tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78507462009-11-02T17:03:17.044-08:00An occasional blog by the guys who brought you International Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19th. Pat Kighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14187288533769750543noreply@blogger.comBlogger282125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-69731088352201592492009-11-02T17:02:00.000-08:002009-11-02T17:03:17.055-08:00

Chapter 36“It stinks in here.”Cap’n Slappy slowly turned his head toward Sawbones Burgess in a move not unlike a slow alligator about to take a bite out of an unsuspecting goat. But Slappy was too tired to snap.“Aye.” He replied accentuating the obvious. “A fetid dungeon wherein dozens of filthy pirates do naught but make more filth and wait for death … bound to be a bit on the ‘stinky’ side.”

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-65517803220845178072009-10-28T05:53:00.000-07:002009-10-28T06:05:59.085-07:00

A note from the authors – Yes, we're slugs, probably also terrible, terrible people. It's been two months since we wrote the last chapter, leaving Slappy and the crew right on the edge of the gallows! Unconscionable, we know. What can we say? Not much except sorry, and point out that it WAS Talk Like a Pirate Day, and we got busy, and then ... hmmmm. The sun got in our eyes? The ball took a bad

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-77346396780556852162009-08-25T05:07:00.000-07:002009-08-25T05:34:48.170-07:00

“Go on, Luc, he says! You take these last meals to la prison! And make sure you get ol’ Hamnquist to tell us where his treasure is hidden! – PWAH!” Luc Duvall spat as he pulled the cart of covered dinner trays across the cobblestone streets of Willemstad toward the gaol doing his most disrespectful impersonation of Fifi LeFleur. “Imbecile! He says – TO ME! Imbecile! I cannot cater the most

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-50181133751370832752009-08-24T15:00:00.000-07:002009-08-24T15:16:52.738-07:00

"Where could he be?" Mad Sally asked, not for the first time."I can go look again, if you think that would help, but he wasn't anywhere to be found between here and the jail the last two times I looked," her redheaded companion said.Sally gave a short shake of her head. She had sent Ensign Ericsson to find out about Hamnquist six hours ago. He should have been back – must have been back – long

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-31798705711000936002009-08-13T14:00:00.000-07:002009-08-13T14:23:26.755-07:00

“I can’t breathe!”“Did you say, ‘TIGHTER!’? I thought I heard you say – ‘TIGHTER!’”“Stop! I’m almost dead!”“So? ‘Almost’ isn’t actually ‘dead’ now, is it?”The ingénue at the dressing room door signaled for two of the contract painters to come hither for assistance. “Somebody is killing somebody in there.” She whispered in a breathless panic.The two painters listened at the door.“Sweet Neptune’s

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-23743217346897184122009-08-06T08:19:00.001-07:002009-08-06T08:24:53.251-07:00

“Now, how do I paint clouds?” Cap’n Slappy asked.Oscar breathed a sigh.“Sir, with all due respect, you don’t. I’ll paint the clouds. You’re a little – “ he thought of saying heavy handed, but decided against it – “a little too important for painting clouds.”“Then could I help Jim paint the interior walls of the library set?” Slappy asked. “All those book spines? I love making up obscene titles

Ol' Chumbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-48621426192071207592009-07-15T10:17:00.000-07:002009-07-15T10:19:04.572-07:00

“Where are you going, Uncle Fifi?”“I’m going to the theatre! If we are to make the cake for the Governor’s command performance of the opera, it would do us well to know what the story is.”Young Jacques continued mixing frosting. “But we’ve got the D’Agustino wedding and the Shapiro Bar Mitzvah to finish this afternoon!”“Sheet cakes and matzo balls! Simple! You and Luc have things under control.

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag: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.com0