Crabbage Snatch Open - The Voyage of the SS Natch
The Stlange Voyage of the SS Natch - Book 1
I have a very reassuring image of Phillippe, the Indian Boy, in his quilted cap with the furry earflaps snowshoeing along
the gas pipeline. At every weld joint, he taps the pipe with a sledge, then puts his ear close and brings an open oil lamp
close to see if there is a leak. It is dangerous work.
The R.C.M.P. mounty rides to the edge of a freezing fog-bound ravine and yells down into the mist, "Phewee, Phillippe, is
that a gas leak I'm smelling up here?"
"Ho, no, mon Capitan, I eat little bit rock snails zis morning. But ze pipe, she is fine!"
"Well, be sure that clears up before you come to town."
"Oh, oui, Phillippe come to town three weeks. Will be better then. Not like last time." (BBBrrrrphphphrraaappp) "Oh, mon
Capitan, perhaps it time to move back from edge of ravine, no?"
"Jeezus, Phillippe, you be careful down there (cough, gasp). I'll send Corporal Hackett out to check on you in a couple
"Oh, oui, mon Capitan, zat would be great, merci!"
As a long winter stretches out before us, it is comforting to know that so many have put so much into the lasting effects of
crabanter. I can now sleep in comfort knowing that, all the while, our gaseous reserves are being looked over by one of our
own. And, to a point, my own reserves shall be fuel for many who can unlock the potentials from so meager a source as human
wastefulness. The way I look at it, we all have to do our part to keep the good ship SSNatch afloat! "Aye, catitan, we're
givin' 'er all we got - it's a hundred an ten percent. If we keep this up much longer she'll blow!!" (Arghh, arghh,
Arggh, 'ave Mister 'Ackett back the men off the shovels a might. The SS Natch's pipes ain't up to the same steam they was
before Cowloon. Tell the crew that rammin' speed be 3/4 throttle 'til Lt. Bambi can repack the seals.
Aye, ye can hear the flange bolts be groanin'. Don't let the head o' one of 'em to shear off and catch Ensign Boink in the
eye again! The last time, 'e was down on us for a fortnight. And 'is boiler canna take the same grade o' coal it usta
either, if ye catch me meanin'!!!
Arggh, Lay to! Lay to! Barge lights abeam. It be Commodor Brant. Lash Mr. Sibley's jowls fast to the bulkhead and bring
us into the wind. Prepare to board.
We're receivin' a squealin' message from the crow's nest where Chief Petting Officer No Shit 'as withdrawn from Oiler's Mate
Scroat long enuf' to announce a "Brithish Man O' War (ooooooohhoooo)" a cummin' up over the horizon. It appears from the
glass sir that it's under the command of the Bojk, dressed like a French whore a' wearin a Napolean costume, with an 'Lton
John wig, with his hand in his, we can't quite place it sir, it's not in the usual Napoleanic place, if a' know what I'm
sayin' Sir. She appears to bracing for an attack, but all the gunners are outside the gunnels a straddlin' each other's
cannons and polishing their tips and the Bojk's not really wearin' a warlike face (though he does appear beaten). Not sure
quite what to make of it sir, seein' as how Commodore Brandt is 'ere with your fleet sir, we can't lapse to the usual
explanation. Do you have an order, Sir?
Slaptain's Log, November 14, 1764
Aye, 'tis the very scourge 'imself. Ye can see 'im strutting the poop of the "Flaming Queen" from 'ere. An' ye don't need
a glass to see the queer riggin' o' 'is sails - 'is fores'l be fluffing, but 'is studdingsail be tight aft. 'Is wrist be a
might limp on the wheel, but 'e's got a firm hold on 'is marlinspike. Arggh.
Ye know, the seas be a might calm for all the whitecaps that drippin' from 'is scuppers thar. Helm, keep le Bojk to
leeward, and stay out of 'is flotsam!!! If one of the cabin boys gets that on 'im, the whole crew'll want ta' fuck 'im.
Mind ye, never let a cap'n w' pink brocade and green pantaloons come to stern of ye, if ye catch me meanin'.
There be a rancid butt o' salt pork below. 'Ave the men bring it on deck and get Lt. Bambi astartin' on it. When we get
ta' windward o' the Flamin' Queen, send Bambi aloft and we'll take some of the white offen le Bojk's sails.
Mister 'Ackett , and send a lug o' limes over to Commodore Blant's barge - if 'e loses any more teeth, 'e'll never get any
work from 'is crew. Double check the Commodore's flags. Is 'e signalling that 'e wants more seamen? Helm, better keep them
both to leeward.
Cocks'n Viani, blow the men to the oars, "Unt, ya, Unt, ya, Unt, ya, Unt........" Brng us to straddle stations.
Make it so.
Yet more slander! A French Whore (they all are) maybe, but never that little Bastard who's bony (intellectual homor) ass
his Lordship Wellington kicked around. And please, let's leave Sir Lton out of it, he's busy in the bathroom with George
Me thinks your glass was (as usual) murky; must have been from all those Girlie Minstrel sessions at the recent Boy Guides
of America Jamboree you were enjoying while us men were studying up on new ways to degrade our mistresses.
Go Bears !
Capitan's Log; 1764 about noon, somewhere...
M'Capitan! Ensign Banter reporting, sir. We 'ave a real mess in the galley sir. No one was watchin' when the sea's were a
swellin', butt the bitch of it is sir, most o' the men 'as had their way with that salted rinde o'pork sir. We could't stop
'em sir. They just kept at it 'til the poor thing lay so limp that even Bojk couldn't muster another stave at it sir. Are we
done for sir??.. Is it true that navigator Blant can find us fresh meat sir??.. We 'ear they may be mudshark below poop
deck... is it good eatin' sir?? ..And, sir, first mate Rag 'as requested an off shore party with second mate DirlDorr, but,
we're nearly 20 leagues from land.. what 'ye make of it sir?? The men be gettin' restless and the SS Natch be takin on
frothy water clear up to 'er gills Capitan.. Should we pump th' bilges or dump the slammy hammy o'er board?? What say ye
Spock: Captain , sensors indicate warp core overload has plunged us through a space/time warp.
Kirk: Chekov, main screen. It's Earth...Spock, is that a Man'O War?
Spock: Sensors indicate it is the SSNatch. Captain, it appears they are using the Vulcan Rectal Meld to relay thoughts to
Kirk: I never did like that.
Spock: Permission to transport down.
Kirk: Be quick about it, Spock.
Spock: Not fuckin' likely, sir.
Slaptain's Log, November 15, 1764
Arggh, Lt Bambi, 'tis bleak, but the S.S.Natch be like a eight-pence whore. She rides best when she rides low.
Arggh, 'tis bad about the salt pork. But sure Cooky can dredge ye somethin' up that'll sit hard on ye amidships. I want ye
up in the riggin' and ready to spray some brown onto le Bojk's sheets when we have 'im to leeward. Heavy sails'll make 'im
slow to tack, and quick to founder.
But don't throw the boar bones over the side, though. Mr. Tinson carves scrimshaw of Ricky Martin on 'em, and trades 'em
for buggery when we cum to port.
But be mindful. 'Tis late, and a blow be gatherin'. It be growing dark, and the sperm oil ain't burnin' right in the lamps
tonight. I'll wager that Snoid's been fowlin' the keg again. The bung be a might too smooth of late and we can't find the
cork. Arggh, and no one'll check his berth fur it, either. Methinks what's dripping onto the deck didn't be coming from no
Mr. Field, bring us athroat the Brithish brig - the Flaming Queen be goin' down tonight!
Aye, Capt'n, I 'ave more bad news- the rigg'ns all torn to shatters by the madman Rag. He's done found the cork as Nav Blant
was usin' it to hoist his saggin' jowls to th' table in the galley last night sir. Seems 'e couldn't get thru the ruff pork
without the slammin' 'o his ballists agin'st it sir.
We be in sorry shape now. If th' oil runs any lower thar's talk o usin' the queens candles, sir. An' Slackett's own stash
'as been pilferred while 'e was sleep'n one off sir - not like 'em to give up his best wax work sir without a fight. He went
down too easy fur an ol' salt. Course 'es got the rash sir.
The men can't stay long in the frothy furrows without a spew from the cook - an he's still workin' the yardstrum with 'is
focksil all jammed up. Next ye know, sir, they be jumpin' all over mister Bojk and he'll be a blowin' a new tune fur sure.
Aye, thar's even talk of a mutinous scag from the Brit that may have us all in tears - they call 'im mister Semore sir, an
'e rides the waves a bit higher than most if ya catch me drift sir. Lechurous bitch 'e be sir. A Queen's maid fur sure! Any
orders before 'e boards our midships sir? Can't make out 'is colors, but they smack of a tourquoise an' rosebud when 'es
bent over sir.
Aye....we be in fur a long winter m' capitan....
C'mon ye laddies. The Cap's made a call! We're not goin' down on account some Flaming Queen. Upon the masts, ye
forestopsmen. Up the yardarms ye fisters. Schwing a line to Commodore Brandt's barge and lash 'im up the port side. We'll
use 'is spread to keep a'breast that nippler Bojk. If 'e tacks away we'll put that dolphin striker right in 'is stern.
If 'e cums about we'll ram 'im right down 'is frogged limey throat. I'm on the compass, Cap, I'm on the compass and I
couldn't feel better about it, Sir. I've triangulated a position that ensures we'll plunge right into the hair of the
matter, Sir, and I'm a' lookin' forward to watchin' our guns splatter in their faces.
Lt. Bambi: Pull in your horn and get off the main mast! Yluorl fluccking lup loul roppoltrunitly tlo sluck the wind lourt
rof thleirl srailrs.
Cocks'nViani: Get off the Flohr and go below!
"Eye, Eye, Sir."
Cap'n, Sir: The Queen's cummin' about and she's flashin' er torpedoes. Their awfully small, Sir, yet who can say that they
don't pack a diseased wallop. They could blister us, Sir. Shall we ram 'er 'eadon, Sir? I know Lt. Bambi, Oiler's Mate
Scroat, Chief Petting Officer No Shit, Ensign Dodir, Sargeant at Arms Bobbio, Mess Mate Gardiser, and Grenadier Gack are
all stacked on the bow a' teasin' the Bitch an' a' itchin' for it, Sir. Cumondoor Brandt's a' scalin' the figurehead an'
leadin' 'em in the "Unt" chant. I don't think I could contain myself if I saw the Bojk split 'is satin britches. I think
we oughtta let 'em 'ave their way with 'er, Sir.
Arggh, Boys, ye make me proud. Get Snoid to the bowsprit. 'Ave 'im lather it up proper for us. Put plenty on. We wants
it to slide so far up le Bojk's stern, 'e'll be able to pick 'is teeth w' it.
We'll play this just like Black Dog Dick did when 'e breeched the rutting scow, the Swedish Farmgirl, off of Copenhagen.
Many a mate's spewed 'is gorge when they 'eard the way she went down on 'im, I'll tell ye.
Well, me bucko's, tonight, the sea's our barnyard, and the pig's be takin' the bitch right to the jowls.
Gack, stick yer cutlass into Ensign Dodir's panaloons. Then grease 'im up and ram 'im in the muzzle....No, the muzzle of
yer cannon, ye yanker!!! Put a double charge behind 'im 'n shoot 'im over into le Bojk's aft staysails. They're way too
tight for a blow like this. Dodir'll either crack 'im free o' 'is mizzenmast, or 'e'll rip le Bojk a new arsehole.
Mr Bobbio, 'ang Scroat and No Shit from the bow scuppers, 'n 'ave 'em fend those torpedoes. They've took bigger'n that on
shore leave in Calais! Plus, they'll catch nought from them torpedoes that'll blister 'em worse'n they already is!!!!
Step lively now.
'Ave Bu'tsw'n Chance throbbin a hearty beat to the men belowdecks. I want them oars aflashin'. Bend their backs over 'em.
Crack open some dried mudsharks. Stick 'em on the end o' yer board'n'pikes an' light 'em up. Keep an eye to the wind, mind
ye, that smoke'll scald ye fierce.
Lay to, Ensign Bambi, yer brimmin' a might. I'm seein' good color on the back o' yer pantaloons, but ye've got to 'old it a
bit. Ye've already sets our eyes to burnin'. Don't be splewin' yer bilge til' ye've schwung across the piss into the
teemin' grouts on the other boat.
Mister 'Ackett, this is no time to be chummin' the guttercod. That school'll not leave us 'schlong as yer aboard. Go
fo'w'rd 'n help Snoid down from the bowsprit. Sop 'im up a might w' some waddin from the starb'rd six-pounders - we'll not
be need'n' them tonight. We be takin' our nose right up the Flaming Queen on the end o' 'er what's got the most lips.
Bu'tsw'n Chance, give us rammin' speed.
Mr. Field, stay on the compass. Keep those hairs lined up. They be wet, so bury yer chin in 'em firm.
Oh, a starship, is it?
Wha', the smell o' se'men rolling amongst their own offal too pungent fer ye?
Yer Hollerdeck 'as better to eat th'n a joint o' salt pork 'n some boiled groats?
Ye don't think we's can beam ye up? I'll beam ye up....up the arse, I will.
We've got some Bones fer yer Dr. McCoy as well, I reckon.
I got some subspace chatter fer ye, too....Ensign Yackoff 'n Mister Zulu are fags. They'd be the best thing t' happen t'
the French Navy since frilly shirts. Bring 'em aboard. Our cabin boy just took to boils. 'E needs a spell fer the crust
to fall off 'im.
An' bring yer Lt Uhuru, as well. The chowder bowl on our ship's wench be starting to thicken an' chafe a might. The salt
air be dryin' her out some.*
Arggh. I'll give ye "warped".
*(don't ferget yer oyster crackers)
Captain Mudthark, Thir:
Thith ith Cabin Boy, Thibley. I wath jutht up on the foredeck playing with mythelf an' I thaw a large green whale thurfathe
on line between uth and the Queen, Thir. We're on a dead on collithion courthe. Thhe hath a huge tail and one very large,
open eye. (No, Thir, ith's not Knaveigator Rag, Thir, he'th thtill on board, and bethides, hith infecthionths 'aven't gone
to the "Green" yet, Thir.)
With the Cap's permithion, Thir, I've scoped the beast and I believe I see Admiral Nelson pulling on Captain Crane (I think
hith real name was "David Headison"). Petty Officer Kowalthki itth running around taking orders and is wearing a light blue
thirt with thweat thtains all over it (least I think they're thweat stains?).
I just thought our Cap'n oughtta be aware all available battlefield informathion.
Over, and over, and over, and out, Thir:
Aye, sir, I knows hows the pretty petty officer got them thar stains all o'er 'imself. His blue shirt weren't none too blue
ta starts with, sir. It was Commander Rag's own doin', the salty wrench. He blew th' top clean off the bitch pork when 'e
came to slammin' 'er home in the galley. All this is goin's on right when a squal broke out 'an the poor bugger Bojk couldn't
control himself sir. A might proud 'e be 'o that thar chum he blew, too. Right o'er the Rag's best blues, sir. Only the
night stewart wasn't 'avn any 'o that, sir, so's 'e just rubbed more o that creamy lamp oil onta the spew. O,, what a sight
sir. Thar threesome still makes me think back to the dockin' at Carlisle sir. No worry sir, the mens all eatin the mudshark
to cure the scurvey an' we'r all ready to put the 6 pounders to th' test sir. Bring on that thar Queeny ship an' we'll show
'er a good ol' fashion poundin' sir... Aye..the brim be full as the sails are tight. Ev'ry man fur 'imself lest th' big
bitch be upon us, sir..Holding quarters sir 'til the bow breaks and the foxsils wretched from their rampasts 'an all 'ave
'ad a feast on the Queeny's deck, sir...An, sir, Blandt is still lookin' fur 'is cork....Aye, an th' wind's cum up again,
too....where be ye now capitan...
Slaptain's Brown Log.
Arggh, Thibley, 'tis ye. We be lookin' fer ye from sternstay to f'uc'k's'l. I'll be giv'n Mr. Gardiser a whackin' right
severe fer not findin' ye. Methinks e's growin' to like it a bit much of late, but still we stick hard to our traditions
afloat, we do. Eye, just as ye be stickin' purty hard to the front of yer pantaloons thar. Arggh, butt 'twas a hairy
night, indeed. Many a se'men cum to squirts when 'is bowsprit cracks smart agin' the rudder o' the vanquished, eh, boy?
Yar, but see to those stains. Go f'rw'rd an' report to Snoid at the foremast. 'E'll 'ave ye drop trow' an' join a
shcrubbin party. Thar's not a se'man anywhar afloat what knows more about stubbyrn stains than our own Snoid!!! See thar,
e's got the whole maggotty, puling, spawn of 'em on their knees, a'pounding shite 'n blood 'n cum 'n piss 'n sweat 'n puke
'n pus 'n even a dab o' menses right out o' the sailcloth o' their trousers. Arggh, it be a heady brew that be spewing from
Nought to worry 'bout the flaccid floater athwart our bow, tho'. That be a Greenland Nardwhal. They've nought but gums in
their maw, 'n that eye don't see so good. But there be scabs 'n crabs a'streamin' from our decks. Th' sounds o' a battle
asea'll draw gummers like 'im up from the depths the same way that blind quairs'll find the docks at Fleet Week. 'Tis
It puts me to mind to 'ave Sgt. a' Arms Bobbio do a proper 'nspecktion o' the lower reajgions on th' men.
Arggh, but first he's to put the last festoons on the job 'e's do'ng on Navigator Rag's arsehole. Arggh, but Rag wedged a
might 'ard on the binnacle when we rammed astern o' the Flaming Queen last night. See tha', Ensign Dodir? Bobbio's
fashioned a reg'lar Cross o' St. George's from Rag's blue an' red hoemorrhoids.
Arggh, 'tis a righteous morning, Thibley. Ye can almost smell the freshness o' the sea air o'er the stench o' th' steam
a'cummin from Ensign Bambi's arsehole!
'Tis grand, 'tis grand.
Chief Petting Officer No Shit, bring us a'headin' to Amsterdam. The men needs some savory grub, an' sumpthin' they's can
fuck from the front side. Double rations o' grog 'tils we get thar.
Steady as she goes.
Spock: I've beamed down to the poop deck and logic would dictate a good swabbin' is in order.
Kirk: Belay that, Spock! Have you contacted Captain Mudshark?
Spock: Affirmative- I be layin' him now.
Mudshark: Aaarrrrghouch! Ya' be no stranger to the ways of a ship, Sparcky! Might ya be protectin' yer mizzin mast?
Spock: A condom would be illogical. I haven't had it anything since that ram Dilldorite on Rigel 4.
Mudshark: Chief Heavy Petting Officer Kerig...ahl be needin' ya back and center. Yer'll be gettin' no captain's log if'n ya
don't pull outa' 40th Mate Bambi. That bitch be cum drunk anyway. Get yer arss over here and check this here feller fer
Kerig: Aye matie!
Bambi: No, I matee!
Spock: I must warn you that further resistance will require me to use the Vulcan Nerve Pinch.
Mudshark: Now yer talkin'! Just reach around and grab me thing. Arrrrrrr!
Spock: Give dong and prosper!
Dees hees Fireman Bobbio caleeng?
I dohnna know what'sa wrong heere. I push every button on dees ting but nobody talk back. Dohn dey loaf me? You'd tink it
wouldn't be as hard as finding a beautiful awoman's G spot, boat, I canna seem to find it.
'Allo? Dees hees Fireman Bobbio. We areeally need some help here? I forgot to re-stock my boat creme anna now I half a
fire I can't put out. 'Allo? Dees ees serious. I tink Lt. Bambi must half deeped more 'dan jus hees spoon in dee chili,
anna now I half a fire down below that is not da kine Bob Seeger was seengeeing about.
You know, Bobbio ees for loafers and loafing. But he canna perform eef he doesn't half a perfec boat howell. Da cleepers
can't help on dees one. A couple a laps around Talladega would probably help a leetle beet, boat, I can't seem to raise
anybody on thees fucking radio. 'Allo? 'Allo? Anybody, Gordon Johncock, Dick Trickle, anybody? A pit Crew? You pointy
eared space guy? (By da way, with those eears Bobbio coulda hook you up with some fine loafing.)
Now I tink I know how Peter Pan must have felt we hee lost hees depth perception. Oh, da eetching, da burning. I already
deeped my ass in toilet water once, I dohn wanna half to do eet again cuz' I tink Cookie mighta washed up in dere.
'Allo? Sheet! Maybe I should join the circus when we get to Budapest. Dey can half the lions and tigers jump through my
flaming hoop and sit on my glistening a loin rejion and growl. Eef I get loacky maybe Seegfreed accidently whip me, too.
I guess I half a perfec boat howell for dat.
'Allo? 'Allo? Over? Out? Owwwwwwoooooowwwooowwwoowwwooooooooooo, OHhhhhhohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohoho!
SSSssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. Aaaargghrr, look at all dose crabs. Mor dan jus Cookie's turded in here.
CRABBAGE NEWS FLASH
(UPI) Evan Brings Voyage of SSNatch to thundering halt. After a glorious run of impressive banter on the Snatch waves, Evan
Field's diatribe about Fireman Bobbio stiflels and shuts down all glorious postings of the hallowed voyage of the SSNatch.
Quotes Webmastel Phir, "I don't know what the fuck this has to do with the SSNatch!" Sarkisian reports, "If I were at his
house right now I would lay such a log the Army Corps of Engineers would balk at removing it!" Gary Vought was quoted as
saying, "Glrmmmmmmmph, yummy No-shit!" Bambi stated rather emphatically, "Ervlan irs a tlotlarl dlodlirll. He irs
clompletrly a (sic) rlclrlclssdllfllillrlrlrllslslrlrlfbcyiwowroicmskjksjlvZXckhgjvciuuwyfrb. Blut I stlirr wants to hlave
Heelo, dis is BaaBiIioOOoo. You knaow, I waz'nt gonna take it dis 'a way, butt, if y'a you gonna keeep da preesure on meee.
Den I gotta leet go of'a my beeg meat package, yu know. Ouuu, you outta leet go yurselves sometimes, toooo. It feeels
sooOOoo goood, tu. Lee'me geev yu an exeemple: I wuz a walkeen down da roaaAAD, ween I meet a leetle girl talkin 'bout
dis'a beeg uuugly saAAilor, huz cumin frum a beeg sheep, called a SS NaaAAtchT. Weel, yu kin emageen all'da wuunderfull
dings shee said about dis beeg sheep an all'dos beeg meen she saw on der deck. OOHHHooo, she musta 'av sumthing wuunderful
in her shorts ta bee say'n does dings. Weeel, den I musta got tooOO frisky cause she weent oover to da mudshark bowl an cut
looose a beeg chummer dat almost choked my leetle bowl. Now, I gotta call a plumber. Hee likes'a me anyway, yu know. We
neeed a new ball and cock chain hee sayys - I told heem he better not be pullin noting here on ME! OOOOHHoo, Bobbio won't
stand four dat! Noo WayyyYYYyy, yu know. OK, now I'm seeerious, tu. No more meester nice guy, eder. I'm gonna walk rite up
tu dat beeg sheep SS Natcht an grap a beeg one an hold on fur a wheele, teel it cums round, yu know. Den weel know dat it's
fur reel. OOIOOhhh, Bobbio, I scaare myself sumtimes.
Arie Fellow Crabsters:
Bylavoral friggative it is cuming from those fierdbantel doggies to be wishin all Crabsters a tootful Thanksgiving.
Cap'n Mudshark, Sir:
Knaveigator Rag reportin', Sir. Seems to be some rumors I've run the Snatch aground. The main complainant be the Webmaster
Dodir. I think I can explain.
You know why they call 'im the Webmaster? 'e got weary a havin' the men runnnin' their way up 'is personal bilge 'ole. So
'e devised a spread (looks like mayonaise, Sir)that makes a weblike net across 'is cheeks. It'll keep the men out, or,
iffin' 'e's in the mood, 'e can reach back a tug on 'is cheeks little to let 'em in and the nettin' gives 'im a little
tickler so 'e can feel somethin' in a spot long ago stretched beyond arousal due to 'is excessive buggery. (Sellin' big on
the wharf in San Francisco, Sir.)
Well, after we sent the Queen to the bottom, I sent out a couple 'a donghies to rescue the survivors. Le Bojk was among
'em. Fearin' what he could to the men we chained the little AngloBurgundianSlav below and gave 'im a good slather o' the
mayo. Me thinks the Webmaster 'imself couldn't resist the temptation of givin' 'is little bony to that bony snaggletoothed
Brit. 'e got a little too close and the goo went from one brown eye to two others. It's clouded 'is vision. So bad 'e
stumbled into a bulkhead and put nasty knot on 'is trolly, 'obbit head.
Anyway, we been in open water fer some time now, Sir. The stores a be dwindlin' so's we took to tryin' to fish fer dinner.
But with LeBojk on board, and despite due precaution, Sir, it seems Master Baiter Gack 'as run outta supplies. 'e put out
a plea to the seamen put nobody seems to be able to get any air. Me fears LeBojk is more devious than we ever imagined.
Anyway, the men be gettin' 'ungry an' but little to feed 'em, Sir.
I canna explain the voices, Sir. Fireman Bobbio keeeps poppin' up so do these freaks from the dark beyond. I'm gettin'
another one now, Sir. It's Office S. Hole of the California CHP lookin' fer, lookin' fer, lookin' fer me beloved Cap'n, Sir.
Says you "ran over a stop sign" in place called Muffies. I don't understand, is it like takin' out a channel bouy, Sir?
We need some leadership.
Cap'n Mudshark, Sir:
Knaveigator Rag again, Sir. We've a real situation developin' below. Seems LeBojk slipped 'is bonds and escaped and nobody
can find 'im. Worse, an perhaps a possible explanation, an epidemic is sweepin' the Snatch'screw.
The symptoms are an exposed, red and raw ballpeen and sudden blindness. We're afflicted all over the boat, Sir, an' now
we're hearin' that Lt. Bambi's accidently wandered into the ammo room an' is gassin' it up with the only eye that works.
They say it's a heatin' up in there like the Webmaster's bum on two week furlough in the Castro. She could blow, Sir.
Awaitin' me Cap'n's orders, Sir.
Arrrr. All ye hands report. Where be Insin Timpson and the fair Brig Bitch Halbach? Thar's bin neither hide ner curly hair
from the likes o' them since we set sail. Oh, Cap'n, I seens them greasin' up their rudders on the shallop. They sez thar
be a coral butoll they're makin' fer an' be hopin' fer a little arr n' arrr. Arrgh, there'll be no rectal rammin' without
the likes of me over there. Blast yer ballast, Lt. Bambi and git us offa this. Oh that's a big aye aye sir! Wait, I dint
mean you Lt...arrrrrrrrrr!
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