Aaaarrrrgggghhhh! That’s what happened to today’s filibuster. The same Son of a Biscuit Eater, pillaged us buccaneers, savvy? And the retched scallywag hornswoggled us for more than our doubloons. Shiver me timbers, our pieces of eight fell along the emotional and psychological side of the poop deck. Ye old abbey lubber, Robert Taylor, ye were ram shackled and marooned on a deserted island in the south pacific for 20 plus years. So now ye’ve found your sea legs!! Well, blow me down! Don’t let me lookout set his sights on ye chowder-head, for ye are not afeared. And next time we’ll feed ye to the fishes!
But before ye pay a visit to Davy Jones’ Locker, me and me maties pay a visit to Carlos Morales, graphic sign man, musician, and able seaman. Dead men tell no tales but we do a bit of blethering about piracy, plundering, bleeding our powdered monkey, and spotting dolphins; Thar she blows!
So, under the guise of St. Elmo’s Fire, we hoist our Jolly Roger, and me crew of privateers trade in our rum for bud light grogs until we be three sheets to the wind. And so we form a guinea gangplank of our own, despite being anchored along the coast of Shell Island, and not Staten Island. Yo ho ho, a pirate’s life for me!!
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