Vicious Pirate Trainees Suck!

We've ended our stint as Vicious Pirate Trainees mainly because they changed the dress code. The bigwigs kept the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt but replaced the rest of the wardrobe with khaki shorts. I’m all for wearing khaki shorts on my butt, but wearing additional pairs as earrings, bracelets, a hat, a belt, and a necklace was a bit much for me.


So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.

“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”

Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”

“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”

“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.

“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”

“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”

“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”

“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”

“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”

We watched Borel strut away singing.

“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”

I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”

“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”