Today, I read the pirate humor piece I had published at Points in Case, and also try out a couple minutes of some jokes I’m working on for some potential future stand-up. The piece is reprinted below, but I STRONGLY recommend listening. ___ Avast, ye ableist land-crabs! Me name’s No-Eye Nancy, the dreaded blind pirate. And I’m here to say it be long past time yer places of business be more supportin’ of disabled workers. I’ll tell ye how me peg-legged and eye-patched crew do it, and ye’ll shape up, or I’ll clap ye in irons and toss the key to a whale. So what be behind yer shore-clingin’ narrow-mindedness? Why, yer expectations for disabled folk be as low as the briny abyss! I bet ye would never think a pirate like me who can’t see a damn thing could swing onto a ship deck and give a sailor me boot straight to his nose. Maybe yer confused how it be possible that I stabbed a royal executioner, slipped out of me noose, and sailed away free from me own hangin’. Or how do I work out which spot X marks? Well, I done all of that, so trust people’s lived experiences, ye mud-pissin’ earthworms! Ask yer crew what they think they can accomplish, and provide what they say they need to do their job. Like I always be sayin’: nothin’ about us without us, or I’ll run ye straight through with me white cane. I’ll bet ye think it’d be hard barkin’ orders aboard me ship if yer mute, eh? Well, tell that to me bosun, Silent Sam, whose parrot be translatin’ his sign language. It fills me heart with joy when I hear that bird squawkin’, “Lash that merchant ship captain to the mast and let the gulls have him!” Aye, if ye give disabled folk the right opportunities, they’ll shine brighter than the sun what roasted that captain. Or maybe ye’d have fired me barrel cooper when the boom bludgeoned him in the head and he forgot what barrels was. No! We be a union shop! He got a living ration through workers’ comp while we spent many a patient hour explainin’ that he should come out the barrels because they weren’t no tiny houses like he thought. They be for storin’ water, food, and valuables we pilfer off floatin’ corpses after an ambush at sea. Ye must be takin’ neurodivergence into account, too. Our quartermaster has earmuffs so senses don’t be overloadin’ with our enemies’ tormented screams. He’s got textured gloves for when the cold steel of blades we be slicin’ open an enemy with feels like bilge water on the skin. And we use enemy bones to make fidget spinners. Now I be not unreasonable. Ye won’t see me up at the masthead, lookin’ through the glass and shoutin’ “Land ho!” like that be doin’ me crew any good. We always be analyzin’ whether a prospective hand can perform the essential functions of the position with reasonable accommodations in place. And there aren’t no way to turn the horizon to Braille, so No-Eye Nancy’s not in the lookout candidate pool. But I’ll fashion ye a pulley system if ye can’t climb up there with yer wooden leg. And if the pulley breaks, me master gunner Blastin’ Billy’ll get ye up there with a cannon. Me crew spreads our culture of inclusion wherever we be (in addition to teeth-gnashin’ terror, o’course). We give physically disabled villagers time to flee before we light their homes ablaze, carefully helpin’ ’em down the front stairs, around the crude explosives we got waitin’ outside, and over toward their wailin’ neighbors in the town square. When we hold up a portside tavern, we wave our pistols about, shout “Get down!” at ’em, and then give detailed descriptions of our appearances. Only when everyone be on level terms regardin’ visual information do we make an example of the mouthy barkeep. We be makin’ similarly thoughtful accommodations for the folk we be holdin’ captive at sea to get ransom from their petrified families. Our brig’s got a wide entrance, adjustable cot, and handrails — solid as ye like — over the shitehole. Why, even me ol’ first mate Wheelchair Willie, after he tried to mutiny, met his fate with the same dignity as any treacherous b*****d runnin’ about on legs. It brings a tear to me eye to remember him, independently, rollin’ up the appropriately gradual access ramp to the reinforced, extra-wide plank, tumblin’ with his chair into Davy Jones’ locker, and bein’ devoured by sharks. That be a true picture of the equitable world I want to live in. Now, all ye business owners here, we’re gonna untie ye, as we promised. Blastin’ Billy’s got the whole arsenal trained on ye, so no funny business. We’ll be back in a week. If all the disabled folk in this town be gainfully employed, ye’ll get yer children back. Alright, fair winds to ye, ye dirt-suckin’ bigots! 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