Grampa only had one last bit of advice for me before he died: “Never high-five a pirate.”
Then, he died.
Grampa was always good for stupid, useless advice.
According to him, you should never cook sea urchins on a Thursday. As if I’d cook them on any day of the week? They’re disgusting!
He also said that Van Gogh was smart. Cutting off your ear to impress a chick is a lot smarter than cutting off his balls like Picasso did.
“But Picasso never castrated himself,” I said.
Grampa just lit his pipe, blew a cloud of smoke, and winked.
Long ago, I sailed the seven seas, and the winds flew through my hair.
I wasn’t much of a sailor and neither was my crew. We became shipwrecked on The Island Of The Clown Pirates.
It would have been paradise if it hadn’t have been for the balloon animal parrots, big floppy peglegs, and a crazy rowboat that almost a hundred of them climbed out of, one by one.
They had no swords, but every one of them could hurl a wicked custard pie.
So, we decided to join them.
The winds now fly through my gigantic red fright wig.
A wine tells the story of an entire countryside.
With a touch of the seal, you can feel rough hands of the farmer as he ties down vines.
With a sniff, you can smell the rich soil the grapes grew in.
With a taste, you can see the seasons pass… the sunshine… the rain…
With a glance at the bottle, you can see where the blood from the rebel colonists has soaked the label.
Captain Drog smiled and ordered the entire colony’s production to be loaded on to the ship.
“Then set a course for cheese and crackers!” he shouts.
I had a dream I was a pirate.
We sailed the seven seas, although I think we may have sailed one sea twice. And that last one may have been a municipal pool.
I’m not that good with maps and charts. And I tend to look down the wrong end of a spyglass. Oh, and I get seasick in the bathtub.
But this is my dream, okay? And I was a pirate in my dream.
I didn’t have a hook for a hand. Or a pegleg. Or even an eyepatch.
Just a pirate, sailing the seven seas of my dreams.
The island isn’t on any maps.
Well, okay. It appears on one map: mine.
It’s off the trade routes. I only found it because of a freak storm that blew me ashore here.
It doesn’t even have a name.
Want to name it?
No rush. We won’t be here long, anyway.
Just long enough to bury the treasure and the prisoners.
That’s right – bury them.
Remember when I gave orders to take no prisoners?
This is why.
Just be sure to give ’em each a sip of whiskey before… you know.
I may be a pirate, but I’m no Savage.
Jimmy’s turning seven. I asked him what he wanted for his birthday, and he said he wanted a clown at his party.
I couldn’t find a birthday clown, so I settled for a birthday pirate.
Snarling and growling, his peg leg was caught in a gopher hole in the lawn.
Then he ran the piñata through with his cutlass.
Just when you thought it couldn’t be any more of a disaster, the hook on his hand kept popping the balloon animals.
Oh, and he threatened to keel-haul the birthday boy.
The kids loved it. Now they all want birthday pirates.
I put my thumb on the scanner and hold it there for two minutes.
“You are a Pirate,” said the Career-o-matic kiosk. “Congratulations.”
Earlier today, this thing told me I was a Surgeon.
“Please return items from previous Career,” said the machine.
I stuffed the bloody surgical scrubs and malpractice lawsuit documents into the disposal slot.
Whirring. A slight warm breeze.
“Please remove new Career items,” said the machine.
Reaching into the slot, I pulled out an eyepatch, cutlass, and a parrot.
“What’s the eyepatch for?” I asked.
The parrot flapped his wings and hit me in the eye.