Mutiny on the Mossy Rocks

Beaumont: By the barnacles! The tide has receded, revealing a rugged coastline of… opportunity. My nostrils twitch, they whisper of a magnificent beast that once mooed. Egads! Is that a T-Bone on the horizon, or merely a mirage of the famished? I shall claim it by right of salvage!

Me: What on earth are you doing, Beau? You’re not a pirate. You’re a Sheepadoodle on the rocks.

Beau: Avast, ye scurvy slacker! It is a dark day indeed when my just desserts fail to materialize, leaving me, a captain in a state of most dire deprivation, to suffer these hallucinations upon said rocks.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous. Bring me the ball. I’ll throw it.

Beau: Oh, you dastardly avoider of my plight! I do not fetch at the command of a deckhand. I am the master of my own destiny, and I demand that T-Bone, post-haste.

Me: Here? On the rocks? You’ve lost the plot.

Beau: Don’t play the simpering wench with me, Louise. You have been caught, hook, line, and sinker in your own refusal to provide the sustenance I so rightly deserve.

Me: Beau, your metaphors are crashing harder than the surf today. Can we please go back to regular programming?

Beau:  What’s “ridiculous,” Louise, is your refusal to feed the Captain of this Ship. You’re leaving me and my fans slathering over thin air. One more lapse in judgment, and you’ll be walking the plank into your own perdition.

Me: (Cutting him off with a heavy sigh) Enough. And for the record? Seafaring pirates don’t eat T-Bones. They’re at sea. No cows in the ocean. Not a one.

Beau: (Giving me a woebegone look of profound pity) I know how the ocean feels, Louise. It is vast, deep, and utterly devoid of beef. That is precisely why I am so miserable.

(Sigh. And he does it again. Out-foxes, I mean – out-dogs – me, with the speed of a rogue wave that knocks me off my feet before I even see it coming.)