CCJC Audio Podcast Episode 00076, Season 2
From some of the more obscure collections of Louisiana stories in the vaults of Cajun Chronicles Podcast Corporation, comes a story we aren’t sure where it came from. Some of the staff have speculated that it stems from folktales during that one time some dude named Napoleon owned Louisiana for $15 million in an effort to finance his on-going wars in Europe. It was a win-win in his mind to weaken Great Britain and stick it to his arch enemy, the Duke of Wellington. Revenge was top on his to do list.
In passing this story idea around in our future podcast nominations, it struck us that the story might be an illustrative reminder that sometimes the loudest self-promotion deserves getting the quietest response. One opinion was that in the real world (and the swamp), genuine connections and respect for all, beats a sparkly gold crown and a forced parade any day. Let’s see what you think:
The Parade No One Wanted
In the clammy heart of Louisiana, where Bald Cypress knobby knees peek at you in bayous, like old men’s bearded chins, Spanish Moss drapes everything in ghostly elegance, there once was a reigned a self-proclaimed, mind you, King Reginold the Resplendant River Rat. His most impressive feature outside of his morbid obese body, was a tail that could flick with the speed of a Ruby-throat Hummingbird’s wings.
He’d convinced himself that every squeak that came out of his mouth was pure stable genius. Over at Vieux Carré Vardon Golf Club to hear him tell it, his own version of Harry Vardon paddle swing in golf was envied with adoration. Thus giving the phrase “nice lie” a whole new meaning as the improvable angle of the ball and his plump paddle proved.
“They simply must see my majesty,” he declared one sweltering morning to his long-suffering caddie advisor, Bartholomew “Barty, the Bayou Bass.
Barty, a fishy fish of few words and many eye-rolls along with sighs, just gurgled a heavy string of bubbles, the expected weary agreement. This was mostly to avoid another hour of King Reginold’s self-congratulatory brag-a-thon monologues. Utterly self-absorbed, King Reginold ordered a mandatory parade to showcase his “unquestionable” popularity for his upcoming birthday.
Barty knew this was another impending aquatic swamp quicksand moment of absurdity that soon would cause wide-spread embarrassment for all of the world to witness. By the time the King declared day dawned, the oppressive and sweltering weather descended upon all. King Reginold perched precariously on his favorite Water Hyacinth “flagship,” the HMS Pond Scum Pride, awaiting the arrival of his “loyal” boot brigade forces.
Therefore, the “Reginold’s Royal Muddybottom Merriment, (as King Reginold insisted on calling it) was announced. Every swamp creature in the vicinity was “invited” (actually strongly coerced with the threat of diminished prime mud-wallowing spots or even banishment to Honey Island Swamp to commune with Mocassins d'eau. He was hell bent upon showing the world his undeniable popularity.
Le Jour du Défilé est Finalement Arrivé - Parade Day Has Finally Arrived
Finally with sunrise dawning, as usual, the day was one big sticky embrace of the South where deodorant goes to retire early. The air was filled with the buzz of indignant mosquitoes. King Reginold preened his comb over and adjusted how gold crown, a diet soda bottle cap precariously balanced upon his half bald head.
He woke up excited, this was going to be a fine Bayou Birthday bash. He’d even commissioned a marching Bullfrog band, a swell chorus of croakers who were mostly interested in attracting mates, ensuring more romantic croaks. Clad in his finest gold vestments, King Reginold gave the signal for the birthday sovereign stroll of self-importance beginning with his swamp royal forces. It was quite a sight to behold.
First came the “Shell Shock” Infantry Brigade, led by General Braxton “Slowpoke” Bragg, a Snapping Turtle. Representing the ground troops, their march was a masterclass in the art of dawdle. Each armored step was a monumental undertaking, accompanied by aeon sighs that could deflate a Spatterdock Lily Pad.
Their heads were withdrawn into their shells like they were facing enemy fire (which in their minds, King Reginold’s ego certainly was). Any attempt at a cadence resulted in the scraping of ancient carapaces against the muddy river bank, a sound akin to draggin’ Jean Lafitte’s long ago discarded rusty anchors.
Next, waddling with supreme displeasure were the “Honk & Hope” Air Corps, commanded by Wing Commander Beatrice “Grouser” Goose. These avian aviators (grounded, of course) represented the aerial might of King Reginold’s forces. Their honks were reduced to pathetic wheezes, each webbed step a reluctant shuffle.
They constantly broke formation to feebly peck at no-see-um insects or perform agonizingly slow preening rituals Their wings were drooping like flags at half mast from the heat. Any attempt at a fly-by (even a low waddle-by) was met with blank stares and a stubborn refusal to elevate even a single tail feather.
Trailing behind, scuttling with sideways defiance, was the “Pinch & Retreat” Marine Corps, under the crusty command of Sergeant Major Chatham “Claw Hammer” Crawfish. In theory, these amphibious infantry men embodied the amphibious assault capabilities. Their “charge” was a series of hoo-rah erratic sideways dashes.
This was punctuated by sudden, inexplicable stops to aggressively pinch at mud clods or engage in brief, silent skirmishes with passing pebbles. Their antennae, usually on high alert, hung limp, conveying a profound weariness of both land and water.
Representing the silent, watchful guardians of the waterways was the “Stalk & Stare” Naval Division, led by Admiral Henrietta, “Herione the Unmoved.” These elegant birds stood like statues along the parade route, their long necks craned at impossible angles towards the heavens, feigning intense interest in celestial phenomena.
If forced to “sail” (in other words “take a step), it was a single glacial movement. Each one lifted a leg conveying the immense displeasure of a seasoned sailor forced to swab the deck with a single feather. Not quite mutiny, but the message of displeasure was clear.
Finally, darting with jerky, insubordinate energy came the “Nutty Sabotage” Special Forces Unit.” Under the command of Captain Squeaky “Acorn Anarchy” Grey Squirrel. These agile covert operatives were tasked with carrying King Reginold’s “color.” This was a symbolic pure gold clad willing water lily.
Their silent protest involved sets of well-choreographed “accidental” mishaps. Tripping over imaginary roots, snagging the banner on low branches, getting tangles in Spanish Moss, and strategically dropping it into muddy puddles. Of course there were the dramatic, theatrical sighs before “reluctantly” retrieving it, their bushy tails twitching with barely suppressed rebellion.
As King Reginold, waved his tiny clenched paw with his usual deluded grandeur, his “forces” failure to obey orders their unnoticed by him, slow-motion mutiny. General Braxton Slowpoke Bragg’s brigade resembled a petrified forest slowly uprooting itself. Wing Commander Beatrice “Grouser” Goose corps looked like a flock of sad outdated lawn ornaments.
Sergeant Major Chatham Claw Hammer’s Marines staged a continuous tactical withdrawal in all directions simultaneously. Admiral Henrietta “Herione the Unmoved Heron’s division remained resolutely unmoved. And Captain Squeaky Acorn Anarchy’s special forces unit treated the royal banner to even more mud baths.
But here’s the more humorous part, the rest of King Reginold’s Louisiana kingdom inhabitants had staged their own silent protest. The civilian Grey Squirrels, usually chattering like social media gossip mongers, sat in their Bald Cypress trees with their backs pointed firmly away from the parade, meticulously polishing their Shumard Oak nuts as if it were the most important task in the world.
The cocodrils, normally basking with lazy menace, were all facing away from the opposite bank, pretending to be engrossed in the fascinating silky and mottled texture of alluvial mud. Some even had strategically placed lily pads over their eyes, feigning a sudden need for a nap.
From the beginning of the parade, Bartholomew “Barty” was looking particularly big mouth glum being forced to lead the procession) being nudged forward by King Reginold’s insistent tail flick.
The civilian herons, those ever elegant stalkers, stood backs turned statue-like. Their long necks craned towards the sky watching a cloud formation that bore a suspicious resemblance to a very large, very delicious-looking fish.
Even the native inhabitant mosquitoes, usually King Reginold’s most devoted subjects seemed to have taken a day off, buzzing as far away in search of less self-important blood donors. Of course, King Reginold, oblivious in his self-absorption, continued to regally wave with his tiny paw.
“See Barty!” he squeaked triumphantly. “Such devotion! They are simply overcome with awe at my magnificent presence and adoration!”
Barty, who had a clear view of the turned backs and feigned disinterest, just let out a long solemn fish bubble as he studied the American Bullfrog marching band. They were in mid-croak, but suddenly spotted a swarm of particularly attractive dragonflies. And off they hopped in mass towards the river’s edge, abandoning the “Reginold’s Royal Muddy Bottom Merriment” spectacle to pursue romance.
King Reginold, alone on HMS Pond Scum Pride, continued to revel in his parade, waving at the unseeing swamp. He even started singing a little song about his own greatness, completely unaware that his costly grand display of popularity was being met with the most widespread and hilariously effective case of collective ignoring that the Louisiana Bayou had ever seen.
The only creatures that seemed to notice King Reginpld were a couple of curious raccoons peeking from behind a clump of Sabal Palm Palmettos. One nudged the other, “Think he knows?” it whispered, stifling a chittering giggle.
The other raccoon shook its head. "Non, non, non! T'es tombé sur la tête, toi?" Some folks just gotta have their parade, even if nobody’s clappin.” And with that final coon snicker, they went back to searching for something genuinely interesting to watch – like a good mud fight between two particularly grumpy crawfish.
The rest of the bayou kingdom, observing from the sidelines (with their backs pointed firmly away from the spectacle), continued their elaborate joke of disinterest. The only sound accompanying King Reginold’s self-congratulatory squeaks was the agonizingly slow shuffle of reluctant feet, the occasional disgruntled honk-whisper, and the distinct lack of any applause.
King Reginold, lost in his own self-importance, remained blissfully unaware that this grand parade was less about his popularity and more a hilariously effective peaceful demonstration of collective, tired-of-all-of-it defiance.
Final Thoughts On Swampy Kingdom Matters
Well, that’s it dear listeners and readers, perhaps in knowing this swampy version of a story, the King Reginold we are gossiping about, bless his heart, threw the swampiest, stickiest birthday bash the bayou’s ever seen. He was convinced everyone was dying to see his royal waddle. But the snapping turtle infantry moved slower than an old Earthlink dial-up-connection, the goose air force refused to take off, and the crawfish marines just kept pinching mud like it owed them back taxes.
Meanwhile the regular swamp folks were all, “Nope, not today,” turning their backs like they’d just spotted a way better Netflix show series of binge watching on an old Water Oak tree.
King Reginold is like an influencer who throws a huge party expecting a stampede of adoration, only to find an empty town hall room and a bunch of polite “Can’t make it” DMs. Or the leader who is so wrapped up in his “genius” ideas that he doesn’t notice everyone else is just sighing into their keyboards and putting their noise canceling ear buds back in.
King Reginold’s military parade is a poignant reminder that sometimes the loudest self-promotion gets the passive aggressive response which is the last birthday present he wanted. The next day when the entire real global world and the comedians get done with reporting the “truth” as some rulers might even be tempted to whip out their pens and declare, “No Mud’ allowed in their kingdom, rather than look in their own fun house distorted brackish bayou water mirror.
Our fictional and non-fictional tales are inspired by real Louisiana and New Orleans history, but some details may have been spiced up for a good story. While we've respected the truth, a bit of creative license could have been used. Please note that all characters may be based on real people, but their identities in some cases have been Avatar masked for privacy. Others are fictional characters with connections to Louisiana.
A Word of Wisdom:
As you read, remember history and real life is a complex mix of joy, sorrow, triumph, and tragedy. While we may have (or not) added a bit of fiction, the core message remains: the human spirit's power to endure, adapt, and overcome.
© Jerilee Wei 2025 All Rights Reserved.
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