Gather ‘round, ye salty dogs and digital drifters, for the fog of bureaucracy over the American Galleon is thicker than a kraken’s ink cloud. Captain Iron Ink here, and the news from the shores of the Potomac is enough to make a seasoned privateer sick to his stomach. The high-and-mighty scallywags in the United States House have been busy sharpening their quills and dulling their wits, passing a flurry of decrees that’ll change how we sail these treacherous waters. First on the manifest is the SAVE Act, a piece of parchment designed to ensure that every sailor on the ship of state has their papers in order before they dare touch a ballot. It’s a bold move to keep stowaways from the steering wheel, but Quartermaster ‘Hard-Tack’ Henry tells me it’s just more red tape to choke a free man’s lungs.

“They want to see your birth-marks and your lineage before you can even spit in the wind,” Henry growled as he polished his cutlass. Indeed, the requirement for proof of citizenship to vote is moving forward like a heavy frigate in a light breeze. While the Lords of Capitol Hill claim it’s to protect the sanctity of the voyage, the common deckhand fears it’s just another way to keep the crew busy filling out forms while the ship takes on water. It’s a classic maneuver from the Admiral’s handbook: make the process so cumbersome that only the wealthiest merchants can afford to show up at the docks on Election Day.

But wait, there’s a darker cloud on the horizon! The landlubbers have decided that the very sea and sky are no longer their concern. They’ve moved to repeal the EPA finding that greenhouse gases are a threat to our health. Aye, ye heard me right! They’re trying to vote away the storms and pretend the rising tides are just a figment of a drunkard’s imagination. “If they vote that the wind don't blow, does that mean my sails stay limp?” asked Ol’ Barnaby ‘Oil-Slick’ Benson, our resident bilge-rat. It’s madness, mates. Denying the soot in the air won't stop the hurricanes from snapping our masts, but it surely keeps the pockets of the coal-barons lined with golden doubloons while we drown in the shallows.

Down in the port of Philadelphia, the legal cannons are roaring over a museum exhibit that vanished quicker than a ghost ship in the night. The city is suing because some sensitive artifacts and stories regarding the Middle East were tossed overboard by the museum’s governors. It’s a battle of the maps, where one man’s history is another man’s mutiny. When the curators start hiding the truth to avoid a scuffle on the docks, the whole harbor loses its way. You can’t navigate by the stars if someone’s painted over the sky to keep from offending the merchant guilds!

The consequences of these follies are as clear as a Caribbean noon. We’re looking at a future where you need a mountain of parchment to prove you belong, while the very air you breathe is sold to the highest bidder, and our history is scrubbed cleaner than a Sunday deck. If the SAVE Act doesn’t sink us, the rising heat and the silencing of the storytellers surely will. Keep your eyes on the horizon and your hands on your coin purses, for the lords are restless, and the sea is getting angry.