From the journals of Cap'n Jonas Porksword
Third, March in the Year of our Lord, Two-Thousand and Ten:

Crackers, the scurvy parrot, was right. I be sitting alone in the crow's nest like a surly teenage girl. The Buccaneer never called. Nor type a message to me on his celle phone device, or even stuff a note in a bottle, as is the custom of those who are shipwrecked by their "client dinners."

I am listening to a fair maidens' sea chanty about bleeding love, which is exactly what I'd like to use my cutlass for - to bleed some love out of the cad.

The crew is probably making fun of me, and one went so far as to boast about their sexual prowess and the married man he nailed whilst in port.

He'd best shut his face, or he may find himself keelhauled. I've found the best remedy for heartache is to take it out violently on the crew.