Blogarama
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Location: the waves, the ocean

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

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Ye Pesky Womenfolk

Ye laddies behave like schoolgirls, ye do, aye, with all yer infernal hygenic questions. What be I to ye lads, another Dear Abby? Me needs be those of a pirate for chirssake, & me habits, hygenically & otherwise, be me own business & the stuff of decades asea. Ye ask of stains & wrinkles & the proper leeward application of mascaras & I tell ye life goes on, maties, & me services consist not of answering to the finnicky & obsessively cosmetic queries of pansies posing as pirates! Be off with ye or me sword shall render swift answers! Don't ye laddies understand that pirates we be, & as pirates, it be our duty, aye, to traverse the high seas in toil & turmoil, in storm & stress, until it be our time for looting & plundering, until our glory rises aye like a phoenix from the very pith of man? We be not invested in coming off as a careful & cleanly bunch, nay, though we may know a secret or two of it, for we be pirates, lads, pirates all, warring & fighting & making fancy ashore & shanties adeck, aye, & if we've a mind to shit o'er starboard, so it shall be! If we've a fancy to piss from the crow's nest, as numerous times yer cap'n has found fit to do, so it shall be, maties, for a pirate concerns himself not with the petty & the trivial. There be survival, advancement, booty & legacy, aye, & there be famine & depravity & drought & duress, too, laddies. Ye miss the point of what 'tis to be a pirate in the modern age. I ought to slap each of ye with me scabbard to waken ye in yer boots, aye, though truth be told ye've probably pink slippers shaped like dogs o'er yer digits, ye two-penny, good for nothing, disgraceful excuses for men! Off with ye until ye cart back unto me a bottle of rum covered with years of dust! Until ye've waged battle & let the blood dry o'er the wounds! Until maggots swim in yer breakfast grains, ye scurvy coddled currs! Ye've made me like to vomit, & I aver if ye find yerself near me I'll aim for yer toes, ye pigs! Pirates!?! Ye bloody disgraces, ye pain yer cap'n so...

5 Comments:

Anonymous Calamity Hortense said...

U tell zem petit daggerr. Once a fine mademoiselle, shame to zink of it, my parents forced me to baze everyday. Now zat I am an independente contractor, as zey say, I know za value of feminine patina zat seafarin gentlemen prize. When ze breeze is blowing from za back, all za workin filles line up on ze dock and flail their pits and fan their skirts. Za damn blessed pheromones pull ships from 30 kilometres off shore, who never knew zere was even a port ici. Yes, ve do a lot for this shit of a town, zey should give us une plaque instead of inspections and quarantine. Bien sur, we drive others far, far away, 'xcept on days when Angelique joins us (she used to be Bart the miller's apprentice) and zen we really send a mixed signal. You should see za look of confusion some of the more colorful ships give us when they get close enough. Zis is why some call this town Za Horned Syren.

8:18 AM  
Anonymous Captain Volleyball said...

Aye, Dagger. But answer me this: Me sister was recently wed, and in a display of gratitude, I lent her husband several gold pieces. He never once thanked me! No letter, no nothing. Would I be right to openly discuss this with them, or should I simply insert my hook into his eye and brain him forthwith?

9:08 AM  
Blogger henry dagger said...

Volleyball, yer hook be yer voice & aye indeed some talking should ye render to the bloody ingrate. Hortense, aye, we shall see when next me crew anchors aport, aye we shall at that, & wear yer golden bloomers.

4:01 PM  
Anonymous the bo'son said...

The bote swayne blewe his whystell full shryll.

6:41 AM  
Anonymous pheromones cologne said...

good post

4:01 PM  

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