Arrrr! Greetin's, Salutations, an' "Yar" from Blackhearted Cleo, Princess of the High Seas, Terror of the Spanish Main, an' Cap'n of the HHS Split Infinitive. (Aye, o' course it be no longer HH Her Ship, it be HH my ship. ARRRR!)
For me first cap'n's log today, I 'as a proposition for ye. I been mullin' over this many weeks a plot to help a few of the wee lubber sprats. Aye, came to me in a dream, it did. I was lyin' in me bunk, an' all o' sudden this mite was standin' before me an' said, "Please, mem, I en't got no legs." An' I says to the mite, I says, "Why, how're ye standin' before me then, wee varlet?" An' the wee varlet says, "Please, mem, me whole fambly ded o' flesh-eatin' meningitis." An' I says, says I, "Why, sprat, them's awful long words for a mouthful like ye to be spoutin'!" An' the wee sprat says, "Please, mem, I's so hungry I don't make no sense." Now this here was a plight as what I could wrap me noodle around, begad! Plainly the wee spawn ashore need a bit o' friendly aid, an' truth to tell, the pillagin' an' lootin' an' plank-walkin' an' gut-stabbin' do wear on me many a night, arrrr. So I says to myself, I says, "The next ship as what we loot, I gives the crew's share of the booty to the hungry nonsensin' children, eh?"
Aye. So 'ere's me plan: I goes about writin' one o' me movie whatsabobbits, only this time I sails the Split Infinitive up to ye journals an' blogs an' says, "AVAST YE, GRUBS! BEG FOR YER LIVES, POXY DOGS!" And then ye says, "Oh no! Blackhearted Cleo, Princess of the High Seas, Terror of the Spanish Main, an' Cap'n of the HHS Split Infinitive! What can we do that ye may spare our lives, Cap'n?" And then I says, says I, "Give us five pieces of eight. Or a dollar. Arrr." And then ye sends the Good Ship PayPal to us with yer dollar on board, and I
maroons ye on an island adds ye to a special community as what's been made for the purpose or summat suchlike, and ye gets to read the special movie whatsabobbit. I be thinkin' o' doin' Peter Pan, meself. For the wee sprats, ye know.
So, the next ship as what we loot, I gives the crew's share of the booty to the hungry nonsensin' children. Well... p'rhaps not the next ship. Maybe five ships after that, as I got the book on special commission to be writin', or me publisher be takin' back me Letters o' Marque an' I be a privateer no more... but maybe in the spring, if'n enough o' ye scoundrel knaves be handsome with ye loot. Because it be for the wee varmints, ye know, as what's hungry an' orphaned an' flesh-eaten an' not even makin' no sense... *sniff*
NO, THE CAP'N EN'T CRYIN'! HOW DARES YE INTIMATE THAT BLACKHEARTED CLEO BE SHEDDIN' SALTWATER! FOR THAT, YE GETS A TASTE O' THE CAT! AN' A KEELHAULIN'! AN' A PLANK-WALKIN'!
So: how many of ye scurvy swabs be int'rested in a surrenderin' of ye booty sometime early next year for a good cause? (Not like that. Blimey, ye addled pervs.)