Slightly Thickened Plot

The last time anyone had seen that gay little penguin-fish Tom was over two years ago at a bar in Laos. Before that he was in southern South America, and was whoring himself out to anyone and everyone for things such as peppermint schnapps, black and mild cigars, and back issues of Highlights kids magazines.
"We may never find that damned penguin-fish." I said to The Niles and to Ferocius.
The Niles wasn't listening as I said my very dramatic declaration of us possibly never finding Tom the Penguin-fish, as he was too busy throwing up in the corner from the sudden sobriety that had overcome him. I threw him a bottle of 18 year Macallan and mid-puke he grabbed the bottle and pukingly drank half, or haf, and stopped puking.
"Thanks." Said The Niles, now completely drunk and feeling much much better. "So you think Tom the Penguin-fish is still in Laos, or back in South America?"
"I really have no idea and could care less, but he's apparent-fuckingly the only person, or thing, since he's not really a person but more so a penguin-fish, and only he can open this stupid box." I said very upset.
The Niles comforted me in only the way a Niles can, with scotch of course, but that’s not really important here. What was important, was that we were in the middle of a god forsaken ocean, with a god forsaken Ferocius DeSoto, and in need of finding a possibly – and most likely – gay penguin-fish who may or may not be completely drunk off of peppermint schnapps and in the middle of a South American all male orgy. I looked at Ferocius and asked the one question I really did not want to ask of him.
“Can you steer the S.S. Glen to South America?”
“Where’s South America?” Ferocius asked, mid toe suck.
“Are you seriously serious?” The Niles asked and slapped Ferocius across the face and then added, “you very disgusting man!” The post slap exclaim was so perfect that it actually caused Osama bin Laden to convert to Mormonism and then kill himself for being an infidel.
“South America,” Ferocius continued. “That’s by Africa right?”
The Niles and I realized that Ferocius was most definitely an idiot, and we made our way to the bridge. Well, first we got lost again looking for a real bridge and upon not finding any real bridges aboard the ship decided that the “bridge” of the ship was most likely behind a door that read: BRIDGE.
“What a stupid name for a completely un-bridgelike place!” The Niles and I exclaimed with exuberance. A faint “thanks The Boss and The Niles!” was heard as Alan Cummings in St. Paul, Minnesota was awarded a Miller High Life, or better yet a Champagne of Beers; by which I mean pee in a bottle. The thanks from Mr. Cummings was then followed by a “shit!”. Our exclaim wasn’t the best; but they can’t all be great. Alan Cummings, being homeless, shouldn’t complain about his free beer, regardless of what kind of beer it was. Sometimes life throws you wonderful Belgian white ale and sometimes it’s nothing but Natural Ice. He should, instead, be counting his blessings that free beer sometimes happens and –
“The Boss!?” The Niles was tugging on my sleeve. “Whom are you talking to?”
“Whom?” I said.
So we looked at the control panel on the bridge of the mighty S.S. Glen and somehow managed to drunkingly make the ship move forward. The Niles pointed to a map. “There’s South America.”
-The Boss