So Owl wrote . . . and this is what he wrote:
        
        HIPY PAPY BTHUTHDTH THUTHDA

        BTHUTHDY .
        

        Pooh looked on admiringly.

        "I'm   just   saying  'A  Happy  Birthday',"  said  Owl
carelessly.

    The sun was setting. Its fiery glow coruscated across the stale air, crashing into a grizzled face.  This only served to make the face increasingly grizzled as its owner drudged through the barren ghetto.

    Finally, the man arrived at his destination.  A decrepit phone booth towered before him.  The man wedged the door open, and his lanky silhouette disappeared into the plexiglass coffin.

    The walls were littered with the graffiti of revolutionaries.  Fishing in his pockets, the man encountered the weight of loose change.  He plunged a quarter into the loins of the phone and lifted the receiver.  He dialed a foreign number.  After an eternity, a foreign voice answered.

    "Yes?" the voice asked.

    The man tried to formulate his response, but his throat was not prepared for speech.  Eventually, his vocal chords lubricated, and he spoke:

    "I'm searching for the Captin."