Category: Talk Like A Pirate Day

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
After a long and difficult week, George muttered “Thank God it’s Friday.”
The clouds parted, a light shone down, and a voice boomed “YOU’RE WELCOME!”
The light faded, and it began to rain.
George was left confused, frightened, and wet.
“What the fuck just happened?” said George, shaking and holding on to the railing to keep from fainting.
George looked around, but there was nobody there to ask: “Did you see that? Did you hear that?”
It was just George on the deck, standing there, soaked to the bone.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He spent an unusual amount of time exploring the arts and humanities instead of hunting for treasure.
Where other pirates would loot a museum, he’d walk the halls, listening to the tour guide, appreciating the art, and admiring the brush strokes and chisel angles.
He tried his hand at sculpture, creating a pirate figure out of butter.
It won second place at the State Fair.
Proud of his work, he brought it back to the ship.
His crewmates spread it over their bread.
George grumbled, and swabbed the deck.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He fell for lots of scams.
One time, he took a pamphlet from a group at the airport, and he ended up on an avocado farm wearing an orange robe.
He enjoyed harvesting avocados, but missed being a pirate.
So when the farm was raided by pirates, he asked if he could join them.
It was his old crew.
“No,” they said. “We’ve been doing great without you.”
The last sack of avocados they hauled away was unusually heavy.
Safely aboard, George crawled out and smiled.
Home at last.

GEORGE WAS A PIRATE, BUT HE WASN’T A VERY GOOD PIRATE.
INSTEAD OF RAIDING TOWNS AND SHIPS FOR USEFUL THINGS, LIKE FOOD AND AMMUNITION AND SUPPLIES, HE’D LOOT FLEAMARKETS AND GARAGE SALES, AND HAUL BACK A PILE OF JUNK.
“THERE’S NOTHING QUITE LIKE THE FEEL OF A CLASSIC WEIGHTED KEYBOARD WITH SPRINGS AND INDIVIDUAL KEYS,” SAID GEORGE, TAPPING THE KEYS AND HEARING THAT SATISFYING LOUD CLACK. “YOU DON’T GET THAT WITH THOSE THIN APPLE KEYBOARDS OR THOSE CHEAP PLASTIC ONES.”
“WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING EVERYTHING?” ASKED THE CAPTAIN.
GEORGE PUSHED THE SHIFT KEY A FEW TIMES. “I THINK IT’S STUCK.”

George had two tickets to The Moth.
Nobody wanted the other ticket, so he went alone.
He thought he was signing a guestbook, but it was the speakers list.
When they called his name, George was confused, but they pushed him to the stage.
He adjusted the microphone, took a sip of water, and said:
“I am a pirate, but…”
He hesitated, sipped more water, and said “But I’m not a very good pirate.”
He told stories for hours, the timekeeper just as mesmerized as the crowd.
When George finished, no applause, not a sound.
Just the spotlight and silence.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
“This is because you do not follow the path of Buddha,” said a strange man in a saffron robe.
“All life is suffering. Craving causes suffering. Suffering, once identified, can end. Accumulating good karma can end suffering. Look within, and master your own fate.”
George looked within himself.
Then he drew his sword and pointed it at the strange man.
“Give me your karma,” he said.
The strange man laughed. “You cannot give or take karma.”
“Fine,” said George. “Give me that robe.”
He wore it as a cape.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Not that the Mardi Gras Parade Committee cared.
They were looking for authenticity, not quality, and as long as George could stand on a float and wave, who cared, right?
George showed up, expecting a big parade, a big party, and all the beer he could drink.
That would make sense if the parade were in New Orleans. Or Galveston.
But not in Fairbanks, Alaska.
“Holy shit, it’s cold,” said George.
George threw a lot of beads from the float.
In that weather, hell, the women had earned them.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He liked to wander through fields.
One day, George came upon a man with an easel and blank canvas, clutching his head, weeping.
He looked up, staring at George with the bluest eyes.
Mesmerized, George barely noticed that the man had taken his pistol, pointed it at himself, and pulled the trigger.
George helped the man back to town, leaving him with the local doctor.
“I wanted it to end like this,” whispered the man to George.
George returned to his ship, and hung the canvas by his bunk.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He has so many brushes with death, he could paint a highway from New York to Los Angeles with them.
“We’re not the kind of men who die in our beds,” said the captain.
George took this advice to heart, staying in his bed as much as possible.
“At least I’m safe in my bed,” said George.
The deck went unscrubbed, the sails went untrimmed, and countless other important chores went undone while George cowered under his covers.
The rest of the crew tossed him and his bed overboard.