Let the Countdown Begin!

Shipmates, 

Well shiver me timbers! The Dread Pirate Dewey has less than one month of servitude left in his contract aboard the mighty Pequod! For about three and one-half months, your humble guide to all things both nautical and bibliographical has been slaving away over his keyboard for the elderly republicans who call the high seas their temporary homes! 

To be honest mates, I find it hard to believe that the waves of salty brine that have seeped into my very pores will soon recede leaving me just another landlubber!* Soon, I shall stand amongst you, shoulder-to-shoulder, jostling for a mere view of the ocean blue and its plentitude, and stymied by my poor soil-grubbing existence in the search for that ever-retreating horizon! 

On the other hook, I will no longer be required to jump to the demands the decrepit crustaceans that scuttle about the deck of the mighty Pequod! No longer shall ancient conservatives be able to foist their unholy will upon me!** I shall be free to skip and jump, to sleep in, to shrug off the cross of orange that is my perpetual burden! Free at last, oh lord, free at last!****

And yet, on the third hook, I have recently taken to my salty breast a fiery first mate, and our rovings are legend amongst those in tune with the way of the seas! I’ve come to depend on this young piratess—she combs my parrots, loads my muskets, makes sure that my eye patch is set at its proper rakish angle—in short, she has become an important part of this pirate’s life. But fear not oh over-romantic readers! A short week after my return to the dismal stretch of land I once called home, I shall once more board the mighty Pequod! This time as a “friend on board.” Basically, I live as a crew member aboard the ship with none of the actual responsibilities of my then-previous job—for free!

But on the final hook, these ruminations have opened the door to the larger issue haunting my mind as of late: what shall become of The Dread Pirate Dewey after the period of his indentured servitude to his cruel Seattleite overlords has ended? At the moment, I am pretty committed to one more contract sailing the Panama Canal aboard the mighty Pequod!***** But after that? Recently I have been leaning towards a triumphant return to the hallowed halls of academia; the literal cut and thrust of the Pirate’s life being no replacement for the more figurative variety offered by a career spend doing intellectual battle for the very souls of the young scholars! Then yesterday I had a rather illuminating exchange with a passenger. He was looking for info on some small town in the North West Territories, the home of an interesting artisan he had just met in port. As I was explaining that we probably didn’t have anything specific enough, he suddenly asked me where I went to school. I told him Bishop’s (yea!) amongst other schools and politely asked him where he had gone. He answered in rapid fire that he had received his BA, MA, and PhD from UCLA, that he was a retired professor of Native American studies, and had written 12 books. Ok, I said. After a fruitless search for the information he was looking for, I left him at the atlas, but not before he implied that Canadian universities offered little in the way of Native Studies. I explained that, actually, every university I had attended offered many courses on the field; I was simply uninterested in taking them. The exchange left a bad taste in my mouth. 

Are these the dry ashes of small-minded bitterness upon which I shall feast if I steer my bark down these academic waters? Should this lusty pirate abandon a course through the tumultuous seas of fragile egos in favour of another watery path? Or is “Mr. 12 Books” merely an example of the kind of jerk one must face in any line of work?   

*Like you, dearest reader.  

**Unless I need to borrow my parents’ van…***

***Just kidding! Love you moms and dad!

****Too far?

*****Well, not the same Pequod, but another incarnation thereof.

On Orange being not the only Fruit; Singing the Sartorial Blues, Part 1.

Shipmates,

Well it’s here! The day when I finally reveal to all my sartorial woes! I know many have been waiting with bated breath for this long-delayed day,* and for the pain I have caused by my negligence, I can but bow obsequiously** and beg forgiveness. Mea culpa friends! Mea culpa.

Although, while I firmly and without qualm stand before you—the very paradigm of manliness—and take full and unconditional responsibility for my sins, my hesitation to write about the matter of my raiment aboard the Pequod is not really my fault. You see, when first I proudly stalked across the gangplank, a salty sea ditty upon my lips, I was told by my superiors*** to first wear one outfit only to be told weeks later to wear another! And so it went. Here is a brief transcript of the actual first conversation I had with the CD and EM**** about said outfit:

The Dread Pirate Dewey: Good sirs! I come aboard the mighty Pequod ready to serve as your ever-so-    humble librarian! But sirs, know this, the seas have carried The Dread Pirate Dewey to the farthest reaches of this strange world and in my travels I have taken the opportunity to mark my flesh! Yea, my very arms are living art! But are the patrons to whom I shall serve accustomed to such beauty and wonder or shall I wear long-sleeved tunic?

EM and CD in chorus: Oh manly Dewey! Take no fear; wear the short-sleeved tunic! For who could look upon your chiseled visage and second guess your artistic choices?

It turns out 1300 ancient republicans could and did. A short week later I had the following conversation with the CD:

CD: Soooooo, we’re gonna have to go ahead and, uh, get you some of those long-sleeved white shirts.

TDPD: But good sir! I already have the raiment of which you speak!

CD: Oh is that right? Wellllll, I’m gonna have to go ahead and, uh, ask you to, oh, start wearing them everyday.

TDPD: Why certainly good sir! I aim to please!

CD: It’s just that the hotel manager really wants you to, and, you know, my hands are, uh, pretty much tied.

Since this illuminating encounter with one of the more rascally CDs I’ve had the pleasure to be condescended to by, I have been asked—twice by our new CD—if I’ll start wearing the orange polo shirt again only to be told not to once my tattooed state is revealed. Now shipmates, to be honest, although I have been told that I look rather fetching in the nausea-inducing shade of orange that my Seattleite overlords have chosen, all induced nausea aside, I have to say that I prefer the white long-sleeved shirt. For what, I ask of you, fair readers, best befits the lofty and respectable position of shipboard librarian best: the silly overly-Dutch polo or the staid, dignified white? I let you be the judge.

Behold the glory that is orange!

The Dread Pirate Dewey hard at work in those early days of yore.

My evening wear; much the same now as in those early weeks. Note the orange!

The Dread Pirate Dewey even cleans!

The Dread Pirate Dewey signing out a book (about pirates natch) to The Equally Dread Piratess Dewette!

*Including a certain unnamed professor from a certain unnamed university whose insistence upon me writing about these matters I can only attribute to her anticipation of seeing me swathed in orange. I suspect that she—having been frustrated in her own youthful desires to join the piratical ranks due to her unfortunate byclopean nature—is living vicariously through your humble narrator.

**Virtually that is, which, in all honesty, amounts to very little effort.

***In official rank only, rest assured.

****Cruise Director and Event Manager you landlubbers.

On Pirates of the Female Persuasion, Part 1: The Beckoning.

Shipmates,

As some of you—those attuned to the ways of the sea*—may have gathered by now, the Dread Pirate Dewey no longer sails under a single mast! That’s right dear readers, this old salty dog has met a fetching female buccaneer, looked her square in the rum-reddened eye, and cried “aye matie!” with a traditional pirate grasp!** 

Now, my most attentive readers well know that I am not one to tell tales out of school, as they say; no! The Dread Pirate is as much known for his chivalry and gentlemanly tact as for his rippling masculine physique and saint-like humility. So why, then, do I pen these very lines describing the most private of personal experiences? Why reveal to the slack-jawed plebs—who love nothing more than the opportunity to tear down their betters in order to assuage their own petty jealousy***— that the otherwise impervious Dread Pirate has a human side? Much like my fictional counterparts,****  would it not be best to maintain a secret identity, a double life as it were, in order to protect not me—the Dread Pirate Dewey needs protection from no mortal hand!—but those weak, merely human vessels with whom I share certain soft feelings? 

These arguments do carry weight, I readily admit, but when one spends every day cavorting in the Caribbean heat with a sun-kissed pirate wench,***** when every night is a Bacchanal feast of fun and rum in the Pequod’s always saucy Officer’s Bar, yea, when every day you feel as happy as a privateer with a dozen newly-split skulls laying beneath your blood-soaked blade, you feel the need to sing to the world of your joy!

It was one of the high holy days aboard the Pequod when I first laid eye upon the Amazon who has stormed the fortress of my heart. We were feasting the Saint, holy Patrick of course, with the traditional libations, when a blinding light tumbled your humble narrator from his perch at the bar! What was that alluring sparkle, that El Doradian glitter of earthly delight visible from 30 paces across the mass of sweaty pirate bodies swimming in the smoky sea of the Officer’s Bar? As you can imagine, I quickly began swinging my mighty ham-like fists about in order to clear a path, and as the sailors were felled like so many giant redwoods, the twinkle that first attracted this pirate’s eye revealed itself—twas the eye patch of the most bewitching female buccaneer this old plank walker has seen! Her patch was so resplendent with the majestic jewels pilfered from the holds of our floating prey that the most precious of rubies were inset with the most cleverly-cut diamonds! Her long blond locks were as shiny as a seal’s hide in late August after years of sea salts and sun that make any real pirate’s hair a thing of envy among even the most discerning land-based salon frequenter! And her shoulders! Oh her sun-browned shoulders! We all know how fetching a brilliantly-coloured parrot is perched upon a pirate’s shoulder—I myself have been known to sport a charmingly-idiosyncratic orange and brown Macao from time to time—but this young lass sported not one, not two, but 7 fully-grown birds across her back and shoulders! The very height of fashion! And oh! how they squawked! What could bring more joy to an old ship pillager’s heart than the sight of this beautiful woman covered in a tropical rainbow of feathers amidst the fumes from the cheap rum? 

And if her raiment was colourful, than her language was even more so! Not an oath under the sun she didn’t know! So we cursed and we caroused, singing all the greatest pirate melodies together in perfect harmony; we drank and we fought, a-swinging our fists together in unison, leveling the rowdy sailors to our left and to our right. The place was demolished, half our compatriots in the infirmary, and our bar bill astronomical. It was a good night. 

 She hails from the sunny stolen lands of Old Mexico, my new-found mast-mate.****** A woman of gentle means, she took to the high seas in search of thrilling adventure and daring do, and lo and behold, she found the Dread Pirate Dewey! So we have been plundering the bounty of the Caribbean trade for over a month now, and our pirate’s pact is a thing all the decent Northern sea-goers fear! Aye, when these honest folk see our colours flying, they run and scream, “Run friends! For here comes our doom! Hide all your jewels, stash all your gold, squirrel away all of your best DVDs, for lo! across the bounding main comes the Dread Pirate Dewey and the Equally-Dread Piratess Dewette!”

         

*And my Facebook page.

**Figuratively speaking that is; I have yet to meet a woman that considers a spit-soaked handshake or guttural pirate noises to be an appropriate method with which to mark the beginning of a romantic relationship.

***You, of course, do not number among these unwashed peasants.

****Batman, Superman, Bill Clinton etc.

*****Although, the Pequod has left the safety of the Caribbean waters for more Northern ports, but that’s the meat for another meal!

******That’s a nautical term. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Danger! Danger!: Living La Vita Code Red, Part 1.

 

Shipmates,

Exciting news aboard the Pequod! It turns out that the dirty, dirty fiends we carry as cargo—“passengers,” or even “guests” my Seatltonian overlords insist—have lived up to my very worst expectations. It seems that these swine, so content to wallow in their filth, have managed to incubate some form of the dreaded* novovirus aboard the mighty vessel that is my humble abode! Routinely I see said porcine passengers—egad! how that word sticks in my muscle-bound throat!—oinking from one room to another ignoring the ample number of sanitizing stations; these beasts even go so far as to turn up their little piggy noses at my colleagues who wait on the gangway to dose their dirt-encrusted hooves upon their return.

And why, you might justly ask, would these foul detritus-loving critters so disdain the cleansing spray of chemical cleaner so vital to keeping us all happy and healthy? Three reasons I have ascertained: the first is pure laziness. It turns out that as one ages, one comes to the conclusion that one has “done enough” in this great valley of suffering and it’s time to “reap the rewards.” Apparently one of the rewards for being a productive member of society for 60 or 70 years is the privilege of not washing your hands after using the washroom. That and you are allowed to be rude to anyone working in customer service. Especially Asian people working in customer service.

The second reason why these folk deign to use the spray is, it turns out, for so-called health reasons. Here is an actual conversation** I overheard in the dining room:

“These guys are always trying to get me to use those chemical sprays when I get on the boat” One sweaty man said to the couple that was joining him and his wife for breakfast. As the red-faced man negotiated his ample midsection into the chair, his wife took up the thought. “We said to them, ‘no way buster’ we’re not puttin’ that crap on our skin.”

“Yea,” said the equally rotund and red-faced new-found mealtime companion, “but their English is so bad, they don’t understand a plain ‘no.’”

“Ya’ll just gotta be forceful. I told that one guy ‘NO’ in plain old Amurican English, and let me tell you, he backed right up.” Said the man now safely wedged between the sturdy armrests of the chair. His wife continued, “We understand that they are just doing their job, but we don’t want that poison on us! No sir!” She stated vehemently as she tucked into her third helping of dessert.

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean!” Her wifely counterpart said, gesticulating with one of the 30 slices of bacon piled on her plate. “I mean, who knows  what the long-term effects of that stuff will be!” She said and bit into the syrup-covered French toast.

 At this point I had to go back to work, but I’m sure these fine citizens spent the next 30 minutes enjoying their well-deserved seconds and thirds and enumerating the potential—nay! Enveitable—health risks associated with Virox. So it turns out these barely-mobile, sugar and grease swilling lumps are health freaks. Who knew.

The third and final reason that I think these cloven-hoofed plate jockeys refuse to indulge in the occasional squirt aboard the Pequod I just stumbled upon last night. Imagine the scene, dear reader: your humble narrator comfortably seated behind his desk with a piping-hot double espresso to enliven his senses and the last 50 pages of Anne of Green Gables to transport his imagination to a land of whimsy and sentiment. Approaching, slowly, decrepitly, one the elderly with some concerns to vent. He wants to know why the shutters are all closed in the library.*** When I explain to him that people browsing through the books would create the ideal petri dish in which to hatch the most deadly outbreak of the novovirus known to humankind!**** he merely looked at me with his milky eyes and bleated, “you know, this virus was probably on board before we got here.”

Well! I was dumbfounded. How did this have any relevance to our conversation I pondered. Then, after no small amount of said pondering, I realized that this shell of a human thought our “code red” procedures were meant to punish him. “No,” I wanted to assure him, “while it’s true that I am going to compose a delightful little sketch of this encounter in which, yes, your foul ways shall be punished, locking the books away is actually done in the hopes that by limiting the places where your dirty paws might mix and stir the bacterial soup we can end this period of heightened vigilance and return to our normal—sleepy—routine.” Of course, being the very epitome of tact*****, I bit my manly tongue, muttered some bland platitude and allowed this unpneumatic cadaver to shuffle away as proud as some kind of near-dead peacock.

But this strange outburst led me to glean that third reason of which I spoke. It seems that these people seem to think that there is an adversarial aspect to hygiene. We—the crew of the Pequod that is—are doing our best to put controls on the passengers, controls that need to be subverted and struggled against it seems. Keep raging against the dying of the light my wrinkled brethren!  

*No, the novovirus is not as dreaded as the Dread Pirate Dewey.   

**I didn’t “actually” hear this.

***Perhaps I should, at this point, tell you, dearest readers, what a “code red” means to the life of a humble shipboard librarian. Well, all of the books in the library are locked up at night behind shutters. Part of my morning duties is to open said shutters, but during code red they remain closed and people have to request books that I then fetch like the dog I am. I also have to wash all the pieces to the scrabble games that are ever so popular. And hand out the daily sudoku to people. It’s a lot of fun.

****Maybe I used less colourful language.

*****A guest who heard this exchange came up to me afterward to congratulate me on dealing so well with the angry man and told me, “tact is making someone feel at home even when you wish they were.” Thank you ma’am.

Life Aboard the Pequod: Adventures in Multiculturalism

Shipmates,

Please forgive the brevity of this post; I realize that much moral comfort is drawn from the portraits of my life that hang in this virtual gallery. And yes, I generally paint with a heavy brush to focus the wayward mind toward that point at which the exciting portrayal of my adventures best mingles with the intellectual and spiritual engagement so beloved by any admirer of the higher arts. But today I offer a post remarkable more for its conciseness than its verbosity; unlike Theseus’s trail, this post will leave you alone and unfriended in the labyrinth of your own moral decrepitude! Good luck!

So last night, whilst sauntering along the hallowed halls of the mighty Pequod’s library, a couple called me over to their table. It seems they were set to engage in a rousing match of Scrabble!

“Well,” I asked, “what, on this fine evening, may I do for you my good people?”

“Pardon us, kind sir,” they replied, “but may we trouble you for a Scrabble dictionary, 2 books, and a scrap of paper?”

“Two books?” I asked, puzzled. “Which two books?”

“Oh is doesn’t matter,” they answered. “Any two big books will suffice—we use the books to keep score you see.”

Well actually, no, I didn’t see, but, to paraphrase Tennyson, “ours is not to make reply, ours is not to question why, ours is but to do and die.” So, like the famed brigade before me, I charged head-on into uncertain fates!

I brought two books of appropriately weighty dimension, the Scrabble dictionary, and a piece of paper over to their table, and waited anxiously to what was to be done with these random books. It turns out that they wished to place the paper, now ripped in twain, on the page corresponding to their score.

“Would you prefer a pencil,” I asked, for once genuinely eager to help one of my patrons.

“No, this is perfect, thank you,” they answered. “We’re not writing anything during the cruise you see.”

Again, no, I did not see. Was this some form of relaxation technique beyond the likes of your humble narrator? It was not until I began walking away that I noted the small cloth cap perched upon the back of the man’s head and remembered that we had a large group of Jewish passengers aboard celebrating Passover. Eureka! This couple was not “a little touched” as the previous generation so charmingly would have described such people; rather, they were* Jewish!

I returned to their table to confirm my suspicions, and we had a pleasant discussion about the rites they observed during Passover, not to mention Sabbath. It was not until later that evening when they returned the materials I had procured for them that I realized a funny thing: one of the books I had provided for their Sabbath-friendly score keeping was, perhaps, a questionable choice. I had grabbed, unknowingly, Erik Larson’s book, In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin. On the cover of this book is a photo of a government building in full Third Reich glory with no less than a dozen swastikas visible on various flags and pennants.

Oops.

They did not comment on my unfortunate choice, so I am left wondering if they think I am anti-Semitic or perhaps just “a little touched.”



*They probably remain Jewish.

The Dread Pirate Dewey’s Guide to Aging Gracefully, Part II

As you can see shipmates, I am attempting to curb my wicked ways and blog more often. Now, I know that my readers would consider themselves blessed if but a few of my personal anecdotes found their way into a consumable medium; alas, for those who wonder this vale of tears in search of mental stimulation my long silences must seem an affront! A bestowing of manna withheld for only reasons of base laziness! Avast ye scurvy dog! Rig your fingers to the keyboard and let loose the topsail of your imagination!

So I will relate to you, dearest shipmates, the riveting details of my day spent in San Juan with the moral colouring you all so justly anticipate. So we arrived in San Juan—oft called the Paris of the Caribbean*—at noon. I worked till 11, had a nice refreshing workout, and met my friends for lunch around noon, so it was just shy of 1:00pm before a group of us rascally ship dwellers doffed our monkey coats and made for the gangway. Our plan was to walk Old San Juan and play the role of tourists, taking pictures and cavorting amongst the sites; unfortunately, mother nature—that toothy bitch!**—decided to dash our idyllic plans.

Naturally, when the deluge began, like Noah before us, we promptly found a watertight structure and proceeded to drink beer. Good times, good beer—t’was a fun afternoon! The rain lasted perhaps 15 minutes, our adult beverages for hours. Like all good things however, this fine social gathering had to end. For me, this ending came at 3 when I had to thrust my way through the milling masses, board the Pequod and once more don my customary librarian garb***. It was not without a heavy heart that I elbowed my way past the gawking gringos, for who among us gladly leaves the table when the tidings of boisterous good cheer ring so loudly?

And what, praytell, do you suppose, dearest reader, that I found upon rushing upstairs to my station? An empty library deserted by passengers who realized that a day spent in San Juan would be more fun than yet another day spent onboard the ship? Remember too, yesterday we spent the day at sea, so for a whole day—sun-up to sun-down—these people did nothing but mill about the ship. And what, after all this masterful buildup of anticipation, do you suppose they chose to do on this fine, sunny—for the most part—day? You would be right if you guessed “spend the day playing solitaire on their ipads****.” So here I was, the very cockles of my heart still warm from the convivial fires of friendship in front of which I so recently huddled, forced to tend to the wants of a group of human cargo too lazy, too filled with self loathing, too eager to feast upon the bitter herbs of human misery to enjoy themselves!

Now, you all know how fair and impartial the Dread Pirate is—truly fair and balanced reporting—so you’ll realize that my horrified reaction to the shambling hordes that greeted me does not include the legitimately decrepit. Nay, for those poor souls whose earthly vessels have become too frail, too cracked, or too worn down by the sands of time to allow much in the way of corporeal locomotion, I offer only my sincere sympathy. For those, however, who quickly descended on my desk to query me about the poor internet connections, or ask me how they might get to the afternoon’s craft workshop, I hold nothing but contempt. Go! I want to scream in their puckered faces. For the love of all that is holy, please go out into the world and have all the fun I am denied by your fussy needs! In your stead, I would surely be laughing and gay***** in the streets of old San Juan! The oh-so-charming narrow streets would ring with my boyish glee; the arms of the local beer wenches would strain under the platters of cool refreshments needed to soothe the throats of my party parched from too much gregarious revelry; yea! the lowliest street urchins would remember this day with a crooked grin as the day that San Juan was visited by the very spirit of philanthropic celebration!

Instead, people planted themselves in the library seats only rousing themselves to come up to my desk mooing like the chattel they are about the meaningless problems ailing them. Perhaps it was all the wobbly pops I had consumed, but I literally****** had to leave the room, lock myself in the nearest wheelchair-accessible washroom, and cry for the opportunities presently passing me by. Finally, after bashing my forehead against the rim of the toilet for a solid 20 minutes in order to bring myself down to the intellectual level necessary to interact with the passengers, I stumbled back to my station, dazed smile firmly fixed in place.

So the moral is this: go out and live life you fools! Otherwise you will end up like these rundown wastes of flesh who do naught but plague my existence! Seize life by whichever hairs—be they short or long—afford the best grip!

*By me anyway.

**Thanks T.S.

***Yes, a post about said garb is forthcoming.

****A surprising number of the decrepitly old have ipads. I have yet to discover the reason for this.

*****Gay as in happy; although, with all that free time…

******Not literally.

Tasting the Corporate Ladder one Rung at a Time; or, why I have not Blogged in a while (sorry about that), Part 1

Shipmates,

I know it’s been a while since my last post. Alas! What piece of sophistry can I offer in my defense? Which register of pathos will convince you that it was surely my best intention to fully meet your expectations of a timely blog entry? Well mates, allow me to spin a brief yarn about my most recent woes. I call this gripping sea tale, “The Dread Pirate Dewey and the Dastardly Trio: or, Tasting the Corporate Ladder One Rung at a Time.”


The winds were blowing the mighty Pequod across the blue Caribbean waters one fine morning. The sails had been rigged in a slow, easy manner as the bright sun sent the first harbingers of day streaming up from behind the lush clouds on the horizon. The waters lapped lazily against the bow of the vessel only served to reinforce the sleepy serenity of the scene. The mates, from the lowliest cadets to the even more lowliester* librarian, all moved slowly and happily like over-fed kittens basking amongst their mother’s milk-fat nipples. Aye, a more pastoral scene could hardly be wished for amongst the softest folds of green, sheep-draped Acadian hills.

When lo! What is that spotted upon the horizon? At first a speck barely registering in the kittenesque brain of the mate atop the crow’s nest, but quickly growing in both size and darkness. Idle conversation turns to more and more anxious speculations and finally—too late!—the sounding of the general alarm!

All hands on deck! Those are pirate colours hoisted on yon mast! Ah clever Caribbean sun! Thou hast lulled these fine seamen into dangerous waters! But what can be done? As the hull of the invading ship came within striking distance, unsurprisingly, the pirates struck, seeing as that is what one generally does when within striking distance. It would be rather foolish to bring one’s ship within striking distance unless that was one’s goal; after all, it could get rather dangerous what with the size of these ships and the possibility of collision!

As the pirates streamed across the boarding lines, the valiant crew of the Pequod offered what manly resistance they could. Our hero, the Dread Pirate Dewey, was at that moment, defacing certain Sarah Palin books. As he heard the cries from the deck, his leonine head snapped up, his chiseled features well suited to expressing the masculine rage that surged through his muscle-bound frame. And yet as Dewey leaped up to the deck in a single graceful movement—an arc so beautifully described as to bring tears to the most hardened of ex-soviet ballerinas—he stopped cold: these were not mere pirates whose flesh would surely yield before the half-dozen sabers clutched in Dewey’s iron grip, these pirates wore the Seal of Seattle and were thus untouchable!

And, even more galling, these rapscallions could order brave Dewey to do their bidding! And order they did! Night and day our stalwart hero swabbed decks and massaged the rancid scalps of the elderly until his fingers were left crippled—and even then the evil pirates forced our ever-persevering protagonist to shelve the woefully-conservative books he hated so!

“Bahahaha!” The treacherous trio laughed*, “We’ve brought the haughty Dewey down to our size! Welcome to corporate America!”


And this ends the extract of my gripping sea yarn! Perhaps another installment awaits your eager eyes? Or perhaps that long promised blog about my sartorial woes? Hold tight for another 3 weeks or so and you will probably uncover the truth!

*This is a word. Seriously. Look it up.
**In unison for some reason only new bosses understand, because, in case this story is unclear, the “treacherous trio” are the pirate-esque*** approximations of the three “real life”**** bosses that recently came into power over me. And not in a good “I’m tots gonna spank your ass while we have vigorous sex and you’re tots gonna love it!” kind of coming into power over someone, but that gross kind where suddenly your comfortable “4 hours of real work” style “work day” becomes one of those “actual” work days. As well, bosses have this thing where they need to make a host of arbitrary changes just to prove they can and will. Anyway, the ones who really suffer here are, of course, my legions of dedicated fans. And thus, I shed a tear not for my own lost freedoms, my own sacrificed time, my own ever-expanding ulcer, but for you dearest reader, for you.
***Also a word.
****See The Matrix.