saturday outer banks minute:
(5/17/14)
"Pirates were DICKS, and the Hog Island Sheep"
so yeah, lot's of you like to see the pirate movies with the swashbuckling hottie-mens like JD and Keith...but have you ever really learned the history behind these murderous, slave-trading daft cuntz?
*only redeeming quality up front...they were a fair bunch among themselves, they had 'shipboard articles' entitling all aboard an even split of the 'booty', as it were, and a prototypical democratic model for doing business, including what you might equate to worker's compensation.
-but they were dicks. imagine a bunch of asshole gang members (the 16th-17th century Brits) that rule an area so vast that they can't control it...or, POLICE IT. so they give authority to a bunch of lawless, greedy bastards to board and/or blow up vessels from the other gang (mainly 16th-17th century Spanish) and then take all the 'treasure' aboard for themselves. sounds cool huh? -from that 1950's 'murican male perspective'.
then, after the QUEEN told them to stop once the war ended and SHE signed a treaty with the other gang, the Privateers, or Pirates kept on robbing, looting, burning, raping and murdering. When caught, they would say ." oh...but i am sorry" and be given a governorship somewhere in the caribbean on some sugar plantation or the like. they don't celebrate Chris Columbine or Spicy Rum Capt. Morgan in Jamaica, all my marley and weed loving friends...they call them come-bust-us and pirate morgan...remember the dying slave that first discovered rum in a fermented sugar cane juice puddle, delirious and without the fear of a bludgeoned reprisal from his well paid task master the next time you step up to the bar at the brewin' station and order a captain and coke...dancing to some mid-western reggae cover band. yeah mon...yer jammin'.
so to recap. pirates were dicks. don't dress your kids as pirates. unless you wanna remain, or if vacationing, be like the naturals and the transplants here...and just self medicate, and look the other way. remind yourself that you are in the best place on earth, perfect weather, colorful, fruity cocktails, and sugar-poison slurping slaves. forget the dying souls all around, calling out in the night...the fell trees and smashed reptiles; the road-rot of small bandits and marsupials.
just stare out at that blue lie...keep a firm grip on that sweating mexican glass and your toes snuggled in the warmth of a ground mountain that during the Archean Eon, believed that it too would stand forever. it didn't and you won't. there is a good and bad news type of living here...we use yoga and shaman and western hippies doped on chinese meds and needles and billboards and jazzy commercials to remind ourselves that we love it, but we know that we live under two possible mothers. one, the finest would be the death by tempest, a cat five hurricane to slam into the southern tail of us and chew up the sound, north by northeast, ripping everything on either side like a saw-blade while the heavier wind and spin-off cyclones pummels the glorious beachhead into something unrecognizable to anyone thereafter. the second death is the slow sinking. nobody alive today will have to deal with it really...our grand-kids will, but nobody cares that the slow and steady rise of the ocean will eventually turn this extended spit into another buried treasure. The evidence of our folly and the genius of our paleo-ancestry will once again become the stuff of legend; meanwhile, we remain...grazing on the seasonal leavings like the Hog Island Sheep.
(c)2014 pgr
