Category: My stories

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
This was because he took the advice of his imaginary friend Ralph.
Unlike George, Ralph was a brave and bold pirate.
He was a great swashbuckler, an amazing sailor, a crack shot with a cannon, and was a killer with the ladies.
He tried to teach everything he knew to George, but because he was a figment of George’s imagination, he gave bad advice to George.
Also, he only spoke French, which George didn’t speak.
George mumbled in French in his sleep. His bunkmates covered his face with a pillow.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He had a thing for gadgets, though.
He liked to rig up automation for various things on the ship, like putting the ship’s lights on a timer, or raising and lowering the flag with The Clapper.
The Captain was impressed, but concerned.
“I have enough problems with my iPhone mistaking commands,” he said. “But I draw the line at saying ‘Alexa, Fire Cannon’ because what if it can’t-.”
That’s when the cannon fired at the port they were docked at.
“Sorry, Captain, I forgot to turn on test mode.”

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
You know how scholar Malcolm Gladwell says that if you do something for ten thousand hours, you’ll get good at it?
It has something to do with practice and focus and expertise. Look it up.
Well, George has been a pirate for at least that long, and he’s still not a very good pirate.
In fact, I bet that Malcolm Gladwell is a better pirate than George.
If you see Malcolm Gladwell dressed as a pirate, looting and pillaging, run.
But if you see George, you can relax, okay?

George was a pirate.
What? Were you expecting me to say something else?
I used to say “but he wasn’t a very good pirate.”
However, George said that it hurt his feelings. And his therapist told him to confront people that hurt his feelings.
So I’m not supposed to say that George wasn’t a very good pirate anymore.
It doesn’t matter that when he chortles, he breaks into coughing fits. Were that he tends to leave his swash unbuckled.
At some point, George will probably expect some kind of piracy participation metal.
I really hate this stupid liberal millennial bullshit.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Where other pirates were content to drink grog and rum until they passed out, George would sip his imported beers and keep track of them in his beer diary.
Every time the captain set course to a new port to raid and plunder, the crew would get excited at the prospect of loot and treasure, while George would research the local microbrews.
“I hear they make a good pale ale there,” George would say.
“Not any more,” said the captain, pointing to the port’s tavern, which was on fire.

Wilhelmina the barmaid didn’t care. She loved George.
Every time George came to the tavern, Wilhelmina loved to bring him tankard after tankard and listen to his stories.
She was completely smitten.
George, on the other hand, was totally oblivious to Wilhelmina’s adulation.
He was also oblivious to his own tolerance for alcohol, and right in the middle of a story, his eyes would cross and he’d pass out.
His shipmates would carry him back to the ship, and Wilhelmina would wait until the next time George came around.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He’d tried everything to be better, but it just never worked out.
So, George sought out a fortune-teller.
She laid out Tarot cards and said that George would some day be a great pirate.
“You’re kidding me, right?” said George. “I want a second opinion.”
The fortune-teller looked into her crystal ball. “No bullshit, Joe. The ball agrees.”
George thanked her, and that’s when the pirates raided the town.
While robbing the fortune-teller, he dropped the crystal ball, and it cracked.
“Bet you didn’t see that coming,” said George.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He liked to garden, though.
Which isn’t very easy to do on a pirate ship.
The bunks didn’t get much light. And the upper decks got a lot of foot-traffic, so his flowers and herbs would get stomped.
Hanging window boxes from portholes worked for a while, until they hit rough seas.
When he hung the window boxes from the rails, they got knocked loose when his crewmates swung over to board another ship.
In the end, he volunteered for night watch and grew flowers in the crow’s nest.