It’s no secret that I’m a fan of pirates.  Sure, I’m aware that historically speaking, they were nothing but a bunch of uneducated, torturing, raping, murdering terrors on the sea that were hated by pretty much everyone equally. 

But, I like those things.

Given my appreciation for the blatantly fictional, romanticized, and idealized versions of pirates I so fondly favor, I was both taken and bamboozled by this book I recently came across.

Doth mine eyes deceive me?  Did I just “doth” correctly?

A love of (pleasuring) pirates. 

The same last name as myself. 

Clearly, I’ve found my soulmate, who judging by the last name, is either a relative of mine or a wife that I’m unfamiliar with.  Being as how she’s a writer and loves pirates, either option works for me.

Of course, this could all just be an admittedly inelaborate plot to throw you off the fact that I write pirate-based erotic fiction in my spare time.  And, that the theme of said pirate-based erotic fiction is primarily concerned with pleasuring pirates, which of course I know absolutely nothing about.  [Wink, wink, nudge, nudge] 

As a pseudonym, you have to admit that assuming a woman’s name is the perfect ploy to fool everyone.  And using my last name…why, it’s just so stupid, it just might work.

The popular pirate phrase “Shiver me timbers” refers not to the quaking of the mast when a ship was hit by cannonfire or ran aground, but rather to a little known side effect of scurvy: epileptic erections.

It’s never okay to use a preposition to end a sentence with. 

Never…with.

I had the misfortune of viewing the parade of vacuous, desperate, catty women embarrassingly vying for the attention of a man whose only worth is measured by the fact that he was also once a vacuous, desperate, catty contestant on the never-ending merry-go-round of torture that is the Bachelor/Bachelorette last night.  I’d like to put aside all the obvious flaws of the show that are just begging for criticism (the sad, pathetic ploys for attention; the long, jealous, judgmental stares; the mockery the show makes of human relationships; and the dirty, dirty whores – male and female) and focus on a pattern that was developing but never made it to fruition: the little gifts the women were giving to the “Bachelor.” 

A peacock feather.  A trick coin.  A toy airplane.  A game of football.  If I’m correct here (and I always am), the progression of gifts fit the natural evolution of things a mother buys for her son as he gets older.  A pretty shiny thing.  A seemingly magic thing.  The equivalent of a toy car.  Sports.  I was terribly disappointed that the premiere only lasted two hours.  I was waiting for the next desperate soul to bring out some comic books.  Then, gift an Xbox.  And then a used car.  Some help with college tuition (she’d pay all of it if she really loved him).  And then maybe some nice fellatio to round out the premiere.  Or, a big screen tv.

Don’t beat yourself up if you didn’t see this.  My advanced training in archaeology has honed my skills in identifying underlying patterns.  Plus, I’m super awesome.

And then!  As if it wasn’t already a perfect night of television…The Conveyor Belt of Love debuted.  Finally!  I was really getting tired of all these game show based dating programs that unashamedly promote and encourage the most superficial consideration in discovering one’s soulmate for more than two minutes.  Thanks to this gem, it only takes a minute or less!  Oh, conveyor belt, how I adore thee!  There’s a lot of fish in the sea.  I’m not going to find the perfect one if I have to spend more than sixty seconds getting to know them.

Thank you, ABC.  Thank you for providing meaningful, soul-enriching fulfillment in a vast sea of television muck.  I think I love you.  But I’m going to need to cursorily flip through the other hundred channels to be sure.

In perhaps the only good decision George Lucas has made since 1989, permission was granted to create the most brilliant fusion of nostalgia and consumerism our planet has ever witnessed.

I present to you…the Tauntaun Sleeping Bag.

It even has a lightsaber zipper!  You can save poor, frozen, Wampa-abused Luke again and again.  And then fall asleep and do it again in your dreams!  All inside the warm, fuzzy confines of dead Tauntaun guts. 

The only drawback (besides the steep price tag, that is): it only sleeps one.  Of course, the very purchase of said item nearly assures that space for one is all that will ever be needed.  By which I mean, the guy who buys this is likely to be swinging his own lightsaber long after the Ewoks come home.

Still, 100% pure awesome.  Hell, I’m even starting to consider self-imposed celibacy and shell out the hundred bucks for one.  Then, I remember Episode I, II, III, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and I come to my infuriated senses.

Hit the link for more photos.

Last Monday, I had the distinct pleasure of greeting the dawn of my work week with the realization that a water pipe had ruptured and flooded our office.  By default, I was the lucky one chosen to spearhead the cleanup and handle the insurance formalities.  Needless to say, it was a very long, headache-inducing week.  A week that was permeated with the soothing aromas of wet, decaying dog.  If only Glade produced an aromatherapy candle that allowed me to relive it at home.

As a consequence of the water damage, several holes had to be drilled into the sheetrock about half a foot off the floor to accelerate the drying process.  This isn’t something necessarily noteworthy in and of itself…until you spend more than a minute in the bathroom.

Why?

Because when I look around at all those holes, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stuck in a dirty truck stop bathroom stall and I just so happened to choose the worst stall possible – the one the gnomes all revere as “Gloryhole Central.”

Sometimes, an imagination is a horrible, horrible thing to have.

It is a scientifically proven fact that all pirates used to sail around yelling “Arrr” all day. 

I believe the scientists.  No question.  After all, they’re scientists.  They know these things.  But it leaves me wondering what the pirates from the metropolitan Boston area yelled while they were sailing.

“Awww?”

That’s wicked piratey.