Skip to content

Native American graveyard declared Gasparilla Grand Marshall

A forgotten Native American graveyard, which was discovered under the Game Stop on 34th street, has been declared the next Gasparilla Grand Marshall.

The city felt bad about neglecting then hiding the sacred burial ground, so to make it up to the dead “Indians,” they will be the Grand Marshall of Gasparilla, and dug up bones and corpses will get to ride on a parade float.

“It seemed like the right thing to do.” Said Blester McChutney, head leader of the awareness and sensitivity office in the Tampa Government branch.

“I mean there’s no real way to fix this, but we can give their dead bodies a rip-roaring good time.” Smiled McCutney with a thumbs up, neck bursting through his buttoned collared shirt, sweat dripping from the tips of the collar.

McChutney then exploded into, well, I guess like a chutney, all over me and his office, and little bugs started crawling out of his exploded neck hole.

The bugs had spikey blades all over their bodies and they cut up everything they touched, including myself as they rained down upon me.

“This isn’t good.” I thought to myself.

And it wasn’t.

The bugs shooting from his neck got bigger and more dangerous, until a shiny, neon, glowing thing came out, and it started leaking Hebrew. I thought that was weird.

I couldn’t understand what it was saying, and that (no pun intended) bugged me.

I tried to smash the big glowy thing to the ground and stomp on it but it didn’t seem to be working so I ran out of the office as fast as I could as the entire building became crawling with these weird demon bugs.

As I ran from the building to my car, trying to remember what the story was about, I was able to get in my car, start it, and speed from the building as the bugs began to emerge and fill the sky.

“Think! Think!” I screamed to myself, speeding away.

“What was the headline of this article! What was it! Think!” I tried, and I tried, and I tried. Then I tried to have a moment of silence and an outer-body experience and remember what the article was about.

“I got it!” I screamed.

“The graveyard becoming the Gasparilla Grand Marshall!” My memory returned to me. I hadn’t even indulged in any drugs, but for some reason I had lost my train of thought and completely forgot what I was writing about, and instead had veered into some strange horror scene of this guys head exploding, and alien bugs pouring out.

The bugs then disappeared, and I was back in McChutney’s office, he was alive and talking, but I was uncomfortable because of everything that had just taken place in that room so I decided to leave without finishing the interview because I was slightly traumatized from what had hypothetically happened earlier in some sort of parallel dimension.

I decided to drive to the nearest gas station and begin drinking gasoline right from the pump, as much as I could, as fast as I could.

I drank 6 gallons before I started throwing my brains up.

So much vomit, and it reeked of petrol which made me woozy until I passed out into a puddle of still pumping gas.

I woke up a few hours later and it was dark and a gas station worker was standing over me, asking me if I was alright.

I started laughing and laughing until I was able to stand back up and I swiped my card again on the gas pump and went right back to gulping down more gasoline. This time I drank 7 gallons straight before I blacked out and fell right back down into my puddle of liquids.

This time I woke up in a giant marble mansion that was modeled after the Taj Mahal.

“Ah, I’m back home.” I sighed to myself, realizing I was back in one of my many lavish estates.

“I guess my butler found me at my usual spot, cleaned me up, and took me home.”

I felt like a million bucks after drinking all that gasoline on an empty stomach, so I summoned my butler to the room.

“Garcón. Please drive me back to my favorite gas station.” I said.

“But sir, you’ve have 13 gallons of gasoline today already, your body can’t possibly take more.” He responded.

I scoffed.

“Take me, or you’re fired.” I said sternly.

“Yes sir.” He replied.

Once back at the gas station, I swiped my Mastercard, and it was back to the races, chugging that sweet gas until I couldn’t drink anymore.

“Ahh yum.” I looked up towards the sky in enjoyment as everything became black once again and I dropped to the ground.

I woke up, once again, in a different estate, a little bit further from the gas station.

“Sir, I took you to one of your homes, further from the gas station, because you need to stop drinking gas for the rest of today or you will die.” Said my butler.

“Hmm, fine.” Said, shooing him off to go manage the house.

I cracked open an old Mad Magazine from 1998 and laughed to myself as I read in my California-king sized bed.

I texted my friend.

“Can you pick me up a few galloons of gasoline?” I typed.

A few seconds later I got a response. “On my way.”

Wonderful, more gasoline for me to drink, I can’t wait.

My friend showed up with 15 gallons of gasoline in beautiful glass canisters which could only be described as renaissance masterpieces. I sat in my bed and began taking sips from one of the giant glass gas jars.

“Have you drank any gas today?” My friend asked me.

“No.” I lied.

“Oh ok, that’s weird for you, you usually drink tons of gas every day.” He probed.

“Well, sometimes things get in the way of my routines.” I shrugged.

I told my friend to leave and gave him a large sum of money for his trouble.

My butler walked in.

“Oh no, please don’t tell me you’re drinking gasoline again?” He said disappointed.

“Yes, yes, I am. More gasoline. I do what I want, whenever I want.” I said, now furiously dumping the gasoline into my mouth as to black out quick as I can.

I passed out again, already sitting in my bed.

I woke up 6 days later, hungry as an ox.

“Garcón!” I yelled.

“Gas!” I shouted.

This time he was on point, he came in running, wheeling a large cart of gasoline, in fine, engraved, jars, looking absolutely scrumptious.

“Ah yes. You’ve done good today butler.” I said.

“Now leave me to my gas.”




I’m so proud of myself for this one.

I really got lost in the character and could see and feel and believe everything that was happening. I should get some sort of government grand for my writing abilities. How am I not a billionaire? I sincerely do not understand how, with my talent, I am not exuberantly wealthy. It just does not make a lick of senes.

I’m an absolute, Einstein-level, literary genius. And it’s obvious to myself and everyone reading this. 

I will surely take my place on the Mount Rushmore of writers one day behind… Shit, behind no one, I am in a class of my own as far as creative writing goes. I’m an unmatched, generational, talent, who will ascend to the top of the world, all in due time. 

John Jacobs

About John Jacobs

MTV Reality TV Star and Award-Winning Tampa News Force Correspondent. Subscribe to YouTube Channel, Follow on Twitter: @MaybachDiamonds Instagram: @MaybachDiamonds