Marry Chris' Mass!

Here is a scrimshaw of Flarq's dear wee pet, Narq.

I expect his barq is worse than his byte, my poppets.

All the happy band of adventurers (and one or two bad hats) are spending the holidays on Conch celebrating the Feast of the Not-Havety, where the poor peoples of the world are given gifts and aid and frankincense and mirth. For the good Lord knows they need it. Also there is some Orthodox Whalish observance, but no one hereabouts could tell me anything about it, since the local British-Conchans are mostly Reform Whalish.

However, keeping Gus' holiday card in mind, it's probably something to do with downing rather a lot of Yule cheer and spouting all over the parlour. And that I will not have. Not the cheer, of course. NO one can spout properly through the top of their heads; it generally comes out the mouth and, less appetizingly, the nose. Thus, it's a rather insanitary and unhygienic rite.

Oh, I am in such a frenzy of cleaning and preparationing and propositioning of the Council to render a special License for a block party. The very nice Tortolan steel pan orchestra from Much Wittering-sur-le-Bank has offered to play for a celebration, and they're also offering to help with recipes. This promises to be a special treat; I only hope we can find enough spices and jerked goat.

Speaking of jerks, goats and otherwise, no new arrivals again this week. My current guests got very nostalgic this evening; they booked the Gentlemen's Lounge for the evening owing to the fact it's got a large-screen telly (thank goodness the license for THAT is paid up). I declared it non-smoking for the nonce, since the very pretty sisters had an aversion to tobacco. They all seemed to be having a grand time, except that there seemed to be some sort of problem with the volume control.

Every now and then they would simply chant "Shut up! Shut! Up! Shuttup! Shuttup! Shut...UP!" This was generally when either a loud not-so-young man with a rather feeble hold on reality and his place in it was on screen, or when an outwardly lovely, inwardly despicable young woman was complaining about the accomodations.

Well, she shall have nothing to complain about here should she darken the doors of my establishment. If the Tortolans decide to stay for a while (this party thingy may turn into a regular "giggle" for them)I shall put the prissy princess in the room next to them, as it appears she could use some cultural enrichment.

In any case, the plans for the party proceed apace. And there is plenty of kennel room in case Flarq should want to bring Narq, though of course the Pet Refreshment Garden is in winter mufti for the next few months and not at its best.

Sea or Career Change

The Skiffy channel reports:

Hollywood Seeks Pirates

About 7,000 pirate hopefuls answered a call for extras to appear in Disney's back-to-back Pirates of the Caribbean sequels, which are scheduled to start shooting in February and running into early 2006, Variety reported. Shooting will take place in Los Angeles and the Caribbean island of St. Vincent, the trade paper reported. "

There is probably time for Gus and Co. to make it to St. Vincent and sign up for an exciting career in the moving pictures. It does specify long hair and "thin builds," but I should think that salty seagoing authenticity, plus a well-honed harpoon aimed right at an A.D.'s innards would go far. After, all, some of them actually WERE pirates, and they've all had experience fighting them. As the casting call also specifies "serial-killer looks" their relative hairlessness (if you recall, Thesaurus and Flarq bring down the curve on the crew average, head-of-hairwise) ought to be less of a concern for the casting Johnnies.

Also there ought to be some consideration given Bob, who is now a highly trained maritime rat (and has his master's papers, on account of his breadfruit-crate solo voyage). Perhaps little Bob could even do amusing stunts or at least have a scurry-on part!

It's just a thought, noble Gus. Life has handed you a reprieve from your need for revenge and hatred of all things Blubbery, and since even Moses seems destined for a career as a motivational speaker at AA meetings, perhaps it's time to think about a career change in the new year. After all, it's an odd tide that lifts no boats.

My dears, what a perfectly wonderful holiday it was here at the Shoppe. My good Sir (brevet male) snuggs was in her element as she toddled around topping up drinks and tossing out drunks.

In the meantimes the Roast Beast Feast went over rather well, and everyone ate and drank most enthusiastically. We provided the classic groaning board, absolutely covered with dishes, sweetmeats, biscuits, fruits, Beast, and 'Merrikan style hotcakes and tree-sap (it's very odd that anyone would make such a wonderful sweet treat out of sap, but quite tasty). All and sundry were agreed that it was good to be able to gather together, and after a certain amount of boisterous roistering (complete with quite superior crackers) the old Shoppe was again relatively quiet (except for old Snuffy McFinster, a rather fragrant uncle who was left behind accidently on purpose due to an excess of V.S.O.P & B.O.)

It's a terrible shame to think that anyone might be cold or hungry or ill or suddenly homeless or bereaved at this season. So as we celebrate the end of the old year and the beginning of the new we could perhaps spare a thought for those less fortunate, as suddenly it seems there are rather a lot of them, the poor dears.

Emergency Shopping Expotition!

Once at sea, we meant to celebrate with wine or beer but instead celebrated with instant noodles. This was my fault: when I sent him to the canteen with our remaining funds, I’d told George to get wine or beer.

During this trip to Conch, sharing a cabin with her, I’ve been given even more reasons to love Sybil. Among others, I learned she doesn’t snore. When we get to Conch, we may get married and I may become king of Conch—we’ll have to see.

My first order of business is to ensure that Dickhead is restored to health. Flarq made a salve out of plants he found that'll protect the whale’s wounds from infection. Before he left, Moses also made medicine from some plants he found. After taking it, Dickhead seemed in much better spirits. He’s in a specially rigged-up harness now, being towed by our ship. As it happens, the whale hospital on Conch is the best in the world. My luck finally seems to have turned.

Dear God, I hope dear Gus has not jinxed the denouement!

In case he has not, the Mother of All Parties must be planned and shopped for, and that means an Expotition to various chandleries, such as Debauchery Depot, Booze-Ups 'R Us, and Roast Beast To Go.

Fortunately, at the moment there is still plenty of room to accomodate guests. For some odd reason, my long-expected new arrivals did not turn up last night. I am advised by the earlier guests that the next two might appear to be rather scary at first glance, but turn out to be of the teddy-bear/pussy-cat persuasion. However, there is some glitch in their travel plans, and now it seems that they will not arrive for at least two weeks! Whatever am I to do to entertain these people? Well, I shall send them off to view some interesting archeological sites; we have plenty of those in the area. Apparently there were some actual Amazonian women warriors attached to the Roman army; they tell me that the female half of the no-shows would probably have qualified for "warrior princess." And that the male half would qualify for "surprisingly good-looking once all pretense of ridiculous gym-rat clothing is removed, showing only extremely well defined back and ab muscles."

I shall have to see about that. I expect Sir (courtesy gendered) snuggs will now volunteer to oil him up.

Speaking of oiling up, I do hope Flarq is still interested in the "stand impressively by the door and bar idiots from entry" position.

Rather Like That Improbable Scene in "Dune"

I probably watch too much bad Merrikan skiffy on telly. But the thought of our intrepid band of brothers, Queen, Tortolans, and rat going for a horsey-ride on B's blubbery back and steering with themselves as living reins makes me smile.

Stick A Fork In 'Im, 'E's Done

After the second engine blew up, the Georgette remained afloat, barely. The blast cost the Tortolan sailors their consciousness and their rifles. By the time the smoke cleared, though, their boss, Verman, had regained his consciousness as well as a rifle. At the center of the deck amidships, he leveled the barrel at my head.

Dealer Dan, who’d been slammed into the port rail by the blast, could only watch out of puffy eyes from the deck. And my crewmen, rat and potential future wife were all still darbied in a row to the starboard rail.

“Give my best to Davy Jones,” Verman said, curling a manicured finger around the trigger.

Suddenly he fell over as if shot by a gun. In fact he was shot by a toaster, which had slid Duq’s way during the explosion.

I limped over and scooped up Verman’s rifle from the deck a few feet from where he lay. Fork protruding from his nose, he looked up in entreaty.

“Finish the bastard, Cap,” Nelson urged. The others chanted—and Bob squeaked—along the same lines.

I hesitated.

Mercy is a quality sadly lacking in our times. I have no doubt that Gus shall do the right thing, or that his hesitation will allow the right thing to take place. He follows a Code from a simpler time - and I don't know if he will agree to Mutherford's offer to use the Law to punish Verman for his crimes at last.

It would be better if Verman were to simply slither off the tilting deck like so much offal and go for shark chum, but that end is too good for him.

All those who Gus holds near and dear to him are now helplessly cuffed to the railing of a rapidly sinking ship, with no hope of rescue. Prospects dire - either drown, or be eaten by sharks.

Half a Rapier Wit Is Better Than None

Dear Queen Sybil blogs on Gus' behalf, as he has his hands (2) full duelling with Verman.

"With the sort of grin seen only in asylums, Verman gripped his rapier as if it were a lance, then launched himself at Gus' heart.

Just then the Georgette shook as if she'd been torpedoed. The whale had mustered what little energy remained in him and thrust his sixty-some-tons into the portside hull. The rail in turn knocked loose the elbow joint on Gus's prosthetic arm, sending the trash can lid clanging onto Verman's skull. Verman dropped like a domino and lay on the deck unconscious.

Gus looked over the rail, a mix of disbelief and profound gratitude. The crew and I readied a cheer.

At that moment the Georgette exploded -- George, that idiot's idiot, had put beans in the second engine as well -- the one with the fuel in it. "

Not only is Gus wounded and bleeding, but he is on a soon to be ex-seagoing craft yet again. I think now would be a good time for Dan to load everyone into his snappy Cigarette boat - everyone we care about, that is - and get Gus to the nearest medical facilities.

Of course, Dan may have other thoughts on the matter, since helping Gus may result in Dan getting thrown in the hoosegow.

Pity that Sybil is still not yet a merry widow. Perhaps we ought to take up a collection and contact Tony Bignose, who I believe has retired to the Caribbean after a colorful career making things fall off the backs of lorries.

I have been remiss of late, as I have been entertaining the refugees. We had a new arrival last night; a perfectly charming old couple of a rare and delicious vintage. I am persuaded that they might know a thing or two about California wines, and so while they are laying over I expect we shall have some nice chats about vineyards and foods and the interesting people they've encountered.

They, too warned me of the mysterious blue-haired man, who apparently screams constantly. Not a nice prospect, I assure you; so I have ordered a leather gag from a theatrical props company that supplied odds and ends for that frightening Silent Lambs movie with the fellow that liked snacking on people's livers. Also he shall not be allowed contact with anybody decent except for that one "cuddin" of snuggs'... we might ask him to teach this fellow some manners.

The Re-Armification Of Gus

Flarq, Thesaurus, Moses, and George cheered for Gus—even the rat seemed to jump up and down in exhortation—but their eyes belied their fears. Nelson and Duq wagered on the outcome of the duel, drawing the ire of Flarq. “How dare you be against the Cap?” Flarq asked Nelson.

“Of course I want the Cap to win,” Nelson said, “but whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen. Also, Duq gave me ridiculously good odds.”

Meanwhile, Gus gamely blocked several blows from Verman. Finally, he lunged himself. In defense, Verman swept Gus’s sword away with such speed that it gave the illusion his rapier was a second shield. The rasp of steel against steel stung the eardrums of all within leagues of the Georgette. Verman then sallied forth and shot his rapier anew. Hoisting his de facto shield, Gus managed to repel it with a resounding peal. Verman immediately sent his blade hissing forth in a blinding series of slashes from which no one but an expert could escape unblemished. With a groan Duq fished his wallet from his pants to pay Nelson.

{Shite! The battery on Gus’s computer is out of bars. I will recharge it and then continue…}

Shite indeed. Although Queen Sybill has a very disarming style, she has left us in media res. I do wish Dan could provide her with a marine battery or a n'AC adapter at this very tricky pass.

Poor Gus, he seems rather outmatched, but has given tit for tat, asking no quarter. What a pity he never had time or n'inclination for fencing lessons before now (but where a cat-food worker could come by them, I certainly don't know).

Solo Voce Di Balena

LONDON, England (Reuters) -- A lone whale, with a voice unlike any other, has been wandering the Pacific for the past 12 years, American marine biologists said Wednesday.

A Pacific whale - well, that's not blubbery Bruce. Still, it's very odd.

Fools' Charade

“You and what navy are going to stop us?” I asked Verman. Other than a ceremonial sword, he was unarmed.

“I and my Employee of the Year,” he replied with a nod towards Nelson. On cue, Nelson drew his pistol.


P.S. Note to other captains: You may not want to let traitorous former pirates among your crew have one of these:

Speaking of the Navy, it's about ruddy time that Knucz person showed up and earned his pay with his zingy dingy or zippy ship or what-you-will. It seems to me that Gus and the dear blubbery pod-revenging whale (no B., he) shall be as small fry in the U.S. Navy's sight(s). He's more interested in Verman and Dealer Dan. I do wonder what Mutherford (or as snuggs calls him, Mo-fritterford, was doing there. But I must say I am quite disappointed in Nelson. Quite, quite disappointed. Good job I'm impervious to that sort of nonsense. Still, it's a pity, as he's rather decorative.

Let this be a lesson to you, my dear gels, never to trust a bold rogue, no matter the twinkle in his eye or the glad (single) hand he offers in seeming chumship. And I do hope dear Sybil becomes a little less sulky soon. She should think of the benefits of widowhood and kick her bridegroom overboard.

However, should no one show up to effect a deus-ex-whaleboat rescue at the last possible second, Gus and his (loyal) crew will simply have to rescue themselves. I'm trying not to give Nelson any clews as to what I'm suggesting Gus might be able to do, but it's very frustrating that our dear captain is not as up on Broadway show tunes as he might be from famous musicals made from the works of Damon Runyon (I recommend the movie version with Frankie, Brando, and of course dear Stubby Kaye).

Perhaps I'd better resort to charades:

*mimes "song"
*mimes "14 words"
(crowd looks resigned but feigns interest as snuggs serves a free round for all)

*sits down*
*sits down*
*sits down again*
*sits down again*
*sits down yet again*

*points at patron in front row*
*mimes someone swaying to and fro whilst seated*
(someone shouts "You're having a wobbler!" and someone else shouts "No, you pissah! She's Whistler's Mum")

*shakes head, shakes hands "no, no, no, that's not right"
*sits and bends forward and backwards as if in pain*

(another patron shouts "you need more roughage" and "No more chili peppers, evah")
(a matron calls out "you're off your rocker, ye daft Betty - OO-er! Rocking!!)

*mimes "on the nosie"*
*repeats "sit down" and indicates "five"*
*points at crowd*

(crowd confused, then shouds "you")

*whilst sitting, rocks back and forth*

("Rocking!" they all shout. "You're rocking")

*mimes "on the nosie" again*
*mimes a sort of graceful dipping, swimming, floating motion*
*mimes an additional side to side rocking*

"OOO-ooo!" cried out the youngest McFinster "Get down, get down, you got the rockin' pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu!"

*mimes utter frustration, shaking head and indicating "cut, cut, cut"*
*mimes throwing out trash*

(youngest McFinster is summarily ejected)

*mimes "get it right this time, you nest of drink-addled vipers"*
*mimes sitting, indicates "5 times"

(crowd restless. Shouts of "Yes, yes, 'siddown' already.")

*mimes "on the nosie" rather triumphantly, with an air of approaching the finish line*
*mimes rocking"

(crowd chants "you're rocking" in a bored manner)

*mimes the mysterious floating movement, indicating a volume of space around her*

(a thin voice shouts from the back "whale on the beach" and is forcefully escorted out by snuggs)
*mimes paddling the mysterious dipping floating volume, rather angrily*

"I've GOT it," calls out one of the New Yorkers. "Is it 'I'd like to get you on a slow boat to China, all to myself, alone?'" "No, you schmuck, that's fifteen words. Siddown, you're rockin' the bench," said the other. "OOOOOOO!!!" the entire crowd murmurs, very nearly excitedly

*mimes a frenzied "more, more, nearly on the nosie, just a bit more"*

Chad bursts out singing "Luck, be a lady tonight!" to a large round of congratulatory applause.

*mimes "I give up, last call. Time, gentlemen, please" and stalks off to the snuggery, disgusted*

Well, really, I can't make it clearer than that, or Nelson will *whispers* sit down. Though I should very much like to know what the nature of Verman's arrangement with Nelson is. I expect he gets a good discount at the sporting houses, as well. Which would make an admirable distribution network, one supposes. For that Bolivian marching powder that seems to have been part of the story from the very beginning, as it turns out.

The Comeodownance Of Moses

“Let’s let the whale alone,” I said.

The men looked like they might lance me. For what it’s worth, the whale looked grateful.

“Cap, when you had your big realization you’ve been overly obsessed with vengeance before,” Nelson said, “no one wanted to say this and hassle your self-discovery buzz, but odds are pretty damn high Sybil’s flotsam. The sperm oil from out of this big old bastard here’s a bird in hand though—and selling it’ll make all we been through worth it ten times over.”

“It would be wrong,” I said.

Thesaurus asked, “Captain, is this not the bastard responsible for the deaths of your wife and son and the loss of your arm?”

“No,” I said, “Moses is.”

I don't recall there being a bombshell listed amongst the oddly assorted weapons of whale destruction, but bombshell there was. This startling revelation by Gus has all my patrons and matrons speckilatin' madly.

I do wonder about that drug-running cartel, now. Yes, and how odd it was that Dealer Dan had financed the S-1 and that a working prototype was on hand (apologies, dear Gus, I share Leibniz'unfortunate prediliction for off-hand comments).

It appears that Moses' mellow is about to be soundly harshed when Gus gets around to filling the rest of us in on his self-revelatory epiphany.

In other business, the latest guests/refugees arrived for their stopover early last week; thus we have 6 very nice people "in house;" the two sets of New Yorkers, and now a very nice pair of sisters. They also had some dietary restrictions, and also some beverage limitations, but I was able to provide them with some favorite comfort foods and non-alcoholic tipples.

Dreadful combinations, to be sure. It was difficult procuring lime gelatin dessert and marshmallows, but combining them with artificial, no-cow-involved "whipped topping" resulted in a dessert confection that will never replace trifle as far as I'm concerned. And they eat it with a sweet carbonated beverage named after some blight of a medical man with very odd ideas of when his beverage should be consumed. I do like 'Merrikans very much, and the sisters are very charming, but their taste in food and drink would soon put me into some form of diabetic distress.

They've warned me repeatedly to look out for the Blue Haired Man. I've already decided that should he turn up, I shall arrange for a nice farmstay for them, out in the country where they can't bother anyone. And the farmer might appreciate help getting his food and feed crops in.

The Mountain Comes To Moses

It was like a building was about to fall onto us. The crew collectively gasped. Including Bob the rat, who peeked out from Duq’s sack of pain-inflicting kitchen implements, where he’d been stowed away after being bypassed in the crew selection.

All of a sudden, Dickhead swerved, bypassing us. Could the sixty-some ton whale have been spooked by a miniscule rodent?

Nope. The bastard had bigger, wickeder plans. “He means to wreck the Georgette, leaving us with just this,” Flarq said, tapping the flimsy gunwale of the whaleboat, “so we have no refuge and he can take his sweet time killing us.”

Indeed, leaving us in his wake, Dickhead directed his monstrous snoot at the starboard hull of the Georgette. Moses stood there looking over the rail, his mouth hung open like a mailbox.

“Think he notices the whale?” Nelson asked.

I very much doubt it, but the mountain of water and whale-flesh coming to Moses will likely overwhelm the Georgette unless Moses is capable of thinking of something fast.

My dears, what with the 'Merrikan holidays and all, I have been remiss. Things go on much as they always have here at the Shoppe. My dear snuggs insists on rescuing every desperate stray and puir mite that she sees; only the other morning she brought in a rather adventurous-looking, elegantly dishevelled New Zealander and asked me, face uplifted and hopeful, "might I keep 'im?"

However, the wedding band on his hand and the cordial but firm letter from his firm's lawyers enabled me to convince her that perhaps we should let him get on with his travels and not adopt him. He parted from us quite amicably.

There was a potentially profitable outcome to the negotiations; I have secured a lodging contract from the New Zealander's firm for the next few weeks to shelter travelers who will be in transit, or more likely a form of travel limbo. The first party of New Yorkers have been joined by a second party, females this time, who will spend their time touring the sights.

They have engaged a car and driver for the duration of their stay, so I bespoke an old friend whose cousin, Monty, is quite reliable as a guide and travel companion. They'll have Monty for half-a-day 3 days a week, which seems reasonable, as the full Monty is quite expensive, although promising much more in the way of rugged scenery. They seem quite chummy with the gentlemen New Yorkers, in that friendly-rivalry sort of badinage that manifests in good natured joshes about incomprehensible things like rounders teams and exotic foods. Speaking of which, I shall have to order a few more things from the deli, as one gentlemen has specific dietary requirements. It is no problem to find such items, as Bristol is becoming quite cosmopolitan in the matters of cuisine. I am only thankful that I did not have to learn how to make bagels (or is it "beagels?") from scratch.

I have been warned to watch out for a not-so-young man with blue hair. I can see I shall have to swot up my potential guests so that cordial people are grouped together, and not-so-cordial people are farmed out to lesser establishments in the Bristol public house pecking order.

On second thought in re mountain, perhaps it was Mohammad? Never mind, then.

Gus Has Had British Relations!

Lord of the Rings author J.R.R. Tolkien's eight-bedroom house in Oxford, England, has been given protected status, Zap2it reported. The residence at 20 Northmoor Road, where Tolkien wrote the beloved fantasy books, has earned a Grade II listing, which means that any future alterations will have to respect the character of the building, and its preservation must be taken into account in any redevelopment, Britain's Heritage Minister, Andrew McIntosh, announced Nov. 23.

"Buildings are usually listed because of their fine architecture or unique design," McIntosh said in a statement. "But we can also give protection to buildings that have historical association with nationally important people or events. Professor Tolkien's house in Oxford is a fine example of this."

"Local architect Fred Openshaw built the house in 1924 for bookshop owner Basil Blackwell. Tolkien had initially lived at 22 Northmoor Road, but later moved his family to the now-protected abode next door in 1930, the site reported. The Tolkiens lived in the brick property, which was built for the county's leading academics at the time, until 1947." - Skiffy News

How very exiting, it appears that the house that the dear J.R.R. Tolkien lived in in Oxford was designed and built by someone who shares Gus' rather unusual surname.

And good heavens, Blackwell's is the finest bookshop in Oxford, so the house has a fine literary pedigree even without the Hobbitry.

Let The Propositioning Begin!

I am most indebted to all of you who attended our little meeting of the minds, and grateful we have the opportunity to meet and plan strategery in the aid of Gus and Co. (not forgetting Bob). My dear and inestimable snuggs is recording secretary for the Ladies Embroidery Circle and Terrorist Society, and submitted the following report, with various proposals adopted:

MINUTES, Emergency Meeting of the LEC & TS
November 21, 2004, 5 pm
re: Aid for Gus and Crew, Who Are Up the Proverbial Creek, as We Blog
Chaired: Miz B., Honorary President, LEC & TS

After the serving of refreshments and two VERY well-received songs from the Tunettes (*Rescue Me* for purpose and *It's Raining Men* for inspiration), Miz B. called the emergency meeting of the LEC & TS to order. Reading of the October minutes of the General Meeting was carried out by Miz Myrtle, and accepted. Motion made by Miz Nikola that all discussions of Casino Night, demonstration of new embroidery technique and part 6 of The Lecture Series, *The French Pedicure: More than a Passing Ooh La La*, with guest lecturer Chad the Cabana Boy, be tabled until the next regular meeting. Motion seconded and carried.

Miz B. reported that the sale of valuable old artifacts last week netted approximately 300 pounds, and since the dollar is dropping like a rock, the equivalent amount in US funds is subject to change without notice, but the change is in Gus' favor. It has been deposited in an offshore bank account in Grand Cayman. Friends of hers in the pub-owning line in George Town have confirmed that the funds were received and will act as local agents for any needed supplies and ship's chandlery and what-not should Gus need them.

New Business: There followed a moving testimonial by all and sundry as to the plight of Gus and his crew, and of course little num-nums Bob. Some discussion of tactics followed and all and sundry were resolved to achieve the goal by whatever non-violent means are necessary. Miz. B. noted that she has several friends who keep hotel bars in Washington D.C., the Colonial capital, who have got some dirt ^H^H^H^H information on certain Congressional persons who have something to do with Naval affairs. At the very least it may be possible to cut off at least one-third of Congress, leaving them with no tipple. It was discussed and decided to table the idea of contacting the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, as they have a very big case on their hands related to the unfortunate War. However, a number of sharply worded letters were already written during the letter-writing portion of the meeting to various government entities, and await postage.

A joint motion was made by the McFinster brothers to call in the Scots Haggis Hunter Bikini Team, as the Swedish Bikini Team was currently unavailable. Motion seconded and carried. After a tense 15 minutes while an international phonecall was placed to Glasgow, we were given the disappointing news that The Team was in hot pursuit of a herd of haggis at Inverness Castle and could not currently be dispatched. The offer of assistance was made for next Saturday, should we still need them. We promised to let them know, and were given Sc. B. T. President McGillicuddy's cell and beeper number for future emergencies.

Founding member Kathy Niedtinka, who is a member of Bass Fisherman/Women of America suggested an ambush of BFA members on the Blubbery Bastid. She detailed her plan to arm 24 members with bait-casting stainless steel rods using 42" lures coated with tuna oil. Unfortunately, timely transportation of bass boats and BFA members to Bill's Triangle was unlikely, and the plan--while appreciated--was reluctantly dismissed.

Snuggs mentioned that the Kitty-Sweet Kat Fud Company ought to know that their former employee was in such trouble and wondered if they oughtn't be contacted. There was some discussion as to whether the Kitty-Sweet Kat Fud Company might also like to buy a lot of Grade W "tuna" - several hundred tonnes, it was estimated - for below wholesale in exchange for some kind of assistance or publicity consideration on Gus' behalf. Possible assistance in this endeavor was offered by Miz Kathy.

After some discussion of the idea, Miz Myrtle opined that fall nest-strengthening and winter foraging season will keep her busy, plus she can't get the time off from the hospital that fast.

The ladies of the Grog Shoppe were then polled to see if any of them had a nodding acquaintance with any erm, members of the members of the U.S. or Tortolan Navy who are currently in pursuit of Gus and crew and thereby instigating Whale-Gate. Horny Ken (lured by the promise of a night with a courageously volunteering Tunette) promised to put us in touch with the moles at the National Enquirer before press time. Unfortunately, the conversation completely disintegrated into rather hilarious comparisons of said members and their attendant abilities, and the comments are best not repeated here in these minutes.

Chad noted that Slebrity Cruise Lines (not to be confused with a competing and much more declasse' company) has got a number of steerage cabins available on their upcoming cruise to the edge of Bill's Triangle from Ft. Lauderdale (it's the popular Caymans-Tortola-Guava-Conch route) and wondered if it would be possible to hitch a ride and effect a rescue (he admits he reads the Shipping News want ads in hopes of taking a paying berth as a pedicurist in the off-season. Miz B. forgave him forthwith).

A Tunette put forward a suggestion that perhaps the ASPCA Rat Rescue people might be contacted in the matter of Bob's continued safety, as it appears he is of an extremely rare breed of Norwegian Whitecoated Pinkfoots. Snuggs agreed to this wholeheartedly. Another Tunette offered to write a "reggay" song to be played on Caribbean radio stations in support of Gus, and to start a pledge drive on said radio stations to raise money for a legal defense fund. She "knows a guy" in Tortola broadcasting, a personality called B-Cool Mon. Miz. B reports that her friends the pub owners in George Town probably know a lot of the local sailing gentry, so will ask them to ask their patrons and matrons tune in to Radio Tortola in the hopes of hearing the song and getting caught up in the pledge drive. Posters are being printed courtesy of the local T-shirt shoppe.

Miz Myrtle wondered if there is any evidence in the ruins of Gus' bayside bungalow that might have been missed or misinterpreted and offered to contact CSI: Mendocino. She also noted the Bard Sinister was not present but may be able to offer legal advice pro bono, and should probably be consulted. A phone call to Mark Geragos dashed our hopes of a timely appeal/filed injunction on Gus' behalf, as he is currently preoccupied with Another Appeal.

It was moved by Miz. B and seconded by Snuggs that Something Be Done. Volunteers were asked for and a list of those volunteers are so noted:

Miz B. will coordinate fundage to be deposited in the Cayman's account and set up an Internet Mail round-robin to advise all her pub-owning friends in the Caribbean about the song and the pledge drive and so forth. If time allows, she may try to take that sea cruise. She will also consult with the Bard Sinister regarding any suggestions of legal representation.

Chad will provide immoral support and definately plans to go on the cruise in an attempt to make contact, also drum up support with clients and crew.

Snuggs will contact the Kitty-Sweet Kat Fud Company in re: grade W "tuna" and also the Rat Rescue people. Miz Kathy will co-ordinate the BFA people.

The Tunettes will write the song, perform it at all their gigs, and use their powers of persuasion to ensure local airplay and start the pledge drive.

Miz Myrtle will provide free medical care if needed and try to switch her vacation around, because she's up for a sea cruise. She will also check on that evidence at the Mendocino Crime Lab via a friend from med school, Son of Quincey.

Respectfully submitted,

snuggs

Anyone wishing to volunteer for any of the above propositions is invited to submit their name, moniker, handle, or nom-de-Interweb thingy in the usual manner.

If there is enough interest in the cruise, we may be able to get a group rate (10 cabin minimum at $450 per person quad occupancy, $200 per person deposit due within 7 days, plus port fees and taxes. Insurance strongly recommended. Final payment due on departure, as date is TBA. Credit cards only. All rates in US fundage). If we do manage to scrape up enough people for a group rate, the travel agent tells me she shall donate half of her commission to the Openshaw Defense Fund. All meals included, plus selected events include free drinks. All other bevvys must be purchased on board.

*Cough* Of course, my carry-on luggage would be extremely heavy and fragile. I shall have to tip the porters accordingly if I decide to go.

In any case, if anyone not in attendance has any helpful suggestions, feel free to bung them in where we can see them.

The Naval Intelligence Game

Music Cue: Spanish Flea


Hi, I'm Smarmy Host, and welcome to "The Naval Intelligence Game!" Our newest antagonist hails from Cleveland, Ohio. He's 51 years old and is in command of the swiftest ship in the U.S. Navy, HSV Millard Fillmore. He'd love to tell you about his favorite secrets, but then he'd have to kill you. Giving a whole to meaning to the phrase "naval intelligence," please give it up for Captain James. J. Knucz.

[APPLAUSE]

Thank you for joining us, Captain Knucz. For the record, did I say your name right? As in "Canucks?"

No, actually it's pronounced exactly like "canoes," Smarm.

Oh, sorry, welcome Captain -

It rhymes with "snooze."



Right, sorry, I'll start again - welcome, Captain Knucz. So tell us about this sexy new boat you command -

Ship. It's a ship. A boat can be on a ship, but if a ship's on a boat, call the Coast Guard. And if it's on Knucz, I'm up shit creek without a paddle. Call my doctor. Thank you.

Oh, that's Naval humor is it? Okay then, it's too big to be a boat, so it's a ship. Now in today's game-

See, it's funny because I'm a Navy man, and for me to call the Coast Guard... we just don't do that. That's like the Marines calling the Boy Scouts to ask for help invading Grenada.

Yes, I got that. Right - in today's game we'll ask you some questions about Naval Int-

Also, a boat would get crushed to smithereens by a ship, and that's always funny. When I do it, anyway. But the Board of Inquiry thought otherwise. And canoes - well, I get that all the time.

Ha! Very funny! And now on to today's game at last. You command something called an HSV. What's that? Can you tell us in just a few words?

Smarm, it's a High Speed Vessel. That means it's a very fast ship.

Right. And you use it to, what, fight terrorists? Chase pirates? Yo ho and all that?

We chase suspected drug dealers and perform interdictions, where basically we pull up and point our big guns at them and tell them "We don't want your filthy drugs! Go peddle them on the Internets or something, you dirty rotten stinkers!" Also, we've been liasing with an environmental group while we get the HSV program up to speed. That's more Naval humor, Smarm. Speed.

Wow! That's exciting! Tell me more about those mighty big guns, Captain.

Smarmy, we're packin' heat. We've got a MK 96 w 25mm/40mm stabilized gun; that means it's got stabilizers and things to keep it, uh, stable. When we fire it. Also we've got a MK 45 Snake Eyes machine gun, with an optional MK 19 grenade launcher attachment. It'll stop something the size of a bull elephant, or maybe 5 bull elephants, right in its tracks. If it had feet, and wasn't in the water, I guess. Over to you, Smarmy, I got nothing more about guns.

And how fast can this High Speed Vessel go, Captain?

Smarmy, our top speed is 45 knots. That's 53+ miles per hour, or 85+ kilometers per hour. Our normal operating speed is 30 knots, which is about 34+ miles per hours, or 55+ kilometers per hour.

And how much did this bad boy cost, Captain?

Only about $21 mil, Smarm. The Navy usually gets a bag of hammers and a bosun's whistle for that.

Huh. We'll come back to that later. Captain Knucz, can you tell us anything about your first big mission with the Millard Fillmore? Without stepping on my "I'd have to kill you" joke, that is.

Sure, Smarmy, it's kind of a public relations deal with this anti-whaling outfit called "Bluepeace." They're after some old wharf rat that pissed them off... sorry, can I say that on network? Ticked them off about killing some whales or something, but really we're in it so we can go in and clean out a notorious arms dealer who's active in the area. Don't tell them that part, though, or their lawyers will be on my can because of the non-disclosure... Oh, and, uh, we're performing joint maneuvers with the Tortolan Navy, and providing photographers and an old fashioned fusilade salute for some wing-ding VIP social event they're putting on. We also suspect them of being on the take for all the aforesaid arms dealing and drug running. You could say there's a lot on our plate. But really it's supposed to look like good old red-blooded American sabre-rattling...and public relations and getting the bad guys, of course. Bastards. Can I say that?

Ha! Ha! You salty old sea dog! Captain, this arms dealer - are you taking the men (and possibly women) of the Navy into harm's way? He's probably packing a little of the hot stuff himself, don't you think?

Nothing we can't handle, Smarmy. He's got a bunch of crazy weapons for an extremely specialized niche market - mostly sneaky assassination tools and stealth torpedoes modified to look like biologicals - that's sea life to you, Smarmy. And we suspect he really finances it all with drug-running, because he's got a fleet of Cigarette boats that he and his guys tool around the Caribbean in. They're going to be pretty easy to spot - they're loud and have really garish paint jobs. It'll be a pleasure blowing them out of the water, believe me. We're based in Florida, and those "thunder boats" guys are all alike. 6 o'clock in the morning, tuning up their damn boats sometimes.

Pardon me for saying this, Captain, but aren't Cigarette boats just a little faster than your... High Speed Vessel? I've got a snappy little number they call American Muscle - I'm Smarmy Host, you know, so I have to have a nice ride when I'm down in Boca on hiatus.



Oh, uh, sorry Smarmy, didn't mean to lump you in with a bunch of dirty rotten stinking drug runners with bad hair and garish paint jobs. On their boats, I mean. Sorry. No offense.

None taken, but I think you should know that my little boat goes about twice as fast as the "Millard Fillmore" at about a twentieth of the cost... and the arms dealer guy has probably modified his to be even sweeter on the water than mine is. And believe me, she's a sweet, sweet baby. She can outrun you and outmaneuver you. And that's just with stock engines, not the custom jobs your arms dealer guy's got.

Oh, really? I did not know that.

And that's another episode of "The Naval Intelligence Game!" With us today was U.S. Navy Captain James J. Knucz - ladies, that rhymes with "snooze!" Maybe next week we'll actually get around to playing our game, so until then here's a big "MMMMM-WA!" smooch to everyone out there in television land!

Marriage of Convenience

Appearances can be deceiving, my pets. I am quite a foolish old besom but there is something profoundly untrustworthy and venal in Verman's face. I prefer to believe that Sybil is being abducted 'gainst her will and is not the fickle heartbreaker her recent email and engagement announcement would have us believe.

Verman could be using her to get to Gus and to give him a plausible pretext to head in his direction (I expect Interpol has had him under surveillance for some time, as rather a lot of international drug cartel contraband they attempt to trace goes mysteriously missing in his patch of the Caribbean). He simply oozes corruption and greed, and is almost certainly a Bad Hat.

On the other hand, Sybil could be playing a most dangerous game - seeming to go along with the preposterous wedding plans (really, who gets married on a rust-bucketty old frigate these days) in order to get to Gus. And coincidentally, she will be on quite a serviceable rust-bucketty old frigate, absolutey stuffed full of fuel, arms, and the sorts of toys that brighten the eyes of crusty old demolitions and ballistics experts the world over. And if the Toaster of Mass Destruction is up to the task, p'raps Gus may yet be able to defeat the effete Tortolans and take the frigate and go after the whale and of course Sybil would be there too...

*POP!*

Well, that was a lovely pipe dream, wasn't it? Yes, it seems quite hopeless. I shan't give on Sybil until it is absolutely proven that she's an adventuress of the worst sort, but I should hate to be disappointed in her, as I admire her so. It is all too easy for poor dear Gus to assume the worst, but I shall try to keep faith with the dream for a bit longer.

And besides which, Flarq and Thesaurus would never let him get away with simply blowing the whale out of the sea with the application of several tonnes of Tortolan Naval ordnance, so unless the frigate has a rack of antique harpoons below decks, they'll probably refuse to participate in the boarding party. Such charmingly stubborn traditionalits they are, to be sure. So that's another perfectly good outcome gone West.

Dangerous Toasters

MADISON, Wis. - A fire alarm set off by smoke in the state Capitol caused an evacuation before firefighters located the source of the problem — a toaster and a singed muffin.

Gus had better be careful. This toaster is armed and dangerous (pardon, another inadvertent limb comment).

Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal

Date: Wed, November 17, 2004

From: queensybilofconch@yahoo.com

To: gusopenshaw@yahoo.com

Subject: us

gus:

sorry, i have to end it with you. i'm no good at letters like this. in any case, the bottom line is: that's it (i realize that in this case that, technically, that was the top line, but whatever).

sybil


Do you Yahoo?
Check out the new Yahoo Front Page www.yahoo.com

The dear Bard thinks this is a coded message, because it's dated 2 days from now. I'm inclined to agree, because I'm sure she was taught better punctuation in princess school.

I Wonder If Dealer Dan Is Involved in this Cocaine Squid Bust...

... because what if he kept a few giant squid "on ice" when Sybil ran off to foment revolution in her homeland? Its possible Sybil used them as models for her S-1 prototype, then left them in the freezer.

And if Sybil suspects her email has been wiretapped, she might well be sending coded messages to Gus, as the dear Bard Sinister suspected? This could well be the explanation for her odd responses.

LIMA, Peru (Reuters) - Peruvian police said on Monday they seized nearly 1,540 pounds (700 kg) of cocaine hidden in frozen giant squid bound for Mexico and the United States.

The drugs were covered in pepper to divert sniffer dogs and sealed in several layers of plastic and other wrappers. Police had been on the trail since August.

Seven people were arrested in the drug seizure. Police said the haul would have a street value of about $17.5 million.

Seven people... one of them possibly known in the Armaments World as "Dealer Dan?"

If Pyrates Rrruled the Worrrld, Mateys

In some ways, we'd be better off, but there would be quite a lot more parrot droppings. In other ways, we'd be much worse off.

Flarq In a Funq

The intrepid crew of the Georgette withdraw in some confusion - they harpooned the wrong whale, apparently, and are now deep into conspiracy theory mode. Meanwhile, they're out of fuel.

And Flarq is deeply contemplative, apparently wondering if his cetacean adversary may be intelligent enough to use feints, misdirection, and squid-marked doubles to draw them all into an ambush.

It's high time they had some R&R, too - but unless a boatload of doxies happens by with several extra barrels of fuel, a happy outcome is unlikely.

Kangaroo Court Justice

A while back, dear Gus and I had a 'nexchange about when the kangaroos would start hoppin' around the Tortolan courtroom where his trial in absentia was being held. This was the sort of kangaroo court justice I had in the lumber room that is my mind - complete with judicial marsupial, gavel, robes and all. As you can see, my theory is bourne out - the legal wigs fall off wot with the incessant hoppin' about.

I thank you for your patience in this matter, it has taken some time to resolve this question.

OXO Spatulas: Flip Whales As Well As Pancakes

Dear GOD. Now this latest dispatch from a small open boat in the midst of the Caribbean, chasing that BLOODY whale (I trust no pardons are necessary by this point):

Flarq meanwhile retrieved the spatula from the sack. Then he wound up and flung. A strong throw, but flopping end over end, and landing short, unfortunately, on the bastard’s head. But then it skipped forward and fell in the water right smack in front of his eyes. It caught the sun like a flashbulb going off.

Suddenly, it was as if Dickhead had yanked his emergency brake. Then he turned. Not back towards us as we’d hoped though. To his right.

“Even better,” said Thesaurus.

The reason: The bastard’s starboard side was exposed and well within harpoon range.

A long time ago I read a magazine article by this pro rugby player about the perfect pass. This guy not only spent every day of his life practicing so he could come close to throwing it, he spent his nights dreaming about. And he wrote his vision of it, for nine whole pages, how the spiral’d catch the light with each revolution like in a Rembrandt picture, etc., etc., as if he was describing a goddess descending.

I hadn’t thought about that article since, not till Thesaurus loosed the harpoon at the bastard today. It soared so straight and so swift you’d’ve believed one of those gods he’s always praying to had descended and invisibly guided it. The Manila line attached to it sizzled all around the whaleboat like lightning. Then the iron struck, ten or so feet forward of the fin—right where you want it—and lodged in good and firm.

As you’d expect, trying to loose it, the whale leapt up. At once it felt like my heart might do the same.

“Cut the line!” I shouted to Flarq. “We got the wrong whale!”

Will his trials and tribulations never cease? Why no, Socrates, apparently not. I should just like to point out that Stupid George made the sighting. He cried "whale," but he did say there was a B on his noggin. So it's very odd that this whale does not sport the Mark of the Beast What Et The Family And Arm Of Gus.

And now they are down to the brave little toaster as far as anti-whale munitions. I much misdoubt that no matter how well aimed and fired, a sharpened fork can do much against the Terror of Mendocino.

Still, it was a mighty throw of the harpoon. Well done, Thesaurus. And the spatula was well slung as well. Nicely played, Flarq.

Banner Flying, They Set Off Whaleward

And so our intrepid crew are all in an open whaleboat, with one harpoon (and a toaster modified to function as a knife launcher) between them for whale-killing weaponry. In a high-tech world, they choose to go non-tech. There's something admirable and noble in the venture... and possibly foolhardy.

There's quite a snappy new banner at the top of Gus' journal that directs new shipmates to begin at the beginning and catch up to current events on and around the (what's the dratted name of the latest vessel? Ah!) Georgette. I fear, however, that new people are being directed to the beginning of a whale-killing yarn nearing its end, for how can they possibly survive this challenge (without hopelessly tangling the narrative threads of said yarn)?

Strangely enough, it seems after all these months we have come to the wickedly sharp point of the tale - hardened, resolute men in a small boat, going out to do battle to the death with Leviathan.

As for their motivations, it's been clear from the beginning that Gus wishes to wreak revenge on the bloodthirsty rogue cetacean what et his limb and kin. The reason why the others are so heavily invested in the enterprise is less obvious.

Flarq and Thesaurus, being old-school whalemen, have a skill-set that has almost become extinct. In fact, they may be some of the very last true harpooners on the globe, other than a few Inuit and Northwestern Pacific Coast indigenes. They simply wish to see the deed done proper and with honor. They are stalwarts in every sense of the word, giving Gus their full support. That is, when they are not believed to be dead and very nearly buried at sea (Flarq has managed to avoid this complication thus far).

Moses is a thrill junkie. For him, it's either this or work as a bouncer on the "Maury Povich" show - even with wretched living conditions, the likelihood of being hung by devout Cetaceanists, and being thrown into the vilest jails in the Caribbean, whaling still has better hours. Plus the tips are, as he says, "da kine."

Duq is handy to have around if you need a psychopath with a cleaver (oh, dear, that was inadvertent. Beg pardon). Bit of a loose cannon in that department (viz. the incident where he tried to cut off some MORE of Gus' arm - see line 1 above also), but in his way reliable. As in, you can always rely on him to go off screaming and waving dangerously sharp cookery implements at the drop of a scrimshaw, so best p'int him in the direction of your enemies before letting gravity get the scriven whale tooth.

Nelson - well, charming rogue though he may be, he is an opportunist. He occasionally seems to be caught up in the spirit of things, but his mind is constantly straying to the main chance, and improving his standing with "the ladies." And, of course, increasing the size of his ever-burgeoning collection of "pix!" I'm not certain, but I think he's only in it for the bragging rights, to lend a hand (just the one now), and possibly for revenge-motivated reasons of his own.

Amongst the human (or near-human) complement, this brings me to Bob. Ha, ha, I jest. This actually brings us to Stupid George. Some how he has managed to both survive and achieve Employee of the Week at least once (silly me, he always survives, it's EOW he's only achieved just once). He appears to fill the role of buffoon - every cruise has to have That Guy that ends up doing all the scutwork jobs. However, he has hopes and aspirations of his own, which is quite comforting in its completely rockheaded way.

And last of all, dear little Bob, whose post-battle convalescence in hospital on Conch enthralled the female shipmates, causing a fair amount of consternation and resentment amongst the human complement of Gus' crew, and tied up the Conchan post office with gifts of pillows and cheese for weeks. Yes, even dear little Bob (AKA "num-nums" according to my estimable barmaid-cum-pub manager snuggs) may yet have a role to play other than simply as a pet for "the ladies" to coo over (but you must admit his widdle pink earses and buttony-wutton nose am very sweet with 'iddums widdle whiskers...URK!)

Pardon. Fortunately, I had an insulin self-injector handy.

So for now they row versus waves that break over the bow of their little craft, fighting the tide, the current, the very movement of the oceans of the earth against them. Indomitable to the last, very stubborn, and fighting for their way of life (such as it is) they go on. So long as Gus can maintain some sort of Interweb thingy connexion, we wait with breath abated (no fish were harmed in the making of this jest).

A parallel Tale: The Life Aquatic

How very rococo. There is something all too familiar about this revenger's tale of the shark that et his friend. And it appears that Nelson's doppelganger got some work of it, too. Very nice for him, but we still have to endure the strangely compelling image (now burned on my retinas, alas) of Mr. William Murray, Actor, in a skin-tight silver dive suit. Preening, as only Mr. Murray can do. It nearly made me spit Earl Grey (the tea, my dears, THE TEA) all over my screen. Still, the music is very lively.

Perhaps some Hollywood type has been following the saga of Gus and the whale that et his kid, wife, and arm. Gus could probably get a writer's or adaptation credit.

God Save The Queen

I'm feeling rather chuffed about this. It's not often that Her Majesty speaks out, but the issue strikes rather close to matters dear to my heart.

There! 'Nuff said. Hanky, please.

Not Even George Is This Stupid

SYRACUSE, N.Y. - A couple who bared themselves during a boat parade for charity last month have been charged with public lewdness.

Troopers used video footage shot by a spectator who attended the Christmas Parade of Boats on the Seneca River to identify Ricky E. Setzer, 34, and Cindy M. Cramer, 29.

Police claim the video shows Cramer topless and wearing a strand of Christmas lights as she spanks Setzer's bare butt.

I should just like to mention that the charity in question was the Special Olympics. What a doody-flop, very bad form.

There is a place and a time for naked spanking hijinks, generally after hours in the racier sorts of adult sporting clubs in Town. But not on a boat, on a crisp fall September evening. Pity she didn't fall in - now THAT would have been a show-stopper.

She's Got A Loverly Pair Of Coconuts

She's got a loverly pair of coconuts, doesn't she? I expect chafing is a problem, however. Men never think of this when they picture a beautiful wahine clad only in ti leaves and a coconut bra. It's actually MUCH more comfortable - indeed, quite pleasant and fragrant - to wear dozens of fresh flower lei and omit the coconuts entirely. Ah, the Islands.

The image is from Gus' backup journal - the one where whales don't get killed, but puzzles are occasionally posted for the bedevilment of the whale-saga community.

For She's A Jolly Good Barmaid

Taking a page from the playbook of Gus, I should like to announce the Grog Shoppe "Employee of the Quarter." Though it was a difficult decision, the very first honours go to my dear snuggs, for service above and beyond the call of duty (not to mention above the call of "time, gentlemen, please").

She leaps into action arranging, re-arranging, and organizing, and I simply could not do it without her. Not only that, but she runs interference with the McFinsters; I shan't go into much detail but what she as to deal with puts untold levels of meaning into the phrase "damage control."

She has been working extra hard as of late keeping things running smoothly and making sure hopelessly drunk patrons are smartly dragged out to the street in the morning escorted to the curb to await transportation. What with the extremely high number of major and minor debauches lately, it has been a rather exhausting few weeks, and snuggsie (if I may be so bold) has done much of the heavy lifting (that second McFinster is very solidly built).

snuggs is therefore awarded EOQ, along with a n'increase in pay AND paid time for educational, cultural, and spiritooal pursuits (otherwise known as "me time for snuggses"). Also unlimited free massages from Hankules and whatever other personal services Chad the cabana boy may offer (I maintain a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy there).

In other words, I think the world of you, dear snuggs, but you mustn't be like those Japanese sararimen working themselves to death. You must think of yourself sometime instead of always taking care of everybody else's needs. Though you are certainly indispensible, we can muddle along now and then if you choose to take some yoga classes, visit health spas, and indulge in the pleasanter aspects of New-Agey what-nottery.

Joust: The Facts, Man

For the first time I’d seen, Thesaurus was flustered. “This whale ain’t like no other on the Earth,” he said. I suspected he was thinking Bulbus was pulling the strings from on high.

The second boat pulled up alongside us. Flarq too was puzzled. “Whale-Killing 101 ain’t gonna cut it, Captain,” he said. “It don’t cover whales that do the things this one do.”

“Well then let’s have a crash course in 102,” I said, turning the wheel so that we were positioned for another go at Dickhead.

That was unnecessary though. The bastard had slammed on his whale brakes and was turning round for another run at us. I looked to Thesaurus for advice.

“Pray,” he said.

Gus is calling for a radical re-shaping of the Rule of Engagement (Whales, For The Killing Of). He and the others are going at it a bit old-school (traditionalists, all of them. Rather charming and very manly). He has taken care to describe how the harpoons are set up with a mile of hempen line and wrapped around the boat, so that it can be used as a drag but the line can be released easily if the beast dives.

However, the whale is quite the aggressor in this little conflict. It's time for Gus to turn into the fire and charge him, with harpoons lashed to the bow of one of his boats. In order to keep the more fundamentalist of his crew happy, they could perhaps beat time on the side of the boat while Gus hits the throttle and hollers "Ramming speed!"

And then perhaps they should all be ready to leap into the other boat and speed away after ramming the whale with 4 or 5 wickedly sharp harpoons, since the whale will certainly smash the first boat to splinters.

Perhaps the second boat could launch harpoons (ie., deploy conventional whale-killing weapons) before picking them up. Or...

Don't mind me, I'm just an armchair whale-killing jousting match quarterbackess.

Meanwhile, it appears we'd best be ready to host a bash of some sort. But whether it will be a celebration or a consolatory wake remains to be seen.

Mrs. B, Agony Auntie

If you have an interesting and not necessarily real problem, please send me an electronic mail thingy and I shall endeavour to reply succinctly and with relative prompitude.

I shan't make any promises about actually giving good advice, mind you. It shall be rather tart and probably hopelessly outmoded, however.

Also it shall probably be rather deeply confused and scatty, but I can't help that.

You may reach me at mrsblubridge AT ruddyamericansonline dot com (otherwise known as AOL). I may also occasionally be reachable by their Instantaneous Messageing service under the same nom de blog.

A Very Palpable Hit

Revised Wanted Poster: The Blubbery B. Whale Takes A Palpable Hit From Gus' Harpoon 


Action! Harpoons! Actual whaling! Oh, this is so thrilling, I can't tell you, my dears. If this keeps up, the blubbery bass Tod will start to look like an old-school punk rocker from Soho, what with all the scars, piercings, and even tatoos he'll acquire in his long-drawn out battle with Gus.

You can see the harpoon flung so heroically by Gus, sticking out like an old lady's whisker on the far side of his ugly mug. My word, he's got a face like the back end of a London cab, that one. Not one of the new style ones with the ads plastered all over and painted bright un-British colours, I mean the old-school cabs with a big old boot and a rattler of an engine.

Anyway, good job Flarq is there to advise on the next step, meaning to lower away the boats and get the harpooners set and ready to fling. Very exciting, very manly, ripping good yarn and so on.

I think we gels will stay "in" tonight and have a darts competition with the picture of the B. whale, in fact. I believe it might be a kind of sympathetic magick.

Gus Finally Lets Fly

The harpoon felt good rushing out of my hand though, and true, and as it arched toward the bastard, it shone in the sun as if destiny was smiling on it—and as you all would agree, if there is any sort of providential scorekeeping, I was due for a miracle strike. My only hope was Bulbus wouldn't have a say.

Huzzah!! Harpoons away at last!

If there is such a thing as a Hail Mary harpoon toss competition, Gus is ready to compete, kitted out in rather natty plaid shorts. His form is quite good in spite of the balance problem presented by the unfortunate loss of his arm (which as we've all been reminded, was et by the whale, along with his wife and kid).

If Gus were ever to lay aside the harpoons and his hatred of all things Cetacean, he might have a decent career as a Paralympian in javelin (Master's Circuit, that is).

And now, may cooler heads prevail, and the next few harpoons be strongly lashed to the brig.

I must say, these exciting "snapshaws" really add oomph to the tail of the whale, Gus, and his crew.

Corporate tax bill would aid Alaskan whaling captains

"An obscure measure in the corporate tax bill that the House Ways and Means Committee marked up this week would allow Alaskan whaling captains to deduct up to $10,000 in expenses accrued from hunting."

Actually, my dears, it appears to have passed as of Monday.

However, I don't think Gus qualifies for it.

Duq Gets Underhanded

If you look closely, you'll see that Duq is getting ready to bowl his harpoon in Stupid George's direction underhanded, rather like a cricketer.

Interesting technique. I'd have thought overhand (thumb pointing up, fingers curled over the harpoon from the other side) would be a more efficient throwing position.

But what do I know? I am a humble Publicanatrix (not Tory!).

Gus Openshaw�s Whale-Killing Journal

Sunday, 10 October 2004 - 3:30 AM ADT

Name: Lifeboat- Little Solace...Somewhere

Captains Log: Weather temperature 70%.10 MPH Winds out of the southeast. Two foot seas...It has only been two days since Capt. Openshaw set me adrift. Seems like 400...I miss the beach of Conch, miss my Bananas,miss the Orangetans...No water,No cheese. My only comapanion is a wayward seagull.fortunately for me, the gull caught a striper and brought it back to the boat to eat. I shood it away, ate half of the fish and then threw it back to the deck, the seagull returned and finished it. I have a short-wave radio thet is barely picking up some radio station called Radio Free Cuba. and the only songs they play are the new Jimmy Buffett Album: License To Chill... Got to go now, They are playing my favorite song from the album- Coastal Confessions... On a personal note... Dear Diary,Fu@#ed again... By the way- Did YOU call me a rat?

Oh, dear little Bob! Since the sinkings were all a ruse, I assume this one is a ruse also.

Very arusing, Bob. Er, "amusing."

And now, time to start cleaning this place up. Fortunately, the foam machine is fully charged.

Wag The Tail Of The Dog

Sorry for any unnecessarily expended hankies, shipmates, but the fake entries about our preparation and battle were a necessity. We didn't want Tortolan Admiral Verman, who was reading along with you, to know that we were really weighing anchor and escaping from the other side of Conch.

AUGH!! I mean, HURRAH!!!! In the sense of "Curses, skunked again, but actually I'm quite delighted about it."

If loose lips sink ships, then blabby blogs sink cogs. I should really, really have seen that coming, but when feeling runs high, the oddest rumours can take hold. Viz., any recent news story coming out of the Colonies during this very silly season.

And now, I really must go refill my ice bag, I've got a snorter of a headache after last night's revels. Howsomeever, that's nothing compared to dear smart Ken. I'm afraid he and Senor Gusano Rojo Caballero are not on speaking terms just at the moment.

Right, there's now a pool started, I've got a fiver on Duq.

He That Pays The Piper Calls The Tune

Yes, yes, thank you all for coming to the Mother Of All Celebratory Wakes for Gus Openshaw, Presumed Dead, Whose Wife, Kid, and Arm were Et by a Whale. And also for his crew, and possibly also for a brave little rat named Bob, last seen floating around the Caribbean in a breadfruit crate, nibbling on cheese.

In honor of Senor Smart Ken and his nearly limitless supply of Gusano Rojo Caballero, a little dance tune. I shall hitch up me skirts so that you all may admire my fast and fancy footwork.

Gus has led us a merry dance,
with many a twist and surprising reverse;
We who remain must hope for the chance.
that he and the others all live, none the worse.

(The song is actually about a man who is Mexican to his mama, but is fated to be an American. Sorry, Ken, no Canadian-Mexican party music to be found, though I do know of a nice Filipino-Canadian young man that plays a mean accordion).

Ay, que dolor! Ayyyyyyyy!

Last Letter Home

And now we'll have a tune from the Irish group. It's about the War Between the States, but it's got cannons in and a last letter home, so bung it in and let's hear it. It's in rather quick waltz time, so we'd best clear chairs out of the way for the dancers (those that aren't under the table already).

By the same group, Olaim Punch/The Pigtown Fling. Rather happier.

Let It Go

I'm not sure if this player thingy will work for all, some of us do not do Windows, some do not eat of the Apple. But if you have some form of the Quicktime whatchmagoozle, and you wait for the download, it's time to let it go to the sounds of Bakra Bata.

That'll do to go on with.

Still No Word, We Had Best Prepare For The Worst

For what it's worth, I solved the ruddy puzzle, what with all the waiting and worrying.  

And the spy satellite shows nothing, either.

I don't expect the Tortolans to mount a very effective rescue operation - ruddy down-at-heel Naval imposters the lot of them - and I doubt the Conchan Shore Rescue have the manpower, since I suspect many of their most senior volunteers are busy drowning in the wreckage of the Anti-Bulbus Counter-Cetationist Task Force.

It's very quiet in the Grog Shoppe, my dears... TOO quiet. So I took the liberty of booking a very nice Celtic group to come in and play. I've asked them to start off with a few suitable laments and sad sea shanties. After a dinner break, they'll come back this evening and play reels and jigs, and we must all try to foot it featly and dance our sorrows into the floorboards.

Those Are Pearls That Were His Eyes

No, it can't be... naow, it can't! I won't believe it...  


Alas! Just when it seemed Gus and his makeshift fleet might prevail over the Tortolans, and he might have a chance to return to Sybil and the fair shores of Conch after his revenger's tale was done, we're left adrift.

Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist,
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Will there really be no early-morning walks on the beach hand in hand? *quavers*

It seems that fate has something else in store for Gus, and we shipmates ashore are helpless to do anything about it. There may be nothing left but the singing of dirges and the telling of sad tales from long ago.

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell.

I shall require a very large whiskey, and hot tea. I feel a chill coming on.

Snuggs! my dear old snuggsie! Surely not all are lost.

For one thing, I still hadn't solved that BLOODY puzzle.

Them Bloomers Is Hot, Hot, Hot!

"KINGS MOUNTAIN, N.C. - Two former Sara Lee employees have been charged with embezzling $128,000 worth of bras and panties from the company after merchandise showed up at flea markets, authorities said."

'Ere, wot? Could this mean that the Fleet is running under hot sail? Because surely there were other sources for their motley canvas than the Grog Shoppe's old clothes bin.

Gus had best inspect all the new weapons systems, I'm sure those "double-barrelled catapults for BB-DD shot" are based on cross-your-heart technology.

They'd Best Not Get Their Knickers In A Twist

Fortunately, Sybil enacted a draft of all men who’d ever served in the Conch navy. She also commandeered all the island’s battle-worthy brigs. Conch last fought at sea nearly a century ago though. Her efforts netted us five sailors (none younger than eighty, only three of whom could see) plus three rotting schooners, one rotting barquentine, and one frigate where the rot is the strongest part of her hull. Their sails hung limply when at all. With no time to obtain proper canvas, we had to rig them with whatever was laying around: bed sheets, fat ladies’ dresses, whatever.

Egad! That shipment of old clothes and bedding we sent off for hurricane relief to the Islands! It included... *deep blush*

Never mind. Never let it be said that we don't lend every support to the cause... cross my heart and so on.

Truth be told, the old bedsheets went out in that lot: I don't feel so bad about me faded cabbage roses getting shot through and through in a thrilling sea battle. But I am rather at sixes and sevens over me old bloomers going boomers, and that's no mistake.

The Scrimshaw Connection

This story makes me wonder how Flarq comes by the ivory he uses for his scrimshaw.

It's Just Like A Story By That Poe Chap

People who are supposed to be dead keep popping up quite alive and a little irked that their funerals are are so ill-attended. Fortunately, UNlike a common theme in the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe's, no one was actually buried alive, or to be accurate, buried at sea alive. Even without Stupid George sewed to the deadcaul, it's a positive development.

In other words, it's time to loose the cats of joy again, for Thesaurus was only mostly dead. Huzzah!

Of course, the really interesting thing is that all of the crew (and a valiant and fully recovered Bob) are sitting on a rented schooner a few hundred yards offshore, ostensibly performing the traditional "sailor's last rites." But in actuality, they're gossiping about Sybil, theoretical Conchan virgins,* and whether the palace chef might meet with a convenient work-related fatal injury. So now Gus has the old whaler's problem to consider: follow the dangerous whale-road, or opt for the cushy berth ashore.

In Owyhee, in old Mowee to be exact, the old-time whalers used to raise hell and generally be rips and tearaways with the local girls. Eventually, each man (and indeed, each skipper) would have to decide whether to follow the whales back to the frozen, icy North to their feeding grounds each season, or stay in the warm, seductive tropical climes and eat coconuts and breadfruit all winter. In the local lingo, mauka means "toward the mountains" and makai means "toward the sea." To this day if you ask for directions in the charming dear Islands, instead of "turn right" or "go east" you might hear "At the junction go makai, then turn right and go mauka at the big church."
So we wait with bated breath (I'm not falling for that one again, dear Bard) to see which way he'll go. Mauka, or makai?

*Nelson - ever the eternal optimist - is obviously still in recruitment mode.

Statistics: Piracy and Armed Robbery at Sea, 1996-2002

I expect there will be a very large uptick when the raw data from Gus' expedition are considered.

My Brilliant Career As An Agony Aunt

My Brilliant Career (with the Navy) began rather like this. Here is one of my earliest patrons - as you can see I have dispensed rather a tot more joy than was strictly necessary. I gave him some career advice, and it appears that he followed it to the letter.

The rest of his manoeuvres that evening are chronicled via the link thingy. Since then I've always had a very great affection for all things Naval, as its' Members always wanted the same advice; they spent a great deal of their pay whilst on liberty receiving counseling from me in the form of endless measures of grog and Imperial pints of fine cask-conditioned ales. Generally, my advice went like this: "Have another, and then I believe there are some very nice but rather lonely girls that wait around for someone to take them to the moving pictures down Christmas Steps."

I should like to mention that my email thingy will now accept missives from all and sundry, although I reserve the right to refuse all proposals of marriage, and also all propositions of marital aid from suspiciously handsome former surf persons. I shall also not accept delivery of advertisements of divers pharmaceuticals of a highly personal nature and solicitations of funds from putative scions of Nigerian royalty. I will entertain all reasonable queries and endeavour to return them (however I make no promises about promptitude).

I will stare aghast at all unreasonable queries and will mock spelling and grammatical errors, so be warned, be polite and be neat.

However, if I receive too much of what Messers Monty and Python sang of so mournfully - that is, "Wonderful Spam, Beautiful Spam" I shall turn off the interweb mail thingy and it will go back to accepting missives only from within the (Ruddy) Americans On Line thingy.

Therefore I may be contacted at mrsblubridge (at) ruddyamericansonline dot com and so forth - yes, it is in disguise; you must work it out for yourselves. I expect that cheeky monkey Smart Ken will get in first.

Anything truly odd, frightful or disturbing shall be reported to the appropriate persons at the originating Interweb thingy.

I must tell you, most of my advice to the lovelorn consists of "Get a hobby, or get a little dog, or preferably get a dog-related hobby." So unless you are really desperate or allergic to dogs you should probably not ask that one as it's an old wheeze we Publicanatrices hear all too often.

I should just like to note for the record that Publicanatrices certainly do not vote Tory or its' nearest equivalent in the former Colonies.

We Are Truly At A Loss For Words

In Loving Memory of Thesaurus, 199?-2004

Such a sad loss. But let us not weep for he is with his Maker and Connection.

De-Bone, or De Boner? A Matrimonial Conundrum

That's as puzzled a phiz as ever a phiz I've seen - Gus is absolutely gobsmacked - but is that love, terror, or an intoxicating cocktail of both? Shall he marry again and lay down his revenger's tale for a more conventionally scripted happily ever after? Can he cope with the stress of a mixed marriage, especially as a Gentile in the land of the Conchubim (alternatively, as a stranger in a very strange land indeed)? Or will he find it convenient to move on, encouraged by the raving mob of royal celebrity-bedazzled islanders, who'd like nothing more than to Conch him in the head?

Meanwhile, there will probably be some scores to settle once Nelson regains what passes for consciousness on that sweet but not too bright phiz of his own. However, I am happy to report that at least Bob is reaping the benefits of a decent socialized medicine system:



He now has a pillow, and that is real cheese affixed to the bedclothes so that a wee nibble is never far away. Apparently Their Majesties' Royal Conchan Postal Service were overwhelmed with gifts sent from far and away for Gus, along with an autographed cricket bat for Nelson signed "Dude, this one's for you - Shaun."

There is some speculation that Martha Stewart may be coming out with little rat/cheese duvets, but not before she comes up with some attractive striped Bunkroll in a Bag sets in jailhouse orange.

The Truth Behind Nelson's Recruitment Drive!

AMSTERDAM (Reuters) - Foreign prostitutes in the Netherlands are to be excluded from new rules that allow foreigners who are specialists in their fields to work in the country without a permit, the government says."

This little item explains a lot about Nelson's recent pix-obsessed wig-out. I suspect it's suddenly become a lot harder to convince certain of his Caribbean staff to emigrate to Holland when it comes time to "recycle and refresh" his stock in trade.

Situation Normal...

Gus heroically blogs from his hospital bed, in spite of broken ribs making it difficult to hold his arms in the proper Mavis Beacon typing position. Flarq sharing the same cot probably doesn't help, either. Mind the harpoon.

Yes, that's another boat gone to Davy, and everyone surviving is in hospital. I'm quite concerned about Thesaurus. Without him, Gus will be at quite a loss for words.

I think Sybil has joined the Conchian Resistance. Fortunately, she simply smoulders in a little red beret and a tight trenchcoat - I do hope figuratively and not literally.

Poor little Bob with his tiny wee spleef! For that is what the Conchians use to splint injured whiskers with. snuggs will be bitterly disappointed that his auction has been mysteriously withdrawn from eBay. Oh, well, I think Nelson had a very bad seller's rating anyway, we probably would never have received delivery.

Nelson who? Cooke what? Oh, a little thing like a head injury is nothing to him. Really.

Poor boy - that second scrimshaw was obviously a forgery - the scratches are too even, and were clearly produced by a machine and not the wavering tip of a harpoon. And of course the automatic correction of Nelson's unlovely features to "toothpaste-ad gorgeous" is a dead giveaway that it was produced with a Microsoft-based etching tool.

So a modified and somewhat muffled "Huzzah!1!" while we all wait to see what happens next in the saga of Gus and the whale that et his wife, kid, and arm.

Whale Hos!

No, it's not the pod of the blubbery Bass, Tod; it's just Nelson and his current diversionary tactic: the thinly disguised sporting house recruitment drive. I will admit that his retouched scrimshaw is quite fetching, but only in an abstract, expressionless way.

Meanwhile, back at the castle, I am sure that Gus and Sybill are not having fun storming it. By themselves. With no tactical support and precious little tactful support from the erstwhile crew of the Lucky Sue.

My dear nikola has been made a rather intriguing offer of dinner and box seats at the sub races (well, that is what they used to call that sort of thing back in that day. Which was mine at the time. E'rm). I shan't blame her for taking Nelson up on it, since she's clearly loaded for bear in all ways that count: devastating looks, and a very well-stocked chest.

Of deadly pharmaceuticals, I mean to say. Rather. I wonder if she'd also like to borrow that clever little wrist-catapult I inherited? Uncle Charles hasn't had much use for it since his brilliant career as an international jewel thief came to a sad but rather amusing end.

And how dare he put Bob up on eBay as a mere plaything for unholy desires:

Wednesday, 22 September 2004 - 12:48 AM ADT
Name: Nelson

I'm listing this fucking rat on eBay.

There! You see? It's an outrage! It's a scandal! Oh, the bestiality! My word! Oh, the -- piffle.

Dear me, I've done it again. Pater would be ever so amused.

It's just like the time Pater's best old crony Snuffy Malone had such a devil of a time getting the banns published for his wedding, which had to take place in some haste owing to the war being on and he only had 3 days' leave. He rushed around arranging everything and his bride did the same, and then at the last possible moment he realized he had not gotten the license and the ceremony the next morning would be invalid. So he tore off across Town to get a n'extra special license from the Bishop, dodging piles of rubble through places the Tube wasn't running, and then tore back again, for the rehearsal was that night at the parish hall. No one ever forgot the dramatic moment when he burst through the doors, waving an official-looking piece of paper in triumph and shouting loudly "I've got it! I've got the fookin' License, the wedding is on!"

His bride fainted dead away, and the parson looked as if he'd rather be in his study flagellating himself like a Roman, but the wedding went all right on the day. Pater took his friend round to the pub after the rehearsal and told him "Snuffles, you never said a truer thing. Here's luck, may it never run out for a pack of smokes and take your bride with it." And he was right - it was a good marriage and not marred by fainting at the altar, since they'd already rehearsed that bit.

I beg your pardon most abjectly, but the story depends on a certain raffish delivery. Pater was quite a character.

In any case, perhaps we might have a flutter on old Bob and see if we can bring him safe home.

I decided I had to have one of the new Flarq T-shirts... it's not terribly successful over muttonchop sleeves, but it'll do to go on with.  

Nelson Rises To The Occasion

I'm beginning to smell a notBob. This is a far more accurate picture of Nelson - note the missing arm is the right, not the left, and though blind in one eye, there was no disfigurement, and thus no need for an eyepatch (and again, it was not the left, but the right eye). Of course, this image is a bit out of date... by almost exactly 199 years.

There is a sort of family resemblance - I admit there may be connection on the distaff side. The very distant, wrong side of the blanket distaff side. Also, if the heavily Scrimshopped (TM our own nikola) image at Gus' site is to be believed, Nelson has somehow become rather fetching in a rakehelly piratical sort of way. And he is certainly gladius to see us. Note a somewhat more historically accurate and appropriate sword in the above image. I shall have the new scrimshaw framed in any case, and shall supervise the process personally. You may all take assurance that it shall be well hung. And labeled *Nelson (Annotated). E'rm. Perhaps it's just Nelson's costume for tomorrow's bash. And that takes us to the next item of business.

As the annual TLAPD takes place on a Sunday, I did just wonder if our usual morning service would be conducted out of the Booke of Common Pirates' Prayers. Complete with "Y'aaaaar-men, vicar, that t'were a proper sarmon. Now p'int me in the direction of the rum-butt and some o' these saucy church-hen wenches."

However, at least one man of the cloth is undecided on the matter.

In any case, I shall be putting in a good word in for Gus and those of his crew (and Sybill and Bob) who are prepared to stand and fight like men. And women. And a rat.

Good Lord It's Nearly Here: Talk Like A Pirate Day Is Sunday

The extra barrels of rum will be delivered tomorrow morning. However, there's a mild disaster in the making: the eyepatches are stuck in New Orleans awaiting the first available FedEx flight out post-Ivan. We may have to improvise; fortunately real pirates would have used a simple torn strip of silk, so they can be made up very quickly from old remainders if necessary. The same strips can be used to make pigtails - very versatile, pirate fashion!

I expect some of the deeply puzzled sort of pirates may put in for grog and supplies of... woad or indigo or suchlike. If they wish to trade, I've got some garlands of dried hops from last years' Brewfest Binge decorations we can try to fob off on them.

In the meantime, we had best practice our piratical talk:

"Garrrrrn."

"Blooooow me doooown, mateys, she be listin' faaaar to staaaarbard."

"Yaaaar, me y'earin' ain't wot it used ter be these many years as gunner, ye'd best send yer yarn down me other y'ear-hooooole."

And of course, the classic: "Arrrrrs" and "yo-ho-hos" will always do in a pinch.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (It Will, However, Be Blogged)

Good God! It seems that Sybil has an Agenda. Also, she bears a close resemblance to Wonder Woman. The scrimshaw does not show her wrists... much watch for that.

I was about to post a notice for the Friday staff meeting, but needs must, tits up and all that - it looks like things are about to get rather sketchy for Gus and Co. They may soon be enveloped in the Fog of War.

One does hope they remain free and clear of the Mists of Dirty Little Illegal Police Actions, of course.