Coast To Coast Stuck In Kansas

They were traveling west, when allofasudden, out from the booby-trapped brush, out from the hologrammed trees came the ambush. The T.R.I.B.E., with their Kong-like chests and pillared thighs, struck with the fury of a thousand flaming Stallions.

There are wars, oh my pale inferiors, and there are massacres. When a massacre strikes, the travelers never wake from their naps atop and below the blanketed corner of their covered wagons. Coast to Coast was left hopelessly and unexpectedly mangled in the slumber of their now red-wet sheepskin wool. They believed they could pass through our land, defile our courts with their young and ambitious sneakers. They had no right to such an odious and ignorant belief.

But we are peaceful men. The T.R.I.B.E., with their Saint-sized hearts and parental prowess, have taken the children of Coast to Coast under our shady, Palm-like wings. They will be raised like the thousands of T.R.I.B.E.smen before them were raised: From the milk of grass-fed bison and with a knowledge of the falcon's flight and the basket's give. They will know the feel of rim inside their fingers and air beneath their feet. They will speak the tongue of zone and pick, of alley-oop, of flying v.

Thank us if you will, though your gratitude is not our goal. We live this way because it is the way of our ancestors. It is the way of Boo-Yaa, the way of the empire. Our Empire.

Affectionately Yours,
The Postmaster General
On Behalf of And One Presents: The Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E.