(Fake) Tom's warning that his so-called Army would invade Gather Island on Wednesday did not go unheeded by the residents of this sunny (fake) isle.
Granted, his warning was polite (he even rescheduled from Tuesday to avoid a possible Belgian conflict), and also granted, we didn't do much more to defend ourselves beyond oiling up the pool boys and ordering an extra round of drinks, but still, the Island has prevailed.
At 1:02, when I got back from lunch (buffalo chicken wrap, not bad, sauce kind of iffy, and really, it took too long, but thanks for asking), Mr. Roarke and I surveyed the island resources. He commanded a recount of drink umbrellas, setting some aside to be used as weapons (you can put someone else's eye out, but you have to be really close) just in case. Ann C., our Chief Entertainment Officer, rallied up a chorus of "nanner nanner foo foos" to be ready if needed (good job, Ann), and when (Fake) Tom's (Fake) Army sailed up in their skiffs (all 42 of them, but crowded into only five skiffs) (money's tight) (and they like to be close), all our relaxed Island forces had to do was say, "Hey... want a drink? They're on the house," and it was all over in about seven minutes.
So... as coups go, it was kind of a non-event. (Fake) Tom muttered something about next quarter, when their new budget would go into effect, and his machine will be calling Mr. Roarke's machine in a few weeks to get it all straightened out. Then he asked for a fresh sloe gin fizz, and settled back into the nearest lounge chair.
Back to relaxing, everyone!