Persimmon Breath

[Continued from 9-30-10 and 10-1-10, just like Thackeray doing “Vanity Fair.”]

When he saw the ship with the black sails, Joe Frazier [“Singin’ Joe,” not “Smokin’ Joe] quickly grabbed the binoculars out of the hands of a lady with blue hair.

“Hey,” she yelled, “give those back. I just figured out where the poop deck is.”

“NSA,” said Joe.

“No strings attached? Why did you say that?” asked the old lady.

“Because your binocs don’t have a strap,” Joe answered. “Also because I’m cool and can talk txt.”

“I still don’t see what that has to do with the poop deck,” groused the old lady.

Joe ignored her and scanned the waters, turned the dials on the binocs, found the ship with the black sails. There was a strange but familiar flag. It featured a picture of a tea bag, and the words, in “Intolerant” font, “We are the only true patriots.”

“Not Somalis,” the Joe muttered. “A different breed of pirates.”

He felt a slight weight on the binoculars. He pulled them back from his eyes. There sat a little brown everyday bird.

“Let me smell your breath,” Joe said to the bird.

The bird didn’t budge. Joe patted his pockets, hoping to find the raisin bread he had pocketed that morning in the Lido Restaurant on Deck 9. As he did so, a crumb of leftover Eucharist wafer popped off his lapel. The bird snatched it deftly out of the air.

“Well, I guess you’re an Episcopalian now,” said Joe.

The bird promptly puked on the toe of his priest shoe. But not before he had smelled its breath.

“Just as I thought,” mused the priest. “Persimmon on its breath. That can mean only one thing…”