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The Conch Republic
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The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic is a nation led by Big Conch Jimmy Buffet on the continent of Africa. The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic's government is a Theocratic Democracy with very conservative social policies. Economically, The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic favors left wing policies. The official currency of The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic is the Energon Cubes. At 78 days old, The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic is an established nation. The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic has a population of 1,892,449 and a land area of 21,200.00 sq. miles. This gives it a national average population density of 89.27. Pollution in the nation is everywhere. The citizens' faith in the government is sufficient with an approval rating of 64.6785%.

The Holy AirBnB of The Conch Republic, presided over by Big Conch Jimmy Buffet (May he ever chief joints), was founded March 1st of 2112 in secession from Florida following a dispute with U.S. border patrol, unduly depriving citizens to the beach access entitled to them by The Laws of Nature and Nature’s God.

 Dedicated to the proposition that all men were created equal(ish) and endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these being the right to fruity alcoholic drinks, pub subs, and to beach freely, the office of Big Conch was instituted among surfers, deriving his just powers from the consent of the wildlife, to ensure that those rights would never be denied to them again, under the watchful stewardship of The Oldest Surfer on the Beach (MHECJ.)

Originally founded in the Hallowed Keys, the Holy Land was lost to the Republic when Big Conch Jimmy Buffet (MHECJ) was forced to single-handedly bring about the salvation of The Holy AirBNB’s citizens by relocating them to Africa, as foreign military forces crossed over the border and made the Consecrated Coast’s salty currents run brackish with fresh Conch blood. This loss has not, nor will it ever be forgotten, even when the Holy AirBNB’s ancestral homebeach is one day Anointed by our Margaritas once more.

”We can’t reason with hurricane season, nor may our latitudes and attitudes stay the same, but come Monday every son of a son of a sailor with a pencil thin mustache will get His cheeseburger in paradise.”
 

Praise the Big Conch.

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