Avast, ye salty dogs and ledger-keepers of the high seas! Captain Iron Ink here, dipping me quill in the blackest squid juice to bring ye news that’s sent a shudder through the counting houses from New York to Tortuga. The Great Commodore Donald J. Trump has stood upon his gilded poop deck and roared a command that’s got the banking leviathans shaking in their buckled boots: he’s calling for a 10 percent cap on the interest rates those usurers charge on their plastic parchment pieces. For too long, the merchant lords of Wall Street have used high interest to keep the common swabbie tethered to the oar, bleeding us of our doubloons faster than a gut-shot whale.

Aye, it’s a bold maneuver, mates! Currently, the credit card interest rates float around the twenty-five or even thirty percent mark—a rate more cutthroat than a privateer with a hangover and a blunt cutlass. My old shipmate, Barnaby the Boatswain, was seen dancing a jig on the forecastle when he heard the news. 'By the Kraken’s blackened beard,' he hollered, 'I’ve been paying more in monthly interest for me decorative peg-leg than the wood itself cost me three winters ago! If the Commodore caps the take at ten percent, I might finally afford a flagon of grog that isn't watered down with bilge!'

But don't think for a second the banking industry is going to strike their colors and surrender the treasure chest without a fight. They’re screeching like a flock of gulls over a pile of fish-heads, claiming this decree will sink the very economy we sail upon. I overheard Lord Ledger of the East River counting-house weeping into his silk cravat at the local tavern. 'It’s madness!' he cried, clutching his pearls. 'If we cannot tax the poor sailors at thirty percent for their rum-debts, how shall we afford the gold leaf for our weekend yachts? We shall have to stop lending entirely, and the common man will be left adrift without a credit line to his name!'

This proposed financial regulation is a double-edged cutlass, to be sure. On one hand, it would offer massive relief to those drowning in a sea of credit card debt, stopping the interest from compounding faster than a tropical storm. On the other hand, the banks might respond by locking their vaults tighter than a drum, refusing to hand out new cards to any cabin boy who doesn't have a chest full of gold for collateral. They want us to believe that without their usury, the seas of commerce will go stagnant. But us pirates know better—the coins they take from us in interest are coins that never reach the markets or the taverns where real work gets done.

So, sharpen your hooks and keep your powder dry, me hearties! Whether this decree becomes the law of the sea or remains a mere signal flare in the night, the message is clear: the era of the thirty-percent shakedown is under siege. The Commodore is looking to board the banking galleons and reclaim the plunder for the crew. We shall see if he can navigate these treacherous shoals or if the lobbyists’ cannons sink the bill before it reaches the harbor. Until then, keep a weather eye on your statements and drink to the hope of a lighter burden!