Yo-Ho! A Jolly International Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day to ye! It seems a little crass durin’ the Week o’the Constu… Constee… er… Week o’the Foundin’ Document o’me Nation. D’arrrrgh, one can’t expect international events to give way for a commemoration whut our own fearless captain didn’t raise his rum to. (Sink me! If it be interestin’, feast yer deadlights on my comment below.)
Aye, I remember back when we sprogs were let out o’our foul urchins’ bulk for a short sun’s spin, to splice the mainbrace with enough grog to keelhaul an English blaggard. I’d play kick-the-bung with me hearties and I’d dance to the Cap’n's hornpipe for a laugh. Arrr, I even sang an Irish sea shanty now and agin.
In those bloody days, the holiday was in February and the shivers o’the cold winds discouraged scurvy bilge rats from plunderin’ too much booty as they pretended t’be Redbeard. Blimey — land lubbers used t’ruin Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day for every hand on the poop deck. But now it be elbow-deep in panderrrrin’, meaningless sentiment, jus’like (Don’t Talk Like) MLK Jr Day. If the Victual Brothers be alive today… “Da fällt mir doch der Papagei von der Schulter!”
Mateys, the Emerald Isle owns its own swashbucklin’ history o’buccaneers: me own near times and the blood-soaked past; there be times filled wi’doubloons whut they richly deserve but also days spent kissin’ the gunner’s daughter. Now there be a Norse ship in a dry lagoon, so Dublin’s tongues be waggin’ like the Jolly Roger in a fair tradewind: We best lay the black spot on the pillagers? Aye, or we best be sayin’ “fair play” for givin’ no quarter and then goin’ off-account to build many jolly cities o’Eire, before weighin’ anchor agin?
Arrrr, green-eyed, horn-swogglin’ sutlers be tellin’ ye that the properrrr pirates be from sunny Algiers, thar. But by the powers! a fair sight o’the Irish be makin’ their livin’ handsomely, scuppin’ furners (und Pfeffersaecke) on the high seas, and Irish beauties be partic’arrrrly saucy.
As usual, twas the lily-liver’d, murrrrderous bureaucrats be havin’ the last laugh. The Hanse and Landratten be settin’ up a poxy arrrrrrrbit… arrrrrrbitnation… arrrrbitratin’ system to scuttle the glorious chase. Such would belay even Das Prachtkerl Stoertebecker! The skirrrrmishs o’proud gentlemen o’fortune and paper-shufflin’, blige-suckin’ privateers be ongoin’ te this very day. Begad and beim Klabautermann! The scallywags and lousy dogs be handy wi’the cat o’nine-tails and the six pounder! By me right hook, it be hard to tell the jacks from sons o’biscuit eaters. There be messdeck lawyers on the briny deep, from Cork to New Orleans. Smartly there, old salts, unless ye be wantin’ t’feed the fish.
D’arrrr, I doubt we be makin’ the loadin’ o’the gunwales in Dublin. If ye be freshwater corsairs whut live in Chicago thar, ye takes yer clap o’thunder tonight! Ahoy, lads, ye can always titivate yer mizzenmast through yer own sweet trade.
Brethren o’the Coast, use yer deadlights, or ye’ll get yer Letter o’Marque revoked by Jack Ketch or some other squiffy! And bring some Schillerlocken to next year’s Day, or I’ll maroon ye meself — wi’a wannion!
Fair winds, buckos and lasses, until ye hear “Sail ho!” and me crows’nest be on yer horizon. Aye… if ye be shark bait or bound fer the hempen halter, don’t be hangin’ the jib. We be heavin’ to, in Fiddlers Green. Und immer eine steife Brise!