tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78507462009-07-04T09:35:12.185-07:00An occasional blog by the guys who brought you International Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19th. Pat Kighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14187288533769750543noreply@blogger.comBlogger275125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-46437845703161856272009-07-04T09:31:00.000-07:002009-07-04T09:35:12.197-07:00

"Any more of that Low Country Sunrise?" "I think there's a quart of it down by the entrance.""A quart? I've got three cells still to finish!""How about Irish Bog? There's still a lot of that.""Are you kidding! That's green! Mix it with Low Country Sunrise? It'd make the prisoners puke!""Well, I don't know what else you can do.""I'm going to go talk to McCormack."Spencer turned from Red Molly and

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-80297710772324775652009-06-16T09:54:00.000-07:002009-06-16T09:57:05.698-07:00

“Uncle, nobody is ever going to believe that we are caterers.”Jacques fidgeted nervously with the cutlery they had used only moments before to dispatch the actual caterers whose identities they now assumed. He wasn’t sure whether to clean the knives or sharpen them so he just kind of handed them back and forth between his left and his right hands.“Nobody would have believed that Duvall here would

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-68700181615437567012009-06-10T05:33:00.001-07:002009-06-10T05:46:09.636-07:00

"Omigod!" the lookout on the Dutch frigate called out."What?" his fellow lookout asked."I … I thought I … saw something, over there," he pointed. "But no, there's nothing there," he said, his mind working overtime to deny the ghastly hued horror that was The Festering Boil."Are you sure?" the colleague asked."Yes, yes, I'm sure. But what's that ship over there? The one on the horizon making way?"

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-75701906628232742502009-05-24T15:04:00.000-07:002009-05-24T15:12:50.013-07:00

“Mon Capitaine.”Luc Duvall spoke only loudly enough to be barely audible as he stood several paces away from Fifi LeFleur. The French pirate captain carefully scoured the port-side cityscape of Willemstad’s harbor.“Mon Capitaine?”Duvall spoke only slightly louder – half hoping not to disturb his mercurial commander with his probably all-too-petty concerns.“In Dutch, Luc.” LeFleur said softly and

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-59103170079006387272009-05-20T05:24:00.000-07:002009-05-20T05:36:13.921-07:00

Mad Sally was a pirate. Always had been.True, that was not always an easy position to maintain in what was typically considered a "man's field." She had long ago lost count of how many times big burly pirates, or even small wimpy ones, had taken it on themselves to "protect the womenfolk," which included her. Or the voyages where, every time it looked as if she'd finally be able to command her

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-23940543346946725382009-05-19T06:29:00.000-07:002009-05-19T06:37:38.682-07:00

“Stack the bustles, darling! Let’s get as many as we can on this cartload!”The deep, raspy voice of Grandmama Jeanette du Bonnier barreled down the gangplank from The Poison Pearl to the women who hefted the cargo of wedding dresses and wedding dress accessories from the ship to the cart and then on to the little boutique they had purchased next to the gaol.“It’s a corset, dear! It’s made of bone

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-25021784717794442202009-05-14T06:02:00.000-07:002009-05-14T06:11:01.509-07:00

Every afternoon Gov. Roelof Van Wubbeldinker stood atop the scaffold, scanning the horizon.“Is that them?" he asked.Bernard Jeffries, the governor's valet and personal assistant, sighed. They'd gone through this every day for two weeks."Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Jeffries replied with a voice that was wearying of the routine, "to which ship are you referring now?""That one over there, to

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-10874148888790131062009-05-11T06:01:00.000-07:002009-05-11T06:03:19.243-07:00

In the darkness, a voice.“’allo? Is anybody here? ‘al-low-sie-wosie? I am calling, you … yoo-hoo! ‘allo?”Another voice replies. This voice is deeper, a bit raspy, with just the hint of a Swedish accent.“Go away or I will kill you.”A pause. The first voice replies – losing much, but not all, of its baby-talk quality.“Too?”The raspy voice replied, “Do you mean, ‘two’ as in the number two? Or ‘too’

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1601284734522647742009-05-06T07:40:00.000-07:002009-05-06T07:45:23.047-07:00

"Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen.""What?" Keeling asked Cementhands, who was chanting the phrase over and over."Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen." Cementhands held up his fingers, indicating he was counting on them and Keeling would just have to wait until he was done."Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen." Cementhands paused, looking at his fingers,

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-40977246510063402522009-05-03T13:14:00.000-07:002009-05-03T13:19:12.883-07:00

Fifi LeFleur was fixated on a single knot.As La Petit Mort Deux sliced her way through the choppy waters of the Caribbean – only a day’s sail out of Curacao – he couldn’t take his eyes off of a single knot that he thought had been shabbily tied.The wind slapped at the twisted and frayed clump of hemp rope that secured a small section of the foresail to its yardarm. LeFleur seemed hypnotized by

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-46569571385030384632009-05-01T05:53:00.000-07:002009-05-01T06:00:17.553-07:00

"All right then, that's the plan," Cap'n Slappy said. "Anyone have any thoughts, suggestions, additions or dirty jokes?"The entire crew of the Boil looked around expectantly, but since they'd all been sailing together for some time now there had been no opportunity to learn any new dirty jokes, and the one about the pirate, the charwoman and the rabbi's duck, funny though it was, had lost a lot

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-60101248701295751862009-04-30T05:52:00.000-07:002009-04-30T06:20:10.656-07:00

“It’s Purple!”Wellington Peddicord’s temper was growing despite the fact that he was employing his storied two-pronged approach to anger management; deep slow breathing and imagining his Happy Place.“And I say it’s Violet!”Leftenant Keeling responded to rising tension as he always had, with icy self-assurance.“PURPLE!”“VIOLET!”“Please.” Cementhands McCormack interrupted as he stepped between the

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-43096993921519194552009-04-21T05:51:00.000-07:002009-04-21T05:53:43.000-07:00

The knife sped through the air so fast that its end-over-end trajectory was a blur, hitting the wood point first and burying itself an inch deep with a satisfying "THUNK! Whirrrr!" as the handle oscillated, expending the remaining energy from its flight not more than a couple of inches from Cementhands' right ear."Jumping Jesus Christ!!!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "What are you doing,

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-75822631759211516802009-04-16T07:02:00.000-07:002009-04-16T07:13:21.601-07:00

Ol’ Chumbucket and Cap’n Slappy stood at the taffrail and watched as an overly turbulent wake was the only connection they believed they still had to Kejsardömen av Sverige as they put the pillaging literally behind them.Young Spencer, clip-board in hand, and the even younger Gabriel approached as if they were taking an inventory of The Festering Boil to make sure she was still intact.Spencer

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-12377047909348975072009-04-14T05:15:00.000-07:002009-04-14T05:34:49.494-07:00

The door blew open – they almost always did after a blow from a five-foot long, three-inch thick iron bar wielded by the immense form of Cementhands McCormack."Everyone stand still, deliver the goods and we'll be on our way," Cementhands said as he followed the door into the ship's cabin. "No one needs to get hurt …""Except you if you take another step," said a voice from his side, as he felt the

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1788842088201710732009-04-12T09:00:00.000-07:002009-04-12T09:23:13.052-07:00

“BY THE SPLINTERS ON A LILY-LIVERED, LAND LUBBIN’, TOE-TAPPIN’ JEBUSITE of a PLANK-RIDER’S BOTTOM …!!!”Black Butch, the Dutchman and ship’s chef of The Festering Boil brought his enormous meat cleaver down with a satisfyingly squishy THUNK as he dismembered the eighth and final leg on what was, only a few minutes before, a perfectly harmless dead octopus. Still at the peak of distemper, he buried

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-67963230354628697092009-04-07T04:46:00.000-07:002009-04-07T04:51:38.372-07:00

"Ahoy the deck!" Two Patch shouted down from atop the main mast. "Here they come!"On the quarterdeck George the Greek and Ol' Chumbucket shifted their gaze from the opposing ship to the coast. The two longboats were putting off from the shoreline and making for the ships as if racing in a regatta. The boat headed toward the French ship had gotten the earlier start, but the boat rowing toward the

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-19189062137844204602009-04-05T19:55:00.000-07:002009-04-06T05:47:16.994-07:00

“I could use a little help.”Spencer gasped for breath as he strained against the oars pulling the longboat through the surf toward the beach. “I mean, seriously. I’m pulling for six and some of us aren’t as svelte as we used to be.”Facing the stern, he could see the look on Cap’n Slappy’s face which was, appropriately to the location, also stern. And he could feel the stare of Cementhands

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-10980302352749615332008-12-08T10:19:00.000-08:002008-12-08T10:27:15.757-08:00

It wasn't the Frenchman's ship that Two Patch had sighted, but a small Spanish merchantman The Boil overtook and relieved of its cargo of wine, silks and racy Italian novels just before nightfall.The next day they spotted another ship heading diagonally across their course, but after running it down they found it to be a local fishing boat. The Boil sent it on its way after buying its catch and

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-31844238069985974112008-11-19T06:12:00.000-08:002008-11-19T06:19:43.406-08:00

Bernard Jeffries gripped the heavy draperies that shielded the governor's boudoir from the unforgiving illumination of a bright Caribbean afternoon. Attired conservatively in the most expensive clothes, ten years out of date, he looked every inch the gentleman's gentleman. This was, of course, one of the many requirements for employment in the household staff to the right honorable Governor of

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-7594879803646151822008-10-31T05:38:00.000-07:002008-10-31T05:47:31.218-07:00

“What the hell is this?” Cap’n Slappy shouted as he stormed out of the captain’s private head, one hand clutching his unfastened trousers and the other waving the copy of Pirattitude Monthly over his head.“Hamnquist is dead!” the captain shouted. “This is crazy! He couldn’t possibly be in a Curacao jail!”Ol’ Chumbucket and Peddicord came sliding down the ratlines, joining a growing group of

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-46120137327167730562008-10-14T05:53:00.001-07:002008-10-14T06:01:07.352-07:00

Dawn aboard Kejsardömen av Sverige, and Ensign Marck Ericsson was staring astern, trying to pierce the glare of the rising sun. His eyes narrowed and his hand shot out, finger pointing.“There!” he said, “Right there. Hull down, two points north of east!”The captain pulled out his telescope and stared long and hard at the horizon. He grunted. “You have good eyes, youngster,” he said. “Or I have

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-11750733233268648902008-08-09T18:24:00.000-07:002008-08-09T18:52:31.002-07:00

“Now let me get this straight.”Cap’n Slappy’s voice had the sharp staccato of an impatient man clarifying an improbably situation by slicing it up into bite-sized pieces with the knife edge of his elocution. He thumbed his way through the copious notes taken by his cabin boy, Gabriel, occasionally glancing over the top of the papers to verbally confirm the information he was reading.“You’re not

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-86988258045714406562008-07-14T13:01:00.000-07:002008-07-14T13:05:31.311-07:00

“Bring me them Frenchies!” roared Cap’n Slappy as he stared down from the deck of The Festering Boil to the captured ship, Le Petit Mort, which was tied up alongside.“I’m not sure there are any Frenchmen aboard,” said George the Greek, who’d overseen the capture. “There’s only a handful of men aboard, and they seem to be mostly English.“Nonsense,” said Slappy. “That’s Fifi Le Fleur’s ship, isn’t

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-75193630351959303882008-05-13T21:51:00.000-07:002008-05-13T21:57:17.193-07:00

As The Festering Boil closed in on the dread pirate Fifi Le Fleur’s La Petite Mort, a cluster of Boilers gathered behind Cap’n Slappy and Ol’ Chumbucket as they kept a careful watch on their intended prey. The two were peppered with questions from this impromptu peanut gallery that came fast and furious – like a desperate press conference with a world leader who had just done something of which

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0