Shiver me timbers and hoist the mainsail! With the rising of the morning sun, we be greeted with another day to pillage, plunder, and make ourselves into rich men. Though, tis be true, this day is also knowed to be cursed by those who don’t answer the call of the siren’s song and join their fellow sea-dogs in speaking like proper Pirates! Yarr!
It was one year ago today that this ugly and demon-bellied curse first reared its monster-faced… er… face. I was a scrubbin’ the poop-deck (that’s not a euphemism, yarr) and waxing my peg leg (that be a euphemism, says I) when the most fearsome creature in the whole of the seven seas, 12 bays, 18 reservoirs, and 29 municipal county-run ponds attacked me and me crew.
A valiant fight was launched against the horrible creature, and for a few moments we fought like zombie-hellspawn pulled up straight from the darkest corners of Davy Jones’ locker… but we all crumbled when the horrific beast flopped a slimy tentacle on to the deck and not a soul among the crew could ignore how much that horrific appendage resembled the buxom barwench Matilda from the Grog and Chumbucket pub in Barbados.
Scurvy Jack was the first to succumb to the coincidental and wholly bizarre wiles of the doppelganger tentacle and he would have been the last had his face not carried a grimace of purest ecstasy as he was pulled into the black waters of the deep. Rickets Jim was the next to go, and he was quickly followed Polio Bill, and Human Papilloma Virus Reggie.
I ordered the men what had bandannas on to pull them over their eyes, and those what had eye-patches to switch the patch from their bad eye to the good eye. It was in this way that I learned all the deckhands with eye-patches were horrible fakers, for no sooner had they switched their patches to their “good” eyes than did their “bad” eyes catch sight of tentacle with heaving bosoms, and like the others they were pulled into the sea.
Those that had their eyes covered couldn’t tell tentacle from an excavation in terra firma, and as the sea beast watched with what could only be referred to as unholy mirth, my crew slaughtered each other on the deck of my ship, The Happy Sugarbear Magictime Funboat. The hideous monster pulled itself onto the deck, soaked up every drop of blood, ate every bit of gory-gibbet, and then picked its teeth with me mizzen-mast (that’s not a euphemism).
I sailed on that boat stranded for days and when I awoke, I was here, behind this desk, doomed to jockey a desk for the rest of me days. But with every year that passes, my piratical nature surfaces on this, September the 19th, and once more, I can banter with the best pirates that ever were condemned to cubicles.
(For those of ye mutinous sea-dogs unfamiliar with pirates, a good place to start is here. Most lubbers don’t know that the Golden Age of Piracy only lasted for about 15 years.)
