Why?:The Tale of Captain Petey Widdershanks Blunderbub Shaleweather Monkeyturtle Johansen III, Buccaneer Extraordinaire
File:Pirate book cover.PNG Yarr, matey. I be a pirate. Captain Petey Widdershanks Blunderbub Shaleweather Monkeyturtle Johansen III, Buccaneer Extraordinaire to you, ya scurvy rat. I'm a real experienced pirate; Many a stormy sea have I sailed, many a giant squid have I slain, and many a piratey Argh have I Arghed, quite loudly and with no regard for nearby sleeping children. This tale is about me life; Aye, it is a tale of such purely intolerable and unstomachable jabber that I advise no jelly-livered landlubbers such as yerself to read this ghastly passage.
I wouldn't be here at all if tweren't for that bloody N'uk Nü'ka Hummmmsquatcha tribe from the Islands of Karsumplterwile. Me crew foolishly seized their cursed gold and burned the island to the ground... Er, burned it to the sea, rather. Only too late did they realize the implications of the treasure's dreaded curse, outlined in our contract with the tribe, article XII, sub-section 23, footnote 7, line 42. But there is yet another curse that has been placed upon me by a source of such pure, undiluted evil that it makes the Nü'kians quiver in their bare feet. Now I am doomed to eternally tell this tale to anyone who'll listen, if anyone at all.
Anyway you have it, the tale that shall be recited this dank and rainy night is a tale that has been told by me for untold centuries; It is the tale of me life, The Tale of Captain Petey Widdershanks Blunderbub Shaleweather Monkeyturtle Johansen III, Buccaneer Extraordinaire.
Chapter the First - Me Childhood
File:Pirate baby.PNG Arr, I suppose me story began back durin' me starry-eyed childhood in the West Indies, back when I was a wee kidder referred to as L'il Tyke Peter Widdershanks. I lived in an orphanage and never knew me father. No doubt he was a sea-farin' man, his boots swashin' with adventure, just like his son. On the other hook, I did know my mother, but she was unpleasant to spend time with and near-constantly smelt of cheap rum and argh.
I got me first taste of the pirate life as a young scallywag in me teen years. I taught meself to play the fife, and I thought meself pretty good. So I got me fife and me bucko, Black Roger Shindig, he got his hornpipe and we shipped off to the Caribbeans to play some shanties for some old sea dogs, maybe earn ourselves a doubloon or two each. Me and me mate made a pretty penny, met a few saucy wenches, drank more than our fair share of grog, but we both of us decided the musical life weren't to our likin'. We'd rather bare the rough of the storm, feel the sting of sea foam on our unwashed faces, than live the bilge-sucking life of two traveling musicmen. Argh, we wanted the life of pirates.
Chapter the Second - Becomin' a Pirate
File:Limewire jolly roger.PNG Piratin' is no easy business. Pillage and plunder may look like drunken, addled foolishness to the untrained eye of a landlubber, but it's a very exact science. Everything from the proper adjustment of an eyepatch to the level of swash in yer buckles must be calculated to just the right level for the maximum level of plunder and booty. Even yer traditional "Argh" has to be varied enough to instill fresh fear and to shiver timbers, yet simple enough to be recognizable as a pirate argh. Personally, I eventually settled on an Argh something like "Yeeeehhhaaeeeooooaaaarrrgh". Me point is, bein' a good pirate aren't as easy as they make it look in the movies, although by all accounts, being a bad pirate certainly is that easy, and that's what you aim for anyhoo.
Me own journey to become a pirate was not an easy one; 't required much stealing, stowing-away, and running for me life. Times were hard then, ad eating was a rare luxury to be enjoyed in moderation. Thar seems to be a paradoxical problem in becomin' a pirate: to become a pirate, ye must have a ship, but to have a ship, ye need money, which you may obtain by stealin' at sea, but to do that ye'll be needin' a ship... See the problem? I thought of it meself, though Black Roger be always remindin' me that he can, at any time, produce nine witnesses who'll say he thought of it. Eh, it ain't so clever.
It took years of hard labor, bribery, and drinkin' nothin' but saltwater and me own sweat, but me and Roger finally got our own ship in the year eighteen thirty... er... eighteen thirty somethin'... What year were it again? Let's see... Carry the two... Argh, the year's not important! What matters is, we had finally obtained a ship o' our very own, and we were gonna be real life pirates - With the financial hardships, general disdain from the community and everythin'.
Chapter the Third - Me and Me Rum
File:Pirate wreck.PNG While publicly me only true love is the sea, that's a bit of ol' horse phooey. There is perhaps no more fun to be had drinkin' from a bottle o' rum than any other activity the world over. The only thing I've ever tried that 'twas harder than a good solid week's worth of nonstop rum-drinkin' and bum-beating was hitting myself, continuously, over the head with an iron-wrought mop. Although they both were roughly the same in terms of mornin' headaches, rum had a romantic, pleasurable appeal that hitting yourself with a mop just lacks.
For many months I thought nothin' 'bout my rum problem - In fact, on many months my brain would just lapse out from overexposure to alcohol and I couldn't really think at all. I seemed to drink it as much as any other pirate. But the first warning sign that I had a serious problem was at the Annual Christmas office party on the ship, where I made a horrible, drunken fool o' meself in front of me whole crew. When my breakfast consisted mainly of Hunney Nut Cheerios (another pirate love o'mine! Ah the many mourn's speant with but a bowl o' me hearty cheerio's and a jugo' rum!) poured in a bowl full of rum, I knew that I had to belay my drinkin' problem, and handsomely at it too!
So, I had to lay off the piratin' business for a while, forced into lettin' that poxy blaggard Black Roger take over me duty as Captain 'til I was recovered from my crippling case of alcoholism. Even though I wouldn't trust that scurvy dog with anything from a treasure chest to a single hair from me chest, I would have to trust him with me boat, crew, lifetime supply of treasure, and map to Hawaii.
Chapter the Fourth - The Treasure of the N'uk Nü'ka Hummmmsquatcha Tribe
Well, of course, as soon as I got back from my Alcoholic Pirates Anonymous sessions, that cursed sea cucumber of a man, that POND SCUM! Roger stole me ship and was headin' off to Hawaii. Upon hearing the news I went out an' had me self an all-night drinkin' binge and after having a fit of murderous rage,(me mum ala'yse said i had a touch o' the clan fervour.) burned down the docks. I swore from that moment onwards I wouldn't rest until I gave Roger the most punishing Purple Nurple e'er seen on my belov'd high seas!. After a short rest at the local inn, I stoled me self a charred rowboat from what remained of the docks and headed out in what I believed to be the general direction of Hawaii.
After three years of scroungin' fer food and livin' on tiny, god-forsaken crops o' land invaden me belov'd sea, occupied with but one coconut tree, I finally caught up to me ol' friend, Black Roger. I grasped onto the side of the ship an' pulled me self hand over hand up the 30 foot high bow, and hopped over the side rail, about to keelhaul the pond-scumed, dirtied ass of the next unfortunate sorry excuse for a pirate, I laid my eyes on. Sadly, a diet of little coconut hairs and sand alone cannot sustain a man for too long, and I fell over in exhaustion. As it turns out, me former crew and Roger had all been horribly cursed by a tribe of island natives, the N'uk Nü'ka Hummmmsquatcha tribe. They were all an unhealthy pale and muttering things about a levitatin' pasta beast. Not that I gave a blubberin' walrus about their conditions; I made off with their ill-gotten treasure and sank their ship.
At the time I did nay realize the terrifying consequences of what I had done. The curse was now placed squarely on my shoulders, givin' me all sorts of terrible joint pain. Before I knew the curse was upon me I had already squirreled away all the treasure on rum. For years I have futilely checked Where's George?, desperately hoping to find even one of the charmed coins, but argh, it was no use. I was cursed to a lifetime of not dying, a mighty curse indeed. So I figured, I might as well be makin' money while I'm at it.
Chapter the Fifth - Sellin' Me Soul to Disney
Seeing as I was the last of the livin' pirates, all sorts of companies were givin' me offers. "Captain Johansen - Can I call you Pete? We're prepared to offer you an expensive poodle and hat in return for advertising for our Lego Pirates toy line." "Dear Cap'n Pete, may we be so honored as to have you give tours at our prestigious museum? We hear that you're great with kids!" "Mr. Pirate Sir, we want you to star in the upcoming Listerine commercials!" Nothin' but bilgerats, the lot of them, and none of them were yet willing to pay me enough.
Finally, I got a decent offer from one "Walt Disney Company". I'd never heard more of them than that they make some sort of "moving pictures", but I decided to accept their offer of a free cruise ship in exchange for my soul, figuring my soul to be null and void after the curse. How wrong I was.
Now I spend my days givin' tours to brats on some amusement ride called the Pirates of the Caribbean. I warn ye now, that ride is full of bilge. 18th century piracy was nothin' at all like that. If thar had really been that dog with the keys to my jail cell, I woulda worked my charms on the dog so much better than those caged, whistlin' amateurs do. Also, I apparently forfeited the rights to make a "movie" about my life based on the ride, starring some nancy boy.