A Pirate's Tale

I'm posting this here because it is absolutely my favorite pirate joke. You might wonder if perhaps I've added a little bit to it, for dramatic effect. You might indeed.

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A sailor is sitting in a bar pounding down the boiler-makers when he notices a really old pirate sitting next to him, nursing a flagon of grog. They start chatting about the olden days, and the pirate recounts some of his many adventures on the high seas.

The sailor notices that the pirate has a peg-leg, a hook, and an eyepatch, and feeling bold, decides to ask about them. “How'd you lose the leg, old-timer?”

“Arrrgghh,” says the pirate, reflecting, “'twere a terrrrible storm. The ship, the Mary Widderwaltz she were, was plowin' on through waves higher than her mizzenmast. Pitchin' and a-corkscrewin' she was, a-droppin' like a stone then a-tossin' high up ta heaven again. There were a pair o' British heavy frigates hard after us, so we had ta keep our headin' whatever the blow. Well, I was up on deck on some damnfool errand or another, and a sudden squall tips me right inta the drink. The bosun throws me a line and I grabs it as soon as I hits the water. They can't spare a hand from the deck or aloft ta haul me aboard, and as God is my witness, I'm two hours in the sea, dragged along like a runnin' log line. Well at last, just afore noon it were, the skies clear and they starts ta haul me in. 'Odds finger! I ain't but two fathoms from the ship when a great bloody shark swims up ta see what's fer dinner, gets a sniff o' me, and takes off me left leg in one quick bite! The boys hauled me up and out before he could come back for seconds, but his firsts was enough ta get me this fine ivory peg.” He tapped the peg on the ground a couple of times and grinned.

“Merciful heavens!” says the sailor. “And what about the hook?”

“Ah, the hook, eh? That were a fierce battle. Aboard the old Diana Hunger, we was, takin' a fat Dutch merchant ship. We was just hove up alongside and about ta board 'er when she drops her flag, sends up the Union Jack, and runs out a dozen 18-pounders on each side. She no sooner sweeps our main deck with a port-side volley o' grape-shot and chain then up pops a couple squadrons o' Royal Marines. They leaps for our main chains and suddenly I'm alone on the poop, sword in hand, with three or four lobsterbacks tryin' ta carve me up like a Christmas goose!

“Fierce! Did I say fierce? It were infernal hot on that deck. Chain and grape and cannister is everywhere, buzzin' like them moskeeters in Hayti, and shrouds and stays are snappin' and lashin' down at us like the Devil's own cat on some Punishment Sunday in Hades. Below decks them 18-pound balls are smashin' at our timbers and it's the boomin' of our own guns givin' 'em what-fer, with the smoke so thick y'can hardly see the man what's tryin' ta run ya through.”

“My gosh,” (or something to that effect) said the sailor. “What happened?”

“Well, I manage ta poke one of 'em good -- right where he sits on! -- and doesn't he fall over a-bawlin' fer his momma! I gives his friend a push and knocks his head against the mizzen boom and down he goes. Before I can turn ta the third one, slash comes his blade and there goes me right hand, cutlass and all, flyin' over the rail and inta the briney. I'm a-standin' there, wonderin' if I'll have me own hand again if I gets ta Heaven, and thinkin' I'm t' be findin' out right soon enough, when up swarms Fat Sully the cook and Splinter-nose Jim the ship's carpenter. They've got 'em a sweep each from the captain's gig and they're swingin' 'em and screamin' like savages. They knocks the other marines bang over the rail and inta the middle o' next week, and then go a-roarin' off ta clear the main deck.

“When I wake up in the cable-tier it's three days later, and the surgeon is a-showin' off my right arm ta the captain, crowin' about what a neat bit o' sewin' he done, and won't I have a fine stump ta fit a sharp and shiny hook onta, once we gets inta port. And sure enough, three months later, we're in some Spanish seaside town, and I finds me a blacksmith to make this cruel beauty. She's a fine one, ain't she?”

“Sure is,” says the sailor admiringly. “And the eye-patch? What about that? Was that another big adventure?”

“Naahh...,” says the pirate, suddenly abashed, “'tweren't much of anythin' really. A seagull...,” he mumbled.

“A seagull? How could a seagull...?”

“He pooped in me eye, damn ye!”

“Seagull poop? You lost your eye from a little bit of seagull poop?” The sailor can't believe it.

“Aarrgh, yeah, well,” stammers the pirate, “Well, dontcha y'see, lad?... 'twere me first day with the hook!”

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Don't forget that International Talk Like A Pirate Day is coming up September 19. And tell 'em that it were Iron Harry Flint sent ye.

My friend Seth and a Mystery

My old buddy Seth wants you to call him “Austin.” No that's not the mystery, it's just his thing. The mystery is Blood and Bone — one of his Hannibal Jones novels. Hannibal Jones is a private detective in the classic mode, a self-styled “trouble-shooter” and... well, let “Austin” himself explain it. He's just put up a completely shameless video of himself at Youtube, plugging Blood and Bone. You should immediately go to http://www.youtube.com/ascamacho1 and see it for yourself. And then, of course, you should buy the book. It's a good read, with plenty of suspense, and a whole lot o' that surprise-ending stuff. Hannibal is a pretty tough cookie, you know the kind — a man who, as someone once said, “won't cop out, when there's danger all about.” He (Austin, not Hannibal) has asked me to help him “go viral” by sending a note about his new video to everyone on my mailing list, and asking them to do likewise. But as someone who has been crusading against internet chain-letters since before modern spam was invented, I can't do that. But I can plug him here, at my blog, which you are reading right now, unless you've already jumped the gun and gone to http://www.youtube.com/ascamacho1, in which case you haven't read this far yet. No, that's fine. I'll just hang around until you get back. Hmmm.... hmmm.... uh... look, I'll stop back in later, okay.

NY Times: "Hey, Rain is Wet!"

Apparently, the New York Times, sometimes referred to as "America's newspaper of record," never had any reporters out on the streets at either of Bush's inaugurations, or at any other rally or parade or appearance that the President has ever held. Which must be why they've just discovered what the rest of us have known for years:

Squelching the Citizenry’s Back Talk New York Times Editorial Published: August 25, 2007 The White House certainly has been guilty of mismanagement and lack of preparation on the big things, like the Iraq war and Hurricane Katrina. But it turns out that President Bush’s encounters with ordinary Americans have been micromanaged and laboriously controlled for the past five years to weed out the merest whiff of protest. Citizen volunteers are enlisted to vet cranky-looking sorts outside the event, and “rally squads” of zealots are prompted to pounce on anyone who manages to slip through with an outspoken thought or an unscripted word. “Do not fall into their trap!” warns the presidential manual in hypothesizing that protesters really want to be physically restrained and attract media notice, not merely exercise their right to complain. Instead, the roaming squads’ task is to use their own “signs and banners as shields between the demonstrators and the main press platform.” Noisy protest? The rally squads’ response must be immediate choruses of “USA! USA!” to muffle the moment with patriotic chaff. These vigilante squads are out of place in a democracy. The chamois-tight precautions of the White House’s presidential visit manual surfaced in The Washington Post because of a First Amendment lawsuit involving two people who refused to cover up the message of their T-shirts at a Fourth of July presidential event. “Regime change begins at home,” was the familiar shirt message of one protestor who was handcuffed and taken to jail. The manual magnanimously advises local police to tolerate dissenters — providing they are barred from the event through an ultra-loyalist ticketing process and then cordoned well off from earshot and sight of the president and his passing motorcade. Every White House stage-manages presidential events, but this level of obsession with silencing the vox pop is a symptom of this administration’s broader problem honoring Americans’ constitutional freedoms.

Fortunately, the Times does pay someone to sit at a desk each day and read the Washington Post. Good job, guys!

Everybody sing!

Oh, Blinding Light!
(8,6,8,6)

Oh Blinding Light! Oh Light That Blinds!
I cannot, cannot see.
The Sun's behind the Moon's bright shine.
Who will look out for me?
Look out! Look out that space-hole tube
To see the Eye of God.
You know for sure He's watching you,
His only Lonely Child.

Helloooo, Dear Friends! You probably know the shorter version of this famous hymn from the Firesign Theatre's legendary Don't Crush That Dwarf. This longer version appears a few times in their more obscure collection Radio Banquet.

You can sing it to the tune of "Amazing Grace" — but only if you really want to.