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.

Dea Ex Machina! Princess Sybil To The Rescue

You must admit, she IS rather like a goddess, now don't you? She certainly knows how to fill out a T-shirt. Pity, she would have made a rather spectacular barmaid.

I award her bonus points for not being one of those annoyingly fluffy pink-taffeta faux-princesses such as they have in another sub-tropical realm, the Kingdom of Magic. I can't see Sybill hosting any teas at the Palace for little girls when the word gets out that she's the Princess of Blowing Things Up.

Huzzah! The necktie party has been cancelled. Joy unrestrained, et cetera. Now, I wonder how long it'll take for Gus, crew, and Sybil to get the S-1 headed in a blubbery B. whaleward direction? I'm sure Princess Sybil is anxious to put her remote controlled exploding squid into action against the foe. I wonder if this makes her an apostate in the state religion, or is it simply a rebellious phase?

Free Crown Royal for all persons able to prove that they are subjects of the Kingdom of Conch (passports only, no shells please). I take back what I said previously about the Conchians, I now see that the subterfuge was a matter of national security (for Conch, anyway). I did just wonder at the incredibly swift wheels of justice that took Gus straight from the dock to the gallows without benefit of judiciary.

Gus had best step carefully unless he's willing to stick his neck in another type of noose altogether - a matrimonial one.

Right, Who Is It?? Who's The King Of Conch?

The crowd so pleased we'd arrived cause at the far end of the palace square, workmen were hammering the last nails in place on a big gallows made of fresh pine. From it dangled seven nooses—six regular ones for me and my crew, and a tiny one for Bob our rat. The delegation who’d met us at the beach marched us onto the thing. The crowd roared.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way we can negotiate?” I asked the leader as he fitted a noose over my head. His comrades were doing the same to mine.

“Your lives can only be spared by Royal Decree,” he replied. “However, our King reads your blog and you’re on his Top Five list of worst humans in the history of the planet.” The he turned to the guy at the base of the gallows and asked, “You ready, Philip?”

“Aye,” said Philip, a big guy wearing, of note, one of those black hangman hoods. Then he stepped up to a oar-sized lever and cracked his knuckles. The crowd went bananas.

Right, who is it? Who's the blackguard Monarch who reads Gus's thrilling yarns and thinks he's one of the "Top Five list of worst humans in the history of the planet?" Because whoever you are, Royalty or not, you shall never darken the door of this establishment. My tipple, Sir, shall ne'er slake Your tyrannical and highly extrajudicial thirst.

As a follower of the cult of Bulbus, surely you can recognize when someone is being unjustly accused and persecuted, let alone mercilessly hunted for their blubber and baleen (I speak metaphorically). If you had taken the time to examine the facts, you might have realized that the whale that et the family and arm of Gus was some kind of rogue vegetarian-turned-carnivore - perhaps even The Anti-Whale!

I pray that you put your ceti-ecclesiastical experts on the case - in the meantime, no quiet drinks with the hoi-polloi for you!

It has been rather a trying week what with things blowing up and romantic heartstrings plucked and left to fall silent, not to mention hopes repeatedly dashed on the rocks of the Sea Witch's Claws. In the meantime, we have been inundated with some rather colorful resume' thingys. I think I shall put nikola on that project; it's right up her alley... perhaps I should say it's more in her line of... er, it's her department.

I shall light yet another candle in church for Gus and his men; I expect the altar guild ladies will be hitting me up for a little extra dosh for the expense, so I'm taking a bit out of the till before I lock up for the night. This is in addition to other candles lit for other causes.

And I shall light a tiny, wee candle for Bob, the rat. I could not find a suitable verse for him (I pray it may not yet be his epitaph) but here is something about a mouse. It ends:

But, mousie, thou art not alane,
In proving foresight may be in vain,
The best laid schemes of mice and men,
Go oft astray,
And leave us nought but grief and pain,
To rend our day.

Still thou art blessed,
compared with me!
The present only touches thee,
But, oh, I backward cast my eye
On prospects drear,
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.

Rather apt, that.

One more quote, from a rather famous diarist before the days of web-thingy diaries:

"And so to bed."

A Sailor's Prayer

My dears, I'm feeling very low. Perhaps a little music - drat, the gramophone is on the fritz again. Here is what I would play if only I could.

Though my sails be torn and tattered, and the mast be turned about
let the night wind chill me to my very soul
though the spray might sting my eyes, and the stars no light provide
give me just another morning light to hold

(chorus):
[For] I will not lie me down, this rain a-ragin'
[No] I will not lie me down, in such a storm
and if this night be unblessed, I shall not take my rest
[Until] I reach another shore

Though the only water left, is but salt to wound my thirst
I will drink the rain that falls so steady down
. . . though night's blindness be my gift, and there be thieves upon my drift
I will [thank the] fog that shelters me along
(chorus)

Though my mates by drained and weary, and [it seems] their hopes are lost
there's no need for their bones on that blackened bottom
and though death waits just off the bow, we will not answer to him now
he shall stand to face the morning without us
(chorus)

::sniff:: Such a lot of interesting old adventuring junk we decorated the Gentlemen's Club Room with; I fear it shall never welcome those weary seafarers... excuse me, must dash off and deal with a matter in the scullery...::sniff:: 

Never Mind The Flippin' T-Shirt, Make Mine A Mae West!

Gus and his hardy adventurers are in dire straits indeed (never mind about that rock band jape, we've all done that one to death already). Gus thoughtfully provides a link to a source of commemorative T-shirts just as it seems the Lucky Sue and her plucky crew are about to meet their Maker. One would hope that there would be a titch more floatation in the garments on offer than there appears at first glance.

I looked to see if they had a "Mae West" model but was disappointed to find it's merely Beefy-T and not even a "girly." It seems a shame, because the addition of one of those little yellow inflatable vests (often given away as souveniers on certain aircraft unlucky enough to experience a "water landing") would be a handy selling point.

My dear snuggs has put in a good word with a bewildering array of deities; I'm sure that Chad the cabana boy and all the rest of the staff will also join me in offering up whatever hopes or good thoughts they think fit for the survival of "our" band of sea-rovers.

And now, we must await further developments. I do hope that there are no carnivorous whales or sharks still in the area of the Sea Witch's Claws; we don't need that complication (though surely that wouldn't stop them if they decided to barge in and mess up a perfectly dignified and tragic denouement).

I do hope Gus has one more sly trick up his sleeve; pity he's just got the one to work with.

Thirteen Days

I should hope it won't take that long to resolve the Tortolan Missile Crisis. In the meantime, the hardy crew of the (is it still the Lucky Sue, or are we on yet another brig now?) have lost their steering gear to a "hail-mary" shot from that dratted surplus rust-bucket of a Tortolan battleship.

If I weren't stuck being a British subject in Bristol, I should certainly write my congressperson and complain about the dumping of old Navy iron on dubious "allies" in the Caribbean.

The immediate problem is steering, since the engines are undamaged but the rudder has been transformed into flotsam. There is some chance that they could steer by increasing or decreasing power to the port and starboard engines... or they could simply duct-tape Stupid George to the stern with a pair of snorkel fins and steer that way with verbal commands.

Therein lies the problem.

It's quite likely that confusion between "my starboard" and "the boat's starboard..." will arise in what passes for Rockhead's noggin. Not to mention the very real possibility that S.G. has no clew about the actual meanings of the words "port" and "starboard." Most people know that "port" and "left" each have 4 letters and remember that way, but I'm quite certain Stupid George would have trouble with even that simple mathematical concept.

I have an easier method of remembering which is which; when I drink port, I generally list to the left when tacking between the bar and the cellar.

Perhaps I had better bespeak dear snuggs to stock up on the port. We'll probably need it.

Invasion Of Ruddy Pirates Expected, Grog Shortage Soon After

We'd best stock up on the grog and parrot feed, as I'm certain there shall be an influx of rakehelly piratical types on September the 19th.

The Hunter Is The Prey

Action! Sightings! Harpoons! Even Stupid George does 2 useful and not terribly stupid things: he spotted the pod of whales and gave thrilling cry, and he also spotted a Tortolan battleship, and gave a somewhat more pragmatic warning shout.

Tortolans. We detest their navy (the people are quite nice, actually).

Glorious Feets Of Victory

My darlings! All and sundry! People in the street who've never darkened the door! He's alive, I tell you, Moses is alive! Open up all the kegs, tuns, bottles, cans, and barrels in the place, the Deluge of the Drunken Apocalypse is upon us! Moses has survived to win Employee of the Week unposthumously! And he owes it all (or much of it) to his "thinking feet," which somehow aided him in grasping the rudiments of F-15 armaments and survival procedures. Not with his feet, the grasping I mean. Unless there's monkey business in his family tree.

But I digress.

Fortunately for we ladies, he is a good looking EOTW. Rather a strange cross between Kris Kristofferson (I agree completely, Tina Bug) and a certain flightsuited leader of the free world. I shall be hunting up a suitable frame in order to add his picture to the gallery.

Cry huzzah! and loose the cats of joy (my apologies to W. Shakespeare, for whom I have the deepest respect).

And for those of you who skipped out on Lit. 103, "Bottoms up, half-price Kamikazes!"

Need Rose's Lime Juice, STAT!

He had an okay point. So I waited a minute to call Dealer Dan back. Turned out it was a minute too long. Cause no sooner did I snatch up the blower than the F-15’d begun a dive straight towards Dealer Dan’s brig.

“Kamikaze!” shouted Duq.

“Cool,” came the voice of Moses over the radio, “My favorite drink.” - Moses, Putative Employee of the Week Elect

Dear saints preserve Moses, he appears to be on course to divide the seas in the immediate vicinity of Dealer Dan's brig, but only for a split second before exploding in an heroic blaze of glory. Oh, if only Gus can relay him the missile-firing sequence so helpfully uploaded by ED R.

Drat, that would be far too easy.

While there are many stories of how the Gimlet got its start, they all agree that it began in the British Royal Navy as a means of preventing scurvy. Over the years, the Gimlet traveled to the United States and enjoyed - along with other classic cocktails such as the martini - great popularity in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s when its fame peaked. Its popularity never really completely faded, however. In the 1980s, the Gimlet transformed into the Kamikaze, the ultra popular cocktail made with vodka, Rose's Lime Juice and Triple Sec -- Mott's, mfr.of Rose's Lime Juice

Moses is making his potentially suicidal move on Dealer Dan's boat; he has stated that Kamikazes are his favorite drinks. That being said, we're going to need a lot of Rose's and ALL of the Stoli in stock, because all and sundry will be raising a glass (or canning jar) in Moses' honor (and preferably not in his memory).

It pleases me greatly that there is a Royal Navy connection to Kamikazes, as they are actually good old British-fashion Gimlets. I never knew that - it's amazing the things one can learn from this Whole Whale Web thingy.

I shall be printing off copies of Gus' "Wanted" poster to post down on the docks - I do hope I don't encounter any rent-boys whilst there, they can be such cheeky buggers (pardon, particularly apt language).



Note to Self: Post down by the Docks. Make copies at that Kinkys place. Avoid rent-Boys. 

Yahoo! News - 'Friendly' Killer Whale Damaging Boats

Wrong species: Gus has posted a scrimshaw of his bastard whale.

Wanted: Dead Or Alive (Armed And Dangerous!)

Here is an artist's rendition of the slavering beast, Dickhead (pardon, language) as he might have appeared on the WMD spy-sat cam immediately after the tragic incident. I apologize for the gratuituous violence implied in the image. In order to lessen the psychological impact, I have used the friendly cartoon character Popeye as a model.

Gus has found the time to upload a wanted poster - it could help him if we posted copies at our local Postal offices and monitored the various spy satellites for a sighting, as he's a bit busy of late.

I wonder how he dares spare the precious moments blogging via air-sea wireless Internet whilst simultaneously being pursued by Dealer Dan's minions, the Tortolan Navy, and dodging "friendly" fire from Moses in the borrowed attack jet. Still, it's terribly sweet of him to keep us informed.

We shall continue with our extremely diverse spiritual endeavours and burn incense, chant, pray skyclad, and invoke all gods, dieties, and saints to intervene. I have a sneaking suspicion that the greatest literary Goddess of all, Machina, will do Her best to muck up the storyline anyway.

Right, Who's In On The Pool?

Owing to Stupid George's unfortunate escape from his bonds (naming no names) the clock is now ticking on the "Day and Time Of Lucky Sue's Sinking" pool.

For the moment I shall not be installing a "jackoozee," since they are nothing but work. Constant vigilance is required in order to prevent hooliganism and loutish behaviour; one trial size package of Mr Bubble and the thing is useless for a week.

There are advantages the "jackoozee" has over the classic Japanese "o-furo" or California hot tub - if you've ever inadvertently or vertently sat on a centrally located water jet, you'll know what I mean.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci Beaucoup

Gus has the instincts of a man who has known and failed to avoid tragedy, travail, and outrageous fortune.

Such as buying a lemon off the lot because the car salesman turned out to be a lovely woman with just the right package of accessories.

On the car, ladies. With a well-appointed chassis.

The S-1 exploding robot squid may be a good deal, but the attractive intern may merely be window dressing. Pity.

What's A Hen Party Without Porn?

My darling chicks, what better way to pass the time of a Monday evening? I suggest you start by asking him to show us his knickers.

Love For Sale

She then produced a laptop computer and opened it up. On the screen was live feed of me. “From your boat,” she continued, “you’ll see what the cameras in the S-1’s eyes see. That way you can be certain you’ve got the right whale. And when your whale swallows the S-1, you remotely detonate the five pounds of C-3 [a powerful explosive, and enough of it to total a destroyer] in its tail.”

Romance is in the air, but is it for the beautiful yet mysterious arms fabricator, or for her high-tech whale-killing giant exploding squid?

I'm rather an "old school" gel when it comes to budding romance in the yarns I follow. And it appears that this yarn is about to "het" up nicely.

I have ordered some roses - bright yellow ones for now, with a few single red ones. In sympathetic magickal terms, I'm propositioning the fates that this budding acquaintanceship might blossom into friendship for poor lonely Gus, and perhaps bloom into romance.

The roses will look lovely on the back bar; yellow bouquets with one single red rose each. Heaven! And when the petals are at their height, I shall make rose liquor.

In the meantime, we still have an unfortunate excess of tequila in stock, so perhaps I'll take a hint from a competitor and serve it from a spray nozzle attached to a portable tank.

A bit more raucous, perhaps, but it seems the momentum in Gus' quest is building towards... something. We might as well be stripped for action and ready for anything (this will probably make nikola's day, if she's not in jail already).

A Man Of More Than A Few Words

Ladies, prepare yourselves for the image of Thesaurus. I shall lay out some lovely old quilts to break your falls; otherwise you'd faint with an audible "thud!"

Played, By Gad! Played Like A Blubbery Harpooned Whale!

MONTEGO BAY, JAMAICA—Late yesterday afternoon, amid high seas, Tortolan naval cruisers Vengeance and Thunder converged on the 64-foot fisherman Lemming, piloted by the outlaw Gus Openshaw, at 18° 32'N/ 78° 04' W.
When the Lemming ignored orders to be boarded as well as a warning shot across her bow, the naval cruisers fired two torpedoes apiece into her portside hull, creating "loud explosions followed by pillars of waters of biblical proportions," according to one onlooker.

Within five minutes, the 110-ton fisherman had disappeared beneath the surface. Neither Openshaw nor his crew were seen. According to Thunder Commander Geraldo Vegtalla, all of them are believed dead.

Thank all the saints and any friendly pagan gods besides, this was a clever stratagem by Gus to throw of pursuit by the Torolan Navy, who appear to be a rather effete bunch absolutely dripping in gold braid and extra lapels.

My dear good snuggs and nikola, the time for grief is not yet nigh.

However, the time for selling several hundredweight of fine tequila is at hand in celebration of Gus' DIY deliverance.

I apologize for my absence in the preceding days; there were pressing matters of business to attend to (ie., some new and creative bookkeeping in order to keep the local constabulary and zoning commission happy about the health spa plans).

However, that was quite a lovely obit in the Tortolan rag; I was nearly ready to frame it but will hold off in the hopes it shall never be needed.

Next order of business: if a very small but determined woman wanders in with another woman speaking an incomprehensible language loosely based on English, please extend all courtesies of the house... to the small woman only.

The very small woman may have any dish or tipple she likes. The larger woman may only have 2 pounds of worst-quality caviar, or 1 entire ostrich egg, scrambled dry. If she objects, please explain "No substitute-o, bellissima habibi." If she asks for a steak, you may comply, but please inform her that she must fetch the meat herself from the butchers'; we have a 55-pound side of beef waiting especially for her use.

Finally, if a handsome travel-worn Kiwi should drop by the Gentlemen's Club Room for a quiet drink, do not let the incomprehensible woman within 50 feet of him, as an order of protection is due to be posted shortly. He may be in need of a manly hanky, however. Try not to drool on him too much, dear nikola and snuggs, as he's a married man (but not dead).

Situation: Hopelessly Surrounded

Gus and the rest of the lively rogues in his crew find themselves in rough waters with danger to the right of them! Danger to the left of them! Danger above! All that seems to be missing is danger below, in this Kiplingesque yarn. However, I suspect there probably is something lurking below the waves just for narrative consistency. Such as, a whale - or perhaps a killer whale or giant squid, perhaps.

Meanwhile, life ashore in our dear little pub goes on. I shall be adding some higher quality wines to the menu shortly; a recent fact-finding trip to a charming Mediterranean clime famous for producing fruit of the vine was most successful. Yours truly sampled wines straight out of the barrel; there is nothing quite like a young, fresh red to really get the heart pumping and the mind reeling with thoughts of good food and love (in approximately that order).

I shall shortly be entering into negotiations for starting a health spa in a disused corner of the grog shoppe - it turns out that a rather smelly old spring nearby (not as famous as the ones at Bath, and yet just as distusting) might be turned profitably from liability (I could never keep the rooms on that side of the inn occupied, owing to the sulphurous emanations) to asset.

It seems that people like to soak in smelly, gassy water and have various bizarre concoctions slathered on them in the name of "health" and "beauty." And they pay. Very handsomely.

Ladies, in a few days time a masseur named Helmut will be arriving - he's very charming and likes to be called "Hank"; he has a bit of reputation as a rake and may try to get up to hanky-panky (thus the nickname, I'll wager). He will handle any of the deep-tissue massages; I shall be taking some courses in something called "hot rocks" massage. I understand it's not difficult to learn; the hardest part to master appears to be getting one's client's hot rocks off. If either of you is interested in taking courses in any of the other massageinist arts, or if you already know how to do any of those whifty New-Agey reflexo-aromato-whacko spa thingies, please feel free to sign up and offer your wares to the health-minded of our patrons and matrons.

Just so that we're prefectly clear on this, my darlings: these are to be massages with no "happy endings" as far as the local gendarmerie is concerned. I don't think my arrangement with the local chief constable would keep us "under the radar" if that sort of thing were to go on.

Speaking of radar, bad job that Gus doesn't have jamming equipment on the former pirate ship Lemming; he might have a chance of escaping in the worsening blow from the ruddy Tortellinis.

Keep A Weather Eye Out

At the moment it seems the first "blows" of the season are well to the west of Gus' current estimated position.

Which is just as well, because unlike in Hampshire, where hurricane's hardly h'ever happpen, they're all too common in the waters around Guava Island.

The WMD spy satellite reports no suspicious massively destructive whales at the moment; however the lights ashore are pretty. The very bright spot at the center point is likely Caracas, and the jewel-like island to the north is probably Puerto Rico, where they make some rather fine (and entertainingly combustible) rums. The running lights of Gus' current sea-going ride are not visible at this resolution.  

All At Sea

"Sea Fever"

I MUST go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. - John Masefield

At last! Sea room and a worthy foe indeed! Do you know, me hearty dearies, I think I shall find a scrivener to do up this poem in calligraphic fancies and hang it in the Club Room. It scans well and has a fine swinging meter; perfect for the manly leather-bound confines of the gentlemen's private bar.

I'm feeling extremely chuffed about Gus's venture now; it seems he's finally found a craft worthy of his seamanship and his quest, that is yet impervious to Stupid George's misguided "helpfulness."

Objects On Map Appear Freakishly Large

The Tortolan Navy's dreadnought "HMS Pinafore" is pictured in this extremely detailed map; there is possibly a typographic error and that is Guava Island to the northeast of Tortola.

Quite possibly I'm barking mad, and Guava lies much farther to the S.S.E, however.

There's something fishy about this map, and I don't mean the little turtle in the boat; there's a Ginger Island, but there is no Mary Ann Island.

Oddly, there appears to be Salt & Peter Islands in the area - members of the Gentlemen's Card Club should be warned to stay well away from there.

Best of luck to Gus finding his way around looking for that B., nay even that D.H. whale (pardon, abbreviated language).

Bob's A-Dying: The Mother Of All Acquittal Parties!

"We will not appeal, Mutherford said, costing a lot of Guavans a lot of money. But then Mutherford produced a document and added, "Because we have an order for the extradition of Mr. Gus Openshaw for trial on Tortola for violation of Chapter XXII, Article VIII of the Penal Code there."

On cue, the Tortolan Navy guys marched towards me jangling with darbies (a local, painful version of handcuffs) and leg irons.

"We got to run, Gus," said Nelson, tugging me towards the back door.

All in, Nelson was right. So I got to run now.

Most excellent and puissant Gus, congratulations! And kudos also to Nelson for being on top of the situation.

Now it is only to make your way to the docks, Tortolan swabbies in pursuit, and see what the others have been doing in the meantime. I hope and trust that the boat is still seaworthy. If only there were a way to get a message to them - it takes time to get marine diesels going from a cold start.

It appears that we're going to get through a very large and lavish amount of Pusser's before the day goes much further: it's time to splice the main brace and celebrate. Today being Thursday, the toast of the day is particularly apropos: "Thursday: The King; honest men and bonnie lassies."

Speaking of bonnie lassies - that Tunette looks like quite a catch... Flarq is obviously sweet on her, so desolation may overtake my staff if we're not careful. Chins up, ladies! It's probably just a fancy passing.

In the meantime, there is much celebrating to do, so Chad the cabana boy had best resign himself to switching out ale kegs and bringing up jugs of rum and tequila from the cellar.

While we wait for the effects of all the grog and tequila swilling to kick in, we had better analyze who these Tortolan lubbers think they are... well. Hrrm. It appears that they are partially descended from pirates. The ruddy Dutch tried to run things, but Bluebeard and Captain Kidd were running their respective pro-active salvage operations from there very early on. Now, however, the island economy is mostly based on lubberly tourism (bah!) and off-shore financial shenanigans... erm, meaning they may have friends in certain black-ops organisations such as Treadstone.

These people are not to be trifled with, so I do hope Gus and his crew have their hustley-bustles strapped on good and proper. Because there's a whale needs killin'.

Here's another old toast to send Gus and his crew on their way:
Sea room, and a worthy foe.

And until the next dispatch from them, we'd best get to partying!

Also Not Recommended

KALISPELL, Mont. - A man who refused to go to court got a jailhouse hearing Friday and then spat at the judge and threw a container of urine at him, officials said.

He was later charged with assault with a bodily fluid; another attempt at judicial influence gone horribly wrong.

Not The Best Legal Strategy

VALPARAISO, Ind. - A man wanted to let a judge know he was unhappy. He found out writing obscenities on court documents might not have been the best way to do so.

Perhaps he should have said it with flowers?

Testimony! 3 Saintly Amici Curiae Keep Watch

It helps to have friends in high places, my dears, so I present St. Julian the Hospitaller, patron saint of:

boatmen, carnival workers, childless people, circus workers, clowns, ferrymen, fiddlers, fiddle players, hospitality, hotel-keepers, innkeepers, jugglers, knights, murderers, pilgrims, shepherds, to obtain lodging while traveling, travelers, and wandering musicians

Some other friends in high places are watching the proceedings on Gus' behalf (or so we hope and beseech): St Anthony of Padua, who pretty much covers everything relevant to the saga of Gus, including amputees, fishermen, sailors, oppressed people, seekers of lost articles, and shipwrecks. And also St Jude, patron saint of lost causes. My thanks to snuggs and nikola for suggesting the above saints.

It seems we're well covered by our saintly patrons. There are some other, rather more robust saints whose patronage covers various kinds of beer, wine, and other bibulous spirits; we shall hold them in reserve (the saints, that is: tipples we have and plenty).

Not that we're excessively churchy ladies at this establishment, but every little bit helps in a storm. And in honor of steadfast Gus' rather successful testimony in the witness stand today, we shall again pour two-for-one well drinks, and seven-for-one not-so-well drinks (pirates only, on the latter, lubbers can't hold their liquor).

The regularly scheduled LEC&TS meeting will be held as per usual in the Ladies' Snuggery, which is now graced by the portrait of the mighty Flarq. Drool buckets provided.

I am thinking of starting a Gentlemens' Card Club in the Club Room, which has a separate entrance to the street. If there sufficient interest, we can arrange to serve beverages and a selection of hot and cold victuals via the serving hatch, thus making it a "no gurlz allowed" sort of gathering. Applications may be made to the Management.

Cast-Iron Alleybye

LONDON (Reuters) - An 80-foot dead whale has been spotted floating in the Solent off the south coast of England and is expected to wash ashore in the next few days -- a rare occurrence in southern Britain, the UK coastguard said on Monday.

This is entirely too close for comfort. Fortunately, it's not the right sort of whale (again: drat and so forth), and my duties and cares here at the Grog Shoppe afford me a fine alleybye.

Would that the same could be said for dear, rumply Gus.