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A Pirate's Life For Me
by The Pirate
Please welcome another new writer at FTTW - The Seismic Pirate!
Well. Here I am at my new home and the first thing I notice is the fucking noise! My old home was awful quiet and this place is full of all sorts of people, topics and moods. It reminds of an apartment building I once lived in. I’ve read some great stuff here already and see I that I might end up the FTTW equivalent of the creepy uncle who smells like cabbage, but I’m cool with that. Come over here and pull my finger….
That’s right. I’m currently hangin’ tight on a ship at sea. A self-styled pirate, I make my living at sea and can be found at any given time just about anywhere in the world. I spend a little more than half my life at sea and the remaining time in a little, back woods village north of the 45th parallel, holed up with the wife and kids and a few good friends. There, I prefer to kill, and then eat large, indigenous mammals, washed down with a robust Mutlipulciano, or possibly the firm tannins of a Syrah, which, in truth should do more justice to wild game.
As I explained to the good folks here at FTTW, until recently, I was content to be a small-time, anonymous blogger writing about the fuzz in my bellybutton (drugged up and bedridden after shattering my sternum learning to snowboard last month), or perhaps the 6 foot-6 cook in lime green stretch pants and a hairnet who force-fed me deep-fried green beans on my last ship. Life was good until my present employer stumbled upon my site, forcing me to shut it down on the off chance I might have given away State Secrets like the brand of toilet paper used throughout our fleet, or the fact that the office dicks have a massage parlor operating in the building at their beck and call (lucky bastards). What you’ll get out of me here at FTTW is anybody’s guess…
Whatever, I’ll be a little more careful about the wherefores and whatnots of my top secret business and stick to the piratey bits like the exact amount of alcohol it took to make me puke my guts out in a flower pot sitting next to a 14 ft. stuffed grizzly bear, while blogging from an airport I can’t name, or that the sound of shrimp fucking interferes with my job. Shit, I probably shouldn’t mention that, but they were really getting busy today and I think some of my regular readers need an update on the horny, little bastards. Yes people, the shrimp are back, fucking like mad, and I am breakin out the pirate porn tonight. Shiver me timber…
But before I go, I need to clean up a few stray thoughts-
All you guys who popped in here from the pirate’s old hideout? That place is dead and gone, but I might post a few oldies but goodies, just to get the folks here up to speed. Maybe I’ll try to burn out Q1’s eyes with my bellybutton again, or outline my business venture with the good Barrister Richard Wilson from Dakar, Senegal cause guess what? He replied. Honest.
I tend to stay away from current events unless something really pisses me off, or really makes me want to puke. This topic has managed to elicit both reactions, since it WON’T GO AWAY…
Wednesday, February 7th, 2007, Raymond S. Aubin died. He wasn't famous. He never posed in Playboy. I sure he wasn't even considered. He didn't abuse drugs, or jerk off an ancient billionaire for few months just to get a shot at his loot. He didn't have an impressive set of tits and never lost 240 pounds in three months by shooting Trimspa and speedballs for breakfast. He also didn't have children so he could fuck them up by being a drug-addicted, sorry-ass excuse of a mother.
Point of fact: I don't even know who he is. I pulled his name from the online edition of my hometown newspaper. I didn't know her either, but I figure chances are he earned having his name in print by being a decent father/husband/son/uncle/friend and soldier, unlike the pathetic loser that wasted every god-given thing she ever had, especially her children. To those who say she had a tough life and I’m just a cold-hearted piece of shit, I’ll bet my left nut that his life was tougher.
Raymond S. Aubin, 12/26/21 – 2/07/07 R.I.P.
Finally, I owe Travis the opportunity to rape and pillage the port of his choice for suggesting FTTW. I think I’m gonna like it here once I find a place to hang my sword and eye patch.
The pirate has been tried many times, but never convicted.