Why is Florida So Weird?

Florida is a peculiar, dangling appendage of landmass protruding from the southeastern underbelly of the North American continent on the planet Earth, much like a cosmic afterthought that someone forgot to tidy up after a particularly enthusiastic planetary formation party. It is often described by Earthlings as a “sunshine state,” which is a polite way of saying it’s the sort of place where the local star beats down with such relentless enthusiasm that it could fry an egg on the pavement—or, more accurately, on the hood of one of the innumerable oversized vehicles that clog its roadways.

Inhabitants of Florida, known locally as “Floridians,” are a diverse bunch, ranging from retired Earthlings who migrate there in droves to escape the indignities of colder climates (only to spend their days complaining about the heat), to thrill-seeking tourists who flock to vast, artificially constructed amusement empires where oversized rodents in costumes dispense wisdom and overpriced snacks. The region is also home to a thriving population of large, toothy reptiles called alligators, which Earthlings inexplicably treat as both a mascot and a minor inconvenience, often wrestling them for sport or simply stepping over them on the way to the beach.

Florida’s history is a tapestry of improbable events, including being “discovered” multiple times by various Earth explorers who all seemed convinced it was a shortcut to somewhere more interesting. It has since become a hotbed for what Earthlings call “weird news,” featuring headlines about individuals engaging in activities so bafflingly illogical that they defy the laws of probability—such as attempting to rob a bank with a live lobster or declaring war on a flock of seagulls. This phenomenon is attributed by some off-world anthropologists to the state’s unique atmospheric cocktail of humidity, citrus fumes, and an overabundance of frozen cocktail stands, which together induce a state of mild delirium in the human brain.

A Penal Colony

It is a well-established fact, documented in the dusty archives of the Intergalactic Bureau of Mildly Inconvenient Punishments, that Florida is not some random terrestrial excrescence but a fully operational galactic penal colony. Established several millennia ago by a coalition of bureaucratic overlords from across the stars—who, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the best way to rehabilitate society’s minor nuisances was to maroon them on a sweltering, storm-prone peninsula—this outpost has been quietly serving as a dumping ground for the galaxy’s less desirable elements ever since.

The majority of Florida’s residents are, in point of fact, not native Earthlings at all, but rather transplants from far-flung worlds where concepts like “common sense” and “restraint” are treated as optional extras. These include the habitual queue-jumpers of the outer nebulae, the relentless inventors of earworm jingles from the sonic clusters, and those unfortunate souls who simply cannot resist reprogramming public transport droids to recite limericks during rush hour.

Upon arrival, each inmate undergoes a mandatory memory wipe—a procedure involving a machine that resembles a cross between a malfunctioning food replicator and an overenthusiastic cosmic vacuum cleaner—which erases all recollection of their stellar origins, leaving them with nothing but a faint, nagging suspicion that life ought to involve more zero-gravity lounging and fewer mosquito swarms.

Thus reprogrammed, these extraterrestrial exiles masquerade as ordinary humans, blissfully ignorant of their true heritage. This, of course, accounts for the prevalence of what Earthlings charmingly term “Florida Man” stories— tales of individuals engaging in feats of such profound illogic that they could only stem from brains still subconsciously attuned to the chaotic physics of distant galaxies.

Hitchhikers venturing into this penal paradise are advised to tread carefully. Blend in by acquiring a pair of garish shorts and a fondness for frozen beverages, but avoid eye contact with anyone attempting to sell you swampland or debating the merits of alligator-based cuisine.

Remember, in Florida, the line between rehabilitation and relapse is as thin as the local ozone layer, and one wrong step could see you inadvertently joining the colony’s unwitting ranks. If that happens, the Guide suggests embracing the delusion—after all, ignorance is bliss, especially when served with a side of key lime pie.

Tourism

Hitchhikers are advised to visit Florida for its beaches, which are composed of sand so fine it gets absolutely everywhere, and its theme parks, where one can experience simulated adventures that are marginally less hazardous than actual space travel.

However, beware of the seasonal tempests known as hurricanes, which whirl in from the ocean with the predictability of a drunken Vogon poet and the destructive force of a poorly programmed demolition fleet. If caught in one, the Guide recommends finding a sturdy structure, stocking up on canned goods, and practicing the ancient Earth art of “hunkering down,” which involves sitting very still and hoping the universe has a sense of humor.

On the whole, Florida is mostly harmless, provided you avoid the politics, the wildlife, and anyone offering to sell you a timeshare. If all else fails, remember: in Florida, the answer to life’s persistent questions is often found at the bottom of a margarita glass.