George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He came from a long line of not very good pirates.
Neckbeard was a notorious rogue, notorious for his inability to fit into his breeches.
Calico Fred had a hard time distinguishing port from starboard and bow from stern.
The Barbarossa Sisters used to take each other’s crews prisoner.
And Sir Francis Gander retired with two peg legs, two hook hands, two eyepatches, and a lot of medical bills.
George didn’t go to many family reunions.
Not that he didn’t try. He wasn’t very good at reading the map.
Category: My stories
George the Pirate’s Bath Night
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He learned early on that he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Bath Night was every Sunday, he’d take all his bath toys into the bath with him.
Every Sunday, his pirate ship had adventures on the high seas in his tub.
He’d slosh the water into tidal waves, and ship and men sank to the bottom, eaten by his toy sharks.
The water would splash everywhere, causing mold and rot.
“Look what you’ve done,” shouted George’s parents.
Eventually, George was forced to hose himself off in the back yard.
George the Pirate On The Second Squad
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
The Captain considered George to be “Second Squad.”
It consisted of George, the cabin boy, Blind Joe, and Cook, who only spoke bits of Dutch.
Nobody else on the boat spoke Dutch, so that didn’t matter much, really.
In battle, sometimes, The Captain would call for the cabin boy to lend a hand.
“What about me?” said George. “I bought a new sword, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
The Captain thought this over.
“You’re right, George,” he said. “Lend your sword to the cabin boy.”
George the Pirate Washed Overboard
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He fell overboard a lot. So often, George’s shipmates insisted that he always wear a life jacket, safety rope, and an emergency beacon.
It made hauling George back into the boat a lot easier.
Even when George was on dry land, his shipmates insisted that he wear all of the safety equipment.
“Just in case,” they said.
One night, while George was sleeping at an inn, a huge tidal wave washed George out of his bed and out to sea.
George gave the inn a negative review on Yelp.
George the Pirate Accidents
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He was always causing accidents or getting injured.
He filed a lot of Workman’s Compensation claims.
And he raised everybody’s insurance premiums on the ship’s group plan.
He wasn’t allowed anywhere near the wheel. Or the tiller.
God help everyone if he was allowed near the Powder Room again.
Eventually, The Captain took away all of George’s duties except for the “This Ship Has Been Injury Free” sign that counted days since the last reported injury.
The sign fell on George, and he had to be taken to sickbay.
Super Fraud
So, after the Super Bowl, someone stole Tom Brady’s jersey.
Despite lots of noise from law enforcement, it’s been missing for weeks.
What’s to stop Tom from fucking with the thieves and claiming he found his lost jersey?
Then sign a certificate of authenticity and sell it at a charity auction.
I mean, Tom lied about the deflated footballs that he used a few years ago, right?
And in the end, he’d be doing it for charity.
His diehard Boston fans will believe anything he says, anyway.
Why not make a buck off of those suckers while he’s at it?
Hips lie
Shakira claims that her hips don’t lie, but when you inject them with sodium pentathol, the truth comes out.
Oh, man, the truth comes out! The stories they could tell!
Of course, you can’t compel a pair of hips to testify against their owner, especially under duress or chemically-enhanced interrogation.
That won’t hold up in court. A good defense attorney will object, the judge will sustain the objection, and the jury will be instructed to ignore that testimony.
What you have to do is get a wiretap warrant, and then catch the hips perjuring themselves.
And her ass will follow.
Three sheets
John Redcloud was a lousy sailor and a constant drunk.
He was usually too blitzed to find his boat at the marina.
“Three Sheets To The Wind” was its name.
The rare times he managed to stagger to the right slip, his boat was usually moored at or crashed into another, covered with angry notes from his fellow sailors and the harbormaster.
Or sunk to the bottom, the topmast and ragged mainsail sticking out of the water like the fish wanted to surrender.
His father would buy him another, because boats are slightly cheaper than Porsches.
And cops. And reporters.
Fucks to give
Is there a unit of measurement for fucks to give?
The gandhi? The motherteresa? The marthinlutherking?
Or is it named after someone else who gave a fuck?
Such as Jesus. He gave a fuck about a lot of things.
I think that the unit is actually the shit.
Because people already give a shit about things.
Or run out of shits to give.
What’s the conversion rate between fucks and shits?
What about damns? (We know that darns are equivalent to one damn, right?)
The truth is, I don’t really care.
I ran out of shits to give long ago.
The Liver
Whenever I misbehaved, my mother would ask if I was raised in a barn.
“No,” I’d say. “But you’re too drunk to notice.”
“I’m out of beer,” she says, and she pulls a five from her purse. “I swear, if you spend this on candy or the arcade, I’ll kill you.”
Years later, she found Jesus. Right around when her liver gave out.
“The doctors say they can put just part of your liver in me,” she wrote. “It’ll grow back.”
I put the letter back in my pocket.
She died last night.
I ask Siri where’s the nearest arcade.