Arrr... it be me, Captain Metabeard. The upper management of Roboshrub Inc. hired me an' me crew of scurvy 18th
century psychic buccaneers ter intervene an' put an end ter the reign of King Evil Robo-Bob Dole. Me first mate, Dr. Porter, graphed out our arrrrrrduous voyage through the fiery rivers of the Frozen Lower Blogosphere to the electric fortress of King Dole. The pictures speak fer themselves. Arrr...
Our voyage started out peaceably enough, sailing out into the sunset. Or sunrise. Porter can't capture the true feelin' o' the moment, despite th' rigorous telepathic training I make me crew endure. Arrrr... anyway, me crew and I were celebratin' our good fortune the morn after we left port. I run a tight ship, and I disapprove of the use of books, as they dull the mind. But on that fatefull day, I made an exception. I gave me crew, even the galley slaves, a pile of PC World
magazines. They looked at me funny fer a while, and it left me... well, not particularly shaken, but I felt a funny squirm in the pit o' me stomach. Arrrrrr...
I didn't notice any clouds at first, but after me crew was done readin' the unholiest of computer magazines, we noticed a chill in th' air. The temperature dropped to 270 kelvins. Tha's right, I make me crew measure temperature in kelvin. 'Tis a more precise measurement than either Centigrade or Fahrenheit, as kelvins measure the actual magnitude of energy. None o' that water-related sorcery. Sorcery, I say! Yarrrrr... but when th' coldness came, that should've been the firs' clue. But we sailed on with reckless abandon, givin' pause to Great Neptune hi'self.
We were surprised when the cold lifted and we sighted land. Not sure if this was the island housing King Dole's fortress, we sailed up quietly. Waited outside the slapping shores for three days, keeping track of the tides. Even circled 'round th' atoll in a wildly elliptical retrograde pattern. No ship came or went. Runnin' low on foodstuffs, we pulled anchor. Unfortunately, the guy who normally pulls anchor was on sick leave, and his replacement was an intern. Grrrr, foolish wretch dropped the thing right through the deck. Cracked the hull, the keen... almost sank the whole cursed ship. Arrrrr... good thing we're a bunch o' psychic pirates, we levitated the schooner with our minds safely onto dry land, where we began the repairs. But to show that incompetence can' be tolerated, I hadda zap the poor fool into oblivion with my advanced laser eye telekinesis. I knew I would have to, since I foresaw the whole journey a few days ago while astoprojecting.
Awaiting us on the island were creatures unlike any I've ever seen, to that day or since. Great beasts of ev'ry size an' 'scription present, yes sir! We managed to take one of 'em down with only our minds, and feasted. The days went by quickly. Arrrrr, 'fore long, it'd been a week since we first left to invade the King's fortress. Shufflin' me sea dogs to the junker, we set off once more. This time fate wasn't so forgivin'.
A hideous storm blew 'cross the ocean, sendin' riptides and mammoth waves crashing 'gainst the leeward side o' the hull. Visibility was fast 'proachin' zero percent, so we steered slowly, catchin' a purview of the nearby land with our pirate senses. Finding no danger, we drove the whole ship right onto the beach. That was the first mistake. The second was firin' off a round of road flares to let any planes in the vicinity know where we were. Little did we know we were bein' watched... watched most foul! Arrrrr!
A contingent sent on the "authority" of King Dole showed up the next frigid morn. Me crew were so exhausted from the partyin' and the beachin' that they couldn' put up a fight. Normally, a psychic pirate stands a great chance 'gainst a soceric robot. But these weren't normal circumstances. We... surrendered... and were taken to King Evil Robo-Bob Dole's secret fortress. I quickly befriended the platoon leader, a robotic drone with no independence or morals of any kind. I taught 'im a couple o' emotions, an' 'e was so grateful, 'e forged me a perfect piratin' license with his nano'logical sorcery. Then 'e went insane and attacked a tree. Arrrr... better'n Leno.
The King's stronghold was greater and grander than anythin' me crew an' I could imagine. I got a good glimpse o' the passageways as we were bein' led through the lab'rinth. After 'bout three hours o' nonstop walkin' we fin'ly came ter the throne room. Showing the King my "official" letter of marque, he decided to let me off with a warnin'. But ter make 'is point, 'e scuttled me ship, stole me booty, an' poured grog on me head an' made me dance a jig fer ten hours. Then 'e keelhauled me crew and stole me clothes and sent me back on a rowboat locked in a gibbet cage. Son of a biscuit eater!