Avast, ye salt-crusted scribblers and bilge-drinking film buffs! The wind has carried a heavy parchment from the marble halls of the Library of Congress, and by Blackbeard’s ghost, the treasure chest of cultural history has grown heavier tonight. Twenty-five moving portraits, captured in light and shadow, have been hoisted into the National Film Registry for permanent preservation. 'Tis a strange haul this year, ranging from the high-society prattle of Beverly Hills to the mind-bending depths of a dream-thief’s subconscious. My crew and I have spent the better part of the morning arguing over whether a ‘total Betty’ is worth more than a chest of Spanish gold, and frankly, the vote is still out.

First on the manifest is a flick called Clueless, a tale of a golden-haired maiden navigating the treacherous reefs of high school. My quartermaster, 'Squinty' McGhee, claims the fashion advice alone is enough to prevent a mutiny, though I suspect he just likes the plaid. If a lass can negotiate her way out of a bad grade with such silver-tongued devilry, she could surely negotiate a peace treaty with the Spanish Armada. The consequences for us seafaring types are dire indeed. If the youth of the colonies start mimicking the 'Val-speak' of these debutantes, I fear our boarding cries will turn from 'Arrr!' to 'As if!' This would be a blow to our fearsome reputation more devastating than a broadside from a Man-o'-War.

Then we have The Karate Kid, a manual of combat that every deckhand should study with a bottle of rum in hand. We tried the crane kick on the mainmast this afternoon; three men fell overboard, and the ship’s cook has a broken nose, but the spirit of 'wax on, wax off' remains unyielding in our hearts. First Mate Barnaby remarked, 'Captain, if we taught the cabin boys to balance on the gunwale like that lad LaRusso, we’d never lose a man to a rogue wave again!' I told him to shut his trap and get back to holystoning the deck, but I’ve secretly been practicing my blocks in the captain's quarters.

However, not all is grog and sunshine. The inclusion of Inception has sent my navigator into a spiraling madness. 'Captain,' he cried, 'how can we steer by the stars if the stars are merely a dream within a dream within a bottle of cheap rum?' It’s a dangerous bit of sorcery, that one. To store such a mind-warping relic in the national archives is a bold move, likely intended to confuse any invaders who try to plunder the shores of the Potomac. Lord High Admiral Billington of the Admiralty once said, 'A film preserved is a soul saved from the locker,' and while he was usually drunk on port, he wasn't wrong about the importance of keeping these flickering ghosts alive for the generations of landlubbers to come.

This annual tradition ensures that even when our hulls have rotted and our bones are coral, the stories of the National Film Registry will remain. It’s a grand victory for the arts, even if they didn't include my favorite documentary, 'How to Gut a Sea Bass in Three Seconds.' So, raise your tankards to the screen! Whether it’s 1990s teenage angst or 1980s martial arts, these films are now part of the eternal fleet, never to be scuttled by the ravages of time or vinegar syndrome. May they shine brighter than a lighthouse in a gale!