What Be That, Closing In From A Distance?

Like a pirate ship that approaches with frightening regularity, all sails set, and the dread we good sailors experience as we go about our lawful business. Closer and closer it comes; now we can see the men on deck, swords drawn and waving, shouts of, “Arrrrr, matey, an’ you know what we want. Arrrr harrr harrr. Give it up, just like you did last week,”

It’s deadline again. The newspaper wants my column this afternoon.

The barstards. And my faithful lookout on shore even reminded me yesterday to watch out for them. A cleverly-worded poem of warning; another today. Decoded, it read, “Beware of Cap’n Inkstain aboard the Newsprint. They want all you can give them.”

Curse them, curse their swords, their wooden legs, their eye patches. Curse the parrots on their shoulders, their bare-chested female bow figurines. No; let’s take it easy on the chicks, but send all the rest to the Eternal Flames of Hades, there to be pitchforked forever by the Evil One for forcing me to stop everything just to make deadline.

Let’s check the naked bowsprit chick again. Hoo-HAH!

Anyway, back to those pirates disguised as editors at the newspaper. There they sit, rubbing their hands in anticipation that I won’t make it in time. “Ha, ha, ha,” they laugh in mirthful glee. “He’s not gonna make it this week.” But virtue will win once more, after being fortified by a hot, steaming mug of tea.