Ahoy mateys, happy Talk Like a Pirate Season. The other day I be cruising around in me flying soup bowl to see if anybody they be talking pirate-style. That’s when I heard two lubbers yammering. One lubber he sez to the other he sez, “That’s a killer idea, Frank. Let’s run it up the flagpole and see if anybody salutes it.”
Stap me vitals, that not be pirate talking but it should oughta be. “Run him up the flagpole” be a perfect punishment for they worstest skulldugger of all time. He lies up there while they Jolly Roger whaps him in his forehead, they seagulls uses his face like as if it be they poop deck, and they rival pirates larfs themselves silly when they spots him with they spyglasses.
Son of a son of a sea dog, I bet they be a shipload of sayings out thar waiting for they pirate spin. Me brain it be thinking on some. Whaddya say, mateys? You gots you any ideas?
Aye aye mateys, today we be covering the ecstasy and the agony that be yer pirate-style baseball season.
First, they good stuff: When yer star player he be hitting a walk-off grand slam you jumps up from yer seat yelling, “Thar she blows.”
But then you figures out yer team not be making they playoffs – yet again. You sez to yerself you sez, “Stap me vitals, what a Black Spot I be in.”
Only one thing be getting you out’n The Black Spot. It be…
You gots you they whole off-season to mend yer broken heart. And Baba Blogga Yaga she be right thar with you.
Yo mateys, we is just finished up with Players’ Weekend. That be whar players gets to wear they nicknames on they jerseys. Now I be thinking ahead to next year. And I be thinking mayhaps they be wanting them a couple pirate-style nicknames. Such as they following…
The Swabby be the mug what sweeps everything away at the end of the day. Arr, that be a ideal name for yer closer.
The Landlubber be the mug what likes him the solid ground. Arr, that be yer star outfielder what face plants and makes him a diving catch afore they ball it touches the ground.
I is uncovered 2 (count ‘em 2) cases of skullduggery in they baseball park.
Skulldugger #1: The speed demon. Wanted for wanton stealing of bases.
Skulldugger #2: Springfoot. Wanted for grand theft of a home run away from the batter.
If’n you catches these skullduggers in the act you be sending over the boo birds to drop a big one on they heads. Les’n they plays for yer team. Then you be giving them the standing O.
Yo ho ho and a swig o’ the finest, it be the season for the best game EVER. I be talking about the baseball. Aye, that be a witches’ game, me swabbies. Why for? Because of they team curses. Such as the Chicago Cubs. They be cursed for 71 years on account of they be mean to a goat name of Murphy. And four other teams gots them they curses, too.
Stap me vitals, thar be jobs for witches in they baseball industry. A team witch she could undo any curse that be going around. Or cast a spell on her team’s rivals. Har, har, har, the other batters they swings at everything. They even swings when the pitcher not be throwing the ball.
PLUS, baseball be full of pirate activity to boot. Me dad would have eaten it up like if it be a bowl of fish guts stew. You gets to steal you a base and they doesn’t claps you in irons, they claps for you. Les’n you plays for they other side. Then they goes, “Keelhaul him.”
Nar, they doesn’t. But they should. The baseball it be even better if’n they uses them the pirate lingo. Like this – The manager goes “gangway,” charges onto the field and sez to the umpire he sez, “You scurvy dog, did you forget yer eye patch today?” Then the umpire he goes, “Walk the plank buster,” and throws him outta the game.
Mateys, I gots to go root on me faves – they popup-plunderin’ Pittsburgh Pirates and those strike-mashin’ seafarin’ men the Seattle Mariners. I be enjoying the game in me flying soup bowl while I guzzles a tankard of eye of newt root beer and thinks on more pirate-ized baseball lingo. They be up here later. Mayhaps you got you some to share, too. Bring ‘em on. I be waiting for yer comments.
Ahoy, this be for all ye mateys out there who be telling me, “I soooo wanna be you, Baba Yaga. You can totally do whatever you want. You don’t have to take no guff from nobody.” Blimey, that be a shipload of bilge. I bets you seven pieces of eight you not be saying that if you knows about The Big Book of How Things are. So I be giving you the poop.
It not be like I wants to live in a house with chicken legs or paddle around in a poky smart-mouthed soup bowl or get older when some swabby he be asking me a question. But The Big Book says I gots to. When I be a witchling I goes, “Fie! I grabs that Big Book and makes it walk the plank.”
Me mom she sez to me she sez, “You can do that Baba Girl, but you’ll also throw away all the rules that keep things the way they are. Then anything can happen. Cockroaches could become witches. AND witches could become cockroaches.”
Stap me vitals, I not be wanting to be askeered of questions, but I not be wanting to be a cockroach even more. Arrr, so Baba Yaga be Baba Yaga, chicken legs, soup bowl, and all.
Mateys, I be loving our little chats, but for now I hoists me anchor and sails away. Next month I be blogging about me one big love. Aye aye, it be a thing. Wait for it.