Avast, ye scurvy dogs and landlubbers of the digital docks! Captain Iron Ink is back from the brine, and the ink in me quill is as black as a dead man’s heart. Word has drifted to the crow’s nest that Donald Trump, that Gilded Captain of the Mar-a-Lago Galleon, has once again tossed a cursed bottle into the digital surf. This weren’t no treasure map, mates; 'twas a foul bit of parchment—a video scroll—reeking of the same old mutiny tales and, worse yet, a cruel and jagged caricature of the former High Lords, Barack Obama and his kin.

The video, shared on the jagged rocks of the Truth Social platform, claims the great election of yesteryear was naught but a rigged dice game played by sirens. But it didn't stop at mere tall tales of stolen chests of gold. It featured depictions of the Michelle Obama family that would make even a rum-blinded bilge rat blush with shame. 'Tis one thing to argue over the charts and the compass, but to paint such vile pictures is like poisoning the very well on a desert isle. 'I’ve seen many a storm,' croaked me first mate, Salty Sam, 'but I’ve never seen a captain so keen to set his own docks on fire just to see the sparks fly!'

The consequences of this madness are rippling across the Seven Political Seas like a kraken’s wake. When a man of such standing—or sitting, mostly, in his gilded cabins—broadcasts such bile, it encourages every mutinous scoundrel to sharpen their cutlasses. The peace of the port is at stake, me hearties. By invoking the dark spirits of prejudice, the Gilded Captain is ensuring that the crew of the The United States remains divided, fighting over scraps of dignity while the ship of state drifts closer to the jagged reefs of civil discord.

The Lords of the High Admiralty are whispering of more than just a slap on the wrist. They see this as a signal fire for the next Great Mutiny. 'He seeks to turn brother against brother by the color of their sails,' remarked Lord Sterling of the Blue Fleet. If we cannot sail together without mocking the very faces of those who held the wheel before, then we are truly lost at sea. It’s a dangerous game to play when the clouds are already bruising and the wind is howling for a reckoning.

So, keep your eyes peeled and your muskets dry, ye readers of the Ink. This latest volley from the Gilded Captain proves that the wars for the soul of the sea aren’t fought with cannonballs alone, but with the ink of hatred and the scrolls of deceit. As for me, I’ll be stayin’ in the tavern till the fog clears, or until someone finally teaches that man how to read a proper map that doesn't lead straight to a whirlpool of his own makin'. The horizon looks grim indeed, and there ain't enough grog in the hold to drown out the stench of this latest betrayal.