Category: Talk Like A Pirate Day

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
But he more than made up for it with enthusiasm.
Unlike other pirates, who moaned and groaned about Mondays, George wished every day was Monday.
He’d jump out of his bunk, ready to face the day’s challenges.
Not that Monday was any different than any other day of the week at sea.
Pirates don’t get weekends off.
Nor do they get holidays or sick time.
It’s not that pirates weren’t unionized or organized.
They just weren’t good at reading calendars.
Not that George cared. Every day was an adventure!

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
How many pirates do you know that hand out comment cards while they pillage, loot, and burn?
“On a scale from one to five, how would you rate this pirate’s behavior?”
The problem isn’t that George fails to specify whether one is the best or the worst on the scale.
It’s that he never has a pen or pencil handy when the person asks to borrow one.
“I’m the one stealing from you, not the other way around!” snarls George.
And then he swipes the comment card from them.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He also wasn’t very informed on the election.
“Who are you going to vote for?” pollsters would ask George.
“I don’t think I can vote for either candidate,” said George.
Operatives from both parties wined and dined George, showering him with gifts.
“Vote for us,” said one party.
“No, vote for us,” said the other party.
And they spent even more on George.
When Election Day came, George didn’t vote, and he stayed home.
“I still don’t think I can vote for either candidate. Piracy is a felony, right?”

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
The captain would have thrown him off of the ship long ago, if it weren’t for the fact that they were horribly short-handed.
Rusty Pete the gunner had retired.
Old Scutty had left to start his own crew.
That would have been manageable if it hadn’t have been for all the guys who’d gotten killed in raids and battles.
But then, they’d died because of George’s blunders.
Every one of them. Chalked up to “accidents” for insurance purposes.
As long as the insurance policies paid well, he’d keep George.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
When we were young, we thought we could do anything.
George, not so much. He knew his limits.
He knew he wasn’t immortal and powerful like we were.
As we were reckless and living life to the edge.
George would watch us with this sadness.
Not out of jealousy. Or envy.
But pity, because he knew.
He knew we were so wrong.
And as we died young, one by one, in battle, in bar fights.
Buried with eye patches and peglegs and hooks for hands.
We proved him right.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
During tourist season, he worked for a water taxi service between the islands.
People snapped selfies with him, and he’d give his best pirate leer or he’d draw his cutlass and demand their gold and jewelry.
They’d laugh, and gave him excellent reviews on the comment cards and Yelp.
“George is the best pirate ever,” they said. “If only the islanders were as charming as George.”
At the end of the season, George returned to his ship and showed his mateys the reviews.
They threw George overboard and laughed.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He liked to send a lot of unsolicited email, and people reported him as a spammer.
“I’m a pirate, and we pirates loot and pillage towns and ports,” said George to his hosting provider. “And sometimes I notice that when some of my shipmates can’t get it up when they’re ravishing and raping, I make a note to send them an email about this herbal remedy I distribute.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” said the administrator, and they turned his account back on.
George smiled, and sent out more email.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
While the other pirates went to the taverns, George went to the theater, ballet, and opera.
“Landlubber tripe!” his mateys said, and they laughed.
George didn’t mind them.
But George did notice a man at the ballet who bore an odd resemblance to the captain.
“My niece is the lead dancer tonight,” said the captain. “Not a word.”
To keep him quiet, the captain let George be captain for a day.
The crew, terrified of what might happen, spent that day at the theater, the ballet, and the opera.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Shipwrecks had fallen to rot and rust on the blood-soaked beach.
With every wave, bodies washed ashore.
A few, he recognized.
Collect wood to start a fire.
Sit a while, warm your hands.
Pass the bottle of whiskey around.
Tell stories of the old days.
Great battles and massive treasures.
We could have lived like kings.
If only… if only…
When is enough enough?
George looks around the fire.
He is alone.
Tossing the empty bottle into the fire.
Laying down on his side.
Closing his eyes to sleep.

Tomorrow, Ann was going off to college.
It wasn’t easy deciding what to take and what to leave behind.
She wouldn’t have enough room for everything.
This poster stays, this blanket comes with.
She looked at the shelf with her teddy bear collection.
Every one, her father had given her after he returned a business trip.
She held the bear with the eyepatch and bandanna.
“This one is from Puerto Rico,” he had said.
“George,” said Ann. “His name is George. George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.”
She put it in the box and smiled.