Heave to, ye bilge-rats and ink-stained scoundrels! There be a fog thicker than a Kraken’s ink cloud descendin’ upon the shores of the Potomac, and it smells of bureaucratic rot and political mutiny. Once again, the high lords of the United States Government have shuttered their windows and bolted their doors, leavin’ the rest of us honest privateers to navigate the treacherous shoals of the economy without so much as a rusted compass. The great scrolls known as the employment data—the very charts we use to see if the crew be growin’ or if more souls be walkin’ the plank into the sea of poverty—have been locked away in a chest to which only the quarrelin’ lubbers in the capital hold the key.

Tis’ a disgrace, I say! How is a captain supposed to know when to trim the sails of industry when the Bureau of Labor Statistics has been sent home to rot in their hammocks? We’re driftin’ in the Doldrums, and the wind has died completely. Without these numbers, the merchant kings and the gold-hoarders don’t know whether to buy more rum or start throwin’ the cargo overboard. My old mate, 'Scurvy' Silas, who runs a fleet of supply pinnaces out of New York, told me over a bottle of grog: 'Captain, without that report, I’m sailin’ into a hurricane with a blindfold on. I don’t know if I should hire more deckhands or start measurin’ the crew for their shrouds!'

And let us not forget the grandest navigator of them all, the stone-faced masters of the Federal Reserve. They’re sat atop their pile of gold, waitin’ for a signal fire that’s never been lit. If they don’t get their hands on those scrolls, they’ll be forced to guess the depth of the water by throwin’ their shoes overboard. It’s a recipe for a shipwreck, and the rocks of recession are lookin’ sharper by the hour. The lords in the Capitol Building are too busy fightin’ over who gets the biggest share of the loot to realize that the ship of state is takin’ on water from every seam.

'The Admiralty has forgotten the first rule of the sea,' spat Lord 'Money-Bags' Sterling, a financier who usually wouldn't be caught dead in a common tavern. 'If you don't keep the ledgers, you don't have a fleet. You have a mob.' And a mob we shall become if this shutdown continues to mask the truth of our fortunes. While the politicians play their games of 'who-blinks-first,' the common sailor is left wonderin’ if there’s still a berth for him at the end of the voyage. The delay of these numbers is more than a mere trifle; it is the snuffing out of the lighthouse lamp while the fleet is still at sea.

So, we wait. We wait while the ink dries on reports that no one is allowed to read, and we watch the horizon for any sign of a truce. But mark my words, if the fog doesn’t lift soon, we’ll be tradin’ our gold coins for rusted hooks and hopin’ the sharks have had their fill. To the depths with the lot of 'em! Until the lanterns are lit again, keep your cutlasses sharp and your eyes on the stars, for the maps are useless and the lords have abandoned the helm.