Support The Missionary Position of the Flying Spaghetti Monster! Help Buy A Pirate Ship and Fight Global Warming!

It is the position of the newly consecrated religion of the Flying Spaghetti Monster that there is a scientific correlation between the obvious lack of classical, sea-going pirates under sail... and global warming.

In the interests of science and enlightened Pastafarian consciousness, all proceeds from the sales of the to-be-published Gospel According to the Flying Spaghetti Monster will go toward the purchase of a pirate ship. Said ship will help to reduce global warming by its very existence. It is a perfectly rational argument, if a little... circuitous. However, you can't argue with the mathematics: there is a direct and opposite correlation between the number of buccaneers and the hotting up of the environment.

As you know, my spiritual affiliation is C of E, but I do have a great deal of affinity for other schools of thought and belief. The dear Buddhists are lovely people, for example, quite peaceful and contemplative, yet with strong aesthetic values.

The Flying Spaghetti Monsterites, or the Pastafarians as they like to call themselves, are quite a bit more anarchic, but they are quite industrious and also very crafty. I am more than willing to lend them a little support (and also purchase the Gospel, since it appears to be tastefully done).

I wonder if there will be any Flying Spaghetti Monsteries, full of monkeys and nunsense?

Modern Pirate Adventuring!

So little news of note lately, my dears.

But here, at last, is a tale of a modern adventurer's search for the Pirates of Panama!

The Boat O' Biography Of Gus Openshaw Is Nearly Launched!1!!111!!!

MY DEARS!

News at last. Gus has finally gotten off his duff and written his most thrilling adventure to date. Well, actually, he's probably in the fourth or fifth revise of his memoirs of the thrilling adventures of his everso reality-based experiences last year, but the truly thrilling part is that it's to be published as an actual book.

I am so proud of the dear captain. I do hope that those of us loyal shipmates who hung on to hope and burnt incense and so forth might have a chance to meet Gus on his interminable book deal tour junket.

Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal AT LAST!

Simply THRILLING news. I shall have to alert dear snuggs as to the impending somethingess that is about to happen. And perhaps to refurbish our decent funereal wear in case Gus' dire warning comes true.

Ahoy, shipmates, Gus Openshaw here. Hope you all are still alive. I am, for now anyhow. (Yeah, I know, most of you probably guessed that given that I'm writing up this here blog entry now, but for those few of you who didn't, George...)

Reason I might buy it is I'll be going out to sea again soon. Big news on that (that's why there's a scrimshaw of my typewriter below (though truth be told I'll probably type on the computer)) soon.

In the meantime, can you guess what Jesus, me and President Hoover have got in common? If you guess right, there's a pile of scrimshaws in it for you. To submit your guess and/or get on my mailing list, send an e-mail to gusopenshaw@yahoo.com. So I guess the postman really has got nothing to do with either.

We had better issue a Call to Arms, Legs, and sundry other Limbs. All hands on deck (DRAT! PARDON! It's been so long).

Guests Coming Out of One's Orifices

With the decline in the pirate trade (everyone seems to have gone Temperance or some such) life has become very quiet here at the Grog Shoppe. During the touristic season the guests come and go and there's very little of note to report.

Howsomeever, we seem to be headed into a much more busy time, as the nice rugged Kiwi fellow's firm has contracted for rooms again for their madcap incentive contest or travelogue or whatever it is. However, I had the presence of mind to have my solicitors (Messrs. Obfusc and Wigtape, Esquires) look over the agreement this time, and I have the right to offer alternate accomodations to anyone for any reason.

Oddly enough, this year it's gaggles and gaggles of 'Merrikan families. My dim friend warned me of this, and I thought I knew the oddities of 'Merrikan family life tolerably well, but each new arrival (or rather, each new set of arrivals) would appear to offer new challenges. I have a guest list, but have no idea which family will arrive when.

The Black family was the first to arrive - that is their name, I mean no disrespect. They are lovely people, and the two young boys are very well-spoken and charming. They seemed quite, quite downcast at being the first to arrive and so I and my staff have done my best to find them interesting things to do and enjoy their rather forced vacation at my humble establishment.

All well and good, but the next family to arrive smelt of gunpowder and lamp oil, and the father did nothing to ingratiate himself further. He seemed to be casting blame all about except on himself for some reason. The young teenage son was quite comely, but I sensed trouble if any future guests should turn out to be teenage girls (which according to my guest list may be the case). So I not so reluctantly found them accomodations at a soulless modern hostelry out by the motorway.

The father had complained of the smallness of my rooms and of the scent of delicious tipples wafting up from the barroom, so off they went said I.

In other news, I've done a spot of housekeeping, and evicted a rather strange Japanese gentleman who seemed bent on running a business out of my very premises. The cheek! He has been summarily ejected.

Avast! A graciously happy Talk Like A Pyrate Day to all!

Arrr!

I do hope that all and sundry are enjoying themselves in whatever piratical pursuits as seem best to them.

With the possible exception, of course, of actually illegal booty looting from those less fortunate.

MONDAY'S LETTERS: 'Opus' Creator Expounds on Publishers' 'Acute Terror'

The answer to Ms. Bushkoff is that the palpable fear on the part of publishers is simply one of lost subscribers. Just one flame e-mail seems to wreak panic these days. As circulation declines, it has become an acute terror. It manifests itself directly in timidity. And since many desperately want to see comics as expendable (Ha! ), we're slapped down the fastest when we offend. That would be me.

This is new.

The irony is that the very thing that should be utilized to better stem the broken levee of newspaper circulation is spice and edge.

And that is exactly what so many publishers run from. Off the cliff, some of us suspect.

Berkeley Breathed
Breathed is the creator of "Opus," which is distributed by The Washington Post Writers Group

Pirate Jack : A Podcast Novel Podcast Info

Yes, yes, it's been quite slack on these premises of late. However there appears to be a new pirate adventure that's come over the horizon.

First of all, one must obtain one of these fangled Pod thingys. Or a computational device that can play music and suchlike from the Interweb.

Then after a certain amount of bother, one can download "podcasts" and listen to music gathered by other Pod thingy people (you can recognize them by the white wires, which are attached to their brains and cause them to be inattentive to others in the immejjit vicinity).

Then one can enjoy a young man's novel pirate adventure novel whilst listening to the pod thingy.

Evidently the author has gone to the bother of reading his story, chapter by chapter, so that one may listen at any such time convenient (rather not while driving a vehicle, however).

It is a very interesting idea. I wonder if Gus has thunk it yet.

The Pirates Of The Great Salt Lake

Yes, yes, she's back, more or less. The piratical news has been rather thinly spread of late. Howsome ever, this little item practically sat up and begged to be noticed:

With a scarf knotted around his head, a hoop dangling from his left ear and his eyes black with mascara, Kirby Heyborne stands at the edge of the Great Salt Lake clutching a wooden sword.
It's 90-plus degrees under a merciless sun. Salt from the lake's briny waters covers Heyborne's legs, and thousands of pesky brine flies swarm about his face. He has every right to be miserable.
"I've never had so much fun on a shoot," says the blond, boyish actor best known to Utahns for his comic roles in such LDS-themed movies as "The Singles Ward," "The R.M." and "Sons of Provo." "I go home every day thinking this is the best experience of my life."
Heyborne is making "Pirates of the Great Salt Lake," a low-budget comedy being filmed in 19 days this month with little-known actors and a leaky rowboat. Pirates in landlocked Utah? Aye, go ahead an' laugh, ye scurvy dogs! - Salt Lake Tribune - Pirates of the Great Salt Lake

My word, this sounds very unappealing, and most unfilmable. I should much rather see a movie version of the book wot Nelson wrote, or possibly a novelisation of the blog wot Gus wrote. This project sounds rather like a Young Twits On Parade production of dubious benefit to anyone.

I should doubt whether anyone prepared to swoon at the sight of Messers Depp and Bloom will be plonking down any cash to see a load of gawkishly awkward milk-mustachio'd gits prancing playing "let's dress up like pirates."

Sounds like a great deal of derivative rubbish, and no swear words either.

Actual Pensacolans Unaware of Pirates Still Lurking About

My dears, I present my most abject apologies. As you may have suspected, things have been a titch busy chez Blubridge.

Howsome-ever, I take virtual ostrich-quill pen in paw to advise that just this moment I spoke with real live Pensacolans, but alas! They were completely unaware of the existence of the first modern, major, general pirate novel set in their fair city, burg, village, and/or municipality.

They seemed like very nice, personable persons but I found the local accent rather impenetrable. Still, they meant well and seemed kindly enough, so I warned them of the presence of modern pirates still lurking about, and that they might find instruction, enlightenment, and amusement in that book wot Gus wrote. I do this in the spirit of community, fellowship, and the wish to crack on endlessly about piratical doings.

In other news of lurking pirates, I recently made note of the recent foray by Nelson into the realm of cookery. Unfortunately, due to the presence of heavy cream in the scallop dish, Mr. B. won't be able to enjoy it (or at least, not for long before having to visit the little buccaneers' room). And then I bethought me of that Western band of scurvy rogues, the Renaissance Privateer Dragons... and that their chieftain, Laktos the Intolerant, mought have a similar problem with the receipt also.

I wonder if simply omitting the cream would work? The remaining ingredients would make it a tomato-pesto sauce of a sort. Hmm.

Privateer Dragons of the Caribbean-Renaissance Faire Pirates

Good heavens!!! These are Nelson's long-lost relations! I do hope he makes contact with them. They have a page full of suggested titles for further reading about Pirates. Yes, even pirates read books, apparently. Who would have thought it?

They appear to be a sort of performance group that goes to Renaissance Faires.

I have emailed Nelson with a tiny suggestion. I do hope he doesn't take it amiss.

More Piratical Merchandise

It seems that pirates are not only fashionable and "hippy," they are lurking ev'rywhere. Now it seems that people who quite like pirates may buy pirate dollies to play with.

Be that as it may, here is quite a fearsome pirate dollie indeed - Edward Teach, "Blackbeard." And of course, he was a true son of jolly Bristol.

Always had a soft spot in my head for pirates, I have. For one thing, they are excellent customers so long as they have recently plundered a rich prize, for then paying the bar tab is no problem (and indeed, tips become the stuff of legend, owing to a tendency to largesse that is apparently in direct proportion to the acreage of barmaid's bosom on show).

Now, if this dollie shop ever does a series of the Muppets' Treasure Island movie, I shall be ever so chuffed, as an ancestress of mine has a cameo in that fine flick.

No, not Miss Piggy, silly gubbinses, another lady of the female pubkeeping persuasion.

Mistress Anne Bonny

Apparently the British Lib'ry is holding her captive. Must think on this.

Pirates & Fonts

Bother. It's ever so frustrating to find a nice piratical hand. Pardon! I meant a nice scripty sort of typeface that evokes piracy without actually committing it.

My New, Even More Brilliant Career

My dears, I have taken the plunge. I have decided to offer on sale a few items that may be of interest to the imbibing piratical community that favors this establishment with their custom.

Strictly as a lark, mind you. If there is sufficient demand (indeed, if there is ANY at all) I may add more items of interest to all and sundry.

As the community is a rather diverse one, I shall endeavour to provide a wide range of sizings should I decide to offer apparel. On review of the available products, I see that I shall be able to offer a "dog shirt," which is apparently popular in the former Colonies. Mr Carlisle and Sea Rover will no doubt be happy about that. Regrettably, there appear to be NO "bird shirts" or "cat shirts" or "whale shirts." Again, it appears to be some sort of sizeist prejudice on the part of the cafe pressers. There aren't even any "figment shirts" but we've always gotten around that particular obstacle by believing in them anyway, haven't we?

Still, for those of us somewhere in the middle there seems to be a reasonable selection.

I do hope you'll drop by and give my little swaggery a butcher's. I was thinking of some rather droll bons mot to put on other items of clothing and such. Mr B is quite enthusiastic about photographing your humble publicanatrice but I did have to put my foot down about the costume; I should think a single red rose is definitely what NOT to wear.

A Skiffy Movie Preview: Serenity May 5th

My dim but enthusiastic American friend advises me that one of those science-fictiony movies is coming out soon, and there's to be a double-secret sneaky preview on May the 10th in one of 10 American cities. The movie is called "Serenity" and of course it's about those nice people ("shiny," she called them) from a telly show called "Firefly" that was cancelled rather too soon a brace of years ago.

She made me watch it when I was visiting. I must say it was a compelling, even a ripping space yarn. I did quite like that nice but rather scary Captain Tightpants fellow... actually, I quite liked everything about it. She also tells me that the sneaky preview will be held in one of ten cities:

• Seattle


• Austin


• Sacramento


• Boston


• Altanta


• Chicago


• San Francisco


• Las Vegas


• Denver


• Portland (the tree one in the Far West)

The double-secret part is that one must be a member of a secret fanny organization (I beg your pardon) in order to get tickets and the locations and times for the sneaky previews. Interested persons may join via the link thingy.

Piracy Trend Still At High Tide

Apparently the Skiffy lot (the gentlemen responsible for much of the science fiction on 'Merrikan telly) will be flogging a pirate game next summer.

That is, they shall be marketing a game about pirates. No pirates were flogged in the making of this game (so far as is known, but anything's possible).

Happy Birthday, Mr Da V.

Now it can be told... it seems that this Da Vinci cove was somewhat smitten after our recent correspondence, though it's not a very good likeness. Still. I'll take it as drawn.

Dead Celebrity Soulmate Search

How thrilling! I got a n'instantaneous response to my personal advert:

Leonardo da Vinci responds...
"I really need to finish these sketches for my latest invention, and then start work on the mechanical lion statue that has been commissioned by the King, but your beauty and intelligence captivate me. Let us meet, and soon!"

I wonder if dear Leibniz is registered? He is spoken for, of course. But he is dead and moderately famous, so he fulfills the two main requirements.

Hmm. I expect Mr. B. might like the "ideal date" idea: disrobe and lie on a couch in the artist's studio and be immortalized in sculpture. That might be good for a few amusing snaps.

Whale Ho! in...New Joisey?

Dear animated scamp Bugs Bunny said it best: "I knoo I shudda taken that left toin at Albuquoiquee."

It's a fascinating language, American. So exotic, colorful, and bumptuous.

Gus Tops Gaiman

This is worth a chuckle - it seems that at least on this one list, dear literary Gus's whale-killing journal is ahead of some obscure science-fictioner writer's blog. Fellow name of Neil Gaiman. P'raps you've heard of him? Wrote a few books, comics, and the odd short story or two.

(actually, Mr. Gaiman's work is excellent and well, well worth the read).

W00t!

Now one wonders if dear Keith (and his ninja-powered inhaler) will go on n'any book tours to the provinces (of course, in place of Captain Gus, who is likely busy with things now that he's home and all).

Oooo-er! Pirate Fonts

Note to self: this font comes compleat with bottle of grog and Jolly Roger.

Arrgh Ya Free Saturday Night?

This looks like a lovely fashion item for the piratically inclined... except... that gentleman in the corner has a winkie! And the lady (roll the mouse thingy over the "mens" icon) has bosoms! Who knew that mens and womens were so explicit on the Interweb?

Well, that certainly cuts to the quickie. P'on my word, it does. I do think that nearly-dear Nelson might have had a hand in it.

(DRAT! After all this time, too. Pardon.)

Miz B's In Love

I fear I have fallen irrevokably in love. Mr. B will be ever so vexed. This is that rascally rogue Nelson's pet, who now has his own blog.

Yes, really. If you believe in daring sea captains blogging from durance extremely vile in Venezuelan jails smelling of insufficiently continent elephants, or modern day pirates living in extremely exotic tropical lairs, then you will also believe in a blogging dog.

After all, he's certainly not the first dogblogger, nor catblogger neither. But he is ever so engaging. Here he is after an adventure chasing catfish; he now knows the difference between the fishy sort of cat and the sort of cat that likes fishy.

Nelson, dear rogue, continues to regale us with yaaaarns about the Sugar Islands, which are definitely not The Grenadines though both island archipelagoes' economies are probably based on a certain syrupy sweet commodity.

It appears that Sea Rover favors a particular sort of cheese crisp; he even has a house brand according to the imagery shown on his fetching (Fetch! Fetch, Sea Rover!) blog.

As a continuing publican service, I shall display a copy of dear Gus' picaresque novel. I do wish to point out that this feature may occasionally be repeated, but it will most certainly not make it a re-publican service, as I have always voted the straight Labor ticket (though I've been having rather dark moods about that wet thicky Blair git for some years now).

OH! that reminds me. Speaking of Loooove, some more guests began appearing from all over the globe some weeks back. Almost all of them have been very nice people.

Just this morning, two very raffish chaps turned up just in their bathing costumes and the most gob-smackingly naff winter headgear I've ever laid me lamps on. Regardez:

Incredible as it may seem, the answer to your unspoken question is "Yes, they dressed themselves. Deliberately." It appears that the older brother bludgeoned a small mammal to death in order to fashion his chapeau. Was it perhaps...a marmot?


Coincidence? I think not.

But they are absolutely charming boys nevertheless. They seemed eager to renew their acquaintance with the blonde twinset - there are two pairs of attractive females currently in residence, and damme if I can tell all of them apart. They're all so much of a girlish muchness. Still and all, I think the one with the rather too-noticeable tailbone tattoo is... oh, bother. They all have names like "Courtney" and "Brittany" and "Buttercup" and "Kungalucia" in the States nowadays.

In any case, 'tis Spring and it appears Love (or its nearest modern equivalent) may possibly be In Bloom. And if so we shall have ever such a tactfully low-key tizzy over the rooming assignments in my nicer en suite accomodations, as the recently arrived darkly handsome Brothers may wish to enter into relations, diplomatic and otherwise, with the artificially blonde Not-Sisters.

Help Wanted: Vikings!

For any of Gus' former shipmates who are looking to make a career shift into a less dangerous line of work, the Midgard Historical Center is hiring Vikings.

In what is described as a "rare employment opportunity for Vikings," the center is hoping to hire some non-pillaging, non-looting, more friendly-like Vikings to interact with tourists, educate them in Viking ways, and most assuredly not inconvenience them in any way.

NOTE: it is a myth that Viking helmets had horns on. Thus, Vikings were not as horny as depicted in English monastic chronicles of the Middle Ages.

Piratical Icons

If anyone should be in need of pirate-themed art for iconography and so forth, that nice accordion-playing Canadian-Filipino Joey lad has made some.

Adorable Pirate Doggy!

Dear rapidly-redeeming-himself-in-the-eyes-of-all-shipmates Nelson! He has posted the first ever pirate home video. It reveals the interior of his current lair and shows a recent training session with his new doggy, Sea Rover.

Snuggs! It's time to do a little gardening! We shall have to make sure the Pet Enclosure and Exercise Garden is ready for this season's guests!

I do apologize for being so remiss; this Blogger interweb thingy has been a bit wonky of late and it completely gobbled up an extremely diverting tale of a few days ago, which left me completely vexed and flummoxed.

It was something or other about Nelson's recent forays into the world of literature and his BLARG and so forth.

Speaking of the world of literature, I have been getting ever so many chuckles out of dear captain Gus' novel wot he wrote with the assistance of his clever but rather weedy stooge, Keith.

I became quite excited that he had put rats in, but alas! they were no relation to sweet li'l num-nums Bob.

Still, it's the thought that counts. And so far there have been several incidents that bear a slight relationship to Gus' actual real-life adventures, but of course in order to avoid legal problems with the Venezuelan federalies, he has had to change much in order to conceal his identity.

But he has followed the cardinal rule: write what you know. Clever of him.

I have not yet finished perusing the oeuvre, so please do not mention any spoilers or I shall have to cut you off quite, QUITE ruthlessly. However, I've read enough to go on with the book club meeting. Is anybody still lurking about?

And surely it's time we start planning a little tequila mayhem between the dears Gus and Ken and Senor Rojo Caballero Wotzisname?

And I do assume the wedding is still on? Otherwise we shall have rather diffy conversation with the caterer's concerning the shower nosh.

Venezuelan Land Pirates

Apparently ownership documents dating back to 1830 count for nothing with those jumped-up Venezuelans; they have confiscated a British-owned ranch. I expect that Vermin rotter is at the back of it.

While I applaud the concept of giving fallow land to poor people, I deplore the concept of government-sanctioned land piracy.

And once again, these people have no fashion sense.

The Pirating News

It seems the late tragedy of the Asian tsunami cut back on the numbers of pirates in the Malacca Strait.

However, some pirates recently overpowered a... tugboat? and took some hostages.

Well, they have to start somewhere.

Shipped, Mates!

Such exciting news: the terribly nice and clever people at the publishers have decided to release dear captain Gus' book early from durance vile, or whatever it is they call literary limbo. I have been informed via my rather dim chum that I shall soon receive my copy of Pirates of Pensacola.

I suppose we had better get cracking around here and get that Book Club meeting scheduled. I wonder if the author (the true one) will be making any appearances? I suppose not, as Great Britain undoubtedly has extradition treaties with a number of inconveniently friendly former British colonies in the Caribbean.

Drat. However, it appears that my dim chum may be able to get her paws on a signed bookplate for me. We shall have to play spies and arrange a blind drop. It wouldn't do to have Nelson, or those bad hoodies that were after that Keith person know our home addresses. The information could be tortured out of them, and then we could receive many unsolicited pirate software and pharmaceutical emails.

I shouldn't mind so much about the unsolicited pirate emails so long as it was really about pirates and buccaneers and privateers and persons bearing a resemblance to either Johnny Depp or Errol Flynn offering to send one artistically posed photos.

No, that I shouldn't mind at all. But I do think it's a rather large temptation to put Nelson in charge of collecting everyone's addresses. For one thing, he might send out some of those "pix" of which he boasts. Still, I'd prefer Depp or Bloom or Flynn there, and no mistake. And for a n'other thing, he might show up on one's doorstep and expect unlimited drinkies and a free berth. And unless he were chaperoned by Flarq would not...

Well.

If Flarq were along, I suppose he'd keep Nelson in check and keep the very strange Nigerian banking chaps from getting the addresses. And we did wonder of Flarq might be interested in the position of "impressively well-built doorman with oiled muscles" that we've kept open here at the Shoppe for him.

There is not much else to report, my dears, except that things have been very quiet around here since those very loud, rude travelers left. The next batch began arriving a couple of weeks back and they've been quite delightful.

The first to arrive were two American gentlemen from somewhere deep in that part of the country where subtitles are apparently required for their countrymen to understand them. Dead useful, those subtitles. I can't think how it's done but yellow letters float in midair, translating every word and obscure countrified idiom they utter. And they are such nice blokes, and very handy with tools and mechanical things. They keep the McFinsters busy, what with the brothers handing them spanners and all. Pity the McFinsters can't really read a scrap, but they communicate by pantomime. Quite amusing, really; I've taken to sitting on the back terrace of an afternoon with a hot toddy as the mimery is ever so entertaining.

The next to arrive were two rather spectacular looking blonde ladies. They turned out to be surprisingly down to earth and friendly. They keep to themselves and seem to be either pining for absent friends, or contemplating yet another (!) tatoo.

Most recently, two very attractive and smart gels arrived, speaking fluent Spanish. Actually, they got in very late indeed and I had all but given up their rooms, but they called from a transport cafe about 3 hours away and explained they had taken a wrong turning. They seem to be newly-minted vegetarians; they requested meatless entrees but strike me as "newbies" when it comes to eating Green.

The two American gentlemen seem to be very happy for the company but are rather sweet and shy; for all that they seem quite solid and good-hearted souls. I have heard no dire warnings about screaming, blue-haired gentlemen but there has been a lot of talk about one young man whose machinations seem to rival those of the clever revolutionaries that threw out all that perfectly good tea in his home city of Boston many years ago in the late, late, late, late war.

In any case we seem to have a happy company of fellow travelers. And soon enough we shall be adding to the collection of tomes in the Gentlemen's Club Room (which also functions as a Library) with dear Gus' opus.

A Former Guest Comes Out Against Whale-Killing

My dears, I absolutely couldn't make this up if I used both hands, shut my eyes tightly, crouched down, and made a vigorous "pop-pop! pop-pop!" noise:

Avi: So when we got eliminated, the woman who took care of us - her name is Meredith Rabitzsky - or, actually, she has a new last name because she just got married, but she has a line production credit if you ever get to watch the credits as they flash by - but she took care of us. And I told her, 'There's one thing I want to do before I leave Iceland.' I said, 'I'd like to eat puffin.' And so the next day when we were basically lounging around, Joe and her went into town and they found a restaurant for me to eat puffin. And that gave birth to the sequester event, which is, Will Avi Eat It? And everywhere we went, there was something where the game was, Will Avi Eat It? And I still think the craziest stuff I ate was in Iceland. I did eat puffin, and although I am a true, true animal lover and a true, true environmentalist, I honestly thought there would never be another time I might be able to eat this, so I did try whale meat.

Interviewer: Oh, my.

Avi: And let me just say, and you can put it in print, they shouldn't be killing these creatures because they're sentient and they also really don't taste that good. Don't believe the hype.

Interviewer: [laughs]. It's not good on any level. Right?

Avi: No. It just goes to further show that there's just no reason to be killing these creatures. Really, I don't know what the Japanese are thinking.

There you have it: whale-killing is bad because they are sentient, thinking beings and also because they don't taste that good anyway.

The rest of this most delightful charming interview is on the site via the link thingy. I have a sneaking suspeeeecioun that the rugged New Zealander and his company will soon be sending some new guests our way. They may drop dark hints about "Sequesterville" or "Sequesteristan" but you may be sure that...

Oops. I should like to quote my favourite author (after Gus, of course):

"First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

With the exception of the dear Bard and our other legal friends, of course.

In any case - whale will not be on the menu here at the Shoppe.

What Kind of Pyrate Be Ye?

It's about ruddy time we got on board with yet another time-wasting Interweb thingy, the "psychological" poll.

In this case, it's spot-on as far as topic:


Yarr. Ye won't be taking no liberties with the female buccaneer. Truly a bastion of feminism, ye woman pirate will seize ye gold, cut off ye genitals and wear them as a necklace, all before her morning grog. Empowering. Yarrr.

You see, my dears? It even mentions grog. I couldn't be chuffier. Yarrr.

I liberated this excellent (and refreshingly short) poll off Rum and Monkey, but I originally read of it at the Cornjob Memorial Library, whilst wearing a clever disguise.

A most Nauticall Cove is Bilgemunky

Drat.

I suppose I shall have to be grateful to that raffish Nelson person for putting us all on to the delights of the clever pyrate-prymate Bilgemunky.

Such cheek. However, needs must. Ahem.

Thank you, Nelson.

And now that shall simply have to come off.

Original "Flay Otters" Inn Bought by Bristol Pub Owners

What wonderful news! Some lovely competitors of mine in the Bristol pub-owning wheeze have purchased the hotel in Torquay that was the inspiration for the postively brilliant
comedy "Fawlty Towers."

It's rather touchingly awful that there was a real-life equivalent of the reptilian and outrageously snobby Basil Fawlty. However, I'm quite terrified of the thought that the "nest of vipers" (his terrifying wife, Sybil) is or was running around on the loose. She was actually interviewed once, and defended her husband's memory vigorously. Reportedly, he was not "the neurotic eccentric that John Cleese made him out to be." It's really very amusing in its own right; one imagines a sharp-tongued Scottish tartar rising up and batting the interviewer with a tartan tea-cozy for his impertinence and correcting his pronunciation of "liqueur."

As per usual for legendary British comedies, there were a surprisingly small number of episodes - only 12. Each one of them opened with scenes of the hotel and the denizens, therein, ending with the sign in front of the property. For some reason, the letters on the sign were always askew, and always re-arranged in an anagram... as if some unlettered person had encountered them fallen in the grass and had stuck them back up on the sign in a tearing hurry. In at least one episode, a Horrible Childe of some sort is seen adjusting it, so it may have been meant to be a schoolboy prank aimed at a most incredibly easy and satisfying target.

Believe me, "Flay Otters" is one of the more inoffensive and least rude of the bunch. Just you consider the alternatives and you shall quickly come to the same conclusion.

In other news, as you may have noticed Mr. B and I have returned to dear old Bristol from our South Seas adventures. He has returned to his secret lair in the cellar and I am re-installed behind the bar, ready to serve patrons (and patronesses) their favorite tipple.

The mind boggles rather at the changes seen in the back garden - fortunately, the neighboring property is sadly neglected, but fortunately vacant and so there is plenty of room for expansion. I've just been down to the estate agents' to finalize matters.

My dear dim Merrikan friend has threatened to visit in future; must remember to book that month's holiday in Torremolinos as soon as I know the dates.

It's About Flippin' Time

It's a hard life in Paradise, my dears - my dim but well-meaning Merrrikan friend is futzing around (really most annoying of her) preparing to make something called "Mac Pancakes." This has something to do with a gentleman named Macadam or somesuch, but what a maker of road building materials hs to do with cooking I don't know.

The previous evening's meal was even more dubious - the gentlemen in the party eventually produced all the necessary combustibles to produce fire (after some discussion and fingerpointing about just who was responsible for reemembering to tell the men that the grille thingy required charcoal bricks and not a "whoosh" of natural gas} ((yes, it was my dear dim friend who forgot to mention this important fact at the time we were all at the local chandler's shoppe)). After triumphantly producing fire, and drinking some wine, eventually some rather delicious onion burgers were created, but all the participants absolutely refused to wash dishes aferwards owing to the fact that they had suffered mightily in standing around on rough ground getting choked by smoke and cooking by flashlight. So my dim friend did penance - and the dishes.

We are currently in a small village that follows the old Hawaii ways, but with some new twists - for example, on our first night here, we went to one of two (2) eateries that were reliably supposed to be open for business - one of them being an extremely pricy and exclusive hotel, and one of them a simple take-away window attached to a not-very-good second restaurant that's only fully open 4 days a week. This take-away window offered our best option, if we didn't want to get all smarted up to go to the toff spot. So there was a certain amount of whipping-in done at about 6:30pm, as the proprietor of our inn had mentioned that the take-away window closed at 7pm sharp.

After some dithering, we all made our way to the take-away place at a few minutes to 7 o'clock. We placed orders, but there was some confusion about just what we were getting, so my dear Mr Blubridge got back in line after realizing that he had just ordered a very small bowl of soup (he was expecting something more like the locals eat, a "plate lunch" which includes extra scoops of exotic foods such as rice and macarone en salade (I find it most intriguing that many foods in the States, or at least in old Mowee, are served by the scoop).

Alas, poor Mr Blubridge was denied - he was second in line when the tutu (an august personage approximately like an auntie, but with more personal mana, closed up the shutters with a "slap-bang and away you go!" leaving several hungry people in line and several more just arriving with desperate hope in their eyes that they had made it to the take-away in time. Many were sent away unfed, very much NOT like the multitudes after the miracle of the loaves and fishes, as we heard in the lovely island service I attended last Sunday.

Fortunately, the rest of us had ordered a bit more food than we could eat, so there was plenty to share around. Unfortunately, the soup was vile, the chicken was a leathery little beast, the rice was quite, quite gummy, and the macarone en salade was chalky. The soup was much improved with the addition of a little hot water (really, I've tasted seawater - quite recently - that was less salty ).

It appears that my dim friend is actually about to start cooking brekkers (about flippin' time - pardon! A most apropos commentary on the tardiness of pancakery, however) so I shall sign off for now, my dears, and supervise the flippantry.

Hunting Treasure in Heaven

It certainly appears to be heaven here. Our whale friends are not much in evidence today but we have found other pursuits; namely, the pursuit of buried treasure!

Treasure! Yes, we have found a few troves, following clews left by other treasure hunters. Sadly, our "find" rate is about 50%, but we were successful in finding one little hoard that contained a small traveling bear who wishes to be taken to new and exotic places. So far we've taken him out to dinner and photographed him in situ, as it were. At some point we shall find a suitable place to drop him off to continue his journeys.

Speaking of journeys, our traveling guests have all checked out of the Shoppe. I was not present for the denouement, but I'm reliably told that there were screams of horror and frustration right across the globe. With one glaring exception, all of the couples who arrived for a stay at the Grog Shoppe were lovely, lovely people, and even the exceptionals are getting professional counseling from a well-known busybody Agony Uncle who goes on telly to advise people that they're utter failures and don't they feel better about themselves now they know?

In any case, Mr. B and myself continue to be "on vaca" in Paradise for yet a few days more. We have not been successful in finding any more troves, but hope to find a few more today. We have taken the traveling bear to a few new locations but have not found any suitable treasure trove-places in which to leave him, as he is quite large and requires rather roomy accomodations, so we shall continue to look for a place for him. Our dim friends put us on to this hobby - lovely people, if a little slow to get moving in the mornings - so Mr. B and I shall probably embrace it enthusiastically on our return to Bristol.

It's ever so amusing to pretend one is a pyrate whilst hunting treasure - no wonder it's about to become so fashionable what with books coming out and movie sequels and games and whatnot.

The Whaling News

Having left the keys to the Shoppe in Sir (courtesy title) snugg's capable hands, I have decided to go on a fact-finding mission to learn more about whales in general and blubbery B. whales (Reformed) in particular.

It is a long and arduous journey from the environs of jolly old Bristol to the former whaling capital of old Mowee, but someone has to do it.

Mr Blubridge (who has not previously come into these chronicles) and I have joined some dear but rather dim friends in the Islands. We have observed whales in their watery ocean home and although they are not the same species as our dear somewhat new friend the blubbery B. whale of Gus' acquaintance, they exhibit some of the same behaviours.

I have also had the opportunity to observe a sub-species of Homo sapiens that might be taxonomically known as Homo sapiens australopacificanthus or "Southern Pacific Dude" and also Homo sapiens digme-babeliciencsis or "Dig Me Beach Babe." Regrettably, we Blubridges and our dim friends belong to the subspecies Homo sapiens prandialis tourodon, or " 'Where shall we have lunch?' Man."

I shall have to catch up to that rascal Nelson's doings, but of more pressing moment: where to have lunch?

However, be assured that nearly every day we see our new whale friends, though sadly not at very close counters. However, they are out there to be found and if possible I shall attempt to show images of them doing such things as whales are wont to do in these waters.

Tomorrow we shall be in the old whaling town of Lahaina, where many scurvy dogs and faux-piratical types make their living attempting to sell activities and condominiums (condominia?) to unsuspecting Tourodons (however they rarely succeed as the Tourodons are always in search of things like lunch and sunscreen). It's my belief that Nelson once sailed out of these waters, so I shall be looking for evidence and interviewing such wharf-rats that may be found down by the harbor.

Laugh An' Be Thankfu'

It seems as good a time as any to take the advice of an excellent drinking song:

LAUGH AN' BE THANKFU'.

COME sit down, my cronies, and gie us your crack,
Let the win' tak the care o' this worl' on its back;
The langer we sit here and drink, the merrier will we get-.
We've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.

Then bring us a tankard o' nappy guid ale,
To cheer up our hearts, and enliven our tale;
Till the house be rinnin' roun' about, its time enough to flit-
We've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet.

May the taxes come aff, that the drink may be cheap,
And the yill be as plentiful as 'gin it were a spate;
May the enemies o' liberty ere lang get a kick
They've aye gott'nt hitherto, and sae shall they yet.

Now, God bless the Queen, an' aye prosper her days,
For I'm sure that Her Majesty has baith meat an' claes;
And lang on the throne o' her faithers may she sit-
They've aye been provided for, and sae will they yet.

Then push round the jorum, an' tak aff your dram,
An' laugh an' be thankfu' as lang as ye can-
For seed-time and harvest ye ever shall get,
When ye fell ye aye got up again, and sae will ye yet.

Nelson's Blathering in his own BLARG

MY DEARS!

I could not apologize more profusely than if I fell to the floor and commenced to perform the Wiggly Worm dance. As in:

I sir, am a wiggly worm, sir. A wiggly worm, sir, is the most utterly utterly lowest form of life, sir.

The dance is performed by wriggling about on the floor in an abased and ingratiating manner, with much helpless flailing about and waving of limbs in the air.

I have been remiss. So now I must again be reMrs., and offer such opinions as may occur to me from time to time on matters piratical (meaning Gus, the book wot he wrote, and now Nelson's blarg) and parenthetical (meaning absolutely everything else).

And now I really must ask dear Q. Sybill if she may give us a date for the bridal shower. I do hope she doesn't mind if a Jackoozie is substituted for the usual waterworks.

Battlestations

I have just received a communication from the rugged New Zealander's firm that our next guests are due to arrive any moment. Such a to-do. It's ever so wonderful and exciting, although our current guests are not so much excited as appalled by the prospect of being cooped up for several weeks more with the imminent arrivals. On the one hand (deario!) they're happy he's arriving, and on the other hand (alas!) they're apprehensive. So they've requested a sort of wake be held in the Gentlemen's Card Room for the end of the pleasant part of their stay. They're in there now, drinking quietly and telling each other tales of derring-do, great deeds, and fine beverages consumed.

The mask and strait-jacket are all ready for the gentleman, and I've been asked to have the local quack stop by and see to a few minor injuries the lady suffered during the course of her trip.

Some of them are rather troubling.

I shall put her in the rather frou-frou front bedroom... the one with the stout lock on the door. Her companion shall be found a place in one of the old attic rooms, or perhaps I'll claim we're overbooked and send him down to Dirty Dick's Last Resort (it's a rather raffish place run by a complete prat who spends far too much time vacationing in Florida).

As a special favour to some of the employees of said firm, I've been asked to remove all hatracks and mirrors from the premises. They seem to find this request rather amusing, but if it makes them happy, I'm quite willing to comply.

However, this will make putting on a bit of rouge and powder a decidedly approximate activity.

There they are, the dears. I do wonder about that tennis-playing man with a colander on his head, howsomeever. And it appears that Bob's hospital bed of cheese-enhanced recuperation did not make the final cut.

Ay, me, for the good old days...

No, no, I'll be all right. It's always a bit sad when things change, but on the other hand (BOTHERATION!) things are ever so different now for Gus.

And different is so close to difficult, is it not?

Replicant Rats (Note To Self: Check On Bob)

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Rat cells grown onto microscopic silicon chips worked as tiny robots, perhaps a first step toward a self-assembling device, researchers working in the United States reported on Sunday.

Oh, dear! I do hope Bob is not a candidate for this program! I shall have to have dear Sir Snuggs (courtesy sex change) to verify that Bob has not been contacted by shadowy persons of sketchy background (not the sketchy scrimshaw sort either) who represent research labs.

Botheration, Bugs, and Book Tours

This can't be a happy situation. I do hope it's temporary.

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Drat, just when I was about to find out whether Gus shall be coming to Bristol or London for his book tour. I suppose I'll have to see about making the journey to some wild West, rip roaring 'Merrikan town, such as Toledo perhaps.

The Inauguration (Not THAT One)

Such THRILLING news! Gus is to be elevated to authority; he has somehow found the time to collaborate with Nelson on a book about his (Nelson's) scandalous relations. Apparently the Cookes aren't dimestore pirates after all. And it is to be published, with actual covers on high quality paper. However, such a shame they can't take a writing credit owing to the unfortunate likelihood that they would be thrown in the pokey for profiting from (alleged, never proven) crime. And it's so heart-warming to see Gus reach out and grab for his future with both hands.

Therefore, the inaugural meeting of the Piratical Ladies' & Auxiliary Book Club shall be 1 April, 2005 at the Grog Shoppe, High Street, Bristol at 4pm. Refreshments will be served. Afterwards, members may like to partake of Harpoon Happy Hour, where in honour of the esteemed author of our little club's first selection, F.O.G. Cutters shall be served.

All ladies are eligible for membership. Gentlemen may join as auxiliary members only and must have a high tolerance for cats, tea, gossip, and ladies who get their knickers in a bunch over a wee rat. Any auxiliary-grade McFinsters will be given probationary status for the nonce until we see how they get on with their Big Book o' Words in grade 4 this term.

Please secure a copy of the book in advance from Amazon before the meeting. We British may purchase our copies here.



Pirates of Pensacola
by Keith Thomson (evidently that stooge person - Moe?)

Hardcover: 320 pages
Publisher: Thomas Dunne Books (April 1, 2005)
ISBN: 0312334990
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"Lubbers beware, thar be a thrilling new comic voice asea. The wind at his back, Keith Thomson has created a powerfully funny novel. Stocked to the quarterdeck with characters at once hilariously inconceivable and sweetly heartwarming, Pirates of Pensacola simultaneously thrills and endears itself with every explosively charged page. A delight to set sail with."
- Richard Rushfield, author of On Spec

"Set in modern times, Pirates of Pensacola follows our poor, nebbishy accountant hero into a life of waterlogged crime on the high seas. Best emerging comic novelist for a good long while, with touches of classic Rafael Sabatini and the most imaginative Hiaasen."
- Jeff Danziger, political cartoonist and author of Rising Like the Tucson

"A swashbuckling parody, Pirates of Pensacola is a fine breezy read, filled with laugh-out-loud scenes and some high seas drama. Who wouldn't crave the pirate lifestyle? You get to rob, cheat, carouse, brawl, drink, chase wenches and then rob some more, carouse some more...what a life! How about cutting these rogues some slack instead of a noose? To this book, I give my favorite mock-pirate toast: 'Bottoms up, shot glasses and lasses!'"
- Richard Zacks, best-selling author of The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd

*(I do hope this isn't one of dear Gus' little pranks.)
**(Sadly, this is nothing to do with boats. Ships. Drat.)
***(Surely this can be improved upon, ladies.)
****(Rubbish. It took ever so long to add the scrimshop!)

Wheeeeaugh. Good job I don't do this web thingy wheeze for a living. In any case, well done Gus!

Guests Doing The Limbo

More slightly distressed guests finally arrived the other night. Yes, yes, yes, they also warned me of the blue-haired man, who is apparently of questionable parentage as well as having dubious style sense.

But these people are lovely; the nicest pair yet. They're a father and daughter. She has the most striking eyes I've ever seen, and he seems to be an expert at games of skill and accuracy (not so on chancy games, though).

He is also something of a connoseur gourmand when it comes to spicy foods and fine brews and the conversations in the residents' saloon bar have been highly edifying.

But it all comes back to blood-thirsty tales of their erstwhile boon companions and the outrages committed by the mysterious loud person that was also traveling with them. For some reason, they all desperately hope this "git" (pardon) actually does arrive here very soon rather than ruin everything for the remainder that are still on the trip.

Fortunately, that Silent Lamb moving-pictures prop mask arrived, and one of the McFinsters dragged in a slightly used strait-jacket and left it as an apology-offering (which is the opposite of a thank-offering, as you might suspect). He had ever such a sheepish grin, so I suspect there's more to the story of that jacket than was made quite clear. He is such a wooly-pated simpleton, there's no getting a straight story out of him (or a strait one, for that matter).

Of course! that's what we shall have for Sunday dinner! Mutton!

I'd best make sure that it's acceptable to the one New Yorker. He and his friend have cut quite a dash singing at impromptu Karaoke nights - he puts that horrid old pub crooner we had in last month to shame. They also organized a limbo contest with the Tortolan pan orchestra, who are yet to finalize the date of the Big Booze-Up (which may be called on account of reign, if Queen Sybil decides on an earlier wedding date).

Sybil Comes Out Of Her S(h)ell

Our gallant captain Gus feared he was about to get a "Dear Gus" speech delivered in person as he was speaking with Queen Sybil about their future together:

She grinned. She’d been playing with me. The little bastard.

“How are the bars in Oakland?” she asked.

“I’ll take you to every one of them. But you have to promise me you’ll do something for Stupid George first.”

She bristled. “What?”

“Marry his captain.”

I detached a washer from the elbow joint of the new arm and offered it to her.

SIR (courtesy gender) SNUGGS! We're going to need a lot of white French lace hankies, and we'd best convene a n'emergency executive planning session of the Ladies' Embroidery Circle & Terrorist Society. A wedding is in the offing.

If dear practical Gus is able to get his Queen (17 master bedrooms) to the altar and properly married, they really shall be in need of the rest of their lives, as putting on a royal wedding is an exhaustive process. And a royal Conchan (beachfront access) wedding, even one immediately prior to a very large "For Sale" sign going up across the island, will be the social event of the season. I expect the palace will be entirely swathed in white tulle, as Her Majesty the Queen (all modern cons.)'s previous marital adventure was such a rushed affair at sea. And now she's going from a somewhat morganatic marriage to a common rogue, to a Gus-omatic one with a rogueish commoner. So very romantic.

I wonder if that daft artist chap Christo is available to do the bannery, signage and swathing? Perhaps he'd give them a discount rate.

And then, of course, it's that old problem of a mixed marriage, but it's been established that dear Queen Sybil, Protector of the Fluke (ballroom, State banqueting hall, 3 dining rooms, 3 reception rooms, private Whalish chapel) is quite Reform-minded.

Fortunately, all the sprucing up, refurbishing, remodeling, and clearing out that must be done for the wedding will make getting Conch (professionally landscaped grounds and public garden fete space available for day rental) a marketable property that much easier, once Sybil (location, location location) becomes Mrs. Overshaw (FSBO). Or perhaps they should consider signing the entire island up for that new home-makeover show, "Curb Your Appeal."

I should like to offer my modest establishment for a shower and act as hostess, with dear snuggs acting as my second - I know that's more properly a duelling term, but this means war (in the matrimonial sense). We must batten down the hatches and woman the gun ports to ensure a nice time is had by all and sundry. And invite everybody that we are reasonably certain is female, or presents an acceptable approximation of same.

If the dear Bride-elect is agreeable then it shall be an affair to remember.

I'm afraid that means no McFinsters, snuggs. Their attendance would be simply disastrous. However, a select allsorts of our dear male chums might be amusing company, and is terribly modern, and Leibniz might like to wear his old wig for giggles.

I wonder how Dead-Sexy Leibniz, Sexy Ken, and Adult Ed R will feel about wearing drag to the hen party? It's either that or the Subservient Chicken again for entertainment.

Note to self: must do something about that leaky faucet in the first floor gents'.