Avast! The signal fires have been lit atop the hills of Hollywood, and the smoke smells strangely of lavender and expensive baby powder. Ansel Elgort, that smooth-faced balladeer known to some as the 'Baby Driver' and to others as the lad who broke hearts under the shadow of a dying star, has finally dropped anchor in the harbor of fatherhood. 'Tis true, ye scoundrels! He and his long-time mate, the fair Lady Violetta Komyshan, have welcomed a fresh soul onto their deck. The news hit the docks like a rogue wave, sending rum-soaked sailors scrambling for their telescopes to see if the child inherited the father's penchant for rhythm or the mother's grace upon the dance floor.

The little swashbuckler arrived with a cry that could pierce the thickest fog in the English Channel. Old 'Barnacle' Bill, a grizzled deckhand who spends more time scrubbing the poop deck than reading the social scrolls, spat his tobacco into the brine and grunted, 'A new mouth to feed in the Elgort fleet! Let’s hope the lad has a better sense of direction than Tony did in those New York alleys, or he’ll find himself walking the plank before his first tooth grows in.' Meanwhile, the socialites of the Tortuga lounge are already placing bets in gold doubloons on whether the babe will first learn to steer a getaway carriage or perform a perfect plié while pillaging a merchant frigate.

Even the high lords of the Great Studio Trading Company have weighed in. Lord 'Gold-Tooth' Spielberg was heard muttering into his chalice of nectar during a recent gala at the Governor’s Mansion, 'We’ve got a legacy on our hands! Fetch me a tiny leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses that fit a skull no larger than a coconut. If the child can hold a tune while dodging cannonfire, we’ll have a franchise that’ll last until the next eclipse!' The implications are dire for the rest of us, mates. With a new heir in the mix, the competition for the finest silk swaddling clothes and the purest goat’s milk has turned the Caribbean into a war zone. Merchant ships carrying rattles and pacifiers are being raided by desperate celebrity godfathers looking to curry favor with the new prince of the tides.

But mark me words, this isn't just about lullabies and nap times. The arrival of this Elgort heir has caused a shift in the very currents of the Atlantic. Reports are coming in from the Azores that the whales are singing in a higher key, likely trying to mimic the lad’s first wails. 'The balance of power has shifted,' warned Admiral Scurvy-Bottom during a secret meeting behind the gunpowder magazine. 'With a new Elgort roaming the earth, the supply of smoldering stares will surely double, causing a surplus that could crash the vanity market from here to Singapore!' We must brace ourselves for a deluge of infant-themed ballads and perhaps a sequel to his driving exploits where the getaway car is replaced by a high-octane perambulator powered by pure adrenaline and strained peas.

So, raise your grog high, ye salty dogs! Whether this babe grows up to be a master of the stage or a terror of the trade routes, we welcome the distraction from the scurvy and the storms. May the winds be at his back and the diaper changes be swift and merciful. To Ansel and his lady, we offer a tip of the tricorn hat and a warning: the sleepless nights ahead are worse than a month in a Spanish brig, but the treasure of a first-born is worth more than all the silver in Potosí. Now, back to work, ye lazy louts, before I have the bosun show ye the business end of a cat-o'-nine-tails!