Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful trip.
That started from this Scranton port,
aboard this party ship.
The mate was a mighty sales man,
the manager brave and sure.
Drunk passengers set sail that day,
for a three hour tour, a three hour tour.........
The weather started getting rough,
the party ship was tossed.
If not for the courage of the fearless crew,
the Boozers would be lost; the Boozers would be lost.
The ship took ground on the shore of this uncharted wooded isle,
with Angela, her salesman too,
the Manager, and his temp,
the Warehouse Guy, the Prankster, and Pam-a-lam,
here on Angela's Isle.

Somewhere on Lake Wallenpaupack, just prior to dawn

Dwight was curled up in the heat-conserving fetal position. He hadn't slept. Schrutes never slept in the face of danger. He felt the temperature changing. Morning was coming on. When he had been on the farm, this time of morning had always gladdened his heart during beet season. On the farm, it meant Mother would soon bring out the breakfast scrapple. Dwight's body yearned for scrapple. Warm scrapple. Nothing compared to hog offal and corn mush lovingly prepared by a doting woman.

As the sun peeked up above the lowest of the Poconos, he heard Angela stirring. Dwight closed his eyes quickly. Angela was a terror in the morning.

"UP!" Angela screamed, elbows akimbo, looming over Dwight's recumbent form. He slitted his lower eye open a smidgen (just like they taught you in paratrooper school) to see her shadowed form looking directly at him. His stomach fluttered; she had her index finger pointed accusingly at him. She always said it was rude to point, so she was intentionally being rude to him.

Dwight could hear Michael's sleepy voice, "Gangsta in the hood say what?"

Startled, Dwight opened his eyes wide. Angela was wearing Michael's favorite Gangster Rapper sweatshirt. She looked startlingly sweet and innocent with the hood pulled over her head. That was until she opened her mouth, "Wake up you lazy layabouts! SOMEONE is making a hot breakfast RIGHT NOW or...." She left the threat dangling. Dwight had come to learn that an Angela Dangling Threat was much, much worse than the average Angela threat.

When Dwight saw Michael lift his head sleepily, he jumped up and started doing jumping jacks. "Calisthenics! Get the heart pumping to warm up on a brisk morning," Dwight explained cheerfully between gasps. He hadn't actually done calisthenics since grade school, but did Michael need to know that?

Michael gaped at him stupidly, "It's like negative 200 degrees, Dwight! Nothing's going to warm you up except some hot lovii....ly morning... uh, Angela. So where are these rescue boats?" He looked up and down the beach as if expecting Captain Stubing to walk up and hand him a lei and Mojito.

"Michael," Angela's voice was icier than the chunks floating in Lake Wallenpaupack. "I find it very insulting that you have chosen to wear... that... disgusting..." Words failed her.

Michael looked down and burst out laughing. For warmth during the night, he'd added a giant pair of foam breasts on top of his now damp choir robes. Seeing Angela's furious face, he scolded her, "Lighten up, Angela. I mean, come on! Are you saying big-boobed ladies aren't allowed to join the choir?" He started humming Kum ba Yah and clapping his hands.

"Sluts can't," Angela retorted, silencing him. Everyone knew that all of Michael's mental processes shut down when the word ‘slut' was mentioned. Angela smugly continued, "No sensible woman would wear robes like that exposing her...." She waved her hand towards Michael's foam breasts.

Dwight nodded manically as he jogged in place, "Yeah. The back pain would be intense. Plus, Michael, I don't think it is physically possible to lift a woman's...."

"Dwight." Angela cut off his theories on where a woman's breast could and could not go.

Michael had turned with interest to here Dwight's theories on breast placement, but turned away in disgust, "Jesus, Dwight. Stop running like that. You're making me queasy. Angela, go find Pam and tell her to make me a coffee. I feel like death," Michael curled up in a ball and gripped the foam breasts in his hands. At Angela's pointed stare, he said, "For warmth. They're really warm. Feel them."

"No, thank you," Angela said primly as she went in search of Pam.

"Hey," Dwight said as he sat up in the middle of doing sit-ups. "Hey. I'll just stay here and hold the fort. Signal any low-flying planes."

Angela looked up at the empty cloudy sky and grumbled, "You do that." She waited until she was out of their earshot before whispering, "We're going to die."

Meanwhile halfway across the island

"I'm cold," Pam stated.

Jim nodded, "Keep walking."

In the darkness, Pam tripped over an exposed root. Jim quickly caught her before she could fall. She looked up into his shadowed face as she asked, "When can we stop?"

"When we're as far away from Michael and Dwight as we can get," he said simply. He held her hand tightly as he helped her pick her way through the trees.

She giggled, "Did I mention that I'm cold?"

"Hmmm, I don't think so. Maybe now would be a good time," Jim lifted her in his arms to carry her over a muddy patch.

Pam whispered into his ear, "Jim, I'm cold."

He grunted as he set her down. "Odd. Dwight told me that Global Warming was the number one threat facing Scranton."

"I thought he said it was Mad Cow Disease?" Pam stopped walking to pull a pebble out of her shoe.

"What's the word for when..."

"Pebblitis. No, Mad Cow Disease was the number one threat facing Farmers of Scranton," Jim leaned against a tree trunk as he waited for her to empty her shoe.

Pam considered this as she put her shoe back on, "Nooo, that was the bug, the whatsit. The thing that poops on baby beets. The number one threat was... What was that thing he said about Tornados, Homelessness, and Toxins in the Water System?"

"Huh," Jim scratched his chin. "Oh yeah, I remember. That was when he tried to hook the Coffee Maker up to the Water Cooler and short-circuited the... no wait. Wasn't that his Top 3 Ways the C.I.A. is manipulating the American People?"

Pam snapped her fingers, "Oooh, I almost had ya."

"This close, Pam. You almost had me. It's definitely Global Warming. Definitely," Jim pulled her hand and they were once again walking as quickly as they could away from the rest of the castaways.

Meanwhile on the other side of the beach, a few hundred yards from Michael and Dwight

Ryan sat up. He had to. He thought he had thrown everything up that was possible to throw up on the Booze Cruise, but obviously there was something left. As he leaned over and started hurling he realized that he must have inhaled half of Lake Wallenpaupack.

Trembling, shaking, convulsing, he hugged himself in despair. He knew, absolutely knew, that he should not have come on this stupid event. Morale builder, my ass, he thought.

"Ryan," Angela's firm, authoritative voice called out from down the beach.

Of course, he thought. No damn Master's Degree's worth this, he thought. "What?" he asked in a resigned voice.

"Michael wants you to make us some coffee," she said.

Ryan laughed hollowly, "We're shipwrecked, Angela! I don't think there's a Starbu..." But it was too late. Angela had already flounced off. Ryan struggled to his feet and prodded Roy gently with his foot. "Hey,"  Ryan tried to sound authoritative like Angela, "Hey. Michael wants you to make us some coffee."

Roy rolled over and groaned, "Michael can suck my..."

So this is the tale of our castaways,
they're here for a long, long time.
They'll have to make the best of things,
it's an uphill climb.
The first mate and his girlfriend too,
will do their very best,
to make the others comfortable,
in the frozen island nest.
No phones, no lights, no motor cars,
not a single luxury.
Like Robinson Crusoe,
it's primitive as can be.
So join us here each week my friend,
you're sure to get a smile.
From seven stranded office mates,
Here on Angela's Isle.