Category: Talk Like A Pirate Day

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
His ship ran aground on a small island off of the coast of South Carolina.
“Welcome to Abortion Island,” said a grizzled docksman. “Sorry about the lighthouse, been out for three days.”
He led George to the clinic, a small medical facility and dormitory.
“The ferryboat brings patients, the doctor performs the procedure, and when they’re ready, they return to the mainland.”
George stood and stared.
It took George seven days to repair his ship.
He kept to himself, sleeping in his bunk.
And he left without saying goodbye.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
“Maybe you should give pirating a rest?” said the captain, tallying up the damage from George’s latest mishap. “Whaling is big these days. My brother has a ship.”
George packed his bags, disembarked, and walked down the docks to his new home.
“Your first time whaling?” said a lanky greenhorn, extending his hand. “Call me Ishmael.”
“Call me George,” said George, smiling.
A year later, they found themselves bloodied and battered, adrift on the Pacific in a coffin.
“That ended badly,” said Ishmael. “So, tell me more about piracy.”

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Some nights, he’d gaze up at the stars, wondering how he fit in to the world, or if there was some kind of hidden cosmic plan out there.
“Where are we?”
“Why am I here?”
“What is my purpose?”
“What does it all mean?”
Then he’d connect all the bright stars in his mind, making shapes and words and symbols.
One he named “George.” He was also holding a map and an astrolabe.
The captain tapped him on the shoulder, clearing his throat.
“I asked ‘Where are we, George?'”

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Nobody would ever build a monument or statue to him.
No plaque, no bench.
He sat in the park and rested.
Masked protestors swarmed in, charging and screaming, armed with sledgehammers and a crane.
“Down with hate and slavery!’ they shouted. “We love!”
They pounded at the Confederate War Veterans statue, tugging and pulling it until it toppled and fell.
On top of George.
The protestors ran when they heard ambulance sirens, leaving him thrashing and struggling, shouting for help.
The medics tended to George, and carried him away.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
George sought out El Dorado, the City of Gold.
But instead of a city literally made of Gold, it turned out to be a village ruled by some naked dude who rolled around in Gold dust every morning, and then washed it off in the lake.
George stripped naked, rolled around in Gold dust, and proclaimed himself king.
The natives bowed down to George. Except for the real king.
Over and over they did this.
After a week, El Dorado ran out of Gold dust.
And George left emptyhanded.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Some say he drinks too much to remember.
And others say he doesn’t drink enough to forget.
Bleary-eyed, climbing into his hammock, cabin spinning.
The rocking back and forth.
Is it the waves and the ship, or just how much he drank?
It doesn’t matter. He leans out of his hammock and throws up.
The hammock wobbles. He falls into the puddle of vomit.
Passing out.
He’ll do the same thing tomorrow. And the day after that.
“Another goddamned day of this shit,” he mumbles.
And passes out again.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Instead of looting and pillaging, he liked to go exploring.
“And then loot and pillage?” asked his mateys.
“No,” said George. “I write articles for a travel magazine.”
His favorite place to visit had been the Kingdom of Green.
It was land of endless fields and forests, and the castle on the hill shone in the sun.
“It’s gone, George,” said a messenger from the magazine. “The king died, and the queen soon after. It’s all in ruin.”
George folded his map, put it in a drawer, and wept.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Give him a ship, and he’ll give you back a shipwreck.
One time, he wrecked on the rocks of an island where everyone wore green.
“Come with me,” said a villager. “The king and queen are waiting.”
The royal couple offered to fix George’s ship, but he had to promise never to loot or pillage the land.
George kept his word, and he changed the maps to read “Dangerous rocks and monsters.”
That way, pirates would forever avoid that land.
George assumed that they lived happily ever after.

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Once, when George wasn’t careful about some pirate secrets, a fellow pirate shushed him and said “The walls have ears.”
Ever since then, George had been nervous about talking near walls.
He’d only talk to people outdoors where there weren’t any walls.
Or in gazebos. Because they’re kind of like buildings, but don’t have any walls.
Railings, maybe. But those are more like lattices or fences.
The captain watched George trying to construct a gazebo on the main deck.
“I should have been a farmer,” he muttered to himself.