The Master of the Ocean Sea stood on the deck of his flagship, arms akimbo. He inhaled sharply, tasting the salt air.
Soon he would be planting the flags of Castile and Aragon on the soil of El Dorado, he thought. His eyes glistened at the thought. Honor. Wealth beyond avarice!
Suddenly, he was wracked by his daily spasm. He barely had time to get his bare arse positioned over the side before his guts twisted again, sending a stream of bloody flux into the sea.
Cristobal Colòn hated his colon. He would have been better off with a semi-colon.
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