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

To my mind, a swashbuckling pirate like myself, should not be spending the orange-tinted twilight waiting by the phone for a text.

Granted, this rogue buccaneer of nigh-Olympian physical proportions is a stout fellow, and of a good quality. Still, his invitation to walk his plank was marred by a thing he called a "client dinner" and he was unsure how long this would last.

Crackers, my somewhat imaginary parrot companion, would have me believe I be falling for a line, hook sinker and all.

"SQUAWK! He's yanking your chain, Cap'n!"
"I be all right with that. Now go below!"
"You'll look like a SQUAWK! fetching lassie,
waiting for her beau!"
"Get below decks, or it's parrot soup tonight for the men!"
The bird has the irritating ring of truth, however.

I am trying to distract myself by reading some rather titillating literature I picked up in our last port from an ancient, leather-garbed sutler, who offered these books at a few pence.

It's not working. The L'il Cap'n keeps coming to attention.

Let's hope this scurvy knave calls before I have to take matters into my own hand.