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Location: the waves, the ocean

Hoist the sails, raise yer bloody goblets, ahoy & onward me laddies!

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Where Now the Pageantry

Lads, 'tis a changing world to be sure when me ears be inundated by the petty peskering questions of femme pirates, aye, what claim their biggest woe be a wrinkled shirt aye or a stain 'pon their trousers. Perhaps yer cap'n misled ye, ye mistletoed fairies, by extolling the modern age, but be assured lads that if me eye spots 'pon ye o'er the high seas & me sees yer nails painted cherries & yer shirts devoid of wrinkle, aye, ye'll another worry far greater to heave 'pon yer backs, ye will. I am no usher nor docent nor psychologist of the seas, laddies, & if ye attempt to use yer cap'n in this regard again, hell will fall 'pon ye with all of its fiery tumult, aye, & a maelstrom of hellfire & argent blade will storm about yer deck until ye be but a bag of bones sinking, sinking through the vast blue sea, left & o'erlooked by such as the manatee & whaleshark, aye, who'd sooner scavenge the hair off a dead man's ass than pick at yer feeble brittle bones, lads. Methinks me point is made.
Here we be, then, laddies, in the southern climes, aye, & a might good it does a cap'n to wash viking blood off 'is hands (metaphorically me speaks, ye poncies) in the touch of Eos. Me feels at me leisure, aye, & even battle seems a piece the easier, as thar be something in the temperment of islanders that renders their bounties ripe for plunder. Aye, we've many a spoil come upon, in quiet cove or in raging storm. Dear Whiskey lost a testicle to a jellyfish in an unfortunate turn, he did, whilst Longsince fashioned a snorkel of sorts out of gun barrels in order to make convivial with local mermaids, aye. Yer cap'n sips 'pon a concoction plundered West in Jamaica, he does, & a mighty potent elixir it seems to be, laddies. A healthy portion of our last attack reaped only cocktail umbrellas, jars of olive & cherry, & flukes tall & fragile. 'Tis a hazard of piracy in this era of pandering to tourists, aye. Where once the culture fluorished with gilded golden booty, now it be ripe only with plastic miniature sword & cheap Mexican straw hats. Aye, long have I been at sea, lads, & many changes me eye has focused 'pon, the better & the worse alike, & smaller the world seems to shrink with e'ery passing minute, lads, to me chagrin. The closer I be forced to get to these travelling nancies, the more methinks 'pon the golden era of yore, aye, when Rogers & Blackbeard & the like, all positively nuns by me modern bearing, mind ye, but when the likes of the infamous pirates sailed & sallied along where they chose with only the British 'pon their heels. Aye, a truer time 'twas, an era of piracy's downy innocence, lads. Where be we now but in an era of surfaces? Where be the true pirates when me peers be concerned with a wrinkle? & where be the true glory in a booty of plastic swords? Me head is hung low this morn, lads, & methinks it best to confide in me drink & me parrot ere I betray my savagery.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Captain Musical said...

aye, i too long for the golden era -- when rogers, hammerstein, and black beards dotted the waters like pock marks on me face.

7:44 AM  

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