Lamebeard The Pirate: Tales From The Bilge

Avast ye thar mateys! ‘Tis time for another rip roaring yarn of adventure on the high seas from yer old pal, Lamebeard the Pirate. ‘Tis been a while since last yers truly chewed the fat with ye. ‘Twas surely one of the best springs in memory and I’ve got me new pirate friend Olaf Odorgaard, a.k.a. Long Olaf Silver and the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster to thank for it. I’m a pirate reborn and now me and Long Olaf Silver are the most feared buccaneers in Arizona. Everywhere we go people are talking about us and not in a “there go a couple of loonies” kind of way. Me friend at Long John Silvers, Jolly Pete, is not only talking to me again but he’s sneaking me extra hush puppies, too. Why even the fair Kendra, the beautiful serving wench over at the Wet Beaver Creek Tavern even looks at me now without wretching and rolling her eyes. Aye! Someday that lass’ll be mine. All that because of one fantastic battle, which happened just a month ago, that people in these parts will be talking about for years to come. Arrggh!

Let me bring ye up to date. Me and Olaf had been partying hearty all spring, spreading the word of the Pastafarians, who are the disciples of the Flying Spaghetti Monster here on this earth. Much to our dismay, me arch nemesis, Gene Barber, heard of our crusade and repeatedly tried to thwart us. Arrggh! That beer sucking, donut eating, tub of goo was first deacon at the Second Evangelical Church of The Rapture, led by the Reverend Jimmy Bilkwell. One night at the Wet Beaver, he kept going on about how we and Evolutionists were false prophets and that Intelligent Design was the truth and that we were going to hell in a handbasket. He showed us fancy charts about how the earth is only six thousand years old and that people in the Bible actually rode around on dinosaurs. Well we fired back with the gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and with fancy graphs of our own showing how the decline of pirates has led to global warming. Then some Irishman named Connor McGillicutty interrupted and said the world was created by leprechauns in ten days and that when we die we’ll all get a pot of gold in a magical land of green clovers. Then some whackjob biology professor from ASU spoke up and said that the earth was over 5 billion years old and humans and all primates evolved from a common ancestor over a million years ago. Arrggh! Why does the Wet Beaver always attract the nutcases! Methinks he had drunk too much grog. Well we kept drinking and cursing at each other over whose God was better. At one point I was ready to reject FSM and agree with McGillicutty. Arrggh! A pot of gold when ye die sounds as good as the beer volcano and stripper factory in the FSM belief system. Before too long we were too drunk to know what we were talking about. We all succumbed to puking and passing out. But the die was cast. The resentment between me and that odious Gene Barber was escalating like the fire between Barbara Walters and that delightful lass Star Jones.

We had several minor encounters after that. Everytime I rode me Schwinn past Barber’s church he’d yell at me for showing me Jolly Pirate Fish flag which I’ve got flying from the rear of me banana seat. But I never saw him on the Lagoon. Rumor had it he was getting his paddleboat, the S.S. Shitzu, renovated by a friend in Fetid Gulch, Texas, paddleboat capital of the world. It was said he was having a special, extra-roomy, super cooled, ice chest installed. Arrgghh! Things must be good in the evangelical preaching business. As a matter of fact, Jolly Pete heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend, who heard that foul glob of blubber was skimming from the collection plate. Arrggh! What a scoundrel!

The ire between us grew until it finally came to a head a month ago. It was a lazy sweltering Saturday afternoon. The temperatures were already in the high 100’s. People were out on the lagoon in their paddleboats and I was no exception. Olaf had a dentist appointment that morning so he wasn’t around. Arrggh! Even a pirate needs to take proper care of his teeth. I was out meandering about on me boat the S.S. Cactus Wren, the finest paddle schooner in Cactus Corners. Me tricorner hat was draped over me head and me dead parrot, Pauly, named for the great comedian Pauly Shore, was sleeping eternally on me shoulder. I was wearing me heavy overcoat, breeches and pirate boots and sweating me arsenal off, so I took a long glug of the Captain. I was driftin’ off into slumberland when I heard a commotion. It was me adversary, Gene Barber, thrashing his paddleboat the S.S. Shitzu, in me direction. Arrggh! The Shitzu looked like a new boat. Its hull was all silvery and luminous. Barber sat in a fully padded leather seat. But the coup d’ grace was the gleaming ice chest which was located right behind the seat. It was the Cadillac of ice chests, the Beer Baron 4000. I saw ads for it in me Paddleboat Monthly magazine. It was built for keeping hot things cold and cold things even colder. And spacious; ye could fit a couple of kegs in there. Knowing Barber like I did, it was probably full of Krispy Kremes and beer. He pedaled up not twenty yards from the Cactus Wren. That tub of lard had to catch his breath before he could talk.

“Hey Lamebeard,” wheezed Barber. “I just got my boat back with my nice new ice chest. It’s the Beer Baron 4000. Don’t you wish you had one on your floating hunk of junk? I guess your Flying Spaghetti Monster doesn’t provide for you does he?”

Arrggh! That blaggard was asking for it. “Well I guess the preaching business is paying off nicely for ye. I’ve heard ye been skimming a bit extra from the flock.”

Barber’s bulbous face grew red with anger. “Blasphemer! First you insult the indisputable footing of Intelligent Design with your Pirate Flying Pasta hooey. Now you accuse me of stealing from the church. I’ve had enough of your lunacy. You’re going to get it now, you nut!”

Barber sat down in his padded chair and started pedaling full steam toward the Cactus Wren. He was grinning like a maniac. He was going to ram me head on! He deliberately provoked an incident so he could attack me. It was the Gulf of Tonkin all over again. I had to think quickly, which was never me strong suit, especially after a couple swigs of the Captain. I hoisted me Jolly Pirate Fish flag and drew me trusty Nerf cutlass. I readied meself on me prow to board his boat as soon as he was in range. Then I noticed that the Shitzu was equipped with new elastic bumpers. Arrggh! He could ram me with nary a scratch to his boat. And that he did. The Cactus Wren shuddered as she absorbed the blow. She jolted to port and I went staggering backward into me seat. He kept pedaling forward. The Shitzu rammed the Cactus Wren again. Blow me down! It was like bumper cars on the high seas! I struggled to me feet and readied meself for the next onslaught. But that bilge sucker stopped short. He opened his ice chest and removed a large jiggly object. Shiver me timbers! He was armed with water balloons! He heaved a bright red one and hit me torso broadside. Arrggh! I was soaked like a pickled herring. Then he threw a blue one and then a green one. Each one hit its target: me face! Then he threw a dazzling orange one which knocked Pauly off his perch and off the Cactus Wren. Me Pauly was feeding the fish now. Arrggh! That oaf was thrashing me! I had to admit though. Those balloons were awfully pretty as they arced through the air and crashed into me noggin. Oh the colors!

That fiend Barber laughed hysterically. “You and your religion are all wet. Where’s your Flying Spaghetti Monster now, Lamebeard? Ha-ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Was this the end for ol’ Lamebeard? Would the Flying Spaghetti Monster fly down from above and smite Gene Barber with his noodly appendages? Would Pauly make it to shore safely? Arrggh! Tune in next week for the conclusion of Pirates of Cactus Corners Lagoon: Fat Man’s Ice Chest.