My name be Langworth the Dread, feared captain of the Bombardo. I’ve shivered timbers, ho’ed land, and buckled swash, but I still fear me crew don’t see me as a real pirate. It ain’t me fault that my body be in its physical prime. I have all me limbs and me teeth’re strong and sparklin’ white. My hair be cleanin’ itself with yon well balanced natural oils. Even me skin don’t burn in the sun—I leave a long day on the poop deck glowin’ and sunkissed. For a while I figured I’d just lose a hand for the sake of look, but I be a lefty golfer, hopeless when it comes to puttin’ with a hook. Me crew don’t see me as someone to be feared, nay, they be callin’ me “babyface” and plantin’ tender kisses on me forehead. How do I make the crew of the Bombardo take me seriously as both a captain and a friend?


Dear Owlet,

All the important pirates, the blue-beards, red-beards, beardbeards, and beardless-yet-still-imposings are scabbed, scarred, and scurvy-ridden. My first tip would be to soak your arm in chum and fish for barracuda, but as a fellow hole-head I wouldn’t want to interfere with your putting game. In many professions it can be beneficial to take time from a leadership position to further one’s own research or invest time in personal betterment. I recommend you leave your first mate in charge and take a sabbatical at a leper colony, giving back to your community by providing CPR. Alternatively, if you want to stay aboard, the first chore to be neglected on a pirate ship is the deck sanding. If you shuffle around barefoot you could win yourself a pretty sizable splinter. Treat it with briny salt water you could have an infection and some barnacles in no time.



I ain’t accustomed to takin’ advice, but recently I’ve been findin’ myself with my hair in the butter. It’s been near a week since I seen my pet prairie dogs Maybelle and Maisie, and my neighbor Decker Dublin’s been talkin’ big game about his snarin’ skills and smellin’ an awful lot like his rodent roast just in time for his lil’ lady coming down from Durango. Been ridin’ all up and down main street on his bangtail Balderdash actin’ like nothin’s the matter. My poker pals at the Bloomin’ Dunes Saloon’ve been tellin’ me I oughta up and shoot the varmint, but that just don’t sit right with my sensibilities. I may fight the sheriff n’all but I ain’t no bandit, no. I follow all them important laws like local noise ordinances and litterin’—my maw raised me n’ my brothers to be climate conscious (tumbleweeds tumble past my yard more’n most). How can I see if Decker’s just an ol’ rooster with too much mustard or if he’s been cookin’ up  my Maybelle and Maisie to woo his woman?


Dear Owlet,

What sort of monster would cook up small fluffy animals, with names no less? What we have here is a true madman. Give this Decker fellow a test of his own medicine… you’re going to have to cook up his horse. Grab Balderdash while Decker is sleeping and make a cassoulet. Not only will this establish your dominance, but it will provide you with a delicious, hearty stew for the winter months that’s rich with flavor and revenge—a real stick-to-your-ribs type of dish. The smell will waft over your backyard, tumbleweeds and all, and show that bastard and his lady who’s the real cowboy in town. 





Dear Owlet,

How dare you say such things to me? I was hatched from eldritch birds who hooted and clawed their way to God just to spit in an owl pellet in his face. My regurgitation holds the bones of stronger men than you. You can slink and sneak all you want, but my eyes are wide and all-seeing and my talons have pierced ninja flesh before. My only advice is to watch your back.