Sailing the seas of bile

Just a man alone on a frigate, crashing through waves of scorn on a vast sea of bile.

Lash the topsails of menace! Winch the mainsail of depravity! Hoist the forecastle of despise! This vessel is a unstoppable on the high seas...

Swells of idiots, riptides chockablock with morons and impediments, tidal waves of buffoons and blackguards... this sea is a disaster waiting to happen. But -- it doesn't wait. Critical disaster is carried on the wind -- the smell of the pungent saltmist of calamity upon the snapping gales of hate is obvious, but not as obvious as the deep well of dread living down in the liver, complete with little handcrank, bucket, and rope -- just like in the cartoons.

Waveforce crashes port and starboard, tossing the craft lo and yon, hither and thence -- all sorts of bullshit places like that. A hominid is left on the slippery deck, running up and down; it's up to him to keep this bitch from pitchpoling. Energetic bursts of red-green, like wet fists, bash and buffet.

Crack the hull. Sink -- go deep, slip into the liquid ice just feet below the surface. Feel the cartilagious carnivores nick meat from the bone.

This is the tainted-emerald sea of bile. The best human company a man can ask for, barring saltpeter in the food. This is worth benefits and 401k; worth the jackass standing at the top of the stairs lighting a Parliament, impeding your path; worth mailing an envelope full of talc to City Hall. It's worth whispering to squirrels about, like Bernie G. does in Union Square.