Cap't Buzzkill and the Zoltar Run in

[Capt' Buzzkill and Beaker are skulking quietly through an amusement park in the dead of night]



Around this next corner? Nay. By th' 'airy God o' 'Ades, I know 'e be around 'ere someplace.

Ma meeep!

Always the 'arbinger of disaster, aint ye?

Meep meep MEEEP!

Quit yer bellyachin' ye braggart, th' guards are all 'ome in bed at this 'our, so ye've nothin' t' worry 'bout. Now if only we could just find th' rottin'..

Ahar! 'Ere 'e be.

Mooma meep!

Aye. A very rakishly angled 'at it is too.

Moop?

Ye look fair as a feather good mate! Now just let me find th' place where ye put... 10 DOUBLOONS? By th' beak of th' Krakaan, that be wretched exorbitant. Aye tell ye mate, th' Xbox 360 got a lot t' answer fer! Thank me stars it be pillagin' week.

Zoltar awakens!

Ferchrist! Gave me th' fright of me life ye' did.

Zoltar awaits your question. Zoltar sees all, knows all,
predicts all.

Harr! Aye find tha' 'ard to believe considerin' yer dwindlin' target market. Where was yer power of second sight when all th' kids got bored ay? Out clearin' yer bilge 'ole?

Zoltar... predicts... everything except gaming market fluctuations.

Oright mate (elbows Beaker in the ribs). Wull, bein' all-knowin' as ye are Zoltarrrr, ye be already aware o' of th' recent 'eart troubles I be sufferin' at th' 'ands o' tha' scurvy ex lass o' mine. Awful business it was, left me reckless as a sea dog and twice as mangy. But yer see mate, aye've found meself in a bit o' a pickle concernin' a new wench tha' aye 'ad the good fortune t' win in a dice game, 'bout a full moon afore.

Zoltar is listening.

She be a salty lass and no mistake! Grim as they come. 'er foul mouth alone could stop a belchin' sea wind in it's tracks. 'Er belchin', wull tha' stops clocks. Surely, she be everthin' a man could 'ope fer. Recently we be spendin' most 'o our wakin' hours together. Fer a landlubber, she sure knows 'ow t' lub.

Zoltar is wondering what your problem is.

Wull aye once 'eard about these things called 'feelins' ye see. Aye 'eard yer supposed t' 'ave em fer people when ye be sharin' th' cutlass so t' speak. Bein' a bit o' a scallywag in recent times, aye get th' feelin' aye may 'ave lost me ability in tha' respect.

Zoltar submits to you that you are being a wuss.

Not t' mention th' trust issues she 'as concernin' th' fact aye won 'er in a game o' chance. Don't get me started..

Zoltar is considering your predicament.

"One lousy bottle o' rum?" She goes.
"Is tha' all aye be worth t' ye?". Don't get me started..







Zoltar assures you that Zoltar could not be further from getting you started. Please allow Zoltar a chance to think.







Aye just want t' know where it be goin' mate. Whuther aye should make 'er me first mate or whuther aye should just weigh anchor an' relegate 'er to th' poop deck.






Zoltar is becoming aware of the answer you seek. It will come to pass that you will shed your concerns of the future and live more in the moment, knowing that nothing good was ever achieved from focusing solely on illusory negatives. Once you have achieved this state of mind, an elegant solution will present itself and you will act decisively to achieve your goal.






Thanks fer nothin', ye' lousy machine.

Meeoop!

Oright Oright aye was just about t' ask 'im. Ahoy Zoltar. Me mate 'ere wants t' know if th' Seekers are ever goin' t' reform.

Meep Ma Moop!

Right. If th' Seekers are ever going t' reform with Judith Durham a' th' 'elm.

Zoltar requests additional compensation before answering further questions.

Aye.. see.

Moop?

Arrr.. Sorry me hearty. Th' prognosis be bleak.

Meoooo...

[Inspiration loaned from Rosie's recent posts on Astrology and Pirates]

Can of Worms?

From Facehunter:

The Curse of the Boobsmith

That last post about novelty boobs got me thinking. Firstly about boobs in general and their contemporary relevance to a modern renaissance man (yes, still relevant), and then subsequently about the guy who actually makes them. You know, the factory guy. What about that guy? I don't know if I'm being condescending for saying so (I usually am), but I really feel for him. I've complained ad nauseum in the past about how my job is a bit of a social stigma at times, but I think my worries pale in comparison to those faced by your average novelty naughty bits factory captain. How does he feel having to explain to people what he does?

Here's how I imagine it:

Girl in Bar:
Hugo. Great name. That Hugo Weaving is simply divine. You're not an actor too by any chance are you?

Novelty Boob Guy:
Um, no. (waits for a change of subject that never comes) I umm.. I actually make fake plastic boobs.

Oh! You're a plastic surgeon?

Er, no.

Oh silly me, you make prosthetics!

Er, no. I actually make fake plastic boobs. Novelty ones. Like you see on that drunk guy over there who is loudly vociferating his fondness for pain.

(Disappears in puff of smoke)

But you know, maybe he pulls it off. Maybe his sweetness and conviction (and kickass name) are enough to render his occupation an irrelevant inconvenience to the fairer sex, and he eventually marries a lovely girl that has a penchant for exotic fauna and rollerskate parties.

Here's how I imagine their life:

*ring* *ring*

Girl Formally in Bar:
Hello?

Novelty Boob Guy:
Honey, it's me.

Oh hiii! Will you be home soon?

I'm really sorry honey, I know we've been planning tonight for weeks, but I'm afraid I won't be home for dinner. One of the plastic boobs got caught in the nipple renderer and the entire boob order is backed up.

My stars.

I'm literally up to my ears in boobs right now.

I understand completely. I'll keep dinner warm for you.

You're the best. Oh ferchrist, we've just run out of honeysuckle pink. Gotta run babe.







You see? I can't help but get carried away with this, I really feel for the guy. I think this is the first occasion when I've considered the multinational hostile takeover of a small and struggling business a good thing. These kinds of operations need to be run by emotionless robots, not by people like Hugo.

Affirmative. I build wearable synthetic mammory organs. Your sexual advances do not compute. Warning! Warning!