“Arr,” growled Captain Blueballs as his ship, the Black Mama, crept slowly into cursed waters.
“These waters be cursed,” announced Blueballs gravely.
“But Cap’n,” asked Nonose. “Weren’t you the one who cursed them?”
“Makes no difference,” explained Blueballs. “I dropped me favorite soap in these waters years ago. They be cursed as far as I be concerned.”
“Arr, Captain.” His first mate, Matey, agreed.
“Arr. Uh… old chum,” replied the captain.
“Shiver me bilge snake, ye lily-wiper!” barked Blueballs to Leonard.
“Sorry Cap’n, didn’t understand a word you just said,” apologized Leonard, who was new to pirating.
Blueballs shot Leonard a disgusted glare.
“Keelhaul me gapers or you be Davey Jones’ bitch!”
“Nope, none of that either,” said Leonard.
“Alright then! Spivey, bring me Nemo’s parrot!” the captain demanded.
“Who’s Nemo?” inquired Leonard in a most unpirate-like phrasing.
“Nemo be the saltiest old dog ever did scourge these seas. Him be a pirate as true as there be. Too true, in fact. Nobody speaks pirate good enough to understand a word he says, we don’t even know his real name. We finally got a talkin’ parrot to translate for him just to figure why he kept shittin’ behind the powderkegs.”
And it was true, Nemo was a dog saltier than a bag of Frito-Lays. He had no conscience to speak of, and held onto no remorse for any of his salty deeds. Including eating the very last cookie from the pirates’ skull-shaped cookie jar.
“The parrot, Cap’n,” said Spivey, handing over the parrot.
“Arr, matey,” was the way Blueballs thanked him.
“Yes, Cap’n?” asked Matey.
“Nothing, nevermind.”
Captain Blueballs whispered something in the parrot’s ear.
“Braaa, the captain courteously requests a cigarette, braaak!”
“Captain, land ho! I mean ho’s on the land!” interrupted Stipple, shouting down rudely from the crow’s nest.
The men crowded around the starboard railing and spied two young women on the beach, half-dressed, looking desperate and delicious.
“I am Mable and this is my luscious sister, Heloise!” the first one, Mable, yelled shipward. “Our men left us here after the high seas drove them faggy!”
“Yes, Heloise!” agreed Heloise, waving coyly.
“Thank heavens you are here! We were afeared that pirates might come upon this isle and do terrible things to us,” explained Mable, either trying to guilt the pirates into good behavior or possibly bluff them into forgetting they were pirates for a minute.
“Yes! Awful, fornicatery things!” blurted out Heloise, sounding excited.
“Hmm. Me thinks we can find use for these girls,” insinuated Blueballs, salaciously.
Nemo grunted something nobody quite caught.
“Yessir, we can boil ‘em in a stew, boil in a stew,” repeated Nemo’s parrot.
Blueballs and Matey both scowled at Nemo in the most bewildered way possible. The captain shouted something about cod-liver oil and the towrope was lowered. Once the girls were onboard, Blueballs set them up in the captain’s quarters with jigsaw puzzles and frothy milk drinks.
“But Cap’n, ain’t this be the time for the rapin’ and the pillagin’?” asked Nonose.
“Nay,” announced Blueballs, striding atop a soapbox. “For we be the honorable kind of pirates! Or at least those which be sympathetic compared to the corruptest members of the royal navy. And that be not our way.”
“Oh,” responded Nonose, not remembering that part.
For more of this great story, buy Johan Sebastian Crackersnatch’s
Pirates of the Terrible Kind
A Fistful of Tannenbaum
Jed sat at his desk and lit another cigar. He laughed bitterly at the phallic smoking utensil. “These things are going to kill you one day, Jed.” “You’re damn right they will,” a voice said. It was not the cigar.
Some Fuck Stole Christmas
People awoke all a-clatter from their dreams of sugarplums and shit and found every single piece of valuable merchandise had been lifted during the night. Even the sentimental crap, homemade decorations and what, had disappeared without so much as a fingerprint. Detectives in the 9th precinct were shithouse.
The King of the Road (Part 3)
“Quiet!” shrieked Linux, spinning around with his throwing stars drawn. He always said the same thing whenever Munchen laughed, but this time it was for a different reason. He could hear the sound of stalking. The stalking of them.
How to Write a Contrived Novel
It’s not as hard as you might think. You see authors all the time who are struck by the muse, punched in the balls and thrown by the stairs by inspiration, and they come up with a brilliant can’t-miss idea people find genuinely interesting. We hate these people.