Arr matey, tis better to take ye wisdom even one step further up the beam: don't get involved with political matters sooner as ye'd be scrappin in the muggins of their master's poor sore back door hatches. Tis all worryin;' ye hand in ye pantaloons, arr. Ye makes a good video, sure enough, and best to let the sun have her savage way on us w'out castin' strange spells o'er who can say what she'll do next. They be not captains but only more Scripture harpies, avast. Join not their ranks, matey
Arr, tis writing for the tally handed who find folly in their pantaloons and can't find no explorin' elsewhere in the wide wide world. Back and back again they go, worry away their codpiece till their Junior's Stubbin is calloused as the bottom of Mary McCreedy's worn old toe. Looks like a worm old toe Rand does, like as not her suitors in her younger days thought as much twice as fast. No worry on that codpiece, sore muggins be the caterwaul outside her window all those years past, avast.
I would bet that the octopus-elephants in 'Monsters' have more screen time
than Cloverfield's monster. arrr....
Arr, tis not unlike the contraption we use to find our way labboard the storm front, tis. Brought aboard after plunder of the Island of the Three Sisters, we did. How they used it they would not say, their mouths be too full at the time to do much talkin; avast(raucous laughter). Get back to work, ye scuppers, I'll not stand and watch while ye let the deckboards want for ye sandscrubin' sore hands!!, To it now, ye dogs, with a will, if ye hope to know rum's salty tart again this voyage!!
Arr, matey, ye should give with how ye make the sea salt dance to all them pretty shapes. We've not seen the like of it since we all supped on the manatee's brain, then it be an afternoon of lightnin' and St Elmo's fire with nary a cloud o'erhead. Laughter and screams in equal measure, and the the next day we found naught a trace of Pip the cabin boy, alas. Up the crow's nest he went early, but down he ne'er came that our eyes beheld. Tis sad, and we miss his sweet voice and supple buttocks.
And not that old Morganship would be suggestin that you or any other shipshape lubber would stoop so low to their grannie's corns as to be so despicable as to create multiple accounts, and ye reasons for doin so would be ye own private affair, I couldn't hear no wind of it (waves his hands in front of him in a dismissive but not totally off-putting manner) as I say, it's every worthy sea dog to find his own test of Posiedon's wrath, ye choice be thine, solely, avast
Arr, tis a sad jack-a-nape that keeps the worry in the scriptures, avast. In me bones I see it, the circles of the seven seas toil 'round us; takes a man above his own scuppers to keep shipshape and abeam of bedeviltry what takes us all. Worse than a rumpot's tongue, the scripture jack-a-nape. Take away his good book and he'll mine his own nose for the gold he sees within. "Tis only boogers there, matey", ye tells him, of a mind to help, but of no avail. To the second knuckle he mines, alas.
Arr, ye lubbers, yon bell jar is used for testing resonance in rocket exhaust bell alloys, avast.
Arr, matey, Old George Bush the Elder utters one toss-off line back in the early nineties and now it's all this.
Arrr, tis true. Many a watch we keeps a-deck and up crow's nest, all true eyes wakeful. These strange star folk be not particular in their victims. A humble ship at sea is like as not as quick a prey to their ilk as lubbers in their churches. Neither the Lord nor Old Hob will spare a farthing's notice as they swoops down and take their due. Not the King of England nor his duke's youngest daughter fall beyond reach of their soft hands. Small they are, and of a smell not proper to place.
Arrr, the beasts be strange, and oft show Nature's hand as she wields the cruel sword of her mischief. Stranger mysteries will ye see of her own accord; reveal she does dark secrets in her dribs and drabs. Ye darkest of these be the souls of men, lust on the hunt for treasure; turned asunder of Nature by their greed. Gold's glint and the sparkle of jewels, sinister they glisten of moonbeams reflected off the devil's fangs as he cackles at ye foolish passions. Avast, be warned, ye, be warned.
Arrr, be nature's cruel random humor or clever bob on his computer, tis all. Truer mysteries ye will see of it's own accord; reveal it does dark secrets in their dribs and drabs. The darkest of pits be the souls of men eager on the hunt for treasure, turned asunder the lord's light by their greed. Gold's glint and the sparkle of jewels, lit they be sinister of moonbeams reflected off the devil's fangs as he cackles at ye foolish passions. Firsthand be me in the throes, deep in it's embrace.
Arrr, the sea will but slowly give up her dark secrets, avast. Try runnin' a proper enterprise with the lads below deck in their berths tellin' yarns of this beast or that monster. Fear comes awash the deck and below, and ye never keeps ahead of the stories. Or ye do steady the lad's nerves, and in the midst a mermaid shows herself abeam of ye course. Tis a good thing we've not the batteries for cameras aboard, or all manner of troubles would show on these boards.
Arrr, make short work of ye fight with these big beasts in this manner: as he breaches drop a stick of Noble's powder down his maw, with a fuse tied on. Light the fuse and ye dogs duck yer heads behind ye rails. T'will rain fishsteaks, and the rest of him ye deck dogs can scoop frae the brine, salted proper by the sea, and ready for the barbecue in portions of all size. The rest for the gulls and scupper fish, arrr.
Arrr, ye lubbers, when they gets this close have the lads train swivel guns on him as he breaches or comes nigh the surface, and blast away. Naught one man can deck a beast of this ilk, ye snuff him whilst he be still awash, then deck aboard his sorry carcass. Otherwise ye'll fight for hours, and to what avail? Lucky twas only the rod a-broke, easily this deep devil could twigsnap ye wrist or arm and bubble his laughter to the surface to the screams of yer
agony. Shiver me timbers...
Arrr, thought we twas a baby blue whale, fresh borne and the poor pup newly sundered from it's mother, she taken unfortunate in the whalin' sweeps off the Plantagenent Banks. Gloucester yanks read too much Herman Melville, muddy our sad waters with the orphaned whelps of hunted mothers. Shiver me timbers.
Nay, lad, twas the Australian Mickle 'Pete' Whittlenut. in 1898. Made it from the rib cage of a sheep and the lungs of a bull, he did. Old Mickle Pete was the Ozzie's own Dr. Frankenstein, he was, but 'stead of monsters made of the dead he built gizmos from critter's parts. 20 years later his young nephew Frank on a visit from England saw the creation, and got notions of his own. Later Frank drops the '-nut' from his last name, twas origin of the phrase "He's a nutcase" referrin to Mickle Pete.
Arrr, one of ye dogs upload the best one, Robert Newton's 'Blackbeard', before I be forced to buy it.
Obviously ye've not seen the uncut copy, he does take a leak
into the bean counter's bathwater, avast.
Arrr, that be sensible talk, says I. If anything went sourwise, the boys could make him their 'faul guy'
(raucous pirate laughter) Arrr, back to work ye scuddy ingrates, back to work.
Arrr, shiver me timbers, here be the real John Searle.
Arrr, ye dogs of these electric seas, I be seekin the salty tongues that wag the sorry sad tale against me old mate, Long John Searl. A good man and privateer he be, and I'll not take but a pound of worthy flesh from all who say naught else. Who be the author of that scurvy yarn, speak now, ye know it!! In these waters it's called: "Tirade of the Lifters Beaming, The Curse of the Crank Searl" By my old dog's eyes I'll seek ye out, and carve providence from your soul and snout!!
Avast me hearties, me crew be searchin these wide seas for the scurvy dog author who impugns my good friend, Long John Searl: maybe ye have heard this suddy yarn, known in these parts as:
"Tirade of The Lifters Beaming, The Curse of the Crank Searl"
Avast me hearties, me crew be searchin these wide seas for the scurvy dog author who impugns my good friend, Long John Searl: maybe ye have heard this suddy yarn, known in these parts as:
"Tirade of The Lifters Beaming, The Curse of the Crank Searl"
Avast me hearties, me crew be searchin these wide seas for the scurvy dog author who impugns my good friend, Long John Searl: maybe ye have heard this suddy yarn, known in these parts as:
"Tirade of The Lifters Beaming, The Curse of the Crank Searl"
Avast me hearties, me crew be searchin these wide seas for the scurvy dog author who impugns my good friend, Long John Searl: maybe ye have heard this suddy yarn, known in these parts as:
"Tirade of The Lifters Beaming, The Curse of the Crank Searl"