Mar. 22nd, 2005

mountain_laurel: (Default)
for some reason, this one made me think of Baz Luhrmann:

"He's a shy gay filmmaker for the 21st century. She's a tortured nymphomaniac fairy princess who can talk to animals. They fight crime!"
mountain_laurel: (Default)
what would it be like to be topped by Captain Jack Sparrow?

discuss.
mountain_laurel: (her kind die bloody!)
he said: "Hunter S. Sparrow. It must be done."

i tried to resist, i swear i did, but the zombie pirate monkeys overwhelmed me and the next thing i knew i woke up under my desk and the following was on my screen.

I was pissed legless on illegally confiscated rum when the Pearl rounded the eastern tip of Hispanolia and nearly rammed the HMS Intrepid. "FUCK!" shrieked Turner, his piercing voice assaulting my eardrums like the singing of a hundred tone-deaf sirens inside an underwater cavern (although that particular story I'll save for another time), reminding me once again of the folly of taking on a first mate who can't yet grow facial hair.

Turner steered frantically starboard. I passed him the bottle. He obviously needed it more than I did. "Here, drink this. It'll put hair on your chest. Or at least I bloody well hope it will. READY CANNONS, YOU BLEEDING CHANCROUS SONS OF WHORES!"

The impact of my masterful command was somewhat lessened, however, as the rum struck back viciously, intent upon revenge for having been drunk, and pulled my legs from under me. Or at least that's what I think happened. You can never be sure with rum. A vile beverage, rum. Suited only for criminals and miscreants of the lowest order. Such as myself, for example.

...and that's when the shame caught up with me.

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