Shenanigans at the Jolliest Roger

A Pirate’s Dilemma, Part the Second

Old Stella had made some peculiar changes to the Roger, I tell ye true. I remember well a time when a seaman like yers truly could grab a pint of grog, settle into one of Stella’s leather-backed chairs, and put his peg up on an oaken barrel. And a fine bar she stocked, arrrr.

I tarried at the threshold. “Stella, what’s become of the place? Where’s me bar? Where’s me fine old leather chairs, and barrel to rest me peg a spell?”

“Times have changed, Cap’n. See that hunk of brass? That’s an espresso machine. Now I can steam milk like the pros –”

“You always steamed my milk like a pro, Stella dear.”

“Kind of you to say, Cap’n. My new clientele likes lots of glass and stainless steel –”

“Avast! What be those plants on the tables, and hanging off yer beams?”

“Calla lilies, Cap’n. And those be ferns.”

“Stella, Stella. What sort of godfersaken house of ill repute are you runnin’ these days? And what be that on the table — malt vinegar? Stella, I like me lasses to smell like lasses –”

But I had no chance to finish, for at that very moment the beauties appeared, floatin’ down the stairs like visions of Earthly delight. Frenchies and Spaniards, jade-bedecked vixens from Cathay and the finest Nubian princesses. “Oooh la la, it’s Captain Morning Wood!” cried one, and “Can I sit on your lap?” cried ‘tother, and “May I please polish your peg leg?” cried a third.

They surrounded yer blighted hero and whisked me to a table. While Stella plied me with her finest rum (she’d saved me a pint, bless her heart), they begged me fer stories of courage and adventure on the high seas. But before long, I came to know their darker purpose.

“Cap’n,” said the Nubian, a fine lass with a high breast, two of them in fact, “is it true you shipped with the legendary Jack Sparrow?”

“Oooh!” the others did cry out in their feminine ecstacies. “You knew Jack Sparrow? What’s he like? Tell me, tell me please!”

“Ay, ’tis true,” I said most mournfully. “I knew Jack Sparrow. I shipped with the Perrier-drinkin’ scoundrel.”

Aye. At last it made sense: the cafe lattes, the calla lilies, the ferns. Jack Sparrow — that bilge-sucking, eyeliner-bogarting blaggard — Jack Sparrow had come to town and fouled me beloved Jolliest Roger.

“Jack Sparrow is not the man ye think he is,” I said to a chorus of soulful moans. “One fact I’ll give ye, one fact to prove that Jack Sparrow is a right poor excuse for a pirate. Here ’tis: that craven swab don’t even know his alphabet like a rum seadog.”

“Huh?” said me gorgeous beauty from Cathay.

“I tell ye true, Mai Poon, or Rita Cosby taint a man. Ol’ Jack Sparrow, he confuses his M’s for his Arrrs.”

“Como?” said Maria of Cordoba.

“Si, si, Maria. One day we made to board one of Her Majesty’s privateers. ‘Look ye, Jack Sparrow,’ I said. ‘Have ye ever seen a stouter mizzenmast?’ ‘Mmmm,’ he replied. Mark ye! A yummy Mmmm, not a right manly Arrrr.”

I gazed upon a sea of beautiful but sadly blank faces, I did.

“That poxy hunk of shark bait wasn’t looking at the mizzenmast, ye sex-addled dames. He was looking at me bosun’s rudder! And by rudder, understand I be speaking metaphorically.”

These flowers of femininity met me revelation with general consternation. I began to fear me willy would stay dry for another long turn at sea, but then Stella arrived, bless her soul.

“Girls, girls! The Cap’n isn’t here for your pleasure.”

Stella’s lasses needed no more encouragement. With a great whoop, they spirited me onto their fine, soft shoulders, and hauled me bodily upstairs to their den of exotic pleasures.

“Fair winds!” cried me good hostess Stella. “And, girls, don’t forget. The Cap’n has been at sea a very long time. Before you get intimate, you had better swab his poop deck!”

To be continued.