[Told in the style of Mr. Fabulous]

Avast me mateys! ‘Tis that time again to be spendin’ the day talkin’ like a pirate, so prepare yerself for the tellin’ of a tale. Be pullin’ up a bottle o’ rum and puttin’ on ye eye patch — for this tale be in 3-D!

The treasure be dug up. The crew be happy and well paid, so Poupee Pieces, Cap’n o’ the Gai Canot, be dockin’ for some shore leave in his favorite port on Ilede Incertain to be findin’ some rest and relaxation. Walkin’ through yon port town with bags full o’ gold and lust in his satin buccaneer, he be lookin’ to be puttin’ away his cutlass in some wenche’s sheath IF ye be knowin’ what I be meanin’.

He be stoppin’ at the finest establishment in Port Repos, The Blooming Clam, where he be hagglin’ with the proprietor to find the best booty booty can buy — with some extra doubloons given to be keepin’ himself off the madam’s ‘call’ list. Up the stairs he be climbin’ to the Crow’s Nest suite to meet Violet Barnacle known for her ability to remain attached to the softest of surfaces.

The door be openin’ and Cap’n Pieces peeps into the porthole he be about to install. Violet be knowin’ her part well. Smooth as his boat through calm waters, she be slidin’ over to the Cap’n to undo his breeches to inspect the ship’s canon to make sure it be loaded and ready fer firin’. His pirate garb then be hittin’ the floor.

Violet looks and screams.

“What manner of beast be you, gov’ner?” she cries. “Where’s your plank? You ain’t got no deck to swab!” she says with despair and fear in her voice.

“But, me dear…” the Cap’n stammers.

“What sort of devil, are you? You ain’t got no genitalia! I can’t be doin’ me job when there be no prow to pillage! Get out! Get you, you mon….”

“Howard! What’s all that racket down there?”

“Uh, nothing, Mom. Just, uh, watching a movie!”

“Well, keep it down! I can’t hear my stories when you keep playing ‘Shore Leave’ with your pirate dolls!”

“Yes, Mother! …arrr.”

Happy Talk Like A Pirate Day, Everyone!

Let Humor-Blogs.com be ye map to be plundering some funny treasure.

Be listenin’ to: “Rescue” - Lucinda Williams

Hot Doctor Wife went on vacation and asked some people whose writing she loved to guest write for her blog during the week. Last Wednesday - Friday, Frychk, Dark Damian, Fresh Air Lover and Laurie played Continue The Story as they recounted breaking into HDW’s house and the escapades that occured.

Well, it turns out I was on HDW’s list, too (such a compliment!) My idea, which came to me in the shower, as usual, was to write as HDW’s teenage daughter 15 - 20 years from now. She doesn’t have a daughter. Yet. But I thought it would be fun to try and write as a teenage girl in the future. Mateo loved it, too, and wanted to help, so he added some great color detail of the future that I completely missed. Love you, Mateo!

So here it is, Mateo and my idea of the future as told through a fictional teenage girl. Enjoy!

God! I so hate my bio-parents! You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to stay home while they went on their vacation to tropical Greenland … again! Gaaa, tanning is so history. Has she ever heard of cancer?! I mean, she downloads enough Oxygen Life to know. There’s like no ozone stuff anymore. Everyone has white, alabaster skin now, but no, she has to look like the inside of a cow. It’s so embarrassing. My brother has it so good being in college and asleep for a year to earn his degree.

And why did they lock out the codes to the security cameras? I mean, it’s not like I can throw a party with the old crone next door who’s into everyone’s business. She is so scary and she totally grosses me out talking about how great her dead husband was and how she’s now a lifetime member of the stupid country club. I mean, NO ONE joins those anymore. She actually golfs and only poor people golf. Anyone who is anyone has already joined a cyberclique on MySpace. Gaaa! Everyone knows that conformity is the new exclusivity. Geez!

Oh, and then Mom totally embarrassed me at my weekly movie enclave. We were watching like the billionth version of Freaky Friday with Dakota Fanning playing the mom and Apple Martin (she’s so cute; but her brother, Moses, is dreamy!) playing the daughter and they like switched places and stuff? I would never, never, never, never, never want that to happen to me. Then I’d be all like, "C’mon dear, this is really cool and super fresh. I’m going to show you how to water the plants on the front porch correctly unlike that female dog next door." And then she waters them. She is so dumb! I mean… they’re HOLOGRAPHIC PLANTS! Hellooooo. But she is all about tradition and stuff. She insists on eating still!

My BBF, Aipotu — Her name is SO cool. It’s utopia spelled backwards. Unlike my name. Gaaa, I hate Melissa, but they totally named me after some blog story that her friend Howard wrote because he saved her life. If I have to hear THAT story one more time…. Anyway, Aipotu and I are going down to the Implant Parlor and getting iPod cerebral implants. We’ve been hacking cyber credits out of our moms’ accounts and saving up. I mean, EVERYONE has one and it’s so much better than walking around with those headphone things on your head. Mom HATES implants and keeps saying, "If you were supposed to hear music in your brain then you would have been born with an antenna sticking out of your head". I totally had to go look up "antenna" on Googlipedia to see what the heck she was talking about. It’s boring, so don’t ask. At least I don’t splice like that total nanobrain, Agnes, the so- called "coolest" girl in school. I heard that she actually spliced chameleon gene so that she really could French kiss Millard from across the room! Ew!

Well, Aipotu is here and we’re getting all giggly and stuff but not on sugar since that’s been banned. I have to say one thing about Mom - I’m really glad she turned this blog over to me. I hate to admit it but it is kinda fun if soooo old fashion although I don’t know what a martini is. No one drinks alcohol anymore unless they are homeless loser or an improv comedian.

…I hope the implant scar heals before they get back. Don’t tell!

Tootles!

Listening to: Hungry Like The Wolf - Duran Duran

I remember like it was yesterday. The date was August 7, 2006 — 11 days before the event — and my cell phone rings. It’s muthafuckin Samuel L. Jackson telling me if I don’t get my muthafuckin ass in the muthafuckin theater to see muthafuckin Snakes On A Plane then my muthafuckin ass is muthafuckin his.

I try to explain that I have plans to see it with one of my best friend’s girlfriend on opening day, but he won’t listen. He just goes on threatening me and telling me I HAVE to see the movie.

"Okay! Okay! I promise!" I scream into the phone, but he’s still oblivious. I’m starting to get pissed at this point. I mean, I know it’s Samuel "Muthafuckin" Jackson calling me personally. I mean, I’m fuckin honored and shit, but he won’t shut up! I don’t even want his autograph now much less hear him telling me he’s going to muthafuckin pop a muthafuckin cap in my muthafuckin ass if I don’t go see his muthafuckin movie.

It’s then that I realized that I’ve been duped. I’m so strong in the belief that Samuel would never sell out that I believe he has actually called me. But it’s just a recorded commercial — a muthafuckin sell-out shit ad.

Fuck Samuel L. Jackson! From now on, all my muthafuckin love is all for muthafuckin Kenan Thompson, the real muthafuckin star of Snakes On A Plane!

Later I found out that it’s one of the guys in my improv troupe that has sent the message. I’m such a tool.

Listening to: Truth Is Out Of Style - MC 900 Ft. Jesus

My imagined Oxford meeting:

"So I Googled myself last night…"

"Whoa! I don’t want to hear about your personal life. Pass the brandy, please"

"Ha. Ha. As I was saying, I put my name in Google last night to see what comes up and I’m still page five. I need my accomplishments here at the world-renowned Oxford to show up, so I can be a famous celebrity scientist and have the beyotches clamouring all over me. Can’t you guys over in Grammar do anything?"

"Man, I don’t know. Homo sapiens have been trashing English since the beginning of time. I’m completely burnt out trying to keep up with it all the changes. I mean, what the hell do we do with all the shorthand in text messages. I’d love to help you, but I don’t need to know about you Googling yourse–"

"What?"

"Oh, man. Oh, man. I just got the grooviest idea. I submit to the Dictionary board — in our names — that the word ‘Google’ should be an official verb in the English language. We piss off Google and we seem hip and cool for doing it and then the gorgeous supermodels will come strolling in. It’s fool-proof! Pass the snuff box, please."

"I don’t know…"

"No, your science creed will totally help because it’s technology. It’s perfect! Pass the mirror, please."

"Alright, but I better not be a laugh stock. I may just go super villain on your ass."

"Dude, you’re not doing anything to my ass. Now get the creme burlee torch and heat up that hot rail. We’re celebrating!"

Listening to: Bad Seamstress Blues/Fallin’ Apart At The Seams - Cinderella