Lamebeard The Pirate: Tales From The Bilge

Ahoy there, me buckos! ‘Tis Lamebeard the Pirate talking to ye straight and true. It’s been many months and a galleon of grog since last I chewed the fat with ye. Ever since that scalawag, George W. Bush got himself re-elected, I’ve been drowning me ailing spirits in Captain Morgan’s sweet company. Arrggh! A better friend there never was. I spent me days paddling around Cactus Corners Lagoon in me mighty paddleboat the S.S. Cactus Wren drinking meself into a drunken stupor. I drank so much even me dead parrot Pauly, named for that great comedian Pauly Shore, seemed like a spry scamp. I cursed everyone who voted for that swab, especially me arch nemesis, Gene Barber, skipper of that nefarious paddleboat, S.S. Shitzu. He was the local Bush Cheney re-election captain and I’ve spewed many a curse upon his wretched bones this past year.

After five months lollygagging in Margaritaville, Dex Rexter performed an ‘intervention’ or as I call it, sticking his nose in me business. Arrggh! The nosy bastard had a point nonetheless. Me job at the Bucket is to write thrilling buccaneer tales for the readers and there I was circling Cactus Corners Lagoon, drowning me sorrows. But who could help me I queried? Sweet Kendra, the serving wench at the Wet Beaver Creek Tavern would sure make Lamebeard a happy corsair, but alas, she’s shown no interest in yers truly. Then there’s sweet, overly plump, Erma, who now curses the very sight of me after I scuppered her into the briny deep last Halloween. In me defense, she was sinking me boat, which is me first love. That odious Gene Barber certainly wasn’t the answer either. I’d sooner give meself a vasectomy while drinkin’ than hang around with that bilge sucker. Even Jolly Pete, me friend at Long John Silvers was giving me fewer and fewer crumblies with me Fish and Mores. It seemed no one would help ol’ Lamebeard out of his conundrum.

Then I received help from the most unexpected of sources. Johnny Depp? In me dreams. Dr. Phil? Begads, the blaggard wouldn’t return me calls.. Nay, it was from Cactus Corners’ only Mormon Viking, Olaf Odorgaard, or the Double O as he’s called by the ladies. Arrggh! He hailed from points up North; I think somewhere by Salt Lake City. He had the long blonde locks and Teutonic good looks of Thor. However, his frame wasn’t exactly god like. As a matter of fact, he was a bit scrawny and had a mountain of a bony proboscis. That’s his nose to ye landlubbers. Picture Owen Wilson’s head on Screech’s body and ye get the idea. Aye! But he knew how to plunder. No one could plunder the salad bar at Luby’s like the Double O. Ye’d think he’d weigh 300 pounds by the way he scarfed down the fare. His boat was the mighty Viking paddleboat, the Odinator. His favorite football team? Ye guessed it; the Scottsdale Community College Fighting Artichokes. Who couldn’t like a team of battling vegetables?

Now Olaf wasn’t a full-fledged Mormon because he liked his ales, but he was a master at moderation and knowing his limits. After watching me make a fool of meself in front of the fair Kendra for the umpteenth time this spring, he said he could help me. He offered to guide me through the harrowing straits of recovery and lead me to the blissful shores of sobriety. Arrggh! The man was a natural born sea dog.

I’ll never forget that first day he took me aboard the Odinator. I had just woken from me alcohol slumber. Through me groggy eyes I watched him standing on the bow staring off into the distance, the sun shining on his silken blonde hair, a slight breeze ruffling it. Arrggh! Sorry for that Brokeback moment folks, but he’s a handsome lad. It didn’t take long until he had me under his spell. Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. Olaf showed the patience of Job as I slowly weaned meself from the Captain. Everyday I helped him do exciting chores like doing the laundry, helping ol’ ladies cross the street, and rescuing stray kitties from trees. I was feeling, dare I say, not crappy. Arrggh!

Then one day, just before Thanksgiving, we were hanging around in his stylish Viking pad replete with Viking statues of Odin, Thor and Gefjon, the Virgin Goddess. Arrggh! That was me favorite for sure. Olaf walked in from the kitchen where he had just eaten a peanut butter and arugala sandwich. “Lamebeard, my brother,” he said in a solemn tone. “I need to talk to you about your purpose in this life.”

Blimey! I was dreading this moment. I had heard rumors about how Mormons invited ye into their world of swanky milk and cookie parties until ye’re sure Ward and June Cleaver actually existed. Here was the talk when Olaf tells me of the wonders of Mormonism and how to wear the magic underwear. Arrggh! ‘Twas truly a poser, since I didn’t think I could say no to the man.

“I’ll do it, Olaf!” I blurted. “Ye know I can’t quit ya! I’ll become a Mormon, ye charismatic bastard!”

Olaf shook his head and laughed. “No, no. I don’t want you to become a Mormon. But I do think I’ve found a purpose not only for you but for me as well.” Arrgh! I thought to meself. He was going Brokeback on me!

Olaf continued. “I’ve had an empty spot being a Latter Day Saint. I’ve been looking for alternative explanations to what life is about; how the universe was created; how on Earth Craig Ferguson got a talk show. I’ve finally come across a religion that has all the answers. It’s perfect for you. It’s perfect for me, too. What’s more, I’ll be depending on you for help.”

“Wha??????” I exclaimed, me jaw dropping nearly to the floor.

“Lamebeard,” said Olaf. “You must help me become a pirate.”

“Wha??????” I exclaimed. I didn’t think it possible but me jaw dropped so low it came unhinged.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Olaf. “How can a boozy, smelly, unstable pirate help a suave, debonair, Mormon Viking, who has to beat the ladies off with a stick? Well I know this might sound strange but I’ve got to show you something.”

I’ve seen porn flicks that start this way. He took me by the hand and led me over to the computer. Arrggh! Was he gonna show me porn? I knew porn changed me life, but he’s just discovering it now? Double Arrggh! He turned on his state of the art MicroDinks computer and started surfing the web. He came to a website about the... Flying Spaghetti Monster.

“This site has shown me the way, Lamebeard,” he said softly. “Read it and I think you too will be transformed.”

So I read it. It stated that an alternative theory to Intelligent Design and Evolution is the theory that the universe was created by a Flying Spaghetti Monster and that true adherents to this view were called Pastafarians. But what really caught me eye was that in this religion, pirates were considered to be divine beings. Well blow me down! Now this religion ‘twas truly for me!

It also had a fancy chart which linked global warming with the decrease in the number of pirates. ‘Twas true; especially in Arizona. I’m the only one. Me mind was tingling with sensation and this time not from grog. I read on and found out that heaven for the Pastafarians was a land overflowing with a beer volcano and a stripper factory. Ye-Har-Har!! I’m so there!!

“Ye’re right Olaf!” I said with glee. I danced a jig and grabbed his face and smooched it, but not in a Brokeback way. “This changes everything! I am reborn! Arrrrrggghh!”

“I knew this would restore your faith in humanity,” Olaf said. “And since that graph pretty much says it all, I’ve decided to become a pirate myself in order to protect the world from global warming. Together we can spread the word of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and recruit pirates to join us in our drunken crusade to save the planet.”

Did he say drunken crusade? Was he going to start splicing the mainbrace with ol’ Lamebeard? This was too good to be true! Not only did I find me true calling but I would not be alone to patrol the high seas of Cactus Corners Lagoon. I would now have a bucko to hoist a few pints of grog and pick up lasses. I would also finally have someone to cover me back against that addlepate, Gene Barber. Shiver me timbers! 2005 was truly ending in a glorious way!

Olaf rechristened himself Long Olaf Silver but he kept the name of the Odinator for his grand Viking paddleboat. Ye’ve got to admit; it’s catchy as hell. Together we purchased flags featuring the FSM and the Jolly Pirate Fish logo and hoisted them over our boats. Avast ye thar, mateys! There’s a new pirate in town and his name is Long Olaf Silver. Lock up yer booty and yer wenches! And above all, beware ye scurvy dog, Gene Barber. There’s two mighty Arizona buccaneers to deal with now. Cross us and ye’ll be a permanent resident of Davy Jones locker. Arrrrrggghhh!