Oscar Tries to Storm Ochopee: The Skunk Ape Strikes Back
It all started, as most Florida misadventures do, with Netflix and a very bad idea.
After binge-watching the documentary Trainwreck: Storm Area 51, Oscar—our fearless, mustache-forward "actor" —had a revelation. “If a bunch of desert weirdos can storm a top-secret alien base,” he declared, standing atop a Publix shopping cart in the parking lot, “then we can storm the Skunk Ape Research Headquarters in Ochopee!”
To be clear, no one asked for this.
Oscar, however, insisted that this was the next great moment in cryptid journalism. “We’ll expose the truth,” he said. “We’ll find the Skunk Ape. We’ll smell victory!”
Unfortunately, what we found instead was a whole lot of Florida.
Operation: Ochopee Overthrow
The plan was simple (and deeply flawed):
- Assemble a crack team of investigators (i.e., cast members with no other plans).
- Arrive at dawn for “maximum Skunk Ape energy.”
- Storm the building with cameras rolling and questions ready.
- Demand answers—or at least an exclusive.
The execution? A slow descent into humid chaos.
Oscar wore night-vision goggles… in the daylight.
John brought snacks labeled “Bigfoot Bait” (which turned out to be Slim Jims and Funyuns).
Tara, ever the producer, tried to get a filming permit mid-invasion.
The intern brought a fog machine. Why? No one knows.
By 7:12 AM, the “assault” was halted when Oscar tripped over a fire ant hill and landed in a puddle that may or may not have had Skunk Ape pee. This has not been confirmed, but he did have a rash for three days.
The Confrontation
When the crew finally made it to the front door of the Skunk Ape Research HQ, they were greeted not by a mythical beast, but by Dave—the friendly owner who offered them iced tea and a two-for-one deal on souvenir shot glasses.
Oscar, still damp, demanded to see the creature.
Dave calmly pointed to a blurry photo and said, “He comes around Thursdays. Usually after barbecue night.”
That was enough for half the crew to abandon ship and head to the nearest BBQ shack.
The Aftermath
Oscar considers the mission a success, though no actual Skunk Apes were spotted, caught, or sniffed.
We did, however, get kicked out for trying to install motion sensors in the bathroom. Again, we blame the intern.
The entire experience will air in the It Happens in Florida Season 2 episode titled “Ochopee: The Stunk Ape Situation.” It includes heat stroke, a fake fur decoy, and one very confused tortoise.
In conclusion: Storming secret facilities works better on streaming platforms than in Florida swamps.
Lesson Learned:
Never trust Oscar with a plan.
Never trust a fog machine in the Everglades.
And if you hear rustling in the bushes, it’s probably not the Skunk Ape. It’s Oscar… looking for his dignity.
SPECIAL - It Happens in Florida: Hurricanes & Hot Tips!
Hey folks, Floriduh fans!
Buckle up your hurricane shutters and grab your spray-on tan—because hurricane season is here (June 1 to November 30, peaking in late summer), and our rag-tag cast and crew of alligator wranglers, disgruntled brides, iguana men, and good-ol’ Florida man have got hot, hilarious, and totally real advice to keep you sane when the wind picks up.
Bubba the Alligator (Our resident wild card)
“My tip? Stockpile bottled water—and maybe a snack or two for the gators. They’re crankier than usual during storms!”
(Actual emergency agencies suggest staying hydrated and having multiple days of water ready, just don’t drop it where an alligator can sniff it out!)
Alligator Handler (and neighbor whisperer)
“Don’t just prep—befriend your neighbors. I’ve shared hurricane drinks and fence repair with mine after Irma.”
“Funnily enough… I’ll ask folks if they’re staying… we’ll exchange numbers… maybe share a couple drinks…”
Disgruntled Bride
“Fill empty milk jugs with tap water—instead of fighting every man, woman, and child at the store for bottled water. Plus, nothing says ‘adaptive’ like repurposed milk containers.”
“Throughout the year, I save empty milk jugs… fill them up… save myself from fighting the crowds.
Police Duo
“Keep your gas tank half full—otherwise, you’ll be the only person out braving the traffic after a storm. And trust us, the roads will be a zoo.”
“Keep your car at no less than half tank.”
Iguana Man
“If you’re near the coast, have an evac plan—especially once things hit Category 3. Else? You might end up doing a lot of rain-dodge-jogging with your scaly pal.”
“If you’re within 50 ish miles of the coast… have an exit plan for anything over cat 3.”
Florida Man
“Pro tip: take photos of your home before the storm. Makes insurance claims way less awkward.”
“Take pics of everything—rooms, ceiling, floor… to prove no preexisting damage.”
Christina, Police Officer (again!)
“Buy insurance based on coverage, not price. And if you’re even remotely close to water, get flood insurance. It’s not shiny, but it saves tears later.”
Music & Still Photo Posse
“When power’s out, nothing beats a battery-powered fan… or just turning the living room into a impromptu swamp concert. Plus, a power bank’s a clutch sidekick.”
“Battery powered fans, Yeti coolers, power Bank…”
Final Floriduh Lesson
Our crew’s hurricane handbook is basically: don’t panic, prep smart, help a neighbor—and when the storm hits, be ready to make lemonade… or at least find where it rained less. August and September are when Florida storms go from “oh neat” to “oh no,” so stock up early and let the absurdity of hurricane life keep you laughing.
Stay safe, stay quirky, and remember—only in Florida could hurricane advice come with gators, brides, and iguanas. 🐊🌪
The Writer Quit. Kind Of. We Think.
You may have noticed something strange on this week’s episode of It Happens in Florida.
Namely: it didn’t quite… make sense.
That’s because our head writer, John, quit the show. Or stormed off dramatically. Or wandered into a Publix and ghosted us for 48 hours. The details are fuzzy.
It all began last Tuesday when John turned in a script titled “The Emotional Weight of a Flamingo Who’s Seen Too Much.” It was rejected. Not because it wasn’t brilliant (it was… maybe), but because the crew accidentally threw it away, thinking it was fanfiction.
This, we later learned, was the last straw in a stack of unspoken straws.
John had been quietly spiraling for weeks. Sure, we thought everything was fine — he laughed when Florida Man rewrote dialogue using BBQ sauce on a whiteboard. He smiled (tightly) when Oscar pitched a musical episode set inside a Waffle House bathroom. But apparently…
John felt deeply disrespected.
He thought no one liked his writing. Or his cardigans. Or his 27-slide pitch deck titled “Building Narrative Arc in a World of Alligators.”
So he vanished.
No official resignation letter. No dramatic “I’m out!”
Just a half-eaten granola bar, an untouched kombucha, and a Post-it on his laptop that read: “Guess no one cares. I’m gone. Whatever.”
(He even drew a tiny frowning flamingo next to it. It was devastating.)
The crew panicked.
Raymond suggested a seance.
Oscar suggested replacing John with AI. (He was immediately booed by everyone, including a squirrel.)
Florida Man suggested we “let nature write the next episode.” This led to 20 minutes of us watching a raccoon steal the camera battery.
Meanwhile, John was not in hiding — he was at the Naples Public Library, passive-aggressively writing poetry in all caps.
He didn’t actually tell anyone he quit. He just assumed we’d notice. Which we did… two days later, when we realized our B-storyline was being written by someone’s nephew who thought “Skunk Ape” was a kind of coffee.
The comeback? It happened like everything on this show does: awkwardly, unexpectedly, and surrounded by deli meats.
We found John standing in line at the grocery store, holding a frozen pizza and reading a self-help book titled “You’re Fine, Probably.”
He tried to pretend he didn’t know us.
Florida Man hugged him anyway. With mustard on his hands.
Someone blurted, “We missed your weird flamingo metaphors,” and John visibly teared up next to the salami bin.
He came back the next day, no explanation, no apology — just a new script titled: “Episode 14: When the Writer Quits and Nobody Notices Until Everything Catches Fire, Metaphorically (Mostly).”
Spoiler: we’re producing it.
Final Notes:
- John is back.
- We now have weekly “Tell John He’s Good” meetings.
- And yes — flamingos are officially part of the season arc now.
Florida Man Claims He’s Possessed by the Skunk Ape. No One Notices
Filed under: Cryptids, Crew Confusion, and Unwashed Drama
This week on It Happens in Florida, something smelled… off. And for once, it wasn’t the abandoned shrimp boat parked behind our production trailer.
Florida Man — our resident mystery wrapped in cargo shorts and conspiracy theories — wandered onto set looking extra disheveled, even by Florida standards. His eyes were wild, his shirt was inside-out, and he was wearing a wreath of Spanish moss like it was a royal crown.
“I have something to confess,” he whispered, before dramatically lowering his sunglasses (which were already broken in half). “I’ve been possessed… by the Skunk Ape.”
Cue the sound of crickets. Not actual crickets — the cast member named Cricket, who just kind of blinked and nodded like this was Tuesday for him.
At first, we thought he was just doing method acting for an upcoming cryptid episode. But when he tried to mark his trailer with “alpha gator musk” and climbed a tree to shout at birds, we realized this was something more… primal.
To be fair, nothing about Florida Man’s behavior changed drastically. He still:
- Ate Vienna sausages straight from his cargo pocket.
- Communicated mostly in growls and riddles.
- Slept upside-down in a hammock with a raccoon named Larry.
We called in a local skunk ape researcher (who also doubles as a Zumba instructor) for an emergency on-set exorcism. The ceremony involved bug spray, a fog machine, and someone playing “Free Bird” backwards on a banjo.
It didn’t work. But Florida Man did declare, “I AM AT PEACE WITH THE APE.”
So, in conclusion:
- Florida Man is either possessed, confused, or just finally embracing his truest self.
- The crew has stopped questioning it and started feeding him bananas just in case.
- We’ve added “cryptid counseling” to the crew benefits package.
Tune in next week, when Florida Man leads a meditation class for the cast while wearing nothing but camouflage overalls and a fanny pack full of beef jerky.
Did you know Florida has a skunk ape research center? Check them out here: https://www.skunkape.info/ (Trust us. It's worth a visit)
Naked Uncle and the Great Florida Alert
Filed under: Misunderstandings, Marsupials, and Mild Pandemonium
You know how Florida is famous for hurricanes, alligators, and that one guy who wrestled an iguana at a car wash? Well, add statewide emergency alert caused by an armadillo to the list.
This week on It Happens in Florida, the cast and crew were peacefully filming a “very serious” reenactment of Oscar’s childhood trauma (involving a churro and a pelican, long story), when Oscar suddenly screamed mid-take:
“Naked Uncle is missing!”
Chaos. Pure chaos.
Cameras dropped. Boom mics hit the ground. Someone screamed, “CALL THE GOVERNOR!” (We’re still unsure who.) Within 20 minutes, Oscar had filed a Missing Persons Report, local news was alerted, and—because someone at the emergency management office thought “Naked Uncle” was code for a national security threat—the Florida Emergency Alert System was triggered.
Phones buzzed from Tallahassee to the Keys with a message:
⚠️ EMERGENCY ALERT: Elderly man known as “Naked Uncle” missing. Last seen near a hole. Possibly shirtless. Approach with caution. ⚠️
In reality, “Naked Uncle” is Oscar’s beloved pet armadillo, who has no fur (hence the name) and a strong preference for backyard holes over fame or dignity.
He was found two hours later, content and half-buried in Oscar’s backyard, gnawing on a Capri Sun straw.
The statewide manhunt ended with a news conference, where Oscar clarified through tears:
“He’s not a man. He’s just… so vulnerable without his shell liner.”
To be clear, no charges were filed. But we were gently asked by the state to never, ever refer to an animal as a family member in a 911 call again.
Lessons learned:
- Be clear about species when reporting a missing loved one.
- Don’t name your pet something that belongs on a government watchlist.
- Never underestimate Florida’s ability to take a small misunderstanding and turn it into national news.
Coming up next week: The cast attempts to install a security system to prevent future armadillo incidents… and accidentally triggers a lockdown at the local elementary school.
Stay weird, Florida.
Tune in to It Happens in Florida, where every episode is a public service warning (in some states).
When Writer’s Block Happens in Florida
It finally happened. John—fearless producer, creative engine, and blog-writing wizard behind It Happens in Florida—hit a wall.
A big one.
No words. No inspiration. No quirky metaphors. Just a blank screen, a blinking cursor, and a rapidly cooling cup of gas station coffee.
Sensing his distress (or maybe just bored between takes), the cast and crew rallied to “help” him break the dreaded writer’s block. What followed was a brainstorming session so uniquely Floridian that we had to call our legal team three separate times just to make sure we couldn’t be arrested for even thinking about some of the suggestions.
Here are just a few actual (and completely unpublishable) ideas pitched by our team of very supportive lunatics:
Oscar’s Idea:
“What if we do a blog post entirely from the perspective of a raccoon that lives in a vending machine behind a Waffle House?”
Denied. We’re not ready for that kind of emotional journey. Also, legal said something about “implied defamation of raccoons.”
Raymond’s Idea:
“How about a blog written underwater, live, while noodling for catfish using nothing but hot dog buns and regret?”
Denied. Mostly because John can’t swim and hot dog buns aren’t OSHA compliant.
Jenna from Makeup:
“We just list all the weird things people have tried to mail in Florida—live pythons, a taxidermy goat, three gallons of queso. Bonus points if it’s shaped like the state.”
Tempting. Still denied. The post office already has us on a watch list.
Boom Mic Cal:
“A blog post that’s just a treasure map to an actual buried cooler of Four Loko and expired shrimp.”
We stopped taking notes at “expired shrimp.” Denied. Immediately.
Local Extra #17:
“You ever see a man wrestle a leaf blower during a hurricane and win? I have. Write about that.”
We believe you. And we’re deeply afraid.
In the end, John stared down the chaos, the brainstorm board covered in alligator stickers, and the Google Doc full of terrible puns about manatees in politics—and he did what any great Florida storyteller does:
He wrote a blog post about not being able to write a blog post.
Because when all else fails in Florida, you just embrace the madness and hit “publish.”
Stay tuned for next week’s post, assuming no one gets arrested for following the aforementioned treasure map. Again.
