The crew were surly, and there were whisperings of mutiny.
The officers gathered at the rough oak table in the captain's quarters. "If we don't raise morale, the crew will revolt," the First Mate said. "We've been lost at sea for too long already, and they're losing faith in us."
"Whip 'em again!" menaced the Captain.
"We can't use the cat on them any more sir," came the reply. "Last time there was a lashing the Flog Master got his arm broken; the men are at breaking point as it is."
"Fuck 'em!" grumbled the Captain.
"We can't sir, we haven't caught a dolphin for weeks, and the blowhole on the last one is torn ragged."
"Get 'em drunk!" growled the Captain.
"Would that we could, and us too sir! But we've no spirits, no ale, no grog left, not a drop to bring that sweet, sweet oblivion."
"Well fookin' THINK OF SOMETHING!" the Captain bellowed. "I'm going for a piss!"

The Captain stormed off to his gaderobe, where the delicate tinkle of urine splashing into the chamberpot rang loudly over the silence around the table.

"BOY, empty that pot!" the Captain thundered as he re-entered the room, buttoning his breeches.

"WAIT!" Shouted the First Mate, rising to his feet. His eyes shone with the mischief of a devious plan. "Bring the pot in here, unemptied. And be quick about it!"

Five minutes later, multiple tinklings could be heard from the Captain's Quarters.

*****

"DRINK UP, ME HEARTIES!" guffawed the Captain, cracking open the wooden barrel. "This is me Special Reserve! I was saving it for a special occasion, but now it goes to you, my beautiful boat-born boys. Drink your fill!"

The crew cheered and descended on the barrel, dipping battered pewter mugs into the frothy brew. "Hurrah for the Captain!" yelled one brave soul as the men clanked their mugs together and quaffed their fill.

Then the vomiting started.

"Wot der fuck is dis?" drawled a thick-set crewman, barrel-chested with arms thick as the mast. "This tastes like piss".

"Piss and paraffin", his weasel-faced deckmate sneered. "Or naptha. These bleedin' officers are trying to fob us off with gutrot while they drink brandy in the mess! Them filthy fucking rotters!" The slow scraping of a steel blade screeched across the suddenly silent ship as a seaman unsheathed his sword.

"Stand back, you brutes, stand BACK!" shouted the First Mate, hand reaching down for his lash. "You got your drink, you drink it. Drink it, I tell you!"

"Shan't", roared the crew as one, as they lunged towards the officers. "'T'ain't Rum! 't'ain't Rum! 't'ain't Rum!"
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 8:21, 6 replies)

SPANG!
Although to be quite honest I do rather enjoy a good pun. Cheers!
( Purple Martin is board sigless, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 8:27, closed)

Duly clicked
Mind you, I've polished up my best spanging pan too!!
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 8:31, closed)

Prick.

( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 9:15, closed)

You. Grrrmachine. Yes - you.
Fuck off.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 10:46, closed)

I like this
It reminds me of living in Britain
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Fri 20 Jul 2012, 11:36, closed)

You spelt garderobe wrong.
Cunt.
( Neptune A dole queue dosser and foul mouthed chav., Mon 23 Jul 2012, 19:27, closed)