Category: My stories

George was a pirate, but he was in a very good pirate.
If you asked him about that, I’d say don’t give a shit.
Even though people constantly gave him shit over it, he never gave them shit back.
Some would say that he couldn’t give two shits what you thought.
But it wasn’t that he would give two shits, because he never gave one.
One shit, two shits, it didn’t matter.
George didn’t give a shit about not being a very good pirate, and that’s all that mattered.
To tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit either

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Instead of taking hostages and ransoming them off, he usually ended up befriending his captives and traveling the world with them.
One was a young man from the French Navy who didn’t speak French very well.
He was whittling small sculptures out of wood and soapstone.
“These are pretty good,” said George. “Mind making one of me?”
So, he did, that’s how George wound up with an early Paul Gaugin sculpture.
It’s in a museum now.
Well, in their warehouse, not on display.
George wasn’t a particularly handsome man.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He lost his crew, he lost his ship, and he even lost his hat.
His reputation kept him from getting hired by other pirates for their ships.
He was reduced to stealing packages off of people’s porches.
But George wasn’t a very good porch pirate either.
His first heist was a trap, and the glitterbomb exploded in his face.
“Welcome, Glitterbeard!” shouted everyone at the pub, laughing.
The next heist was a delivery from Ikea.
Miraculously, it was a ship.
George struggled with instructions and Allen wrenches for days.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
When pirates tell each other secrets, they get really fancy with their expressions.
Like sinking something down in Davy Jones’ Locker.
Or the best way for three men to keep a secret is to kill two of them.
George liked to say “Keep this under your hat.”
Which is where he kept his most important secret. Literally under his hat.
So while he slept, his fellow pirates would take off his hat and read his secret.
Which consisted of a little slip of paper marked “Buy a new hat.”

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
His adventures took him far and wide, and once he went to China.
“This cave bat is delicious,” he told the street vendor. “Can I have another?”
That’s how George caught the Coronavirus.
He was feverish and coughing for days.
Spreading the disease like wildfire.
Authorities called for people to shelter in place, putting the world in a lockdown.
“Plenty of opportunities to loot and pillage,” wheezed the captain over the conference call.
“Sure,” said George, wrapped in his bathrobe.
He took a Mucinex and went back to bed.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He was a pretty good competitive eater, though.
Every Fourth of July, he’d sail to Coney Island to compete in Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest.
He’d soak the bun in water, chow it down, and then eat the meat.
Repeat a few dozen times.
The problem was, George would build a huge lead quickly, often breaking the record, only to vomit everything up and get disqualified.
He changed his strategy to vomit all over the other contestants, trying to make them vomit.
“At least I’ll tie,” said George.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
On his days off, he’d walk around the local cemeteries, looking for groups of people.
The bigger the group, the better.
“He was such a good man,” he’d say to the widow, or whatever was appropriate for the deceased. “We knew each other in high school.”
Then, he’d grab a free lunch from the reception, stuffing his pockets with shrimp and other goodies.
He’d also grab some flowers, because the ship needed some color, or to make a good impression with one of the prettier wenches at the tavern.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He liked to go to the city park and rent one of those duck-shaped paddleboats.
Then, he’d paddle around the pond, threatening to board the other boaters if they didn’t hand over their loot and precious cargo.
“We have some frozen yogurt,” said the couple in the other boat. “Oh, and some stuff from the gift shop.”
George took their stuff, laughed, and paddled away.
“He couldn’t have gone far,” said a park security guard, who looked a lot like George.
The yogurt was strawberry flavor.
It was delicious.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Every now and then, in the middle of a battle, he’d misplace his sword.
“It’s on your belt!” shouted the captain, slashing a British naval officer.
When he’d lose his sword, he’d loot corpses, picking up a sword and giving it a test swing.
“I don’t like the balance.”
“The edge is dull.”
“What a gaudy handle.”
“Just grab a belaying peg!” shouted the captain.
“Those are for losers,” whined George.
The captain stared at George.
“You’re so mean,” said George as he grabbed a wooden club and pouted.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Out on the deep ocean, the winds calm, the waves are still, there’s little to do and all day long not to do it in.
George would practice with his sword, or tie different kinds of knots.
He’d work on his diction, his “ahoys” and “avasts.”
Lots of chortling, too.
Running cannon drills, loading, reloading.
Swinging on ropes.
The other pirates would watch George and laugh, and go back to drinking… playing cards… whatever they did.
The wind would return, and off on the trail of adventure they went.