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Sunday, November 21, 2010

Smuggler's Blues Clues

By the Cap'n, as told to Bill Mullis

Ssshhh! Don't tell anyone, but the old Cap'n has a secret: he smuggles candy into movie theatres.

See, it's like this. I got nothing against anybody making a profit by selling anything at whatever price the market will bear. And by the Ghost of Blackbeard, when I'm rolling in the doubloons I think nothing of whomping down a sizeable chunk of my hard-earned jack to impress my First Wench by my largesse in the matter of a king-sized box of Junior Mints.

But times have been rough around the old Love Boat this year, what with a couple knaves in the higher educational system, and my pieces of eight have lately been downgraded to pieces of three and a half. Very embarrassing to a Pirate Captain of my stature, as you may be able to understand.

It started in allergy season, with a few hard candies in my pocket. (Cinnamon discs. Burns through the drainage and leaves a smoking crater on your tongue to boot!) I half expected the candy detectors to go off as I entered the theatre, and prepared to brandish my cutlass menacingly at any scallywhacker who tried to stop me.

Nothing happened. I was impressed. I thought I had accidentally hit upon a secret method to get contraband inside the Sanctum itself.

Then my First Wench, AmyDoodle, told me the real secret: "You gunk-head," she said. "There's no such thing as a candy detector! That has got to be the silliest idea I have ever heard in my life!"

What can I say? I rely on her support in all my endeavors.

So I've begun to load my pockets with fun-sized Snickers and Butterfingers. I've figured out that the key is to not act like you're carrying illegal foodstuffs. So I took it one step further: I generally forget I've even got it with me. If I don't know it's there, I can't act suspicious!

Of course, you've got to keep your wits about you. There was the time I reached in my pocket for a Kleenex (Not that I cried through Secretariat. Nope, not me.) and found a half-melted Milky Way. My cry of surprise and alarm ("Augh! What the -- ! Brown stuff ahoy!") did not go unnoticed, and it was only by dint of my lightning-quick pirate reflexes that I was able to avoid the consequences by hiding behind the First Wench.

Not the Cap'n's best moment.

Now I'm working on a way to smuggle fresh popcorn in. The little bags of Otis Reddenbacker fit comfortably my pocket. The trick is going to be the microwave. And I reckon I'll have to run a power cord out to the lobby. Should be doable. I'll just have to disguise it as something non-food-preparational.

But what about those times when popcorn just isn't enough? I figure the truly piratey thing to do would be to set up a grill down front for a little tailgating. I'd even be willing sell a hot dog or two. And take the proceeds out to the lobby for a great big honking box of Raisinettes.

Because Raisinettes are what a pirate loves best.

The Cap'n is your basic pirate with delusions of fandeur. He has served in various capacities and institutions over the years, but has since settled down to a life of (except for that whole candy thing) placid law-abiding domesticity, under the calming influence of his First Wench AmyDoodle, who has actually come closer to domesticating him than anybody else.

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