Earlier today I was making rye toast to bring to the public access TV studio. They have been welcoming me there for the past week, eating the toast I’d prepared while I poured excessive quantities of milk into their teleprompter. It’s still working after 6 whole days of abuse. Anyway, one of the pieces of toast burnt, so I couldn’t bring it in. I knew if I walked in with burnt toast, the anchorpeople would just shame me mercilessly, using non-regional dialect to break me down. Ultimately, I know I would start crying and confess to them that I like wearing suspenders on occasion. It’s not like I’m using them to hold my pants up or anything! I just like straps! So I had to make more toast. Then I realized I was out of bread. Snapping my fingers in defeat, I asked Charles if we have any more in the freezer. He asked why I couldn’t check myself, and I replied that I was wearing oven mitts and couldn’t get the handle. Charles came in from the next room and saw my un-mitted hands. He sighed and opened the freezer, then told me there was no bread. I decided I had to get some, because if I didn’t have toast, I couldn’t lubricate the teleprompter. Makes sense, so don’t you dare fucking judge me. I’m the one telling the story, not you.
I left the house and hotwired Charles’ car. I drove recklessly through the street. Mothers with carriages dove out of the way. I laughed like an iguana that caught a burglar looting his bedroom by turning on the lights and surprising him with balloons. I kept a straight path and yelled “On your right!” to a group of joggers as I blazed past. They stacked up and formed a giant middle finger with their bodies, and I laughed like a barn door that was left slightly ajar, allowing Farmer Sullivans’s prize-winning hog to escape. In case you were wondering, yes, I was driving on the sidewalk. I HAVE A PERMIT.
As I drove along, a giant car was backing out of a driveway. I would have hit it if I didn’t screech to a halt. Then I realized it was actually a yacht on a trailer. I hopped out of my car and scrambled up the side of the boat. As I stood with one topsider on bow, the breeze flapping through my light shirt, the sun warming my exposed thighs below my khaki shorts, I heard a door close below me. “Excuse me. What the hell do you think you are doing?” I looked down and saw a man in a polo shirt glaring at me. He was the previous owner of the boat, as of that moment. “Why, I am enjoying the sea breeze on my boat, of course,” I replied.
“This is my boat,” he asserted, getting more angry with each passing wave.
“Five degrees to port, Jonathan,” I said over my shoulder to the man in charge of steering the boat. I turned back to polo-man. “Correction: this was your boat. I bought the boat, no less than an hour ago.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re on my boat, which is on my hitch, which is attached to my car!”
“I will not argue semantics with a landlubber like yourself. Rest assured, she is in good hands.” At this point I put my hands, previously on my hips in a triumphant manner, on the steel railing, giving it a good rub. I think this was what pushed polo-man over the edge. He started to scale the boat, but I shouted to my good men the crew, “PIRATES! ASSUME DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!” I drew my dagger and awaited his arrival. I yelled up to the crow’s nest: “KEEP YOUR EYES FIXED ON THAT COASTLINE!” The man was having trouble getting up the side of the boat because of his shoes (they could not grip her fine hull with the tenacity that is required of a pirate’s footwear), so I walked over to him and said, “Here, let me help you.” I bent my leg at the knee and lifted it. Then I brought it down on his head with all the force of a captain who is used to pirate attacks. A started gasp came from his mouth, then he fell about eight feet to the asphalt ocean. He floated on the surface, unmoving, and I declared a victory. The men and I celebrated with hardtack soaked in fresh rum, and the sun set on yet another beautiful day at sea - another beautiful day to be alive.