When a volcano explodes and molten lava pours down a mountainside towards a defenseless village, it is a big deal.  The little village is about to be destroyed.  There a lot of bad things going on here, but in my opinion the worst thing is the molten part.  That lava is hot!  Everything it hits is going to burst into flame.

You don’t want to be in the path of molten lava.

When you have a spill on an oil tanker it is a big deal.  I am sure everybody is aware of how bad it is for oil to get in the ocean.  I don’t, however, think you non-sailors realize exactly how serious the Coast Guard treats oil spills and the lengths we sailors go to keep even a drop of oil out of the water.

Do me a favor.  Fill your bathtub with water.  You can put a ducky in there if you want.  It isn’t necessary for this exercise, but it won’t hurt either.  Now, open a quart of oil.  Get an eye dropper and fill it up with the oil.  Now begin dropping oil in the water until you see a sheen.  Once you see the sheen you have put enough oil in the water to piss off the Coast Guard.

If you have ever been in a port you know that there are sheens of oil all over the place.  The fact is that it is near impossible to keep a little bit from leaking or from running off your deck during a wash down.  Still, trust me when I tell you that sailors, at least on American ships, are serious about keeping oil out of the water.

When you work on a tanker and you are either loading or discharging cargo the main thing you are worried about is a leak.  For reasons that I would hope are obvious, oil spewing all over the place would be very bad.  If that were to happen the crew would immediately begin trying to contain the spilled oil on the ship.  We drill and drill on what to do to keep the oil out of the water.

Let’s recap:   Molten lava is bad.  Spills during cargo operations on oil tankers are bad.

I work on a product tanker that transports molten sulphur.  Combine the above and I will let you take a few minutes to think over what might happen in the rest of the blog.

First – blog music.

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We’re going to have two blog music selections today.  First is a song that tugs at my heart a bit.  Sometimes at sea when I stare at the starry night and think the things I think it is women on my mind.  We’ll start with this song, talk about gals for a minute and then move on to the cargo disaster.

Band of Horse – “No One’s Gonna Love You” – the Cease to Begin album.

The chorus of this song is, “No one’s gonna love you more than I do.”

I have felt that way before in my life.  You know the hard lesson I have learned?  It doesn’t matter.  Not one bit.  You see, the gal has to have that spark herself.  You can love her so much that you can’t sleep because the ache in your chest keeps you up at night.  You can love her so much that you can hear her laugh when you close your eyes and that is enough to cheer you up on a bad day.  You can love her so much that your first thought in the morning is her and your last thought at night is her.  You can love her so much that you wish for her with every falling star and you can love her so much that making her happy would be your full-time job if you were only given the opportunity.

But it just doesn’t matter.  You see, if you love Ms. Pretty Lady 98 on a scale of 100 and Ms. Pretty Lady loves you 22 on the same scale, you have something, but not enough.  What happens when Mr. Dude You Hate comes along and loves Ms. Pretty Lady 60 out of 100 and Ms. Pretty Lady loves him back 55?

You’re screwed.

It may be true, just like the song says, that nobody’s gonna love her more than you do, but at the end of the day you are hugging your pillow wondering why it never happened and Ms. Pretty Lady is making babies with Mr. Dude You Hate.

It’s not supposed to be that way, is it?  But it is.  And it really pisses me off when people try to tell you that you don’t really feel the way you say you feel.  What?  Am I still in high school?  I know what it feels like to be in love.  I know what it feels like to be in a relationship without love.  I know what it feels like to try and force something to work that you know is wrong.

And I know what it is like to be the guy sitting on the ground on the love teeter-totter because there isn’t enough love on the other side to lift me up in the air.

Nobody ever said life is fair.  I get it.  I don’t hold it against Ms. Pretty Lady for not loving me enough.  But that is one of the questions I have for God if I ever get the chance.  If I ruled the world and you met somebody you loved so much it hurt, then it would work out.  I think the world would be better that way.

It’s funny when you think about it.  Something as wonderful as love is so closely related to something as crappy as pain.  Once, when I was going through one of the times that I go through my momma gave me a wooden coin.  On one side of the coin it said, “Faith.”  On the other side of the coin it said, “Fear.”  Basically, you could either have one or the other.

That coin meant a lot to me.  I think a “Love” on one side and “Pain” on the other side would be a good coin too.

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Enough of that crap.  I won’t even make you suffer through a sappy love poem.  That is just the considerate kind of blogger that I am.

Let’s switch tunes.  Led Zeppelin – When the Levee Breaks.  I’m listening to the Best of Led Zeppelin Vol 1, but you can find this song numerous places.

Why this song?  Well, it is an all time great song from an all time great band and picturing the levee breaking and the water pouring in kind of sets the mood for the epic struggle against molten sulphur that you are about to read.

I was on cargo watch which is even more boring than watching water boil.  At least when you watch water boil you can actually watch the water.  Watching cargo involves looking at a long metal pipe and hoping nothing comes pouring out of it.

I wasn’t really all that worried but it did bother me that after three weeks on the ship nobody had bothered to go over the spill response to molten sulphur with me and the rest of the crew.  I had asked about it one time and the Chief Mate said we might talk a little bit about it during our next safety meeting.  It all seemed a little cavalier to me.

I was reading my Kindle on watch as this is pretty laid back ship and there is only one cargo connection to watch.  The book I was reading was without a doubt the most emotional work of art I have read in some time and I found myself wiping a tear from my eye.  Once my vision cleared I saw a stream of bright yellow leaking out of the cargo connection on the ship.

Holy exploding volcanoes of sulphur, Batman!!!  We have a leak!!

I saw my life flash before my eyes.  I thanked God for the adventures in my life and for allowing me to live through all the situations that should have killed me.  I felt bad for all the apologies I still owed people and would never be able to give and had a fleeting moment of melancholy for never being able to kiss the most beautiful woman I had even seen.

I pulled out my cell phone to call momma and say goodbye but my hands were shaking so bad that I dropped it on the deck.  I pulled my radio to my mouth, pressed the button and screamed, “Sulphur leak!!  Sulphur leak!!!  Molten sulphur everywhere!!!!!  Everybody save yourself!!!”

And I did the only rational thing I could do – I dove over the rail into the protection of the cool water.

From the safety of the waters of the Port of Galveston I watched the ship, expecting to see melting steel and flames shooting up to the air.  What I saw was the Chief Mate casually stroll out of the door, pick up a hose and spray a little water on the deck.  He then looked incredulously at me floating in the water and asked what the hell I was doing.

Russell – “Molten sulphur leak!!!!!”

Chief Mate – “Ummmmm…….yeah.  What’s the problem?”

Russell – “It’s molten!”

Chief Mate (looks around at the leak, looks back at me and holds his fingers about six inches apart) – “Only about this much came out.”

Russell – “It was pouring out like Mt. St. Helen’s!!”

Chief Mate – “Errrrrrr…….well, you know, as soon as it comes out it hardens and stops the leak.  No big deal, really.  You just have to make sure you spray a little water on the deck or it is hard to clean up.”

Russell – “What about fire and mass-destruction?”

Chief Mate – “Not so much.  You can come out of the water now.”

Russell – “Oh.  Ok.  Eeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkk!!!!!!  A shark!!!!!!!!!”

Chief Mate – “That’s seaweed.”

Russell – “Eeeeeeeekkkkkkk!!!!!!!  Seaweed!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Chief Mate leaves and I am stuck in the water.

Dissapointed in the story?  Me too!  Not that I wanted to be a part of a disaster but you would think molten sulphur spilling would be a really big deal.  But it’s not.  What is a big deal is not knowing you are supposed to spray it with water and then trying to clean it up.  It becomes rock hard and you have to bang it into to dust with a hammer.

Pain…In…The…Ass!!!!!!!

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My love of food will always embarrass me at some point on a ship.  It never fails.  When you combine the fact that I love food with my obsession of writing little songs and poems, I am going to end up looking stupid.

On this ship Saturday is hamburger/cheeseburger day.  This cook makes really good cheeseburgers.  Not only do I like a good cheeseburger, but it is a treat day for me.  It is one of the only times I eat bread and I also have a diet coke on that day.  Usually I only drink water.

Lunch is served at 11:30am but I am not relieved of my watch until 11:50am.  That leaves me twenty minutes to stress that somebody will eat all the cheeseburgers.  This has never happened, but I still worry every week.

The 12×4 AB relieved me and I rushed the stairs.  I was so happy to be on my way to eat a cheeseburger!!  Without even realizing I was doing it out loud, I started making pig noises and singing about my burger as I worked my way down flight after flight of stairs.

“Gonna eat a cheeseburger oink oink oink

Eat it in just three bites oink oink oink

Lettuce tomato onion please oink oink oink

Ketchup on my face uh-oh! Oink oink oink

Should I eat not one but two? oink oink oink”

At some point during this song (which I know isn’t great but I was writing it on the fly) I rounded the corner between the second and first levels of the house and there were the Captain and Chief Engineer.  They had apparently paused in mid-conversation and were staring in disbelief at me as I trotted towards them making pig noises.

Now, keep in mind that I wasn’t saying, “oink, oink, oink.”  I was actually snorting like a pig.  I think that makes it worse.

What do you say?  I wanted to crawl in a hole but there was nowhere to go so I did the only thing I could do.  “Hey Cap.  Hey Chief.  Happy hamburger day!!”  And I walked on like everything was normal.

Not sure I pulled it off.

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Go eat a burger today.  I hope it is the best burger ever!!  And don’t be afraid to oink your appreciation.

Russell Yale

You want to know what it is like to be a sailor?  Let me tell you.

My cousin married a guy who became a good friend of mine.  I have always thought of him as a friend rather than a cousin-in-law, or whatever the hell relationship he technically is.  The football games we have been thrown out of would make quite a fun blog in itself and he was the best man at my wedding.

I don’t get to see him that often but it just so worked out that he was going to be in Tampa this weekend for business and had Sunday free.  As my ship was scheduled to tie up at 11am and I get off work at noon we made plans to get together.

Well, the fog rolled in and we can’t go in until it clears.  By the time we tie up I will not be able to leave the ship because I will soon be going back on watch.  You see, the window of time was perfect before but it is now totally screwed up.  And to make things worse, we anchored just outside of cell phone range so I can’t even call him to let him know I can’t make it.

My first Chief Mate gave me the best advice ever.  He said not to make plans until you are at the bottom of the gangway.  Someday I will listen.

And that is what it is like to be a sailor.

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Today the Buccaneers are honoring the ten year anniversary of their 2002 Super Bowl team.  That Super Bowl was played in February 2003.  In February 2003 I was separated from my wife and awaiting the beginning of divorce proceedings.  I was working for close to minimum wage as a telemarketer because I didn’t know what to do with my life and frankly nobody wanted to hire me.  I was a year removed from what I thought was going to be a long and promising career and now I was broke and back with my parents.  I had a little depression and addiction problem and life just kind of sucked.

I am a football fan.  I am a Buccaneers fan.  One of my earliest childhood memories was getting a Buccaneers football helmet for Christmas.  The Bucs became a franchise when I was three so I have been a fan for as long as I can remember.  For a long time the Bucs were not only the worst team in all of football, but the worst team in all of sports.  When asked about the execution of his offense, Coach John McKay replied, “I’m in favor of it.”  They were that bad.

Then they got good but they couldn’t quite get over the hump.  Until the 2002 season.  The 2002 Bucs had arguably the best defense in history and they crushed the Raiders in the Super Bowl.  When defensive player of the year Derek Brooks clinched the game with an interception return for a touchdown, I cried like a little girl.  I needed that Super Bowl so bad.

I have a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat writing this.

You either get it or you don’t.

Go Bucs!!  Fire the cannons!!

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Speaking of intelligent pretty ladies, my friend Michelle came through with the correct answer for last week’s Walt Whitman trivia.  Momma came through as well but Michelle was first.  I love having smart sexy ladies in my life.

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For blog music tonight we are going with Rise Against as that is a common workout band for me.

“We crawl on our knees for you!!  Under a sky no longer blue!!  We sweat all day long for you!!  We sow seeds that see us through, ‘cause sometimes dreams just don’t come true!!”

Ok…download the song if you want.  That is an excerpt from Re-education off the Appeal to Reason album.  This isn’t music that has deep meaning to me.  It just makes me angry and anger is what I need when I workout.

Because I hate it.

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One of the funniest things about match.com to me is how it gives you a potential match and shows what you have in common.  I have never had more than one thing in common with anybody.  When I answered the six thousand questions this ridiculous website asks I claimed that I workout 2-3 times per week.

It was true at the time I answered the question and is still true now.  I am going through one of my phases when I am tired of being fat and flabby.  It will last between two weeks or until taco day (whichever is the shorter period of time) and then I will go back to being a fatso for a while.

Anyway, I get these matches and it will say, “Like you she enjoys working out 2-3 times a week.”  Let me make something perfectly clear.  The only thing I enjoy about working out is looking at the posters of porn stars in thongs that are hanging in the ship’s gym.  Other than that, I bad word hate it.  I hate everything about it.  I hate how I feel leading up to it. I hate how I feel while I am doing it.  I hate how I feel after it.

Why do I do it?  Because like every fat guy I am convinced that all my problems will go away as soon as I achieve six-pack abs and bulging biceps.

But that doesn’t mean I like it.

With six-pack abs, ladies that just want to be friends suddenly want to spend their free time making sweet love to you under a shady tree in the park.  With bulging biceps you wake up and discover that you have an extra ten grand in your bank account and don’t live with your parents.  When your clothes are not tight women want to rub your naked body with their oiled up breasts.

At least I think so.  I wouldn’t know.  I’m a chubby.

My cousin set me up with this gal one time.  She was attractive and seemed nice.  She was also into running – as in running marathons.  I don’t have a problem with people running marathons.  Good for them.  But unless you paved a 26-1/2 mile road with chicken wings there is little to no chance that I am traversing that path.  I will, however, be waiting for you at the finish line to congratulate you on a race well run.  Unless you happen to cross at the exact time I stepped across to the pizza place for a slice of New York’s finest pie.  But I will bring you a slice when I finish.

The gal and I met for lunch (this was our first date) and about halfway through the meal she asks if I would be interested in running a half-marathon with her in November (some six weeks away.)  I didn’t even know how to respond.  Shocked, I looked behind me to see if there was a skinny dude in running shorts behind me that she was talking to.

Nope.  Seems like she was talking to me.

One – I will never run a marathon, a half-marathon or anything with the word “marathon” in it.

Two – If I was going to run any distance more than a mile it would require much more than six weeks of training.  In fact, I would most likely just have to die and be reincarnated as a man who could run a marathon.  I just don’t think I could ever work my way up to it.  But we would never know because see #1 – I wouldn’t even try.

Three – To me, asking a chubby guy on the first date if he will run a half-marathon with you is pretty much saying, “Just so you know, this isn’t going to work out if you don’t get your fat ass in shape.”

If that lady is reading this – no offense.  You were a swell gal and quite pretty.  Hope you found a nice looking long distance running man to make you happy.

So I am working out.  One of the things I do is the Pushup Challenge.  I have written about this before.  This is an app that you can get for your phone and it is designed to get you to 100 perfect pushups in 6 weeks.

Well, I did it for a bit and then I stopped and now I have started again.  I finished the third week and clicked the button to schedule my next workout.  Instead of saying “Week 4, Day 1” like I expected, it said, “Next Workout – Exhaustion Test.”

Exhaustion Test?!?!?!?!

Sounds worse than a half-marathon.

I worried about it for two days.  You see, you skip a day between workouts so I had plenty of time to stress.  I wanted to whine to somebody but I have nobody to whine to.  You know what would happen in a perfect world?

Russell whines to a pretty lady friend – “My stupid phone wants me to do a bad word exhaustion test for my pushup challenge and I don’t wanna do it 😦 “

Pretty lady friend – “Russell, you are so perfect just the way you are.  Why are you even doing those bad word pushups?”

Russell – “I want to look hot so pretty ladies like you will love me!”

Pretty lady friend – “I love you just how you are!  You are so funny and witty and have great hair!  I have a better idea.  Let’s test your exhaustion level by making sweet love all night long.  Then I will rest my head on your sexy belly and we can watch a Sponge Bob marathon while eating fried chicken in bed.”

Russell – “You’re the best pretty lady friend ever!!!  I’m on my way!!!”

You know what the chances are of that conversation happening?  Let’s just say I’ll complete my first marathon before I hear those words.  That leaves me whining to myself, facing the exhaustion test on my own and fighting the never ending fight against fat.

I did the exhaustion test.  I had to do as many perfect pushups as I could.  Keep in mind these have to be perfect pushups.  I pushed up until I collapsed on the deck.  Then my phone told me to enter the number I had done.  I did and it told me I had performed well enough to advance to the next workout!!!!

I was so excited!!!!  It meant that the first three weeks of hell had paid off!!  Then I realized that all I had won was three more weeks of misery.

Bad word!!

I have five months to get myself looking super-sexy.  Let’s say I want to get to a 10 on the sexiness scale.  Right now I am standing naked in front of the mirror and I am going to give myself a very generous 2.  That means I have 8 points to go.  If I can increase 2 points every month I can use month 5 just to get used to my new sexiness and kind of round things out.

Wish me luck.

See you next time guys and gals.  The good news is that I already think you all are sexy as hell.

Russell Yale

On every ship I have ever sailed on I have at one point referred to my Captain as “Oh Captain! My Captain!”  One of my Captains knew that it was a poem.  None of the others had any idea what I was talking about, including my current Captain.  My question is: what are they teaching at these maritime academies?

Not all Captains went to maritime academies.  The Coast Guard provides a system to work your way up, called hawse piping, which allows you to combine experience at sea with class work to so you can qualify to take your examinations.  The course work is extensive and the tests are pretty difficult.  This is the route I will take to obtain my license and having taken a few classes and done some advanced studying I can tell you that it takes actual work and studying to obtain your license.

Those that go through a maritime academy, and that is every Captain I have ever had, not only take all these sailing classes but presumably take general education classes as well.  They leave with a Bachelor’s degree.  How do you make it through English 101 without knowing about Walt Whitman?  Christ!  They could have at least watched Dead Poets Society.

I hate to be insulting.  All of my cadet buddies who go to these schools have seemed pretty sharp.  Maybe things are getting better.

Blog question of the day – What was Whitman writing about when he wrote, “Oh Captain! My Captain!”  No cheating and looking it up.  If you know the answer email me at russellyale@piratepooh.com and you will win……nothing.  Because nobody will email the answer I am not wasting my time coming up with a prize.  So there.

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Blog music is Tom Petty’s Mojo album.  I know this has been blog music before but I need Petty in my life a lot lately.

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I lost a bet, not for the first time in my life.  I should never gamble.  I have been in some seriously bad situations because of gambling.  Losing this bet did not put me in a life threatening situation but I did have to do something I didn’t want to do.  That’s the point of betting after all.

I have a lady friend who likes Alabama football.  In spite of this I still kind of like her.  We haven’t seen each other in years and seldom talk but we will occasionally chat about football and even bet now and then.

My gal pal is currently dating a guy she met on Match.Com.  Like a lot of females in my life she worries about the fact that I am single and have no apparent hope of landing a woman outside of a strip club.  After we caught up on what had happened in our lives over the last couple of years she started bugging me to join Match. No way.

I have never online dated.  I have never even tried.  I don’t think there is anything wrong with it.  In fact, the few people I personally know who have done it are beautiful desirable women.  If they are representative of the types of ladies out there, then I for one would like one for myself.

There are a couple of reasons I have never done it.  One, I am away from home for a long time.  If I made a connection with somebody it would be months before we could meet.  Maybe that would be ok, maybe not.  It is really the second reason that makes Match.com unsuited for me.

Before I tell you about the second reason let me tell you that if I lost the bet I would have to join Match for three months.  It was a football bet.  I was trash talking and said that Alabama would lose to Auburn and LSU would end up in the SEC Championship.  No, I wasn’t stupid enough to bet on Auburn.  But she said Alabama would beat Auburn by at least 40 points and that Auburn wouldn’t even score!!

Let’s review the facts.  I am a knowledgeable college football fan. She is a girl.  I understand point spreads, over/unders, parleys and all that stuff.  She is a girl.  I read injury and scouting reports and know the importance of historical rivalries.  She is a girl.

I told her that she had to wear an LSU jersey to the LSU/Bama game next season (her new beau has season tickets) when she lost and the bet was on.

If you watch college football you know that Bama won 49-0.  Why did I bet on stupid Auburn to do anything?  I hate the faux tigers.  Bad word Auburn.

A bet’s a bet so I signed up.  I will do my three months and I am done.  I hate it already.

I am not going to lie to some lady online about who I am just so she can be disappointed when she meets me in person.  Following is my profile description:

“I am a US Merchant Marine.  Not a Marine.  A Merchant Marine.  I am not a hero who goes out and fights for your freedom.  I am a sailor who works on cargo ships.  I travel the world going to some very intersting, some dangerous and some quite boring places.  Because of my job relationships are challenging.  I am away from home for four to six months at a time and then I am home on vacation for two to three months at a time.  I’m really looking for someone who wants to be friends and likes to correspond while I am away and have some fun while I am home.  I am not sure the person who could tolerate this work schedule in a serious relationship is out there, but maybe they are and I am not opposed to trying.  If you are looking for a man who is a member of the rotary club, a Deacon in the church, is a blue chip producer at the insurance agency or any that normal stuff, then I am most definitely not your man.  I am an easy going guy with a great sense of humor.  I like Winnie the Pooh and Sponge Bob.  I am basically a twelve year old.  Well, I have a job, pay my bills, have a driver’s license and like sex, but otherwise I am basically twelve.  I goof around, don’t take too many things seriously and try to stay light hearted.  I am a southern gentleman.  I believe women are special creations of God and the fact that men don’t treat them properly any longer is one of the sad things in today’s society.  I love sports, and if LSU loses on Saturday or the Buccaneers lose on Sunday I may not be able to get out of bed until Wednesday.  I know it is silly, but it is what it is.  I love to cook, I enjoy nice restaurants and I can never get enough live music.  I like nice clothes and try to dress well, but I am cool with flip-flops and t-shirts.  I guess my ideal lady would know how to laugh, have a sense of adventure and share my dream of being the number one Gangnam style dancer in all the world.”

Rereading that just now I realized that a gal I really like would automatically disqualify me after she read it.  This is the problem with being honest.

So there I am, out there on Match.com.  What now?  Here’s what now and this is the second reason I hate this thing – women wink at you.  Ok….What am I supposed to do then?  I can wink back or I can email them.  Winking back seems kind of lame.  That’s just basically saying, “I acknowledge your presence and your picture is cute enough that I will click my mouse one time but the ball is back in your court so if you want me you are going to have to work a little harder than that.”  Seems rude to me.

If a gal in a bar winked at me, I wouldn’t just wink back.  One, I am not a good winker.  The whole side of my face scrunches up.  Two, it is rare that a gal gives you a blatant sign.  At least for me it is.  You have to take advantage when you can.  I would definitely go over and talk to her.  The Match version of this is sending an email, and this is where the entire thing really starts to piss me the bad word off. 

Step 1:  Gal views my profile.

Step 2:  Gal winks at me.

Step 3:  I email gal.

Step 4:  ……………..nothing.

Seriously?  Why the bad word did you wink at me if you don’t want to email me back?  Let me get a message out to all you Match.com ladies.  I don’t need you in my life.  I already have ladies in my life who don’t email me back.  And I love them so they are staying.  You don’t mean anything to me.  What makes you think I am going to take that crap from you?

Here’s what I don’t understand.  They saw my pictures so they must not have thought I was horrendous to look at.  They read my profile so they know I’m an idiot already.  What was it in the email that made them say, “Bad word!  I really screwed up winking at that guy!”  I now have to sit around wondering what I wrote that was that bad and I really don’t need that kind of stress in my life.  I just don’t.

Let me continue to bitch.  Every lady out there wants a nice guy.  Every one of them wants true romance.  Every one of them wants a gentleman.

You know who is a nice guy?  I am.  You know who is romantic?  Me.  You know who is a gentleman?  You got it.

Here’s the problem:  every guy is going to describe himself that way, most are lying and you will not know until after we hang out.  Plus, you really don’t want that stuff anyway.  I know you think you do.  I know you whine to your friends about it.  But you don’t want it.

I had a gal tell her friend once that she liked me ok but she thought it was creepy that I brought a flower to her on a first date.  A flower is creepy?  Seriously?  Well, you have the right to think that way but don’t bitch to me when the guy you end up with screws your best friend.  But hey, at least he didn’t show up with a flower.

So we have an internet world full of gals who want a nice guy.  That’s great.  Well, in two months and three weeks they are going to have to find another nice guy because I am out.

Let me gripe about something else.  Seventy five percent of these women describe themselves as sports fans.  Ok, I can believe that.  I know some gals who are sports fans.  However, it doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me.  It just doesn’t.  I respect that.  I need you to respect my feelings as well.

True story.  I was living with a pretty young lady when I was 19.  I was sitting on the couch watching game 7 of the World Series starring my Atlanta Braves.  Let me repeat – World Series, game 7, Braves.  I wouldn’t get off the couch if the building was on fire.

My gal comes out of the bedroom around inning 6 and starts being all flirty.  I didn’t respond properly I guess and she flat out tells me that she wants to have sex.  I’m flabbergasted.  Ummmmm…..it’s game 7!!  I’ll be with you in about an hour.

She was pissed!!!  Then the Braves lost.  She was still pissed after the game so my team lost and I didn’t get laid and I had to put up with her in a bad mood all night – and this gal could really get mean when she wanted.

The point to all this is you should know your partner.  We were talking about nice?  If my gal was watching the season finally to Friends or whatever it was she watched back then, I wouldn’t barge in right in the middle of her show and demand sex.  I would clean the kitchen, take a shower and seduce her AFTER her bad word show.

You see the difference?  If I interrupted her show that would take away from her enjoyment of it plus we probably don’t have sex.  Waiting till after allows her to enjoy her show and leaves a high possibility for sex.

She could have been ready to console me after the game.  That would have made the Braves losing a little easier.  Look, I don’t love you less than I love the Braves and baseball is not more important to me than sex.  UNLESS IT IS GAME 7 OF THE BAD WORD WORLD SERIES!!!

So ladies, when you describe yourself as a sports fan, let’s make sure we’re on the same page.  That’s all I’m saying.

I guess it’s just me.   Maybe I am saying something wrong in these messages.  Why don’t you be the judge?

The Top 10 Possibly Objectionable Things I Have Said in Match.com Messages!

10.  I see on your profile that you have kids.  That’s great!  Do you think once we get married they can live with their dad?  There’s not that much room at my momma’s house.

9.  That’s a nice car in your picture!  You think I could borrow a few bucks.  Just till payday.  I’m good for it.

8.  I think one of my best traits is loyalty.  I mean, if you don’t count what happens in Filipino whorehouses. 

7.  I actually like the second George Bush.

6.  I’ve been waiting 39 years to give my virginity away and you look like that special someone.

5.  Like you, I enjoy a cold beer on the beach.  You don’t have a problem with babysitting piss drunk alcoholics do you?

4.  Do you have any pictures where you are wearing less clothing?  I can’t really decide if I think you’re sexy or not.

3.  To be honest, I’m not all that interested in you but I was wondering about that friend of yours in the third picture?  Could I get her email address?

2.  Just so you know, if we hook up I don’t object to you keeping your job as long as all the chores get done at home.

1.  Nice pic!  Have you ever considered breast implants?

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I would obviously never say any of these things, but that’s my point.  If I send an email to some random gal and she doesn’t respond, ok.  But if they wink first they are already expressing interest, right?  So what am I saying that’s so wrong?

It’s just not for me.  I am too needy for this type of interaction.  I can’t handle my brittle ego being destroyed ten times a day.  I will make good my bet and complete three months but then I am going back to what I am good at – being in love with women I know but who have no romantic interest in me whatsoever.  It’s better that way.

I’m winking at you.

Russell Yale

Most of you new readers don’t know Rusty the Pirate.  He travels with me and although he is not really the nicest of men, he is nonetheless my friend.  He is not the type of person you would bring home for thanksgiving, but if you need a wingman to stab somebody in the kidney when you are fighting over a lady in a whorehouse, Rusty is your man.

Because Rusty and I spend so much time together, I sometimes write about things I do that Rusty really did.  Just keep it mind that if you read something that an upstanding Christian conservative fellow with impeccable moral values would never do, it was Rusty and not me.  No, we are not the same person.  He is not my make believe friend.  Well, unless he is ever subpoenad to testify in court, in which case none of you have ever heard of him.  Rusty is his own unique individual.  We just always travel together and have similar names.  That’s all.

Following is the story of Rusty and his yellow balls.  To understand the epic poem, you need to picture the port facility in Galveston.  We dock at a facility that is designed to load and process sulphur.  Although we move it in molten form and it is stored in molten form, at some point it is mined in solid form.  At this facility there is a yard that has piles and piles of bright yellow sulphur in solid form.  It was the sight of all this “gold” that got Rusty so excited.  When he thinks he is getting booty I have learned that I have no control over him.

I hope you enjoy the following.

Russell Yale

Rusty the Pirate and his Yellow Balls

Rusty the Pirate docked in Galveston on his molten sulphur ship.

After two days of sailing across the gulf he sure was feeling whipped.

A couple of ladies and some cold beer were on the menu for the night.

After he washed his face and braided his beard he looked more than alright.

When he walked down the gangway what to his wondrous eyes did appear?

It was piles of gold stacked ten feet high! He let out of deep throated cheer!

He fetched his hunny pot to fill it with booty and he sang a pirate song.

Rusty the pirate was gonna be rich and party all bad word night long.

He dove right into the pile of gold and to his horror smelled rotten eggs.

Rusty was so sick with disappointment that he needed beer by the keg.

He washed his hands and washed his face and hurried off to shore.

To improve his mood he needed some grog, ten shots and maybe more.

After catching a nice buzz and chilling out it was time to find a gal.

The one thing that would cheer him up was a beautiful lady pal.

Rusty walked on his peg leg into a whore house and the ladies all lined up.

He picked a blond and took her to a room, grabbed a bottled and two cups.

Rusty smacked that whore right on the ass, got naked and began to feel mellow.

The hooker took one look at him and screamed, “Oh my God. Yer balls be yellow!”

The peg legged pirate looked down between his legs and cursed his stupid mistake.

He had washed his hands and his face but forgot his balls for goodness sake!

The whore screamed again and ran away afraid of disease and Rusty stomped off in disgust.

He thought “The Mexican whore house is across the street and they won’t mind, I trust.”

Rusty stormed right in as naked as could be but the whores said, “No way senor.”

“We don’t sucko no balls that be yellow,” and they showed poor Rusty the door.

To the Asian massage parlor Rusty did go for a table shower to wash his balls.

He laid back and spread his legs while mama-san scrubbed so hard he squalled.

When she finished up she shook her head and said, “You balls still yellow, they look so funny!”

She laughed a bit and gave a massage but no happy ending for any amount of money.

Poor Rusty was angry and embarrassed and sad so he bought a bottle of rum.

He staggered back to the ship drunk as could be, just a horny and depressed bum.

In his room he undressed to get in bed and was shocked but it was true.

His yellow balls were yellow no more – the damn things now were blue.

So….If you are out for the evening with a lovely lady companion and somebody approaches you with a bundle of roses and solicits you to purchase one for your gal, do you purchase said rose?  Does the lady even want the rose?  Wouldn’t this whole ploy be more effective for the salespeople if they were selling M&M’s?  In my experience, it would be.

My new ship was in the final stages of a shipyard visit when I joined.  The galley was under repair which meant there was no dinner being served my first night on board.  The company gave us some money and we were forced to fend for ourselves.

As the ship was in dry dock within walking distance of The Columbia, one of my very favorite restaurants, this was quite ok with me.  I strolled over and enjoyed a delightful paella while dining at the bar amongst the attractive Friday night Ybor City crowd.  It was a tad lonely watching all the couples enjoying their meals while my companion of choice was not even in the same time zone, but I managed to strike up a nice conversation here and there and had a nice time.

After dinner I walked the main street of Ybor City and hung out at a blues bar for a bit to check out the band.  It was there that I encountered what appeared to be a homeless man selling roses.  As I was all by myself you might inquire as to why I was in the market for a rose.  I wasn’t.  Being an outgoing fellow I struck up a conversation with the man as I found his selling technique to be humorous.  What he was doing was approaching groups of guys that were together and trying to get them to buy roses for their buddies.  These guys weren’t gay – he was just trying to embarrass them.  Some of the guys laughed it off but most acted like twenty-two year old frat boys – jerks.  Although it was funny to see him piss these kids off, he wasn’t selling roses.

He asked me if I wanted to purchase a rose for myself, a painfully poignant observation on his part.  I said no but I discovered during our conversation that he was selling a self-published book of poetry.  Poetry that celebrated women, no less.  I like to celebrate women and I was impressed that an apparently homeless man published a book, even a cheap one, so I paid him $20 for a copy.

It is without a doubt the worst poetry I have ever read.  You want a quality poem about women?  Here you go!

Women have nice boobs and they are sexy fine hot

Nothing is better than kissing their special spot

It’s fun to watch them get naked and spin on poles

They’re good at doing dishes and washing clothes

Ok…Sorry!  You know I am not like that.  In my joke of a marriage and in all my relationships I have done all the cooking AND cleaning.  Plus, I swing on a stripper pole, although I prefer not to be totally naked.  I feel I look better in finally made Italian high fashion.  Still, you have to admit the poem was funny.  And check this out:  While I was writing this a commercial came on for the “pocket hose.”  I heard, “pocket hose” and “grows and grows and grows!!” right while I was typing sexy fine hot.  I swear this is true (that means there is a 50/50 chance that the statement is true.)  But really, it is true!  I think that is damn funny and I am starting to question the rest of you all’s sense of humor.

To be honest, that pocket hose looks pretty handy.  You should get one.

I hate it when you all let me get sidetracked.  I bought the book and chatted with the guy for a while.  Since I had nothing to do I started helping him sell roses.  Here are some things I found to be true about the rose selling business.

#1 – The guy does not want to buy a rose.  He doesn’t think it is worth the $4.  He doesn’t want to pull out his wad of cash in front of what appears to be a bum.  He is not sure if this girl is putting out.  He doesn’t want to set a precedent of always having to purchase a rose.

#2 – The gal does not want to receive a rose.  You can see it in their eyes.  “Bad word great.  Now I have to carry this wilted sorry excuse for a flower around all night.  What am I supposed to do with this thing?  And what does this guy expect for this rose?  He can’t even dance!”

#3 – The guy is stupid and believes that the gal wants the rose.

#4 – Even though the gal does not want the rose, she will be upset if she doesn’t get one.  This is just one of the 87 million things about women that do not make sense.

You want to know my personal stance on roses?  I always buy them.  I believe in helping the poor and I like buying little gifts for people.  And ladies, if the worst thing that happens to you tonight is that somebody buys you a poor quality rose, you did not have that bad of a night.  Just say thank you, give the guy a kiss on the cheek and ask permission to throw it in the garbage.  We’re all happy.

My selling technique was simple.  “Wow!!  If my lady was walking around in those sexy shoes there is no way I wouldn’t buy her a rose.”  I am not an expert on women.  In fact, I know nothing.  But I have found that if a woman is going to torture herself by walking around all night in 6 inch heels she likes to be thanked for it.  At least five times I heard, “You never compliment my shoes!”  Four of those five times the guy bought the rose.

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It must be your lucky day because I am going to wrap this up with a top ten list.  One of my favorite things to do when I first get on a ship is check out the signs that are above the toilets instructing you not to put anything but toilet paper and body waste in the commode.  They are always worded so humorously.  Sadly, there are no signs on this ship.

Just when my spirits were sagging to an all time low I used the head on the bridge and noticed something that I knew would provide comedy gold for years to come.  Every ship has a satellite phone that has a distress button.  You can use this phone to make a normal call or just press the big red button if you are in, well, distress.  This ship has a second phone on the bridge.  Right next to the toilet!!!!

This top ten list needs no preamble or explanation.  I mean, an emergency satellite phone next to the toilet?!?!?!?!  Wooohooooo!!!!!

The Top Ten Calls To Make on the Emergency Satellite Phone While Sitting on the Toilet!!!!

10.  Dominos?  Um…..Do you guys deliver to 23 degrees 4 minutes north, 093 degrees 7minutes west?  And do you have any specials?

9.  White House operator, connect me to the President!!!  We believe, oh no, it’s happening right now.  Oh my God!!!!  Mr. President, we have just confirmed an enemy launch!!!

8.  Yes, Coast Guard.  How you guys doing?  Great, great…..Listen, you have any cutters or helicopters in the area?  You think you could drop off some toilet paper.  Like, uh, pretty quick?

7.  Steward?  Captain…..You better bring my lunch up….looks like it’s gonna be long one.

6.  Honey.  It’s me.   No, nothing is wrong.  I just wanted you to know you don’t have to take care of the kids today.  No, seriously.  I’m dropping them off at the pool right now.

5.  Yes, this is a legitimate distress call!!!  The ship is really sinking!!  Thank God I was already on the toilet…..

4.  Hi Sprint.  I just wanted to let you know what I think of your customer service.  Hold on a second….eeeerrrrppppphhhhhhhttttththttttt……Thanks for letting me share.

3.  Con!!!!  Sonar!!!  Torpedo in the water bearing three six zero……wait…..kerplop…..Second torpedo in the water bearing zero zero five!!!!  (You know I can’t resist Hunt for Red October references.)

2.  Chief Mate?  Captain here.  I need you to gather the guys and come on in for a safety meeting.  I have something important to share with you.

1.  Hello, Sky Mall?  I’ll take the deluxe king size doggie bed, two of the Harry Potter wands and one of those hair growth lasers.  That’s guaranteed to work, right?  Great!

Ok, so maybe only six or seven are any good but those top ten lists are hard to write!!!  Even Letterman’s really good top tens only had seven or so good ones.  I’m in pretty good company!!!

The new ship is groovy.  For those of you who always ask specific questions about the ship, I will fill you in next blog.  And thank you for your interest!!!  To answer the most popular question – yes, it smells like sulphur 😦

We ate well for Thanksgiving but it is always sad not be home.  Oh well, this means I get another Sailor Thanksgiving next vacation and that was a great success last time.

God Bless you all.

See ya,

Russell Yale

As I wait for the order to go out and untie my new ship, The M/V Sulphur Enterprise, it occurred to me that this is the perfect opportunity to reconnect with my readers.  How have you all been?  Good?  Glad to hear it!

Where have I been?  Well, I have to say I have been in a bit of a funk ever since LSU lost to Florida.  I tried to ease my pain with a trip to Key West and another to Baton Rouge.  Both trips distracted me from my misery for just a short time but the depression soon returned.  A couple of days of good old fashioned hard work has shaken the cobwebs lose and I am feeling more like my old self than I have in some time.

To be honest, I just had writer’s block.  Writing is not easy.  What you are about to read was not easy to write.  I say that with all confidence and I haven’t even written it yet.  For the last month my writing time has been spent sitting in bed writing lousy sappy poetry about women who don’t love me.  One thing I have learned in my four years of sharing my written word with others is that nobody wants to read that crap – especially the women who don’t love me!  Truthfully, I don’t even like reading it.  I can’t tell you the number of times I have read some lousy poem the day after writing it.  The horror I feel if I actually sent it is similar to the feeling of waking up having no recollection of the last twenty hours of my life with only one shoe on, an empty wallet, holes torn in the knees of my fancy jeans and a raccoon in my room.

Which leads to the inevitable thought, “Thank God it’s not a skunk this time!”

And I’m scared of raccoons!  Alcohol does strange things to you.

Anyway….I need to finish up the Venezuela saga so we can put the past behind us and move onto more exciting things – like me giving rose salesmanship classes to homeless people in Ybor City.  However, it is not fair to leave a tale untold.  Let’s wrap this up quick!

I realized something last night.  Shopping in an IKEA is four times more frightening than what happened in Venezuela.  That epiphany took a little luster off the story I am about to tell.  Plus, it has been so long since the last installment and really a long time since it happened to me that I just don’t care anymore.  Not knowing what to do, I did what I usually do and looked to the Matrix trilogy for inspiration.  Nobody needed the third movie.  The trilogy peaked with movie two and all the third offered us was some more lousy acting from Keanu, a questionable story line and an unsatisfactory ending.  Still, we got to see the hot chic in the tight black clothes for another movie and that was cool.  And there were some good special effects.  All in all, as much as it was far inferior to the second movie, we needed that third movie to have a sense of completion and fulfillment in our lives.

Think of this blog as Matrix three with better acting and worse special effects.

The nice thing about this blog layout is that you can go back, reread the previous posts and refresh your memory.  That will save me from typing 1,000 words to recap where we are.  Basically, our Captain had just been taken to jail and the rest of the crew had been told our time was coming.

I hate to ruin the movie for you but nothing bad happened.  Here’s why:

That night I broke out my Navy Seal Sat Phone and called my close buddies Steven Segal and Jet Li.  They gladly offered their assistance and were snuck into Maracaibo harbor in a Russian sub that was somehow stolen by a paramilitary organization friendly to our cause.  Don’t worry about how that could possibly happen.  These details are not important to the plot.

Dressed all in black, the three of us snuck through the deserted nighttime streets of Maracaibo.  And by deserted I mean there was enough of a break in the congested pollution spewing traffic for us to cross the street.  Stopping only for a quick bite at El Gaucho, and once more to have a few cervesas with some lovely senoritas at a corner bar, we stealthily made our way to the impregnable prison that held our Captain.

We made it in easy.  Too easy.  The guards at the main gate went down with darts tipped in poison that paralyzes the victim for twelve hours.  The poison is extracted from a tiny snake found only in the jungles of Peru.  Don’t ask why I was carrying this item and no, I don’t know if Peru actually has jungles.

It was when we were searching for the Captain that the trap was sprung.  Fifty armed guards came out of nowhere and surrounded us at gunpoint.  Segal was ok as he never actually gets shot, but I was worried about Jet Li and myself.  I didn’t see any way in which we weren’t going down in a hail of gunfire.

Turns out we were fine.  Hugo Chavez had been providing discounted and sometimes free petroleum to Venezuela’s citizens as a way of buying votes without actually buying votes.  Clever!!  Except it didn’t leave any money for bullets.  The hail of gunfire never occurred and Segal, Jet and I made short work of those buffoons.

The Captain was found and we snuck him out of there, high tailing it back to the ship.  We were in such a hurry we barely had time to swing back by El Gaucho to feed the Captain and enjoy a few night caps.

Back on the ship we fired up the engines, cut the mooring lines (although with no guards that was unnecessary but so much more exciting) and sailed into the sunrise.  Free at last!!  Free at last!!  The celebration began.  And then it ended when the company ordered us to another Venezuelan port to discharge our remaining cargo.  It turns out that the cost of not delivering the cargo was higher than simply flying in new sailors to replace us after we were executed.  Well, you can’t argue with good sound business decisions!!!

Look – the truth is that for five days we sat around waiting for the guards to come back and take us to jail.  The reason we felt that would happen is because they told us that is what they were going to do.  Our lawyers told us we were going to jail.  The US Consulate told us we were going to jail.  And then told us he had pressing matters in another part of the country so couldn’t be there for the questioning.  What?!?!?!?!

That was a stressful time.  It was even more stressful for our families.

Apparently we hired the right lawyers because those things never happened.  The Captain was eventually released with no visible scars and tales of being treated civilly.  The authorities that were involved over the last five days were all nice people and seemed as perplexed as we were as to why this BS was happening.  I think if it was up to them we all would have gone to El Gaucho and talked about baseball.

I became famous thanks to Forbes.  Check out the article if you get the chance.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/jeffbercovici/2012/09/06/american-sailor-held-in-venezuela-uses-facebook-to-ask-for-help-prayers-beer/

If you want to read the most accurate news reports of the saga, check out CNN.  Sorry.  I am a Fox News guy just like you, but CNN has the facts pretty much correct.

http://www.cnn.com/2012/09/06/world/americas/venezuela-us-ship/index.html

http://www.cnn.com/2012/09/10/world/americas/venezuela-us-ship/index.html

I don’t know who to thank for getting us out of there.  I can tell you more than one person told me personally that they were shocked we were leaving.  I heard several times that they had expected us to be held for MORE THAN A YEAR!  So whoever did what they did, thank you.  Personally, I would like to thank Senator Nelson of Florida and his fine staff for all they did and for keeping in touch with my family.  I can’t tell you how much it meant to have you all stay in constant contact with my family.  I still didn’t vote for you.  I’m a Republican.  Sorry.

We will wrap up Venezuela like this:  If you have any questions, email them to russellyale@piratepooh.com and I will do a Venezuela question and answer blog!!  If nobody emails me, which is probably what is going to happen, I might just make some questions up.

One last housekeeping item.  When I left I was hawking t-shirts.  They are still in the works.  Frankly, the demand was less than impressive.  I am trying to get them made cheaper but still have a quality t-shirt.  They will get made as there are some people who want one, and I want to have one!  Plus, I think they are pretty funny.  If you want one or have any questions about one, email me.

I am heading to Galveston.  See you soon.

Hug an Alabama fan today.  It’s not their fault they’re Alabama fans.  They were born there.

Russell Yale

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you exciting news…..

The official one-and-only PiratePooh t-shirt is here at last!!!!!!!

Yes, you heard me right.  A PiratePooh t-shirt!!

Let me say that one more time.  A PiratePooh t-shirt!!

Ok, take a deep breath and get yourself together.  Breathe into a paper bag if necessary.  Take a shot of whiskey.  Watch some Family Guy.  Relax.  I know you are super-excited but try and calm down.  If you have a heart attack and keel over you won’t get to enjoy your t-shirt.

How do you get one of these t-shirts?  Well, first let me tell you about them and then I will tell you how to get one.  Over the years I have made the occasional reference in my blogs to t-shirts that didn’t exist.  I always wanted to have a blog t-shirt but I just never got to the point where I could have them printed up for all the people who read my blogs.  Now even more people are reading my blogs so what to do now?  Well, I am capitalist.  Therefore, the only answer is to sell them at a nice profit!!!

It is a high-quality t-shirt but to keep the cost low it is one color and doesn’t have any fancy artwork.  What it does have, and what makes it a must own item, is a Top 10 List that doesn’t appear anywhere except on The Official PiratePooh T-shirt!!!

Wow!!!!  Most of you new readers don’t know this but the feature item of my blogs used to be the Top 10 Lists.  I have to say they were pretty darn funny.  Since you have to keep things fresh I eventually moved on to other things.  However, they were such a big part of so many blogs that it seemed like a natural fit to put them on the first of what I hope to be many PiratePooh t-shirts.

Authors note:  A lot of you know that Top Ten Lists can be a little racy.  Please rest assured that this is a PG rated shirt and can be worn anywhere.  I was planning on putting a picture of the shirt on the website but I decided I want to keep the Top10 List exclusive to Official PiratePooh T-shirt owners.  You do not want to be left out!!

How do you get one of these wonderful t-shirts?  I’m glad you asked!  The t-shirt is $25 and includes shipping via US Postal Service anywhere in the Continental United States.  If any of my international readers want to order a shirt (and I hope you do!!) I will figure out the most reasonable shipping based on your location.

I realize $25 isn’t exactly cheap for a t-shirt.  I did not order hundreds of these shirts to get a great discount.  They will actually be printed every two weeks and only the necessary quantities needed to fulfill the orders will be made.  Because of this they are costly to have made but it does insure the value of your shirt will rise over the years as there will not be many in circulation!

Order one for a friend!  Order one for a stranger!  These make great Christmas presents!

How does payment work?  Another good question.  I am not a business and don’t have a website with nifty secure servers to accept credit cards and such.  I do have a PayPal account and can send you an invoice which you can then pay by credit card as a guest or through your own paypal account.  If you don’t know what PayPal is, check out www.paypal.com.  They can explain it better than I can.  Alternately, you are welcome to mail me a check or money order.

If you want a shirt, email me at russellyale@piratepooh.com with your shirt size.  The shirts are 100% cotton Haines Beefy-Ts.  This ain’t Amazon and there is no rush shipping.  I will place the first order on Tuesday October 30.  The shirts will arrive in 2 weeks.  Once your shirt arrives I will email you and you can tell me whether you would like a paypal invoice or would prefer to mail your payment.  I will then ship the shirt via US Postal Service with a tracking number.

The more astute of you will have noticed that I now own the domain www.piratepooh.com.  Yay!!!!  Lots of exciting things happening in PiratePooh world.  At this time the website is simply my blog but I hope to one day have pictures of my world travels as well as a classic blog section for those who missed some good stuff or maybe some of you who read the old blogs would like to read again.  If you have any website suggestions feel free to email me.  In fact, email me with any comments you may have.  Let’s be friends!!

To thank you for all your support I am giving away one free PiratePooh t-shirt.  To win you must make up the best line to finish off the following poem and email it to russellyale@piratepooh.com before Monday October 29 at midnight.  The winner will be published in an upcoming blog!

I want a free shirt from PiratePooh

Something cool to wear when I drink a brew

To wipe my hands on when I eat some wings

It’s an awesome shirt that’s fit for a king

Should I give PiratePooh a big fat kiss?

Just the thought of that fills me with bliss

I know what I’ll do so he’ll give it to me

________________________________

Good Luck!!!

Russell Yale

Sorry to be gone so long and leave everybody on the edge of their seats wondering what the heck happened that night in Venezuela, but I went and enjoyed a Disney weekend with my family.  Since getting off the ship I have been sick and out of sorts and a day hanging with Pooh is exactly what the doctor ordered.  I had a great time but now that I am settled into my recliner and watching Monday Night Football on my big TV it is time to return to my sworn duties of writing crap that very few people want to read.

But thanks to those few of you who do want to read it!  PiratePooh has gone global and has been read in over 15 countries.  Of course, the US represents my main readership but I get quite a few visits from Venezuela.  Wassup, Venezuela!!!  I hope all you fine people realize how much I love the average Venezuelan citizen.  Maybe someday I will have the opportunity to enjoy all the fine things I am sure your country has to offer.  I travel all over the world and I have met many people that disliked me simply because I am American and they didn’t like something about our government or foreign policy.  I promise I am not one of those people.  I hope to someday treat all of you to some chicken wings and an ice cold Polar.

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Blog music for the night is Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones.  It just feels like one of those nights.

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Let me refresh your memory.  It is about nine o’clock at night and I have wandered outside to get some fresh air and use my phone.  As I walked out of the house and onto the fantail the AB who was on watch walked around the corner looking very concerned.  I asked him what was up and he shouted, “It’s our biggest fear!!  They are on the dock with guns, handcuffs and a paddy wagon!!”  He then dashed inside because he was looking for the Captain.

I think it is important to make a point here.  It is easy to sit here now and say that nothing happened.  That the seventeen days in Maracaibo were not a big deal because we weren’t imprisoned, tortured or beaten and that we came out of things unharmed, so what’s the big deal?  On one hand, there is no big deal.  We did come out of it fine, with a pretty cool story to boot.  But the reason that it is a pretty cool story is because unpleasant things did happen.  And while they weren’t horrible, nights like this one were not pleasant.

I just don’t want to give the impression that I am trying to make things more than they were.  But I am not going to make things less than they were either.  This particular night was a little scary at the time.  It you read on, I think you will find out why.

For the last day we had gone from having the gangway down, which is normal procedure, to having it up.  This meant that people couldn’t gain access to the ship without us making the decision to lower the gangway.  What we were now facing was about thirty men, some in all black uniforms with automatic rifles and some in civilian clothing with side arms, demanding that they be allowed to board.

This was a very uncomfortable half an hour.  I can’t speak for anybody else but I thought there was a good chance we were going to be arrested.  I mean, why else would they be there in the middle of the night?  I called my parents and told them that if they didn’t hear from me the next morning to please start calling God and everybody else and find out what was going on.  At this point, I was basically giving them hourly updates so they would know I was safe.

I was at the gangway with several other crewmembers and the Captain was on the phone.  Eventually he received the word from somebody that we would have to let them on board.  They instructed that the entire crew be assembled on the fantail.  I have to tell you that this wasn’t a good feeling.  There was some sense of security inside the house but having the entire crew outside felt like one step closer to jail.

I got jumped on a bit for using the expression, “held at gunpoint.”  Well, I used that on Facebook and if you read my Facebook posts you know that they are always off-the-wall.  Nobody in Venezuela ever pointed a gun at me.  I have had guns pointed at me in Iraq so I do know the difference.  With that being said, if men holding rifles are standing between me and my home and they are using that force to keep me from entering my home, I don’t think it is a crazy exaggeration to say they had us at gunpoint.  But no, they didn’t stick the guns in our face.

Without directly pointing the guns at us the soldiers who were all dressed in black held us on the fantail of the ship.  The Captain and the Chief Mate were talking to the undercover guys.  It became readily apparent that they were there to arrest some, if not all, of us.  I say this because the Captain was practically shouting that he wasn’t letting them take the crew ashore.  This is when I chose to get in a little trouble.

I will readily admit that I wanted the world to know what was going on.  I thought the greatest protection we had was the press, our family and especially our government bringing pressure on the Venezuelan officials.  I still believe that.  With that in mind I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of all the guys with guns.

You can probably guess that didn’t go over to well.  They quickly demanded my phone.  I said no.  It got a little nasty and the Chief Mate, who speaks a little Spanish, interceded and reached an agreement that I could keep my phone if I deleted the picture.  I pretended to delete the picture but really sent it to Facebook.  Sorry to lie to you Venezuelan secret police but let’s face it, we weren’t going to be friends anyway.  You will just have to learn to live with the betrayal.

I thought I had made it through unscathed but the head secret police guy wasn’t happy with the deal and demanded that the soldier take my phone.  I again refused and the next thing I knew I was sandwiched between two guys with guns demanding my phone.

What are you gonna do?  I gave them my phone.

I did get it back eventually.  There was one guy there who turned out to be pretty cool and he got it back for me, as well as three other phones that were confiscated.  That guy was in the picture until the very end so maybe he had some clout.  Anyway, thank you cool guy in the Yankees shirt!

However, at that point in time I thought my phone was gone so now I was pissed and a little scared.  About thirty minutes of this nonsense went on and then we were told to go to the crew mess hall.  The Chief Mate was left to watch the gangway and the Captain was taken to his office.

It was a tense time in the crew mess.  Everybody deals with fear differently.  Again, I can’t speak for my crew but I think they would all say that on this night nobody was feeling all that great.  Nobody knew what to say and a silence had fallen over the room when the Captain walked in.

This particular Captain is a pretty cool customer.  He handles most situations without getting too worked up.  He was visibly upset and more nervous than I ever imagined seeing him.  The message he had for the crew didn’t make anybody happy.

He told us that ten of us had to volunteer to go to jail and then be questioned.  If ten people didn’t volunteer then all of us would be handcuffed and taken against our will.  Apparently he had talked to our attorneys and the company and there was nothing we could do about it.

I have lived kind of a crazy life and been in situations that you wouldn’t believe even if I had video tape evidence show you.  Having said that, I have never experienced a feeling quite like the one I had when I was informed that I was going to a Venezuelan jail at midnight.  Trust me kiddos, it isn’t pleasant.

Sorry Venezuelans.  I do like you guys but I don’t want to go to one of your jails.  Your screwy government has been holding one of our citizens for months for no real reason that I can discern.  It is not a penal system that I care to be a part of.  Think less of me if you want.

But I volunteered.  Why?  Well, I am a tough guy and a badass, that’s why.  Really, I can’t tell you why other than I am a writer and that is what a good writer would do.  You have to put yourself in situations to get the good story.  I never believed I would be shot or tortured.  And truthfully, there were a few people including a lady on the ship that I didn’t want to see put in that situation.

My partner in crime on the ship volunteered to go with me and I left the room to change clothes.  I had foolishly forgotten to bring my jail clothes but I found something suitable.

I am sure we would have come up with eight more volunteers but it never came to that.  The Chief Mate came over the radio and said that they were taking the Captain and leaving the rest of the crew.  We all had to stay inside the house until the Captain was gone.

It was a weird feeling.  I guess we were all glad not to be going to jail but our Captain was being taken.  We couldn’t go up on deck to wish him well and that didn’t make sense to me.  Now we were in a hostile environment on a ship with no Captain.

I can’t tell you what a bad night it was.  I didn’t sleep a minute.  Again, it wasn’t because I was afraid for my life but it was not a good situation.  I fired off emails to everybody I could think of asking for help.

The next day I was famous.

Next up, “Shouldn’t I be getting paid by Facebook for all this free advertising?”

Russell Yale

Your poem for the day

“I went to Disney to hang with Pooh

I hung out at ESPN to watch LSU

I once saw a cow and he said moo

Those black uniformed wearing gun carrying jackbooted jerk-offs wanted to arrest me and my crew”

Don’t you hate it when you can’t sleep so you put on your flip-flops to walk outside the house of your ship and when you do get outside and take a look around, your ship is surrounded by Venezuelan secret police and some type of armed army-types all dressed in black?

What?   Never had that happen to you?  Why does all the weird stuff happen to me?  Well, my momma has a librarian friend who uses snausages to ease the pain in her aching feet.  That is weird!!  But that is of her own design whereas this is a weird event that happens to me.  If you have been around for awhile, you know these things happen to me all the time.

I don’t know what you would do if you saw your ship about to be boarded by hostile armed forces from a foreign country not totally friendly with the United States of America but let me tell you what I did.  While the rest of the crew were biting their nails and running around aimlessly I vaulted over the rail –  doing a triple flip in the air for no other reason than because it looked awesome – landed on the dock and immediately took out the closet guard with a ninja kick to the head.  He dropped unconscious to the ground and I grabbed his automatic weapon.  Now that I was armed, this fight was over.

I gunned down half of the thirty soldiers with one hand while updating my Facebook status with the other.  Actually, the only reason the fight took as long as it did is because the lousy 2G data services in Maracaibo slowed down my internet connection.  With half of the enemy already down I made a quick dash into the city and grabbed an order of ribs from El Gaucho.  By the time I had polished them off and got back to the port the Secret Police were just getting reorganized.

To make things fair I fought the rest of them barehanded.  I did sprain my little pinky, but other than that I came through unscathed.  Unfortunately, at just that time reinforcements showed up forcing me to dive into the water to escape a hail of gunfire (If you have been to Maracaibo, you know you only dive into that water if somebody is shooting at you.)  I was then able to swim around to the offshore side of the ship, use my Spiderman-like skills to climb aboard and head down to the galley for some ice cream.  The crew was thankful for the fact that I took charge of the situation and we all got a great night’s sleep.

The End.

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Blog music for the night is Fortunate Sun by Creedence Clearwater Revival.  I don’t know about you but this blog got CCR going in my brain.

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Ok.  That is not what happened.  It would have happened that way but I was sensitive to the fact that we were trying to keep from starting an international incident.  It is true that I went out on deck and there were Secret Police and guys dressed all in black with guns demanding that the gangway be let down and they be let aboard.  This was about 2100 (9pm.)

The Captain had been summoned to court that day and although he had returned to the ship nobody had as of yet the opportunity to talk to him about how things went.  This was our seventh day in Maracaibo and in my opinion the mood was beginning to shift from amusement and very little concern to some irritability and some consternation.  The day before, quite a few crewmembers went to shore to visit the mall and while they were out our attorneys, who I didn’t know we had till that point, came to the ship.  I have no idea what they told the Captain, but he immediately texted everybody and ordered them back to the ship.  Things were obviously taking a turn for the worse and that made us all curious as to what happened to the Captain that day in court.

I never found out because the Captain was taken to jail before I ever got to talk to him.  I take some exception to the press releases I have read that praise the Venezuelan authorities for how professionally they handled everything, how this was a routine investigation and everything was done by the book.

This isn’t true.   The Venezuelan authorities that seemed to be in charge over the last week of our detainment were great people.  They were nice and courteous to me and the crew, even when they had to search our ship time and again.  The Captain claims to have been treated well when he was detained and I will have to take him at his word.  I met the prosecutors who were handling our case and they seemed like nice people as well.

I am not talking about any of those people right now.  I don’t know what organization was in charge at the end but as I have shared you with you, there were many organizations involved in the debacle.  They were not all pleasant.  They were not all professional.  This was not a routine investigation and it was not handled properly.  Sorry to sound a little bitter about that but I think it is unjust in the extreme to tell my family that they were worried for 17 days because of a normal routine investigation in Maracaibo.  I have been involved in many routine customs inspections and none of them ended in me having a warrant issued for my arrest for arms trafficking.

Thanks for letting me vent.

I have to say my heart was beating pretty quickly when I saw all these people on the dock.  One of the vehicles was a paddy wagon and several of the “police” had handcuffs.  What were we supposed to think but we were going to jail?

Especially after the Captain spoke to the guys and then informed the crew that we were going to jail.

This is when things went crazy all over the internet including the stories about yours truly.  While I wasn’t the only one, I will readily admit that I called everybody I could think of to tell them that we were going to jail.  I caught a little flack for the story spreading like wildfire.  Feel free to judge me after somebody threatens to drag you off in handcuffs to a Venezuelan jail at midnight.

Most of this blog was the pretend story of that night.  Tomorrow, you get the real story!  Stay tuned for, “I’ll volunteer to go to jail as long as I can bring my Kindle, some toilet paper and my Pooh necklace.”

Want a poem?  Here you go!

I went outside to get some air

And there were guys with guns

My exciting time in Maracaibo

Wasn’t turning out to be much fun

I frantically called my momma

To tell her I was going to jail

She said that I was out of luck

Because no one could afford my bail

I crawled under my Sponge Bob blanket

Might even have sucked my thumb

I didn’t want to get ass raped in prison

By a homeless Venezuelan bum

Venezuela wasn’t all bad.  After the guns were seized a couple of days followed when our cargo was being off-loaded and inspected and the general belief was that as soon as the paperwork was straightened out we would be through this mess.  Shore passes were once again passed out to the crew and we were free to explore the city.

My first priority was food.  Everybody has their favorite activities when we hit foreign ports.  Believe it or not, sailors are not the bad guys a lot of people think we are.  Sure, some like to drink and some like to visit the local ladies.  But there are plenty of loyal family men who make their living on ships.  What I am saying is that guys are guys.  Sailors are no worse or no better than anybody else.  I am not going to sit here and tell you I am an angel, but anybody who knows me will confirm that if there is time for only one thing, for me it is food.

We had a fulltime Venezuelan security guard stationed on our ship.  He didn’t work for any of the 138 different agencies that were currently hasseling us.  As far as I could tell he was employed by the port, but I could be wrong about that.  At any rate, he was a super-cool guy and we became friends.  When I say he was fulltime, I mean he couldn’t leave from the time we arrived in Maracaibo until we left.  It was ridiculous.

When I came out to stand gangway watch at 0400 (4am to you landlubbers) I would bring him a snack and take his clothes down to the laundry room for washing.  A man would drive by and drop off three meals a day for him but he definitely appreciated a little variety.  He had to sleep on a work table that we had out on deck and he bathed in the sink.  I asked him why he couldn’t go home and he explained that he was assigned to the ship until it left.  A couple of other guys came and went but he was always there.  I really felt bad for him.

As I needed some local input on where to get a good meal, I turned to my buddy and man did he come through!  He gave me a list of three restaurants to try out.  He said they were in a safe part of town that was gringo friendly.  Gringo friendly is how I try to live life.

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Blog music for today is The Gumbo Song by Sauce Boss.  I didn’t eat gumbo in Maracaibo, but the Sauce Boss sings some of the best eating music in the world.

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A buddy from the ship tagged along and we managed to make it out the gate and into a cab without being arrested.  This was no small feat as I was later informed from one group of officials that the secret police wanted to arrest us if we went ashore.  I didn’t know that at the time and for once I didn’t have any trouble ashore, so no harm no foul.  I’m cool with you, secret police.  If you ever make it America let’s catch a baseball game.

The taxi man didn’t know the first name on the list, or he wouldn’t take us there, but he did know the second and after a twenty minute drive we were dropped off in front of a little steakhouse.  The restaurant was fairly nice and was located in the Plaza de Republica.  I suggest this area if you find yourself in Maracaibo.  There were several nice local restaurants and some American chains, if you need a Big Mac fix in Venezuela.  I try to stick to local food so I went with El Gaucho.

I am grill man.  I like to cook on a grill and I like to eat food cooked on the grill.  They had a very nice coal grill at El Gaucho and the meats that were sizzling over the fire looked quite yummy.  Since I wanted to taste a little of everything I ordered a large combo plate for my buddy and I to share.

You know the hardest thing about eating in a Venezuelan restaurant?  Not staring at other guys wives/girlfriends/sisters.  Venezuelan women are amazingly beautiful.  I mean, they are sell your soul beautiful.  They are beautiful and they dress well.  They are beautiful and they wear sexy high-heels.  They are beautiful and they smell nice.

They are beautiful and their dates will most likely stab you in the liver if you are caught checking them out.

I am not saying that Venezuelan guys are thugs.  Well, the dudes that beat the poor sailors for their cell phones are thugs.  But I have noticed this in my experience with Latinos.  The men are very generous.  They will share their food, buy you drinks and become instant friends.  Just don’t check out their women.  I apologize if I seem like I am generalizing but that is what I have seen to be true.

So there I am, checking out Venezuelan hotties by using my spoon as a mirror when a platter of meats is brought to the table.  It was good, but not poem worthy.  I write poems about food.  That is how much I love food.  This food was just good, not amazing.  I think what made it just good is that one of the things on the platter was some sort of grilled intestine that I think still had poo-poo in it.  Yuck!!

After a pleasurable hour in the restaurant my buddy and I began wandering the plaza.  Let me give you a couple of travel tips if you find yourself in the Plaza de Republica.  One – Don’t expect to use an ATM.  You can’t find any that work.  You can find plenty that don’t work, but none that do.  Two – Don’t walk down side streets.  It goes from, “This is pretty decent,” to, “I should call momma and say goodbye,” in about a block.  In all fairness to Venezuela, it wasn’t as bad as other places I have been.  I think we were just conditioned by this point to believe that bad things would happen to us.

We did find one little club which was ok but not great.  However, just getting in proved to be the scariest experience of all my world travels.  My pal was in front of me as we walked up to the door of the bar and were stopped by a bouncer.  This bouncer was obviously ex-Venezuelan Special Forces.  I don’t know if Venezuela has special forces.  Maybe he was trained by the Mossad.  He was a scary dude.

He said something to my friend in a snarly voice like Snape from Harry Potter but it sounded even scarier because it was in Spanish and we couldn’t understand it.  But it didn’t sound like normal Spanish.  It was like Spanish would sound if that was the language the devil spoke.  My tough guy companion looked at the ground and kind of took half a step back.  I don’t know what the bouncer wanted but I was convinced that he was about to rip our still beating hearts out of our chests.  My buddy looked back at me and the bouncer said something else but I looked around and pretended like I was lost and didn’t even know my friend.

I just wanted out of there.

Then the bouncer walked right up to me, got in my face and snarled, “Eye Dee!”  Oh…..You want my ID?   Hahahahaha….Of course.  That’s it.  I wasn’t worried that you found amusement in torturing stupid Americans before tossing their bloody corpses in the dumpster out back.  I wasn’t even thinking that.  Here is my ID.  And a couple of Bolivares for your trouble.

Whewww!

That was actually the most exciting part of the bar visit.  I spent my time unsuccessfully trying to connect my phone to their wifi so I could stop paying Sprint $80 per minute for lousy 2G data services.  We hung out for an hour, wandered the streets for another hour and made it back to the ship.

And there you are – 1,300 words of fun that happened in Venezuela.  I told you it wasn’t all bad.

Coming up next – “You want to take me to a Venezuelan jail at midnight?   I think it’s time to make a little noise!”

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Since the food in this blog wasn’t poem worthy, I am ending this blog with a poem I wrote about the first BBQ I ever had on a merchant ship.  When I became a merchant marine I didn’t think we would have nice barbecues.  This was a long time ago when I was still an apprentice.  I hope you enjoy it.

Find somebody from the opposite political party and tell them that even though they are a dumbass, you still love them.  Help make the world a better place.

Russell Yale

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“Piglet Style for Me!”

Today was the best day of my life

Till now it’s been nothing but pain and strife

We had a big ol’ BBQ out at sea.

It’s piglet style for me

I could not believe what I saw before my eyes

Ribs & chicken & steak & burgers & pies

There was food as far as I could see

It’s piglet style for me

(chorus)

Oh – piglet style for me!

With an oink oink here and an oink oink there

I’ve got BBQ sauce on me everywhere

I wonder why everyone is staring at me.

It’s piglet style for me

You try to fit your food on one plate and I shrewdly grab two

One for the hot and one for cold food

I’m a grubbing, eating, drinking dude.

It’s piglet style for me

I grab a 3rd plate while there’s still time

A burger for me? Oh you’re too kind

I hope this potato salad doesn’t go to my behind.

It’s piglet style for me

(chorus)

Oh – piglet style for me!

You can judge me I just don’t care

So I like to eat ribs in my underwear

Don’t even bother asking ’cause I won’t share.

It’s piglet style for me

Got my curly tail stuck down in my pants

As I do my chicken wing hula dance

With my plate full, around the deck I do prance.

It’s piglet style for me

I wonder if I’ve got room for a cookie or two

I hoard my food like a BBQ Jew

Hey April I think I’ve got to poo.

It’s piglet style for me

(chorus)

Oh – piglet style for me!

I like to BBQ naked out in the yard

The smell of burning coals makes my nipples get hard

This song will be sung by every bard.

It’s piglet style for me

(Everybody now!)

Oh – piglet style for me!

The ocean is so pretty, the sky is so blue

The weather is perfect and I’ve got a heck of a crew

I’m gonna stop singing it’s time to chew.

It’s piglet styyyyyyyle – – – for me!