Monday, 17 July 2017

The good Pastafarian, Henry Morgan and the volcano beers

A good Pastafarian, while sleeping after a brave Friday night spent in pubs with his fellows, dreamed Henry Morgan sailing in his ship in the Caribbean.

We can call this good Pastafarian Alberto, for simplicity.

Thanks to the huge quantity of beer that Alberto gulped down, the dream turned into a vision, and Alberto started to ask Morgan about the Pastafarian Heaven.

- How can the beer springing from volcanoes be so fresh?

- Well, that’s quite a technical question, and I just drink rum, which is not served fresh.

- Will I be able to consume the beer I took in my volcano into the strippers club, or I must purchase drinks there?

- Sure you will! You can drink your own stuff wherever you want.

- Will I be able to drink even my fellows' beer? You know, here on Earth I can drink all the beers I want. I'm quite worried to spend all my Heaven life with just a kind of beer, even if it's the best one.

- Well, I cannot answer you: all this weird questions about beer are new to me. I will ask to my fellows, and then I will come back to you in another vision.

After some days and some nights, Henry Morgan reappeared.

- Aaaaarrrrghhh! I have some news for you, my dear Alberto! Well, here's the good one: your volcano will erupt all the beers you want, not only one, and all these beers will be incredibly fresh, good, tasty, and you will not have any headache the next morning. Oh, and you will be able to drink all your beers and your friends' wherever you want. Even in the stripper club of other fellows. Ah, well, you have to book, in that case, you know...

- Well, good! Wonderful! Sorry but... you talked about this as the good news. Is there a bad one?

- Well, sorry good sir, but yes, there is: I have a booking in my stripper club with your name, for next friday...

Monday, 10 July 2017

The wench pregnancy affair

For several years, a Corsair Cap'n were bein' havin' an affair with an Italian wench. One night, she confided in that scurvey dog that she were bein' pregnant. Not wantin' t' ruin his reputation or his marriage, he said he would pay that comely wench a large sum o' doubloons if she would go t' Italy t' secretly have th' sprog. If she stayed in Italy t' raise th' sprog, he would also provide sprog support until th' sprog turned 18. The winsome lass agreed, but asked how he would be knowin' when th' baby were bein' born. Fire the cannons, and a bucket o' chum! To keep it discreet, he told that comely wench t' simply mail a post card and write Spaghetti on th' back, ye scurvey dog. The ornery cuss would then arrange fer th' sprog support payments t' begin. After several months at sea, he returned t' his home port whar his confused lady said, 'ye received a very rum post card today.' 'Oh, just give it t' me and I'll explain it later,' he said. th' lady obeyed and watched as that Cap'n read th' card, turned white and fainted. On th' card were bein' written: "Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti. Three with meatballs, two without. Send extra sauce."

Thanks to pirate Jenn for unburin' this pirate fact for us!

The image of the sleeping dreadful pirate above was stolen here.