The Etymology of LandlubberAll lubbery and shit.
Also theorized to originate from the Latin term terra smartae, meaning intelligent being who refuses to be tortured in the pursuit of leisure.
Why is it that some people think it’s a marvelous idea to travel on a floating death machine for two weeks, whereupon they and their families may possibly be subjected to staphylococcal-filled buffets, crime, mysterious disappearances, and a two-minute visit at each port?
I don’t know about you, but that’s not my idea of fun, even if there’s only a small chance any of the above atrocities might happen. I take no unnecessary chances when it comes to leisure time, and it boggles my mind that many folks do. Why, for example, would anyone believe barfing for fourteen days straight is on par with a giga-good time? Why is cohabitating in close proximity with profusely sweating gobs of humanity, while at the same time being at the mercy of the high seas, so appealing to some?
And don’t they realize that those seas are teeming with hideous
Jesus-loving,hat-wearing creatures that might just decide to emerge from the depths, sweep them off board with a twenty foot tentacled arm, then crack their skulls with a beak so powerful, it could snap a four foot thick steel pole like a breadstick?
Oh, god, and the humanity, the worst monster of all. Sick, germy, unwashed-hand shaking, garbage and waste-producing, criminal-minded, drunken humans who will cough in your face, run their filthy fingers along the same banisters you run yours, sneeze into the salad bar, pickpocket your pants, leer lasciviously at your pretty wife as she sunbathes, enter your cabin at will and rifle through your belongings, and generally just bug the piss out of you with their disgusting eating sounds when you’re forced to sit next to them at dinner.
Then, when the ship finally docks and you’re allowed to disembark onto strange, dreamy lands, you get exactly forty-two and a half minutes to explore the sunny paradise or face the consequences of being left behind. And by “explore,“ I mean “get mobbed” by natives who think you’re a fat, rich pig with serious fashion issues. They laugh at your back when you, dehydrated and dazed, hurriedly waddle back to the horn-blowing behemoth, your meaty fists clutching cheap beads and straw hats.
Okay, maybe not all of them laugh at you, but I certainly would.
I’ll bet my barf bag that you’re wondering what in the name of heaven caused this anti-cruise ship rant. Mutiny, that's what. Passengers aboard the supposedly luxurious Queen Mary 2 are, at present, considering taking over the ship because they were screwed out of three forty-two and a half minute port of calls, and must ride the raging waters for days and days before setting foot on glorious land. And I don't blame them one bit. Mind you, there's no security on board a cruise ship; there's no dude wielding a gun and handcuffs who will save the captain's ass. Ironic, isn't it? For years, travelers have been victimized, murdered and raped aboard these vessels of doom, mainly due to the quiet anarchy that has been allowed to flourish unchecked, the injustices merely sniffed at and ignored by the cruise lines -- and now the tables have turned.
Which begs the question: What’s the point of all this? Why take vacations where one can’t be guaranteed personal safety let alone truly enjoy the exotic destinations? Hell, I’ll just sit in my sunny, tree-laden backyard with a cold beer in one hand and a nice, clean, freshly made sandwich in the other while watching the Travel channel on my deck T.V. -- alone. On dry land where the only monster in proximity is all the way across the street, and he’s mowing his lawn, as thrilled to be left in peace as I am. Where the only pirates I encounter are four feet tall, and whose only weapon is their ear-piercing shrieks when they attempt to rob me of my Cheetos. Where the captain of my ship leers lasciviously at me as I sunbathe, barbeques chicken really well, and is willing to protect me from wasps.