Because I don't have a little Captain in me. If my wife goes out of town for the wedding of her cousin the bitch, and I don't want to go, I'll refuse to lie about being sick. But if I do lie and end up at a bar with friends, I don't want to be in a situation where fellow bar partrons join me in an elaborate ruse to deceive my wife into believing that I'm watching TV. I will not allow these strangers to impersonate newcasters, commercials and sitcoms, just so the lies that I tell my idiot wife may amplify. Honey, what's that smell? It's not the smell that happens when Jimmy tries to cook a turkey in the dishwasher. It's the smell of a failing marriage between two dysfunctional adults, you dumb, rum-drinking drunks. It's the smell of a terrible spiced rum (the actual smell of which does, in fact, make me want to boot, due to the rum-related nightmares of my late teens) that ruins every liquid it touches. Do I want a little Captain in me so that I can authenticate the unnecessary lies I tell to my dumb wife? I politely decline.
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There's a joke in here somewhere about leering midget pirates or admirals making lewd come-ons ...
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