Call where yer at and we'll come where yer to!

Yargh! All right me hearties, I've got some bad news and I've got some good news. What say ye shall I tell first? The bad news, savvy? Yargh, tis a sorry tale indeed. Twas nigh 6:30 yesterday evenin at me job, whilst I was a-pullin a pallet-jack o' pet supplies out to the floor. I went to turn the blasted thing starboard, but blimey if she didn't turn. Her handle went right up and the thing didn't stop till she'd run right over me right heel. Hurt more than a barrel of gunpowder shoved up yer nose. I hobbled into the breakroom and took off me shoe, and twas blood and carnage nigh worse than I ever seen! I couldna walked on me foot if the devil himself crawled outta Davy Jones locker and called me down to watery hellish grave below a' I had ter run like mad ter hide meself. And wha's the good news, ye say? Well, savvy, went to the doctor and nothin's busted up too badly...no chips er tears er breaks er rips. Justa right bruised Achilles tendon and a chunk o' skin gone. But the thing to rejoice over tis it 'appened at work, so me decent employer paid for the doctor and supplies, and for the next 4 days I'll be takin off. I musta signed me John Hancock well nigh 50 times today. I've got meself some crutches fer the next few days and a little somethin to stabilize me foot whilst she's healin. The brace they've got me in looks like a bloody moon-boot. Tis enormous...all she be missing is jet-packs on the sides. A whole lot o' truck fer a little bruised tendon. But they say she's got to heal right so I'll be a-hobblin' around for a while. And that, me hearties, is how I got so that they're calling me "Peg-Leg Whittaker, the Scourge of the Seven Seas!"

A little note fer all those to whom it pertains: Me cell phone is at last a-workin' again. So ye can call me on it if ye wish. YARGH!