I like to think I’m a crafty person.  But sometimes my craftiness gets the best of me – or it takes me places I don’t want to go – or it thrusts me into hand-to-hand combat with household items…vicious household items.

I have this friend you see, that is really into pirates – a friend, yes, a friend that is not me.  So this friend – and by friend I mean not me – really digs the pirates and thinks it would be super-awesome to  have a shirt declaring just how piratey I…I mean SHE – is.  So me, being the spectacular friend that I am, decide to make this shirt – with my crafty wit, my witty craft, my crafty what, my wifty twut… Anyways, I’ve been known to wield an iron from time to time, and I can truthfully say that I have a great skill when it comes to iron-on letters – ‘cuz you know, not everyone can handle that kind of power – that kind of absolute control.

So, I’m all set – I got the t-shirt – a piratey black color, nothing bright or happy about it – just pure blackness, like the heart of a buccaneer, or a fire blowfish lawyer…and I got my iron-on letters – a nice, crisp white, the white you see only in the bones of the unfortunate fire blowfish lawyer.  And then, to add in some extra scurv, I got this really sweet skull and crossbones patch – ‘cuz a true pirate would totally dig that.

I head downstairs – that’s where our iron lives, in the basement, with its homies, Washer, Dryer, and Ironing McBoardington.  They’re with it, as long as you keep your wits about you.  I plug that happy iron in, and crank up the hot – all the way up – you gotta melt that iron-on glue good, so it don’t be crackin’ wise  ‘bout yo mama.  Then of course, you gotta wait – ten minutes is best – just so you know that the iron is in tip-top ironing shape – I don’t want my iron slackin’ on the job.  So back upstairs I go – potty break – irons work much better with an empty bladder – there’s less dancing that way.  Pirates don’t dance…well, they may dance, but they surely don’t do the “I Gotta Pee” dance.  That is completely un-pirate like.  

One flush, two cookies, a drink of water, and thirteen stairs later, I’m back to the iron, and we’re ready to brawl…and by brawl – I mean make a super-cool t-shirt with my wifty twut.  I am so ready.  I iron on the first few letters without any issue.  My shirt currently says “I’M A.”  I set the iron down – on its bottom, so it’s nice and comfy – so I can arrange my last word.  I’m just centering the word, “PIRATE” when BAM! – A sneak attack!  A fiery blast shoots up my arm; I look and my skin is already rippling – pale as a ghost that’s just been sneak-attacked!  

Pirates are known for their stealth…and twut – who’d have thought my very own iron was an eye-patch wearin’ outlaw, just waitin’ to strike me down?  But I wasn’t goin’ quietly – there’s no way.  So I bust out my own secret weapon – not a sword, or cannon…or a fire blowfish monkey – I whip out my good old-fashioned wit…yeah!  I’m screwed, but it’s what I got.  So I jump back, barely dodging another blow from my deadly opponent – to the left and right, I dip and duck and tuck and roll and finally I gain the upper hand.  I now have complete control.  I slap those letters into place, each consonant causing the iron as much pain as the previous vowel – my declaration is complete.  

But no serious pirate can leave well-enough alone.  I had to go out with style, with flair, with finesse…and crying – and the only way to do that is by slicing some rope and flying off the ship via ‘the sail,’ but I – not having a pirate ship in my basement (they took away my credit cards…) – must find other ways to jazz up my finish.  Thus – the skull and crossbones – I slapped that baby down and ironed the YARR out of it – that’ll show that rogue of an iron who’s boss.  For sure.  Once my victory had been secured, I whipped the plug out of its socket, putting my foe out of commission for good…or until the next time my crafty twut feels like an adventure.