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Pirating the Caribbean: The Curse of the WOLFMAN


I had a most excellent breakfast (Eggs Benedict, if you must know, served by my cutie Asya again [who remembered my lovelorn shenanigans from the previous night! I was so sleep deprivedly happy!]), but the whole table that I ate with that morning was completely different from the previous night, both in actual company and personality. Nobody talked to each other, and we all spent a good part of our meal throwing "eat shit and die" glances at the helpless couple whose 4 year-old son/daughter (Christ, that kid looked and sounded like a girl, but they kept calling [more like screaming actually] "Caleb! No!" and "Caleb, put down that fork and eat your eggs," and even "Caleb, stop stabbing mommy!") was the poster child for overboard children. Don't feel sorry for Caleb's egg and sperm donors though, those pathetic helicopter parents ordered that little shit 5 meals (and these meals filled a full plate each), and all he did was eat one bite of toast inbetween crawling under the table and biting people's legs. What a goddamn waste (of food and genetic material). The only thing that kept me from spanking that little wanker myself when he/she/it purposefully dumped half a glass of orange juice at Asya's feet was the knowledge that his parents would have been off the hook for the rest of their lives if I spanked him on his head with a crowbar like I wanted to. No. There would be no justice in that. They'll be covering for Caleb's cocaine addiction and wife-beating charges when he's in his forties and they're in their 70s, so help me GOD!

After picking Caleb-thrown scrambled eggs and Froot Loops out of my hair I gave Asya a love spanking of her own and marched out of the dining room and down to the front desk. There was nobody there so I rang the bell by throwing it against the the far wall. A cute girl with a shit-eating grin then appeared and asked what she could help me with. A short aside here: Despite what you may have heard, the female staff of these cruise ships (of whom, 98% are foreign hotties from every corner of the globe) do NOT like getting hit on, nor do they enjoy their lives at sea from what I can tell. They do like to slap men and step on their shoes when they're not behind a counter. Anyway, Leeka (I think that was her name) asked if there was anything else that she could help me with after informing me that my first request was "unacceptable."

Me: Yes, well, I either need a new room — a private one — or I need you or somebody to murder my roommate.

Leeka: Ummm, no. I do not think that we can be murdering.... Let me check rooms please.

Me: Please, yes..... And we're out past US waters and laws, right? If I murder him, would anybody turn me in?

Leeka: What? Oh.... Here, sir, here it is saying that we are completely booked with room guests.

Me: No. That's lying. I need a room or I will be turned into a murderer. That's on your head if I do, Leeka! YOU'LL be the murderer! MURDERER!!!!

Leeka: Security! Here, now! Please!

I swear that I didn't know that security was allowed to carry tazers with them. I wouldn't have fought that hard and I sure as fuck wouldn't have taken a swing at that old gawker if I knew I'd be involuntarily crapping my pants as a result.

Yes, I stole a scooter. Do NOT feel bad for the actual owner though. No, it was not a real handicapped person's assistance device, it was a Fatty McFatty's lazy legs. In fact ALL the people I saw on scooters on that cruise were just Fatties. All the truly disabled I saw actually had prosthetic legs or used crutches; you know, like non-fat fatties.

I went back down to my cabin at about 8:50 to wake the Wolfman up and tell him my plan for the rest of the trip. He was still snoring like a blender with a baby in it — it was a meaty and almost mechanical sound. Very disturbing. It was like he was gargling with ground beef in his throat. I woke him up (with two glasses of water on his face) and explained to the half-man half-beast that I would take the night shift from here on out (staying up all night so that he could sleep), and in turn when I woke him up in the morning he'd have to give me at least 5 hours of shut eye without interruption. He groggily agreed, and then put his head back on his pillow. After two more glasses of water I informed him that his day shift was beginning right then.

Those snores though!... Thinking back on them I still have to totally question their authenticity. The guttural GROWLS that the Wolfman was putting out... They were simply too loud to be genuine. Like how kids fake being asleep with phony snores, thinking that the louder they make them the more real they must sound. And before he left for breakfast that day he actually asked me again if I wasn't making up this story about his "supposed snoring." I explained it to him once again, even imitating his sounds as best I could without gagging. Then the Wolfman responded, "Hmmmm, I guess I must get it from my dad. He snores real loud too. So much so that I can't share a hotel room with him anymore when we travel. Keeps me awake so durn bad." Then he closed the door behind him and I put my face in my hands and cried.


I slept fairly well till about 3 in the afternoon (there was nothing going on during the day anyway as it was just a full day at sea), got up and showered, ate a late lunch and then just bummed around for a while.

Later on I found out about the Captain's Gala being held that evening. It wasn't a Captain's Dinner or anything cool sounding like that (with a long table of distinguished guests being entertained by the Captain's ribald tales of bawdy sex slaves, or his frequent and hilarious explosions of flatulence), but instead it was a bunch of people dressing up in tuxedos and evening gowns (three sizes too small.... I don't like reliving the sights that night) apparently standing around eating cocktail finger foods looking for complete strangers to talk to. The Wolfman and I instead chose to simply wait for our real dinner and pig out there.

Our 8 cute co-diners kept the mood light and the conversation flowing that night. I'm telling you: Greatest Table on the Ship. Fuck you, 209! You commie fucks!

After dinner a good portion of us skipped over to the Paris Lounge for the (horribly lip-synched, gayly danced [but with absolutely gorgeous dancers]) big musical production entitled "SHOUT!" *Ugch!*... That was me dry heaving. It was very lame, but a decent enough waste of time (compared to getting bamboo shoots under one's fingernails). It was an hour of pop music from the 50s through the 70s... Why they stopped before they got to any excellent 80s themes I have no idea. Yeah, they would have butchered any Van Halen or Twisted Sister had they tried, but at least I could have sung along.

Then the funny comedian from the previous night did his "Over 18" show. I have to admit, that fat fuck was damn hilarious. Yeah, he still had lots of jokes about being fat, but they were all good, funny fat jokes. Didn't think there were any left. Who knew? The "over 18" in the title of his act meant that he could talk about "fucking a ham and then eating it so that [his] wife wouldn't get suspicious." Trust me, his delivery (and the way he acted it out and even stopped telling his story so that we could all "booooooo!" some stupid parent and his whining little kid out of the theater who were too stupid to stay for the naughty show [I think it was Caleb]) really sold it.

Then it was over and I found that I had 6 hours to kill before breakfast and shore excursions at our first stop at Grand Cayman. I cursed the Wolfman and his ability to then go off to slumberland as I headed back to the 24/7 cafeteria at the back of the boat. I just didn't feel like partying at that time. I think it was because I was starting to really get myself nervous about snuba diving the next day. It had been years since I last scuba/snuba'd, and back then I had a hard time getting used to the whole respirator thing quick enough to enjoy myself without drowning in 60 feet of water. We only had a short stint on shore, and I wanted to make sure that I got the most out of my time. Without drowning.

Here's a picture of Crystal Right (ironically on the left) and Gator Babe doing the Calypso or the Macarena or somesuch tomfoolery later in the week (Thursday) on the dance floor. Except for the guitarist/keyboardist on the left with the Eyes of Satan, it's pretty self explanatory.

It was with that frame of mind that I found myself reading Drew Curtis' It's Not News, It's FARK book and listening to my iPod'd radio shows in a dark, quiet corner of the empty restaurant. I wasn't absorbing much of my reading or programs, but luckily at around 2:30 Gator Babe and Beaumont showed up. Only prob was they were drunk as two sorority girls at a frat party on "Rape Night".

Despite their inebriation (or because of it?) they were very pleasant company. Usually I need to be drunk too in order to appreciate drunk company, but the half hour with those two was quite fun. I'd spent a good portion of the time trying to explain to Beaumont the idea behind FARK, and how 99% of all supposed news really wasn't news, but was crap, only to have the two of them take a bite or two of pizza and then ask me, "No, really, wuzzz FARK? FfffffffffffffARK! Mmmmm, I loves me some FARK!"

I was starting to think that I'd love me some FARK too, when Raisin Sack showed up. Holy fuck... Raisin Sack was this 6'4", mouth-breathing gorilla with arms bigger than my legs (I measured) and pants so tight that if he was actually packing anything between his legs, trust me, we'd have been able to see it. Every bulge and vein.

Apparently Raisin Sack had been dancin' the night away with Gator Babe in the late night disco, and he had been buying her drink after drink "to make her happy" for a few hours before she and her friend decided that they needed some pizza and just left. This did not make Raisin Sack happy. Want to know what made Raisin Sack even less happy? Yeah, that'd be me — the guy whose shoulder Gator Babe was leaning her head on while I tried to feed her a slice of greasy pepperoni.

To his credit though Raisin Sack did not give up his staked claim without a fight. Personally, I was fine just talking to Beaumont about how much the media sucks and why Hillary Clinton and George W. are both equal and giant turd sandwiches, but Raisin Sack kept bringing me into the conversation.

Gator Babe: Mmmmmmmm, I jus' looooove me some good pizza. Mmmmmmmm.....

Raisin Sack: Oh yeah, you like chewin' on that? You should try chewin' on sometin' else I think! Yeah! Hey, you! Guy with the book! You know what I'm talkin' about! Oooooh yeah.

Me: What the fuck are you talking about? You mean your penis? You want Gator Babe to chew on your penis? Jesus, you faggot, just say so. Stop with all the smarminess. Shit... So anyway, Beaumont, so basically you know how every Memorial Day the news will make a big deal about "Oh noes! People are going to travel! Busy roads!" and how every winter they start freaking out because "Ice will be on the road when water gets cold enough!" Well, that's FARK at its purest essence.

Raisin Sack: I SAID, you KNOW what I'm talkin' about, huh?! Fucking dick-licking faggot!

Soon he started ignoring me, but I started listening in on his then personal conversation with Gator Babe when it got too hilarious to not. Oh my GOD! This guy was a fucking walking cliché of asshatery AND a giant douchebag! He was rambling on about how he used to play high school football (he didn't ever score 4 touchdowns in one game for Polk High though. I asked), and how he was on the same team as some new NFL uber-talented phenom who just got signed for $4million somewhere. I forgot his name.

Me: Cool! That is AWESOME, dildo! How old did you say you were, frat-wannabe guy?

Raisin Sack: What? Just turned 27. So anyway, babycakes, I was saying how my dick, uh, my ass is as tight as a twelve year-old boy's...

Me: Wait, but your playing buddy JUST STARTED playing pro? So he's what, 21? 22? Were you held back 5 years?

Raisin Sack: Uh, what? No.... Ummm, well, I got a kid too... (referring to Gator Babe's daughter) He's 10, so, uhhh, what?

Me: Whoa! What? So, what, counting pregnancy time you knocked a chick up at 16?! Yow! You go, G! You such a player! (I started making 70s pr0n music noises)

That's when I noticed that Raisin Sack started turning red with rage. I had honestly never seen this happen before. He was getting so pissed off at my cock-blockery that his face was turning crimson and veins were popping out of his neck and forehead. I didn't know what I was going to do at that point. If I kept pushing him and he actually flipped I was a dead man. There's no way any security guards with tazers would have been able to get to me in time. My only hope would have been to run and lead him to the poop deck, hide, and when he started looking around in retarded confusion PUSH him over the railing. Luckily it didn't come to that as Beaumont came to my rescue by dividing his anger between me and her.

Beaumont: Sooo your pro friend, doesn't he have a twin brother? Did you ever, you know, measure the two of them up?

Raisin Sack: (Angry stare) NO!... So, hot pants, you're so fiiiiiine. You give me such a special feeling in my —

Beaumont: Are you sure? I thought I read that he did. And that they wore the same cup size.

Raisin Sack: NO! Wha?! Dammit, he didn't!!

The few off-duty crewmembers and a couple of guys getting some ice-cream in the room then started looking at us. I thought that ol' Sacky would get intimidated by the attention and leave us alone, but he soon calmed down and had his resolve rekindled when he noticed that Gator Babe's eyes were starting to close. He just couldn't give up after trying so hard thus far! I was growing tired of the apeman, and so I turned to Beaumont and said, "Ummm, shouldn't you two go to bed? (Eyes wide and pointing to the almost passed out Gator Babe) It's late."

"What? No," Beaumont told me, "I'm really not..." That's when Raisin Sack actually licked his lips while staring at nothing but Gator Babe's cleavage and then reached out and started palming and stroking her thigh. "Yup!" Beaumont was up like her seat was electrified, and not in a good way. "Big day tomorrow! Beddy bye time! Bye, Rossman, (and almost under her breath) and dipshit..."

I waved the two of them off and then watched as Raisin sack tried to figure out what went wrong. It hurt to see him trying to understand why he wasn't getting any that night. Before he realized that I had anything to do with it I slipped out of the cafeteria and found my comfy chair on the sun deck from the night before. I listened to some more O&A, then had some intermittent Z's until 6.

(NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: This inclusion is not the Rossman's. I had cracked his password to his email address a long time ago for just such an occasion: I contacted many of his new "friends" that he made on this cruise that he failed to invite me on, and asked them to write their own versions of certain moments and situations that featured prominently in this article. Here's the girl he calls Gator Babe up first. She even provided the text that I placed in the word bubble in the image below.)


The Rossman said what? Okay, let me tell you what I remember. What he said is not what I remember.

So after dinner and the show [Beaumont] and I decided to hit the disco. You know, do a little dance, drink a little drink, get down tonight. Fun stuff. So we go, and I start flirting with and dancing with the most hunky of hunkable guys like ever, and he's really into me too, so we start really tearing up the dance floor. He is hot and he can move like an angel, floating around the floor. Oh, and he kept buying me drinks.

So [Beaumont] and I are having a blast and all, but I have GOT to eat something at this time. It's like after 2 in the morning and I am starving, so we told my hunk o' man that we'd be in the cafeteria in the back of the ship waiting for him.

When we got there, my friend went over to the pizza station to get us some pizza, and when she comes back she's got the Rossman in tow. What the hell? I mean, what the frickin' hell?! I didn't even see him when we came in, and he just pops up, joking around with [Beaumont] like they're best buddies. Seriously, he was telling her some joke about natives who kidnap and then rape explorers. Again. It was the same disgusting joke that he used to try and break the ice at the dinner table the first night there. Only now he was really acting it out, giant hip motions and all.

I kept looking over for my boy toy to arrive, and when he didn't I had to start playing that I was getting tired and falling asleep so that maybe the Rossman would get the hint and leave before my Romeo got the wrong idea. Anyway, soon enough my man muffin does get there, and we all make room for him at our table, and as he extended his hand to the Rossman saying "Hey, I'm Chet. How's it going?" the Rossman raises one eyebrow, looks at him and then tries to lick his hand. My friend thought it was funny, Chet did not, but he took it well.

We start talking about life, kids, friends, and then the Rossman asks Chet something about high school football and selling shoes or something. Chet keeps his cool, but it's obvious that things aren't going well at this point. And if they go any worse I know that nobody is going to leave this table happy. Least of all the Rossman if I have anything to say about it.

The Rossman and Chet trade jabs back and forth for a while, like two billy goats butting heads like idiots. Then my friend started getting into it! I couldn't believe it. Okay, so Chet said he was friends with some guy who just got hired by the New York Rams, and then they both started double teaming him (not in that way) about who this guy was, where they both came from, and if Chet ever had gay sex with his friend and his friend's brother. I don't know where that one came from, but to calm Chet down I started lowering my head on his shoulder, and the next thing I know my friend jumped up and told everybody that we had to go. I was still a little tipsy, but as we walked down the long corridor to our room I could have sworn I saw the Rossman take a sucker shot at the waving Chet by smashing his head in with a chair. I couldn't find any bloodstains the next day, but I never did find Chet again either, and we were bumping into the Rossman like crazy since then.


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