Captain Cock’s Journal During Another Voyage Around the Girls
Tuesday, 17th. I farted soon as my lids passed the scape of mine eyes. My bed rumbled, wakening stole into me like last night’s stew, and my cabin was at once a jungle of barbarous scents and cheek-flapping echoes. The squall of the fart blew 15 degrees past my left thigh and 43 degrees up my central-buttocks. I felt it tickle mine taint, where I’ve a pimple like a stuffed pinto bean, and I’ve been tempted to pop it, but I suspect the pus might fly 50 some degrees west into the rear of my gentleman’s grain-sacks. I observed this morn how the hair on those bulbous mounds of His Image had grown, and I much thought of my wife Grace and her fascination with shaving my intimacy. The hairs bent at some 5 degrees south, my captain’s fleshy finger bent similarly in the southern direction, and I was much pressed by God to not relieve my white man’s burden in a stupendous arc and spray of some 69 degrees north onto the walls of mine cabin. Instead, I took up my journal, that silly numbers pomposity the King will read, and I took to recording the rest of my much burdened day. And what a burden I had between mine legs. I am loath to enter into disputes, but I would swear that I was as blue as the sea with which we plied 51 miles east and 30 north.
Friday, 20th. ARRIVAL ON UNNAMED ISLAND. Having been incited by the man in the crow’s nest sighting of land – which during he made the mistake of pointing towards said land at a 40-degree angle and not a 45-degree angle – pushed, was I, towards the relief of my rage in the forms that came as they may. God as my witness, the King shall never bear witness, and so I shall not be judged until the Judgement, and who might judge me for that? My Grace? She is at home. She is no witness. I corrected the boy the 5 degrees and bid the men escort me to the village. They took hold of me, exalted as they were in my generosity in leadership, and they forced me to give in to my base temptations. With dark copper in her hair, and some golden native links in her ears, who can blame my member for the 180-degree tilt it took, most horizontal and rigid in our ship’s wood, in response to the back-frontal 90 degree angle that dark temptress took? My thrusts were, as follows, 40-some degrees inward, followed by a declination angle of 20-some degrees outward, followed by another inward of a higher and – from her -shriller 59 degrees, and naturally this followed with a 19 degree exit during which she screamed at an octave of some 80-plus decibels, and I was much irritated with the half-second lengths with which her screams echoed in my cabin. There was blood dripping at some intervals of 2 or 3 seconds, and it fell most divinely straight into a 180-degree verticality. I noted that the chains around her wrists sagged at some arc of 57 degrees and I though that most disenchanting. I found myself overtaken by the savagery within my shipmen, that savagery with which they take these savages, and I found myself striking her at some intervals of 4 or 5 seconds until she had adjusted the chains to my preferred, and uplifting, 60 degrees precisely. I freed her after the act, bid her go, and I took to disciplining the men for having possessed me so. We pressed on, sailing for some 20 miles north and 50-some miles east, and I thought of how Grace lifted mine hidden hairs to such perfect and well-learned degrees of 10s, 15s, 20s, 25s…
Review of Captain’s Cock’s Journal:
By Ivan Sternovich
The writer of this “parody” article, Ian Sterns, is a liberal fanatic who cannot remove his bias from anything he writes. His choice to adopt the cerebral tone of Captain Cook’s Journal is well-meaning, but even I, the esteemed reviewer Ivan Sternovich, cannot decipher his point in the constant referencing of numbers. It’s almost as though he was making fun of Captain Cooks obsession with numbers – how they seem to represent the progress of the expedition and are somehow a ridiculous commodity, a value, showing to his audience, the King, how far Cook has gone – but that couldn’t be it; the writer of this parody isn’t that good. No way is that bald dummy Sterns alleging that Cook was concealing the horrors of his journey by summarizing journeys in “miles” and reducing actions to “degrees.” Sterns couldn’t see that Cook was a liar – who probably left out evil actions by himself and crew to spare his reputation – if Cook smacked Sterns in the face with a longboat. Sterns is a pretentious idiot who is anti-feminist. How dare he conceal the horrors of colonization and rape with descriptions of sexual assault through “degrees” and “intervals!” Is he trying to say that the short distance involved in the sexual act and the vast distances of Cook’s travels are one and the same – that both are somehow inherently damaging, and that both can be reduced to numbers and terse description? Is Sterns alleging that Cook uses language as some kind of veil? And do I even need to talk about that introduction? Do we really need lengthy descriptions of Captain Cook’s genital habits? What is even the point of that? Could Sterns be pointing to the inherent humanity in such intimate actions and thoughts? Could he be setting up the strange brutality of his next paragraph by implying that the reader could, possibly, share an embarrassing connection with Cook? Is Sterns even writing about Cook? Or is he writing about Captain Cock? Does Sterns even know what he’s writing about?
Sternovich’s Grade: F+. Radical liberal propaganda with a smattering of white guilt. Just go see the Green Book instead of reading this anti-woman drivel.
Ivan Sternovich, Editor-At-Large, Breitbart.com