THE PIRATE OF PERCHANCE . riginal.
Long John Silver. Born, died. Most pirates and one-eyed politicians do. But first a commercial. The best way to make your house look like a million dollars? Buy a million dollar house. However if you can only afford cheap and somewhat nasty, instead of central heating...substitute with 'seek all' heating. Your missus will love you for it because you will entwine physically just to keep up the circulation. You see passion my dear dear spam scanners if adhered to and grasped at every opportune, there's no reason or excuse to not. Spammers are rather like pirates, offshore mainly, not sure if they come on board the bored won't let the wind out of their feverish sales. The old saying, "an ill spammer wind blows itself out" and the boatload of trash they're flogging gets waterlogged...drenched. Captain America's in replica suits resplendent, yelling at the top of their vinyl voices. "We'll shift 'shit' ahoy!" Sorry, "ship ahoy!"
The essay canoodles loaded and primed they fire round after round into the opposing enemy. Only there is no enemy for they are their own enemy, thus they sit gunpowder blackened- faced with blocked arteries of flog walking the 'plunk it on Bro' ...sorry, deep sea walking the plank of the ridiculous. Next please. And they jostle, the scurvy flog bereft of fresh fruit and meat makes but a poor reward for their inane efforts. Welcome welcome...come on board and hoist the 'made in China sale!' Sorry, hoist the main sale of trinket trash. Treasures to behold. Or, treasure be old, because fake spam is not only the bait...it is intrinsic thus all you need is a net...that allows the pirates access. And they row and row and row, and the sea of bullshit churns and the waters become thick with "see weed"...Irving draws long on the weed, smiles. He adjusts his ire pad. The sharks circle...engorging on the rotten carcass of flim flam. "Bring out your dead!" And the natives on shore welcome the pirates,they wave.
Long John Silver steps ashore, he is surrounded by swaying women in grass skirts...singing spam songs. Irving has visited before. The celebrations begin. Scurvy is forgotten. The drums of spam, just a patter, beat louder and louder. The chief of the numbnut natives looks at his fake watch. "Silence!" he roars. Everyone listens. You could hear a watch tick...if it had a battery."Duh duh duh... duh Long John last time you come you leave fake watch it no tell time. Long John laughs, "me hearties you spam heathens have no need of time because you parrotphrase yourselves with plastic glitter...how to tile round the shitter, and palm off lights that glitter. Complete without batteries."
Night shoves its darkened head mongst the kero. The kerosene mixed with added spam filler causes the parrot to nod off...no matter...his feet are affixed to LJ's shoulder with spamcakes. John, aka Irving, drinks deeply, the women sway more, tepid kero mix does that...a fueled vertigo relapse. The chief summons a strong giant native of the bungee jumping tribe. He expertly measures the pirate in spam hands. Guesses the pirate's weight plus parrot. They stand cheering and howling on the edge of the spam cliff. Eroded by stupid comment. The native ties the bungee rope to the pirate's leg...the swaying women chant. The intoxicated parrot looks over the cliff and squawks "should we be doing this o Long John?" Past caring, the pirate is shoved over the cliff. The cheering stops. The natives gawk drunkenly, confused fingers point at the dangling wooden leg dancing on the vine. A muffled squawk from the parrot buried underneath the pirate's buried chest in the sands of revenge at the base of spam cliff.
The natives rush to the crumpled pair. The chief rolls Long John over. Slightly conscious. "Next time you supply battery with watch." He sprinkles dried salt on the pirate's face. "Our turn to a salt without battery." The women swing their hips...hippie swingers. The parrot apparent phrases. "You can fuel some of the people some of the time John...if they give you enough rope." The bungey rope calculator revises the rise and fall of the detached wooden leg...scratches his head. How the hell can he do his job properly when the spam man falls apart? The chief grins. It was his idea and instruction...knock on wood. One woman most beautiful holds sway...or at least steadies her sway with the aid of the wooden leg. An unbalanced tribe indeed is the Island of spam dwellers. Just South of the boredom. Full spiel ahead? The sharks bite into the putrid carcass.
Guess the moral is...cast a site adrift and they will come...and come...and come. The hordes in their vinyl sand shoes with rocks in their heads and fire in their belies...sorry, bellies. But not on my watch. And the parrot sighs. :>)