Dialogue from a Pirate Festival

Scene: The Pirate Festival in St. Pete

I was dressed like a normal person.

Wifey was dressed like a normal person.

Tiny was dressed like a “matey” pirate (as she puts it).

The dude eating chicken and biscuits in a canvas tent was dressed in a gentleman’s coat from 1686, an eye patch and fake scar.

Oh! And, in the spirit of not knowing his name, I’ll refer to him as… let’s say… Fucking Moron.

Me: Dude, you just made my 5 year old “little” girl cry.
Fucking Moron: I’m unsure of this “dude” you speak of, however; how my I assist thee? I be the governor of this great port.

No, you be a redneck in a very smelly rented ruffle with the WORST English accent EVER! Oh! And the St. Pete humidity is melting your spirit gum and scar, you dope.

Me: Yeah, okay, “Gov-nuh”, listen, she’s all freaked out that you offered to send her to jail for piracy when she’s only 5.
Fucking Moron: Piracy knows of no age, Good Gentleman. Off to the gallows with she!

Tiny freaked out. Literally. She was shaking and tearing the Jolly Roger do-rag off her head like it was burning her hair.

Me: Baby, it’s okay.
Tiny: No, it’s not!
Fucking Moron: To the gallows with she!
Me: Dude…? Please…
Wifey: He’s just playing, Sweets.
Fucking Moron: Playing, me Good Lady?
Me: Dude…? Come on…
Tiny: This is creepy. This is fucking creepy.

Now, for a five year old to have to refer to something as “fucking” creepy… yeah, dudes… it’s pretty “fucking” creepy.

Wifey: What is?
Tiny: He’s a grown-up and he’s pretending waaaaay too much.

Then the flip-out took an ugly turn.

TIny: And it’s fucking creepy. This is wrong, mommy. Grown-ups shouldn’t play like this. This is wrong.
Fucking Moron: But I do not play, Young Pirate Lass.
Me: Dude…?
Tiny: I’m not a pirate anymore.

And she threw her $20.00 wooden sword across the field and stomped on the do-rag which had to hit her hard because she REALLY loves being a pirate.

Wifey: Baby, he’s just an actor.
Fucking Moron: ACTOR?!? ACT-TOR?!? Actors are peasants, me Good Lady.

Research, brother. Research. There gotta be other names besides “good lady.” If you’re going to commit at this level… mix it up, ‘Enry ‘Iggins!!!

Fucking Moron: I am no actor. Off with she, too. Pirate conspirator!
Me: Dude…?
Tiny: Mommy! Daddy! Grown-ups shouldn’t be playing dress-up to this level. No way. No waaaaaaay. And… and it’s rude not to ask someone if they want to play first. IT’S RUDE!!!
Me: (to the Guv-nuh) It is rude… Guv-nah.
Fucking Moron: Rude? Rude?!? Off with this pirate and her conspirators!

Tiny, actually, started shivering with fear.

Me: Buddy…
Fucking Moron: Who is this “buddy…?”
Me: Done. You’re done with “your bit”. You have my baby crying. Not cool. Fix it.
Fucking Moron: To the gallows -- !

I stared at this prick right in his patch eye.

Me: Fix it, Guv-nah.

Then, he broke character.

Fucking Moron: Donna, give me a Letter of Marque. Letter of Marque. Right there. And the quill.

He knelt down next to Tiny ready to sign her Letter of Marque with his inky quill.

Fucking Moron: And your name, little lady.
Tiny: You’re fucking creepy.
Fucking Moron: Thyne language, Little Lady.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Tiny: And rude.

Wifey gave him Tiny’s name and he signed the Letter of Marque. Tiny refused to take it reminding the "guv-nah" that he was still “fucking creepy.”

But, she stopped crying and shaking. That was a good sign. Everything was getting better. And seeing that everything was back to better, I nuzzled up to the “guv-nah’s” ear.

Me: Thanks, dude.
Fucking Moron: And there she has it…!

He declared.

Oh, no, bro. You’re ahead, now. Please, stop.

Fucking Moron: You are no longer a pirate! You are now a Privateer under the King!

A beat went by. Could have driven a ship through the tension. Then –

Tiny: Nooooooo! I still want to be a pirate!!! I don’t want to be private.
Fucking Moron: Then off to the gallows!!!
Tiny: WAH!!!!
Me: Oh, dude…