking, so we couldn't even call for help. We took turns paddling, but we didn't know which way to go. (You see, when you're this far north, the sun rises in the south and sets in the south.) Besides, since we only had one paddle, we mostly went in circles. I mean, we're already lost, why compound our problems by moving in the wrong direction?

Well, low and behold, what did we drift too, but a desserted island... or so we thought. It was almost morning by this point so we figured that rather than break camp, we'd start cracking in to the final case of generic beer we'd brough for our two-hour excursion (you see, you always bring cheap stuff too, that way you have good incentive to stop drinking it when you're out, on account of it being so nasty.)

No sooner had we busted in to the first can did we realize that we weren't alone on the island and that, though a stereotypical desserted island, it did have inhabitants... how the hell does that work? They came up on us, and muttered something to each other in jibberish (their official language I believe) and motioned for us to come with them. Naturally, we pounded our tasty malt beverages... and by tasty, I just mean that they tasted like malted hops with a yeast infection, which technically, they were.

So we followed them back to their village. George must have stomped my shoe off thirty times there on the way yelling "flat tire! Gotcha!" on the way. Pretty annoying really. Jeremy kept egging him on though, so what did I expect, right? We got to the village and they presented us to their cheif. We were giggling like mad because they were all wearing grass hula skirts and coconut bras, and there wasn't a woman in the group. Especially funny since it was ass-cold there, this ain't the south pacific you know. It's the north pacific. (A place with no desserted islands, I later learn).

The cheif looks at us and says, "You have walked on our sacred burial lands, and now you must be punished!" Which I thought was pretty wierd, since normally you don't bury people on the beach, but whatever, right, who am I to argue. This guy is a cheif, let us not forget. So he walks up to Jeremy and asks, "Death or Mamba?" Well clearly, none of us had heard of this mamba thing, aside from the dance of course. Jeremy, fancying himself something of a dancer accepts the challenge of learning what they mean. After all, better than death, right? Jeremy steps forward and quietly says, "Um, yeah, not to sure what that whole death thing is about, so let's go with Mamba, is that cool with you guys?"

Well no sooner does he say it then they make it a reality. A pack of tribesman advance on him, pants him, and start "Mamba-ing" him in the hind-quarters with the raft paddle. I don't mean smacking, I mean really cleaning him out. Looked like they were stuffing gunpowder in a musket. Jeremy is screaming, George and I are just busting at the seems laughing. I mean, this is some funny stuff when it isn't happening to you, right? Three minutes this goes on. Hollaring, crying for help, George and I are just about wetting ourselves laughing.

Well they finally stop, George and I compose ourselves. We stand back in our line. George is handing Jeremy a band aid as the cheif steps to him. "Death or Mamba?" George looks around, the tribesman look pretty angry, I'm about ready to laugh myself silly again, so he says, "Yeah, you see, the whole Mamba scheme you got set up here isn't really my thing. Tell you what, how about we just shake hands and call it a day, hm?" The tribesman advanced on him with axes and spears so he quickly yelled out "MAMBA!" Again, painful, but not quite death, right?

So they pants him, start cranking on him like they're churning butter. Jeremy now sees what's so funny about it, especially since that same splintery paddle has already been in his ass, unwashed in the interim. Three minutes pass and they ain't even done. George is hollaring like a raped ape, and since he's a primate I guess it isn't too surprising. By this point Jeremy and I are getting pretty concerned. If we keep laughing this hard much longer, we're going to have an accident, and Jeremy is already to the point where he's laughing and grabbing his tender port d' exodus every few seconds from the pain. That only sets me off more. He's like, "Ha ha ha, owch, my butt, ha ha, ow, ha ha, look at George, damn, I'm bleeding, ha ha!"

Nine minutes passed before they finished. We're like, WOW, what the hell is this tribe all about. I mean, these guys must really know how to party. Of course, they could use some lube of some kind, but whatever. Maybe they only break that out for special occasions, I don't know. So George is writhing on the ground, saying something about stuffing, I don't know. He's bleeding like a stuck pig. This is just surreal. Then the cheif turns to me... oh dear, I now see why it wasn't so funny.

So here's the dilemma. I mean, clearly, I like a colonoscopy lumberjack style as much as the next guy, but these guys went from three minutes to nine minutes. So what's next, 27 minutes? 81 minutes? I have principals, God damn it, and I will not have my prostate thusly massaged without consent, and by jove, I'd no intention of consenting. Cheif walks up to me, I think he was saving me for last on purpose. (Dogs can smell evil, tribal cheifs can smell satirists). Looks me in the eye, my sphincter is already getting nervous, he asks, "Death, or Mamba?" His words hung in the air for what seemed like at least a couple seconds. I looked him right back and defiantly said, "Death." The murmer from the tribesman was my first clue that this was a regular ritual and that none had ever answered before with anything but Mamba. The cheif, too, looked puzzled, but knew he had to regain control of his people. I turned my back and was ready to walk out of there a virgin when he yelled out "Death... by MAMBA!"

Pretty much everything after that was a blur. What little I do recall I don't feel much like sharing. We did manage to escape though. George spotted an exit sign. Turns out we started drinking before we left the raft rental place and we never made it out of the parking lot. We just ended up next door at this wierd gay bar that was doing some kind of all night theme party or something. Seemed logical at the time but the details are sketchy.