I don't know about you...

but I can’t wait to board the pirate ship Vengeance with you scurvy dog rat bastard motherfuckers. This might be our last chance to play Pirates of Penzance, so pass the fucking grog and don your best pirate togs.  If you’re not already wearing them, get your fucking shit together, and go get changed in Davy Jones’s locker room.  I’ll wait.

Sure, there’s other kinds of parties, but if it ain’t a pirate party, then you can just call me Captain of the S.S. I Don’t Give a Fuck.  This party gonna twirl in like Long John Silver at the all you can fucking eat buffet and shiver your timbers so hard you’ll be passing goddamn pegleg splinters for a month.

Let’s get this party started! I can’t wait to for it to get all yo ho fucking ho up in here. I mean, I can’t promise any celebrity pirate sightings, but my rum punch brings all the pirates to the yardarrrrm. What do you do with a drunken sailor? Whatever you want, my friend, whatever you damn well want. What happens on the Vengeance stays on the Vengeance. Except the pox, that shit spreads like wildfire.

The first thing imma do is put Calico Jack out of his misery. That mutinous sea dog got cabin fever or some shit six weeks into the voyage. Maybe it was syphilis. Either way, he couldn’t take Blackbeard’s fucking parrot constantly squawking “Awk! Hide the gold!” and took a pot shot.

That shit is against the pirate code, and killing his favorite pet is how your ass becomes Blackbeard’s favorite parking lot. I love a good headwind as much as the next pirate, but Blackbeard doesn’t have the gentlest touch in the windward passage, if you know what I mean. Rest in peace, Pepe the Parrot, rest in fucking peace.

In honor of Pepe, may I suggest that we all go belowdecks and tap the admiral? Get your filthy minds out of the bilge, you grog snarfing monkey suckers, for once I’m not suggesting that we all get up in the best goddamn booty on the seven seas. What I’m talking about is tapping the keg we stored Admiral Nelson’s corpse in so we can all have a wee fucking nipperkin of rum. A drop of Nelson’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm!

Four limbs or not, letting the Captain swab the poop deck with his hook is H-O-T hot. Tick Tock! Tick Tock! Is that the sound of the crocodile’s clock, or just the Captain’s hook clinking against the ring around his…ahem.

Oh, and by the way, if you should need it, the Captain’s safeword is “Lost Boy.” I’m just saying, the Pirate Conclave is a judgment free zone, so me and the Captain are gonna find a whole new way to use the masthead, and you’d best be prepared to be boarded, son. You fly that freaky ass hot amputee lovin’ flag with pride, oh Captain my Captain!

Hold onto your glitter knickers, bitches, ‘cause Captain Jack gonna bowl a spare O up your alley. Blammo! It’s Pirate Conclave 2016. Welcome aboard, fuckfaces.