Category: My stories

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He spent most of his time on Facebook, telling his friends about his adventures.
Instead of actually doing anything. You know, like pillaging, looting, and plundering.
This annoyed the hell out of his shipmates, and they cut off his access to the ship’s WiFi.
But even the Guest access could access Facebook.
“It’s so that the people we kidnap for ransom can beg their relatives for money,” said the captain. “Or they can start a Kickstarter or something.”
The frustrated crew threw George’s laptop overboard. Then they threw George.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
You know how there’s no such thing as “bad” pizza or blowjob?
Well, don’t ask George to handle your bachelor party.
Rummy Bill learned that lesson the hard way.
One pizza. One stripper.
And the stripper turned out to be his fiancee’s sister.
She ate all of the pizza and threatened to tell her sister about the party.
Rummy Bill paid her off, but the next day, the wedding was off.
The sister snitched.
As Best Man, George felt relieved. Renting a tux was so damn expensive, you know?

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
One day, he and his shipmates took over a cargo vessel, filled with wooden crates marked “covfefe.”
“Did they just spell coffee wrong?” asked the captain.
“I don’t know,” said George. “Maybe we should open one of them?”
The captain agreed, and George got out a crowbar to open a crate.
That’s when he heard… something… something strange.
Claws scratching on wood. The snarling of a wild beast.
Two days later, the Royal Navy found George adrift in a lifeboat, covered in blood.
All he could say was “covfefe.”

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He worked off his frustrations by performing interpretive dance.
Along the pier, he’d twirl and leap and tumble, throwing his hands to the sky and screaming.
After a while, he got pretty good at it.
Pirates from all around would dock at the pier and watch George, and they’d applaud and give him money.
They became big productions, with a full stage, set designers, stage lighting, and a full orchestra.
It caused George so many headaches and frustrations.
So, he worked off his frustrations by being a pirate again.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Some suggested that he was some sort of agent, spying on pirates for the Royal Navy.
Which would explain George’s lack of pirating skills.
And the Royal Navy tattoo on his arm.
Oh, and the fact that all his mail was addressed to “Undercover Royal Navy Agent.”
George would take that mail and say “Oh, that must be a mistake. I’ll bring it back to the post office.”
He’d write notes in a little notebook, and take pictures of things.
“It’s an exchange program,” said the captain. “Don’t ask”

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.
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.