Combat Zone

Man dies in an attempt to prove Crocs’ edibleness

For Gulliver Granola, wearing Crocs is not just a fashion statement, but a way of life—I mean that literally, since he’s been eating only Croc soup for the past couple days.

Insisting that I call him “Gull, just like the bird, bro,” the haggard man I see before me seems but a ghost of the zealous Croc champion my boss at The Flail had described to me.

Later, I gathered (from the internet) that the bird he was referring to was in fact a “seagull.”

Clever man.

Surprised that no one had tried to test out the timeless rumor that Crocs are edible, Gull set out from his stoner den in Tacoma with only a tent, a lighter, a sleeping bag and a stew pot for some good ol’ backcountry Croc cookin’—oh yeah, and some joints, he brought those too.

As for the Crocs themselves, Gull owned seven pairs (each representing a color from the rainbow), all of which he took with him into the mountains.

Having settled at his campsite in Dosewallips State Park, Gull enjoyed a long celebratory toke, then got down to business.

He fired up the stew pot and waited till the water boiled, then dropped the red ones in, thereby creating a viscous substance that resembled wax more than soup.

According to Gull, “it took, like, forever,” granted he probably had a mean case of the munchies too.

Although he was able to sleep after eating the Croc soup, Gull awoke only to throw it all up.

Meanwhile, back home, Gull’s little sister was so swept up with her brother’s undying love for Crocs that she contacted us at The Flail to write a story about him.

When I at last found Gull at the campsite, he was barely conscious, lying facedown in a puddle of his own orange vomit.

I gave him some water first before asking him if he wanted to go home yet, to which he responded deliriously, “NO MAN! THE GREATER GOOD… IS AT STAKE HERE.”

Not knowing quite what he meant, I searched the stew pot’s chunky contents for answers.

Just as if I were reading tea leaves, I discerned a stable shape amidst the amorphous goop—a black dog, an omen of death.

Horrified, I cast aside the pot and ran back to Gull… but I was too late.

What Gull had tried to make the source of his life became the robber of it.

In the midst of his mighty quest to demonstrate the versatile uses of the Croc sandal, Gull was struck down, as if by God.

Somehow I think even His love of all creation would end with Crocs.

So basically, the moral of the story is, in short, don’t believe everything you hear.

Don’t be a dunce and try to live off Crocs in the backwoods of Washington because that will probably kill you.

Also, just don’t wear Crocs to begin with—they will probably kill everyone’s respect for you.