PIRATE: Arg! Yarr!
ME: Oh, jebus-fuck.
PIRATE: Well, lassy, that's a right fair bangle you have round your neck!
ME: Get bent.
PIRATE: blah blah pirate blah wench blah blah booty blah blah lame joke blah arg.
[Honestly, I can't remember all the shit he said.]
ME: Piss off so I can eat my slice of Davy Jone's pizza in peace, k?
Sadly, the pirate followed me into the cafeteria as I tried to find a seat in the FAR corner, and proceeded to tell me a series of piratey-themed and slightly offensive jokes ("What do you call a pirate's fat girlfriend? A VAST MATEY! Get it? Get it? ARG!"). It. Was. HORRIFYING. I finally escaped, only to have him wander over to the table next to mine and regale three terrified editorial assistants with stories of the bounding mane - or how he couldn't get a good summer theatre gig this year and really needed to score a national commercial to pay his acting workshop tuition, I don't know. A couple of tables away, I caught the rolling eyes of several editors from my floor, and we all began to giggle over our mocktails. Finally I heard Captain Pantaloons break away from the other table and approach. I raised my head, wiped the smile from my mouth, and gave him the most dead-eyed I WILL KILL YOU BITCH look I could muster. He got the point, and sashayed over to the editors' table, while I scarfed down the rest of my Caribbean Fruit Medley cup, then bolted from the room. There were screams of terror from behind, unearthly howls coupled with an eldrich-sounding YARR-ARG! that echoed through the queerly-lit chamber like a death-knell, but I didn't turn back. Sometimes it's just better to leave people to their poorly-improvised, piratey-themed fate.