A bounty of ladies

(In honor of Talk Like a Pirate Day, I have allowed th’good Captain Morning Wood to shanghai me blog. When ye last met him, Cap’n Wood had lost everything to the scurvy ponce Randall Richards, that foppish agent of Her Majesty Herself. Shipless and destitute, Cap’n Wood seeks employment from a most unlikely source: a right buxom lass.)

Cap’n Wood, the very same

“A vessel with nought but ladies?” said I. “‘T’ain’t natural.”

“But ye say ye’ve sailed for months on end with nought but lads,” said that most fair wench, Da Nator, ship’s bosun o’th’Mound of Blue Dykes. “That t’ain’t natural.”

“That’t t’ain’t,” said I, “and thank Poseidon for tubs of lanolin.”

In th’Port o’ Sassandra we were, sitting at th’bar of th’Blinkered Eye trading shots o’ grog. Da Nator had herself a hollow leg, I was sure of it, but when I went t’slap it, she took firm hold o’ me wrist.

“If ye sign on, Cap’n Wood, there will be none o’that.”

“None o’that, ye say? Wot? No grab-ass?”

She shook her fiery head. “Nor grab-tit neither. We have no need o’that from th’likes o’you. You’ll be there t’open stuck jam jars, metaphorically speakin’.”

Those words o’many syllables . . . I could resist her charms no longer. I took her by th’shoulders and breathed hot love into her ears.

“No grab-ass nor grab-tit, aye. But surely ye be needin’ some o’this good ol’-fashioned shoulder-seizin’ romance.”

She whirled in my arms and slapped me gristled mug. “None o’that, neither. Now, do ye want th’job, or not?”

“Jar-opener, eh?”

“Aye.”

“Metafurricly speakin’. And what be a metafur?”

I liked th’way her eyes twinkled, I did. ‘Twould be worth another slap t’see ‘em sparkle that way again.

“A figger o’ speech,” she said, smilin’ in a most wily way, “in which a word or phrase literally denoting one kind o’ object or idea is used in place o’ t’other t’suggest a likeness or analogy between them. Like, ‘Drowning in money,’ which is what ye will be if ye sign on w’th’good Cap’n Dyke.”

I couldn’t believe me ears. Oh happy day! “Cap’n Dyke?”

“Aye, Cap’n Dyke.”

“Not th’notorious Cap’n Clitorissimus Dyke?”

“Ye’ve heard o’ her?”

“Aye. I’ve heard she sports th’most luscious crew from here to Zanzibar.”

“An’ ye’ve heard we be a ship full o’lesbians?”

“Lesbos, Mikonos, Samos — what care I where ye hail from? Besides. I like me a good souvlaki.”

I do recall, th’lass gave me a mighty queer look. Perhaps I should o’taken it as a warning. It might o’saved yer humble cap’n a galleon of grief. On th’other hand, I wouldn’t've had th’chance t’save a shipload of lovely lesbian lasses, either.

To be continued.

Cap’n M.W.

2 Comments

  1. Erin O'Brien says:

    This made me horny. Is that normal?

    Send help.

  2. Da Nator says:

    D’arrrgh! I wish someone had told me sooner that me head was on fire!

    Ye can open me jam-jars anyday, Sir Walnuts. But me ass be worthy of at least two hands fer grabbin’, and th’ last bilge-suckin’ blaggard o’ the manly persuasion that done so got two hooks fer mittens out’n affair!

    ;o)