Pi-rate!
It's no celebration...
Remind me never to remind people of annual events of a swashbucking nature!
For it appears that my interpretation of "International Talk Like A Pirate Day" is not, as I thought, a day where you talk like a pirate.
Apparently, it's a day where everyone goes and constantly reminds pretentious twats that it would have been their anniversary if they hadn't been dumped in favour of a nazi comedian several years ago. Oh woe, oh wail, oh morose mournful downcast gloomeries cast upon the enjoyment of peglegged discourse.
So, it seems that converse would go thusly:
"Arr, ye scurvy dog, fetch me a tankard of bilge water from ye galley"
"Did you just say Hey! You! You know what? It WOULD have been your anniversary today, but guess what - It's not! Ha ha! UP YOUR'S, UGLY!!!"
"No - I just asked you to get me a glass of water while you're in the kitchen"
"Great. It should be my anniversary. Thanks for that. Did I tell you it would have been my anniversary. Well, it is. Well, it would have been. And it's not. Thanks for nothing mate"
"Ummm... that should really be Shipmate on International Talk Like A Pirate Day"
"Ship...Mate? I won't mate with her ever again. Come back, COOOMMMMEE BAAACCCKKKKKK!!"
#FuckSake #ManUp #GetALife #GetAWife!
Do I give a shit? Do I buggery fuck as like! Am I sat there mooning over some harlot who slagged off with someone else? No, I keep my bumcheeks firmly ensconced within my piratanical pantaloons, and got over it. Over the dumping, that, is. Not the harlot. And not a harlot dumping in a 2 girls 1 cup makarky type scenario.
Or something.
No - it be International Talk Like A Pirate Day, and just because you be bewailin' the loss of yer tavern slattern, it don't be meanin' the rest of us scallywags can't enjoy a bit of verbose vocalisations. Git some grog down yer neck, admire a buxom serving wench's heaving treasure chest, slap that pox-ridden beauty's booty and get her to raise yer Jolly Roger, blow yer hornpipe and haul you round the keel.
So, no more timely reminders from The Xym, for I dare not mention a date in case of anniversarial depression.
Oh bugger...
I mentioned a date...
Well, whoop-de-do. A date. A time when I'm constantly reminded by everyone that I'm loathed by all and I'm all sad and alone and no-one will sleep with me, let alone go on a date with me, you say? THAT'S THE TITS, THAT IS! I'm up for that Big Boy!
I can't do anything right, can I?
[They treat me like a wicked stepmother in a fairy story no matter what I say!]
