Today brought with it hope in the war against tubs of traditional cooking spreads. The skies parted and a customer emerged, spreading joyous words of lard-based optimism. She informed us of her cooking escapades of yesteryear, lard being the protagonist, its role being unearthing a world of delicious. She spoke of a time before hydrogenation, proselytizing on lard’s comparative health benefits. The lard was uncovered, the plan was conceived; she would return the lard to its rightful place within the kitchen proper. She dug in, spoon secure in hand and was immediately confronted with the stench of aged lard, which is both indescribable and unloveable. Hope was lost, check in again later about an encouraging day for the lard.

The tub of lard has survived yet another day of emotional affliction. It remains stagnant in the face of constant poking and prodding—its short-lived interaction with the inquisitive spectator always resulting in an eventual grimace, an upturned nose, a pity-induced laugh. It listens and waits for the inevitable “ew, that’s gross.” It turns a deaf ear to the sarcasm when one inquires: “oh how much does this lard cost?” Alas, few are planning on pursuing the details of this transaction—it’s all just feigned interest, a joke at best. Thus the lard remains—unmoved through these trials and troubles, heartaches and wounded pride, somehow finding solace in the consistency of it all.

I have noticed a trend in the style of bartered joke that did not become so tangibly real until I heard this: What did the pants say to the pants? (What?) We’re pants. It’s called spontaneity and it’s around. When it comes to the bartered joke, trusting your instincts may just be the way to go. Whipping together a punch line instantaneously opens up a treasure trove of comedic potential. This makes the bartering process much more exciting for everybody. The element of surprise has arrived. Why did the chicken cross the road? There are infinite possibilities.

With this post comes a whole slew of contradicting emotions. The Store Log has officially returned! (You’re excited, the obscurity of 2009 is eclipsed by the pure delight of this breaking news). With every day that passed, the search for our elusive log intensified—it was an unbearable struggle, a journey so incredible that attempting to assign words to the events will only cause my mind to strain and heart to wrench. (You cringe with sympathy pains!). Quantifying this journey will have to suffice: seven hearts were broken, five deal-cementing handshakes were offered, two rolls of duct tape were exhausted, six long-distance calls appeared on our phone bill, and at least three metaphorical bridges were burned. Just when we decided the end had passed us by, that we would continue living under the radar, in the suffocating darkness, our most hopeful dreams came to fruition. The Store Log was found underneath a half-eaten sandwich! (What? You’re confused, grossed out, maybe you’re in disbelief, embarrassed for us a little bit). But would you have looked underneath a sandwich? Be honest. The past is the past and lunch is lunch except when it is a sandwich obstructing our ability to document Pirate Store happenings. Let us, all together, be grateful for the return of our fruitful Store Log and set our sights on the many events that will lead to many emotions that will occur in the future.

The Pirate Store is not what it once was. Today, the store log has officially gone missing. It was in its usual spot, then I turned around to explain the public health benefits of seahose to this guy, then I turned around again, then back to the guy, who was suddenly deep into a lecture on the power of wind turbines in almost-perfect Portuguese, then I turned back to where I left the Store Log—and it was gone. This, as you can imagine, is a devastating blow to our status as highly communicative, modern pirate suppliers. How will the passing of time, the ebb and flow of quotidian transactions, those site-specifically poignant moments, remain glorified in our discarnate vaults? Will they go undocumented, forgotten, forever? Will life as we know it come to a halting stop, stuck in the dust-collecting archives of 2008? If a ridiculous thing transpires in the store, and there is no log in which to describe it, did the ridiculous thing really happen? These questions may be racing through your frenzied mind. Calm down! We have this prescient feeling that this situation cannot last more than one year, eleven months and ten days.