Priceless Document Found in My Backyard

Recently, the American Society for Securing Socially and Historically Interesting Traditions, ASSSHIT, has been digging an excavation pit in my backyard in order to find more of those dubloons I told you about back in June. They had been here for almost a month with nothing to show except half a chimp skull and an old bag of Moon Pies until yesterday, when they discovered a rotting black trunk adorned with Christopher Columbus's coat of arms,



Needless to say, they brought the trunk inside and we opened it without hesitation. But instead of dubloons, maps, or the ubiqitous slave corpse, we found only a moist, semi-disintegrated parchment. On further examination it was concluded that this was a portion of the journal of Brittel MacAckack, a Scottish mercenary that served as third sous chef sencond class on the Santa Maria around 1490. How this manuscript ended up in Birmingham is still a mystery and a constant source of tension and infighting amongst the dig team. Here I have posted the journal's entire salvageable contents:

It was a fortnight and a weekpenny before master Christopher was well again. His first night back on his feet he came bursting through the galley hatch at a quarter past midday on the eleventh of October wearing nothing but his knickers, an Italian flag, and a hat he had fashioned from driftwood and rat pelts.
"Anon," he said, "by Henry's watch we should be in India within a month's breast. We shall have our tea then, gentlemen, that I can assure you!" He grabbed Timmyson's goblet and used his mulled wine to gargle the Spanish national anthem, which was customary after the bearing of good news at sea, then sprang back outwards of the hatch to whence his quarters wherethefore he came. The men became restless as they knew of Henry's disposition to inaccurate timepieces, but I only smiled and said, in Italian, "Wherewithal boys, wherewithal, that's what we need, some good old-fashioned wherewithal." only in Italian.
For some time afterwards the crew made a good effort to avoid Captain Christopher as if he were the very bubonic plague that had ravaged our home port of England only some weeks before. It was during this invlountary exile that Master Columbus wrote his best poetry. He called his poems his "barbies" and scrawled them on the railings with sticks of dried rat dung.
"Don't be lookin' at me barbies," he'd say, "or I'll give ye the old Cordovan One-Two One-Two. Aye, then we'll sees what ye laugh at like school children." But we laughed anyway. Good days those were.
Master Columbus's writing flurry was over and done, though, the week the storm came. The men and I were playing Pigs and Spoons on the tertiary poop deck when, out of a heretofore clear blue sky, a school of thunderheads and rainyladies rolled in from the southwesterly. Once we finished our game, Robertonson having won the queen, we barely had time to soothe the dogs or finish our hatch battening before our ship was awash in a sea of water, only this sea came from the sky! The rain washed away all of our captain's poems, at which some of the men burst into song. Captain Columbus had them beaten, shot, and beaten again before anyone could stop him. Although the altercation admittedly lowered morale, the surviving members were ecstatic that Harringfortonton, the ship's resident bully, had been among the beaten, shot, beaten. His wife and children remarked that the last beating, publicly held, had been unnecessary. They were promptly kicked in the teeth and tossed overboard.