Americans are the most hygiene conscious people in the world. They have made hygiene an art form.
Well I used to believe that until I lived in Mexico. I think Mexicans are much cleaner than Americans.
It was so toenail polish and they looked like women's feet to me.
Blackadder: Ah-haah-ah, indeed. So, Rum, I wish to hire you and your ship. Can we shake on it? [holds out hand]
Rum: aah-ahhh! [strokes his hand] You have a woman's hand, milord! I'll wager these dainty pinkies never weighed anchor in a storm.
Blackadder: Well, you're right there.
Rum: Ha ha ha. -Aah! Your skin milord. I'll wager it ne'er felt the lash of a cat ['o' nine tails], been rubbed with salt, and then flayed off by a pirate chief to make fine stockings for his best cabin boy.
Blackadder: How canny, I don't know how you do it, but you're right again.
Rum: Why should I let a stupid cockerel like you aboard me boat?
Blackadder: Perhaps for the money in my purse [holding it up]
Rum: Ha. -Aah! You have a woman's purse! [takes it from him and examines it daintily] I'll wager that purse has never been used as a rowing-boat. I'll wager it's never had sixteen shipwrecked mariners tossing in it.
Blackadder: Yes, right again, Rum. I must say when it comes to tales of courage I'm going to have to keep my mouth shut.
Rum: Oh! You have a woman's mouth, milord! I'll wager that mouth never had to chew through the side of a ship to escape the dreadful spindly killer fish.
Blackadder: I must say, when I came to see you, I had no idea I was going to have to eat your ship as well as hire it. And since you're clearly as mad as a mongoose I'll bid you farewell [gets up]
Rum: Aaah, courtiers to the Queen, you're nothing but lapdogs to a slip of a girl.
Blackadder: Better a "lapdog to a slip of a girl", than a... Git.
Rum: So you do have some spunk in you! Don't worry, laddie, I'll come, I'll come [holds out is hand]
Blackadder: Well, let us set sail as soon as we can. [they shake] I will fetch my first mate, and then I'll return as fast as my legs will carry me.
Rum: Ah! [pointing] You have a woman's legs, my lord! I'll wager those are legs that have never been sliced clean off by a falling sail, and swept into the sea before your very eyes.
Blackadder: [crossly] Well, neither have yours.
Rum: That's where you're wrong [throws aside table showing his lack of legs]
Blackadder: Oh my God!
Rum: No point in changing your mind now; no one else will come. The whole thing's suicide anyway. What's the first mate's name?
Blackadder: Percy.
Rum: A nautical cove?