The Smuggler’s Blues

I'm a Haitian pirate, yo!

Hello, my name is Island Boy, and  I believe strongly in certain things.

Like a true son of the Caribbean, there is a pirate in my soul yearning to break free.  Most of the time I can tame this renegade spirit of mine.

But, some things are just beyond my control.

Like the need to bring my most awesomest toys and booty (Ha!  I love that word!) to preschool every day.

My totally great toys are trucks, power ranger masks, spidermansmen, and any kind of weapon that can shoot, stab, stick or filet you with hot lasers.

My booty (I said it again!) consists of anything that I see in the house that looks cool: food coloring, power tools, bug spray, full-sized Halloween skeletons (on second thought, that one is a little too scary for me), stray nails, tacks and other wonderfully sharp objects.

Why must I bring these precious treasures to preschool?  Duh.  And they say there are no stupid bad (I’m not allowed to use that word) questions.  The answer is simple: to lord them over those other children that I permit to share my classroom experience.  After all, they are mere peasants.  Sometimes, I walk right by them without deigning to say hello.

Now as for the minor challenge of conveying them to school — this part is fraught with peril.  The peril’s name is Papa.

I hate that guy.  I don’t hate hate him.  But, I hate how he constantly blocks my efforts to sneak my gold into school.

I’ve tried it all — in the backpack (he calls it a rucksack — what a dork!).  He finds it.  I’ve even shoved them deep down into the front pocket of the backpack underneath all the papers that the teachers send home that my parents ignore rarely check.  He busts me.

I faked the need for a lunch box.  Forget about the fact that they give me breakfast and lunch there, I had him convinced that I needed my own lunchbox — just like my big brother and sister.  He bought it.  What a maroon!

But, wait!  He’s checking my freaky-deaky lunch box now.  No fair.  I’m throwin’ my best cheese at the guy and he’s taking me deep.

Okay, my grandmother (at least she keeps insisting she’s my grandmother — to be honest, the whole thing is really confusing) sent me $10 for Easter.  SWEET!  10 burritos of my very own.  I can do what I want with this do-ray-me, right?  Wrongo bongo.  My mom says I have to save it for some time when I need something.

Mama: blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.

Oh, snap.  I just got sent to my room for making fun of her.

Enjoy this musical interlude while I’m doing my time.



Alright, I’m back peeps.

Getting back to Mommy.  I hate her too.  Once more for you slow folks — I don’t really hate her.

Anyhow, I had the perfect plan for sneaking my Benjamins (okay, it was just my one Alexander) into school to wave under my inferiors’ friends’ noses.  It was fool-proof.

Okay, you know how you have those pockets in your pants?  That’s right, two of them — one on each side?   Well, I figured out that if you slip the cabbage into the…

Wait.  You know about this?  So did Mommy.

What kind of Spidey senses are you adults sporting?

You’re freaking me out.

How’s a young pirate supposed to get his funkingrovin on with you buzzkills around?


You may have gotten the drop on me…for now.  But, I’ll be back.

I just need a little more time to think this one out.

I’ll get my booty (hah!) by you and into school before this thing you keep calling “summer” (Hey, what is that anyway?) gets here.

Peace Out I mean Arrrrggggg!

–Island Boy


3 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Gail on April 28, 2011 at 9:58 pm

    Thanks for the musical interlude! lol


  2. Posted by Tara on April 29, 2011 at 7:20 am

    Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Hilarious.


  3. Posted by Cecily on April 29, 2011 at 12:47 pm

    Mystery solved! Now I know who’s teaching my little angel these pirate tricks for trying to sneak her own “booty” (books, hair accessories, stuffed animals, extra shoes, the kitchen sink) to preschool. She’s not his best student as she’s still asking permission to take each item but her twist on it is if she asks enough times about enough items, she may wear us down.

    I decline to comment on whether her tactic works.


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