Okay, people, I have a number of subjects to cover today, so if we can, let’s get started, please everyone, find your seats, if you would…thank you, everyone, can we please find our seats and get started? Thank you…we have a great number of department reports to get through today, folks, so let’s get started…

> From the Don’t Thank Me, I Just Enjoy Being Wonderful Department…In an effort to provide a genuine service to all of my loyal readers (all a couple of you), it being early April here in CentralFloridaLand (and I assume it’s approximately the same time of year wherever you’re at, other than for you folks in Butte ID), which means that September is rapidly approaching (really?), I thought that I would give you a heads-up on this year’s ACM “Best Song” Award by leaking the nominees early, thus allowing all of you to begin lobbying whoever the hell picks the “Best Song” award for the ACM. (After doing a very minimal amount of research, I learned that the members of the Academy of Country Musicians are each allowed one vote per category. I have no idea who the members are or how one becomes a member, nor any great compulsion to find out.)

Anyway, in no particular order, here are the six tunes nominated for the 2020 Academy of Country Musicians “Best Song” Award…

”I’ve Got Tears In My Ears From Lyin’ On My Back In My Bed Crying Over You” by Esther Sprat and Merle Scrubs

How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away” by The Cosmic Llama Doo Dah Band

She Got The Gold Mine and I Got The Shaft” by Mo Lasses and the Slower January Band

”You’re The Reason Our Baby Is So Ugly” by Snake Oil Salesmen ft. Ana Conda

”My Husband Ran Off With My Best Friend and I Sure Do Miss Her” by Carol Ofthebells

“I Liked You Better Before I Knew You So Well” by the Stoned Canyon Jesters

Man, what a line-up…it’s all I can do to keep from wetting myself.

By the way, when did they drop the “/Western” from the name, you know, like C/W? As you can probably surmise by that question, I’m not much of a C fan, other than the Brothers Osborne, who can flat play.

> From the Oh Hell No Department…There I was, scrolling through my YouTube Home page, looking for a video of women in thongs, err, excuse me, that would enlighten me on some arcane but fascinating subject, when I ran across this ad…

FEARNOW INSURANCE…”Honored to serve churches in the Tampa Bay area…FEARNOW OR HELL LATER.”

Okay, the “Fearnow” name and the “honored to serve” parts are quotes; I made up the tagline about “Hell Later”…sorry.

> From the Wouldn’t “Take The Prosciutto” Be A Great Name For A Rock Band Department…Did you know that the line from the movie The Godfather where Clemenza tells Neri, after Neri shot the crap outta’ Paulie (who was a sniveling weasel and richly deserved it) from the back seat of Clemenza’s car, “Leave the gun, take the cannolis”, was an ad lib by Richard Castellano, the actor that portrayed the rotund capo regime? Yep, true story, although I don’t remember where I learned that. His first adlib was “Leave the gun, take the prosciutto” but that wasn’t what Mrs. Clemenza told him to remember to bring home when he left the house that morning.

So they went with “cannoli” instead.

Hey, it might come up in a Trivia game or something.

> From the I Wish They Could Do That With Pizza Department…Okay, I hope someone can answer this because it’s driving me nuts, which as a friend of mine used to say is more of a short putt than a drive in my case, but can someone please explain how peanut butter never spoils? I mean, how does that work? I have a jar of Peter Pan Creamy Peanut Butter (“contains peanuts” according to the Mr. Obvious Man label on the side) that I must have opened four months ago, easily; as you can probably tell, I am not a big consumer of PB, although I do enjoy the occasional sandwich with the addition of J.

But there it sits in my cupboard, defying all known laws of biology, chemistry, physics and phrenology, never going bad, never losing its wonderful creamy texture, its rich peanut taste or the 200 grams of fat in every tablespoon…it remains viable, apparently, for eons.

So back to my original question, how exactly does that work, huh? ‘Cause there is no mention whatsoever on the label about preservatives…it’s just peanuts, sugar, a little salt, a couple different kinds of oils and nuclear waste.

I should call Jimmy Carter…I bet he would know.

> From the Two Thumbs Up Yours Department…I was texting back and forth with a friend the other evening, and as usual I made about 43 bajillion typing errors that I had to keep going back and correcting before I could send the message, because heaven forbid a big, internationally famous humor blogger like myself would put out ANY copy ANY time that contains spelling mistakes (even text messages). But some still filtered through the intense scrutiny.

I’m fine on the keyboard of my PC…I still make a lot of mistakes, but not near as many and I can type with some decent speed using four or five fingers and one thumb consistently. But I have never mastered (nor attempted to master) the keyboard on my cellphone. I think watching these Millennial kids who go 90 MPH with nothing more than two thumbs is a great pleasure, there being a certain poetry, a fluidity, to their movements.

Anyway, after I had considered it, I realized, and I shared this with my friend, that I have the same problem with picking my nose as I have with typing on my cellphone…I can only use one finger at a time.

Okay, now that there’s a funny joke, if you can’t laugh at that joke then you can just get the hell outta’ here (and thank you Larry the Cable Guy for the imprecation).

> From the Things You Didn’t Know And Were Happy That You Didn’t Know Them Department…Little known physiological fact…everyone’s body (not mine though, thank you) produces approximately 33.8 ounces, or essentially one liter, of mucus every day…which makes all of you a pretty snotty bunch as far as I’m concerned.

I read that online someplace, about the mucus, not the “snotty” part.

> From the And It’s Her Fault My Mother Never Loved Me Department…Another headline “seen online” (what the hell did we do before we had the Internet?) recently…”My husband’s former mistress is ruining our financial life” and the headline was so preposterous (boy, THERE’s a good word for you) that I didn’t even bother to read the article.

Besides, it was one of those “click bait” sites, you know the ones, where once you go to the “article” they entice (bombard) you with a bajillion ads, citing amazing savings on a myriad of products or making a strong pitch for the latest health miracle or attempting to grab your eye (and ultimately your wallet) with scantily clad/mostly naked women, after they’ve attracted your initial attention with a headline about some whack-job goof who once grew a finger from the center of his forehead.

So I didn’t bother to click on the icon.

Although on reconsideration, maybe I should have, ‘cause I remember, back when I was in middle school, how badly I was hurt and being so distraught that I almost couldn’t deliver the morning papers to the folks on my paper-route because Kathy Jones (not her real name…the names have been changed to confuse the timid) went to the 8th Grade Dance with Peter “Dickbrain” Smith and not me.

I almost lost my paper-route and my self-respect, a big loss for a 13-year old. So yeah, okay, maybe the “former mistress” was a bitch and is somehow screwing up their portfolio of Lottery tickets and their 409(k) plan…

…but I still didn’t read the article; what, are you kidding me?

> And from the There Are Some Really, Really Sick People Out There Department…Think two words, and then I’ll proceed…”coffee enema”.

That’s right, exhaust fans, you heard me correctly…the newest health fad to come to the fore in America recently is a good, refreshing colon cleansing using a cup of your favorite joe. Gives a whole new meaning to the word “brewing” and believe me, I will never turn my back on a Mr. Coffee ever again.

Holy Maalox Batman, what the hell is next, sprinkling powered alpaca spleens on our genitals to ensure “a monstrous erection that no woman can resist”? Is there no level of depravity to which these sick fucks won’t sink? (Kinda’ reminds you of those old urban legends about Richard Gere and the gerbil, doesn’t it?)

Okay folks, that’s everything I have for today…are there any questions? Questions anyone? No one? Okay, meeting is adjourned…thank you for your attention. We’ll meet here again next week.

Love and Macy’s,

Cap’n John


(Two attractive, middle-aged naked women are seen sitting next to each other at a kitchen table, holding steaming cups of some liquid and talking back and forth…

Ann, lowering her voice conspiratorially: “Penny, have you ever heard of ABL?”

Penelope: “JBL? Umm, I think so. Yeah, Rick has some speakers for that ancient stereo he has in the basement, they’re called JBLs. Why?”

Ann, slightly disgusted: “No, A-B-L, not JBL, you ninny. Geez.”

Penelope: “What’s ABL?”

Ann, leaning forward and lowering her voice even more: “Accidental Bowel Leakage.”

Penelope, pausing, apparently thinking about what Ann had just said: “Bowel Leakage? Does that mean what I think it means? Like, your butt is leaking? Eeeyew, gross.


We interrupt today’s episode of BOATING WITH PLIERS, “The Best Places To Get Llama Spleens”, to bring you the second half of the exclusive copy of an audio tape obtained recently by RUKME of a White House meeting last week on the pandemics now facing America. You will recall, the first half was aired last Thursday, right here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog.

Hello, everyone, I’m Thor Buttucks with, as we promised last week, Chapter Two of the very revealing audio tape of the meeting in the Cabinet Room of the White House on March 20th between President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump and his senior staff and advisors, about the newest threat facing this country, Covfefe-20, the “cartablancavirus”, as it’s being called.

When we left off last week, the President and staff were taking a lunch break and were busily consuming a meal of Big Macs, fries, assorted other McDonalds comestibles and various flavors of milkshakes or sodas…


President “Tweety Bird”, talking with his mouth full: “Tonk, how can you sit there and eat two Macs, a large fry, a 4-piece Chicken McNuggets, a Happy Meal and a baked apple pie and then wash it all down with a large Diet Coke? What kind of diet is that?”

Tonka Trump, daughter of PTB and wife of Jared “Kush” Kushner, sounding annoyed: “Hey, Daaad, I have two words for you, and they aren’t ‘let’s dance’, okay?”

(At this point, a door is heard to open in the background, and all chewing and slurping and the various consumption noises come to a halt.)

Paula White, Spiritual Advisor to PTB: “Ah, Mr. President, Your Worship, I, ah, I’m very surprised, sir, to see you eating…I, uh, have that special “Prayer of Thanksgiving and Vengeance” you asked me to prepare for today, Your Holiness.”

PTB, nonchalantly: “Sorry, I got hungry and decided not to wait for you.”

White, sounding rather dejected: “I see, Mr. President.”

Tonka: “Hey, Dad, how ‘bout if Ms. White says her prayer now? We’re pretty much done eating anyway.”

PTB, sounding a little disgusted: “Yeah, sure, go ahead, Patty.”

White: “Ah, it’s Paula, Your Grace.”

PTB: “Patty, Paula, whatever…let’s get on with it.”

White is heard to rustle some papers and then clears her throat: “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal we are about, ah, that we have already consumed and ask Your blessing on this gathering. We come together here today in fellowship, good Christian soldiers, Lord, dedicated to spreading Your Holy Word and to smiting Your enemies, the spawn of Satan, the liberal Democrats, and sending them to fiery perdition as they so desperately deserve. We are resolute in this blessed quest, this movement to rid America of the hated left-wing idolaters, worshipers of the flesh and of fiery liquors and…”

PTB, interrupting White: “Ah, thank you, Peggy, great prayer, very nice. Ah, Chief of Staff guy, what is it again, Mark Meadows?, yeah, Mark, would you escort Peggy back to your office and get her one of those fancy White House full-color guidebooks?”

White, is heard to yell just before a door closes in the background: “I love you, Mr. Presi…”

PTB: “My God, where did we find that broad? Okay, is everyone done stuffing themselves? Can we clean up and get back to the meeting? I gotta’ get a handle on this cartablacavirus thing and soon, okay? Mnuchin, is this new bug going to put the market in the shitter again, ‘cause I’m pretty sure we’ve got a problem in November if it does.”

Steve Mnuchin, Secretary of the Treasury: “Mr. President, Your Wonderfulness, although there’s no way to tell, yes, I believe there’s a definite chance that the stock market will drop precipitously if we have another pandemic crisis on our hands, which we obviously do, making my prediction even more…”

PTB: “Blaady fuckin’ blah blah blah, and yada yada yada. Hey, Finance Boy, what are we going to do about this virus, huh? Could I have less bullshit and some more serious answers?”

Tonka: “Dad, you’re not going to go nuts on Twitter again, are you? You know, that doesn’t help make things any better. You just look like a big orange cheeseball to the voters, and you embarrass Mom and I.”

PTB, in a mocking, child-like voice: “Hey Daaad, I’ve got two words for you and they aren’t ‘let’s dance’, okay? (Goes back to his normal voice.) “One more smart-ass remark from you, Tinker Bell, and you can go sit over there with your husband Dummy and Mr. Pants there.”

Mike Pence, VP: “Ah, Your Eminence, sir, that’s Pence, remember? P-E-N-C-E, not Pants.”

PTB: “Hey, nobody asked you, Mr. Smarty Pants…hey, that’s pretty good, Smarty Pants, get it? Bwa-ha-ha-ha…”

(There is another burst of Presidential laughter, followed by laughter from everyone else in the room. When the President stops laughing abruptly, all the other laughter stops immediately.)

PTB: “Don’t ANY of you geniuses have a clue about how to respond to this bug, for crissake. What am I paying you assholes for, anyway? C’mon, I need some ideas here.”

Tucker Carlson, FOX News Commentator: “Uh, Mr. President, sir, how about announcing that, um, something like ‘We believe that Silver Solution can cure cartablancavirus and we recommend that everyone should get some immediately’ or words along those lines. We put the responsibility on the people and we can even make that numbfuck Jim Bakker give us a kickback on sales.”

PTB: “Tuck, that’s brilliant. Bill, where would we be legally on this?”

William Barr, Attorney General: “Well, Your Grace, if the wording of the announcement is really vague, you know, ‘BELIEVE it cures’, or ‘POSSIBLY will help’, and ‘no guarantees, might not work for some’, yeah, I think we could pull that off with no problem.”

PTB: “FINALLY, an idea I can use. Fauci, how’s the science on this “Silver Lotion” or whatever it’s called?”

Dr. Anthony Fauci, Director of the NIAID: “Mr. President, it’s called “Silver Solution” and it is basically snake-oil, sir. It has no medical value whatsoever and it couldn’t cure a hangnail, let alone cartablancavirus…the product is a joke. Putting your name on this crap as a cure for Covfefe-20 will make you look ridiculous.”

PTB: “Except to my base, who believe anything I say. You know what, Fauci, sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass. Who appointed you Director of the AIDS thingie, anyway?”

Fauci: “I was appointed by President Reagan back in 1984, sir.”

PTB: “Reagan? Holy crap, what are you, 90? Geez. Hey, you a Republican or a Democrat?”

Fauci: “When I’m speaking officially, sir, I’m neither, I’m a doctor.”

PTB: “Well lahdy fuckin’ la-de-da, aren’t you King Shit of Turd Mountain? Tell you what, DOCTOR, you’re excused. We’ll let you know if and when we make the announcement about this Golden Lotion shit so you can be on the podium, supporting this Administration.”

Fauci: “Yes, sir.” (Fauci is heard to mutter something under his breath, which sounded like ‘fat chance, orange boy’ and then a chair is heard to scrape across the floor, followed by footsteps and another closing door.)

PTB: “When this whole mess is over, remind me to fire that guy. What an asshole. Okay, Pants, you’re in charge of the Virus Response Team, or whatever they call it, how are the states doing getting supplies, you know, like masks and escalators and all that other medical crap?”

Pence: “Sir, Your Supremeness, you told me to sit over here and keep my mouth shut, remember? I don’t have any idea how they’re doing. You told all the governors that there wouldn’t be any Federal help, that they were on their own, so I haven’t paid any attention to it, sir.”

PTB: “That’s right, I did, and you know why? ‘Cause I’m not having ANY of those cry-babies coming back and blaming me when they can’t get enough suppositories or band aids or whatever they say they need. Not my problem. And another thing, now that I’m thinking about it, where does that cocksucker Joe Biden get off, telling me to ‘do my job’ in front of the whole country? I hate that prick. And what about that asshole Geez or Peez or whatever his Commie name is over there in China, blaming us for the China virus when he knows damn good and well that it came from his heathen country, that’s another guy I’d like to hang up by his balls and that fuckin’ Pelosi broad, god, I’d like to toss her ass in the Potomac River some dark night, she’s such a…”


There are more of President Trump’s remarks on the tape, but they became mostly inarticulate at this point, and the meeting was adjourned shortly thereafter, so RUKME editors decided to stop the transcript here.

We here at RUKME hope you found this report informative. Thank you for being with us.

(Voiceover announcer…)

“We now return you to our regularly scheduled program, The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, S4E10, where the boys decide that the only real cure for Accidental Bowel Leakage will come in November.”

Love and tape recorders,

Cap’n John


“…so she hobbles over and says, hey, big fellow, you want date, and I wasn’t even sure she was talking to me at first, but there wasn’t anybody else out there at the time.”

“So whatd’ja tell her, Fred?” asked the King, smirking a little.

“I said excuse me, and she said, hey, I take you ‘round world, 50 bucks. Obviously I said no thank you. Shame too, ‘cause she was totally hot.”

(Voice coming from the control booth over an intercom in the studio)

“Ah, guys, we’re on live…”

“Shit, why the, are you, never mind…children, can you say prostitute? No, wait, that’s not what I meant…damn.”


Good whatever time of the day it is wherever you are, ladies and gentlemen, and I assume that covers most of you, I’m Thor Buttucks and I’m here in the RUKME News Center with a !!SPECIAL RUKME REPORT!! (How’s that for high drama?)

The outstanding RUKME (R U Kidding Media Events, pronounced as one word…think Scooby Doo) Investigative Team has obtained an exclusive copy of an audio tape of a recent meeting at the White House between President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump and a number of his top advisors, concerning the government’s response to the newest threat to America, Covfefe-20, known throughout the land as the dreaded “cartablancavirus”. (For those of you unfamiliar with Mexican beers, that’s pronounced CAR TA BLAHNKA VI RUS, which is Burmese for “iguana spleens”.)

To our knowledge, there was no video recording of the meeting, only this audio tape which RUKME obtained through dubious sources. Despite the lack of “optics” (hey, there’s a good phony-bullshit media word for you), we were able through voice recognition and comparison to identify most the meeting’s attendees; those we were unable to identify are labeled “MALE/FEMALE NOID #whatever”.

Here is the tape in its entirety, including all malapropisms, mistakes, profanity etc.


President “Tweety Bird”: “So what the hell are they calling this new bug?”

Jared “Kush” Kushner, Presidential Advisor and Son-In-Law and WH Procurement Guy: “They’re calling it the “cartablancavirus”, Dad.”

PTB: “Don’t you call me “Dad”, you little shitbrain weasel, it’s your fault we got in that mess with the “balognavirus” or whatever they were calling it. It was your brilliant idea to go with, oh, this virus is no big deal, not near as bad as the flu, it’ll pass, no need to worry, blahdy fucking blah blah blah, and you saw how far THAT went. Sit there and keep your mouth shut. You, yeah you, what’s your name?”

Mark Meadows, Acting (another one) Chief of Staff: “Ah, I’m Mark Meadows, Mr. President; I’m your new Chief of Staff, remember?”

PTB: “Yeah, that’s who I thought you were. Okay, Chief of Staff, how ‘bout finding out where the hell lunch is, ‘cause I’m getting’ pretty effin’ hungry here. You wanna’ look into that, Mr. Chief of Staff?”

Meadows: “Yes, Your Grace, immediately Your Grace.” (A chair scrapes and footsteps are heard here, hurrying across the floor, and in the moment before a door slams, Meadows is heard to yell “Hey, does anyone know what time McDonald’s is delivering today’s load of Big Macs?”)

PTB: “Okay, back to this Covfefe-20 shit…how serious is this one? I mean, will it kill more than say, 10% of the populace, ‘cause honestly, I can live with 10% fatalities if it doesn’t torpedo the ratings numbers. Remember people, we took a serious bath with that pomonavirus, and we’re still catching hell.”

“Kush”: “Ah, Dad, I think it’s “coronavirus”, not “pomonavirus”. Pomona is a city in Southern California.”

PTB: “What did I tell you about sitting there with your mouth shut, huh? One more word from you, asshole, and I’ll have you taken out and shot.”

MALE NOID #1: “Ah, sir, excuse me, but technically, you don’t have the authority to have someone shot, sir, Your Eminence.”

PTB: “What!?! You mean I can’t have his useless ass shot if he pops off again…geez, what kind of world did those asshole Democrats and that ni…”

Tonka Trump, daughter of PTB and Wife of “Kush” interrupts: “Dad, don’t say it. Remember what you promised about saying that word…you can’t give people the impression you’re a racist.”

PTB: “Racist? Racist? Bullshit, I’m no more racist than Rush Limbaugh. What a crock! Hey, I have black friends, what’s his name, the science guy, you know, Kneel in the Grass Mike Tyson or something like that, I think he’s so great.”

Melonoma Trump, FLOTUS: “He hates you.”

PTB: “Ah, Mel, that’s not true. Hey, I like blacks, I think everyone should own two or three. Bwa-ha-ha-ha…

(There is a great explosion of Presidential laughter here, followed almost immediately by general laughter around the table from everyone else. The Presidential laughter stops abruptly after several moments, as does all the other laughter in the room, immediately.)

PTB: “I love that joke. You know where I heard that? Ben Carson. Yeah. No, I’m just kidding, I heard it from Obama. Yeah, right before he left, he pulls me aside and tells me…honest.”

Melo: “You heard it from your father.”

PTB: “Yeah, okay, it might have come from Dad. Hey, can we get back to how we’re going to handle this new virus thingie? What’s it called again? Cartoonblanketvirus? Is that right?”

Dr. Bram Renfield, Head of CDC: “Ah, it’s being called the cartablancavirus, Your Worship.”

PTB: Cartablanca? That’s another Mexican beer, isn’t it? Like Corona. What’s up with that? Hey, that reminds me, did those assholes from Mexico ever pay for the wall like I told them to? You remember, I told what’s his face, Jose Felicano Tierra Del Fuego, you know, their Pres, that if he didn’t pony up the money for the border wall that I’d deport all the drug-pushers and rapists and criminals right back to them.”

Melo: “It’s mostly the decent, hard-working ones that come here.”

PTB: “Yeah, it was a pretty stupid threat. Okay, what’s our response to Covfefe-20? Pants, any ideas?”

Mike Pence, Vice-President: “Ah, Your Wonderfulness, that’s Pence, P-E-N-C-E.”

PTB: “Oh, PENCE, all this time I thought it was Pants. I always wondered if you had a brother named Dropyour. Anyway, you got any ideas on how to keep me from getting my tit in another ringer?”

Pence: “Ah, no sir, I have no ideas whatsoever. If you recall, Your Worship, you told me when you offered me the position of VP that I was to not express nor to in fact even have any ideas. Ever. You told me all I’m supposed to do is be the token Christian.”

PTB: “Well, then you’re not much help, are you? Sit over there next to Dummy and keep your mouth shut too.” (The sliding of chairs and steps crossing the floor are heard in the background.)

Tucker Carlson, FOX News Commentator: “Mr. President, your Eminence, I have some thoughts about how we might approach this problem from a “PR” standpoint. I’ve made up a brief PowerPoint presentation, take just a couple of minutes, with your permission, Your Grace?”

PTB: “Yeah, go ahead, Tucker. What the hell kinda’ name is Tucker, anyway? Shit, were your parents socialists or something?”

Carlson: “No, sir, they were Episcopalians. Soo, I thought that it might be best, from the “rosy picture” point of view, to emphasize the positive aspects of contracting cartablancavirus, compared to other less “glamorous” diseases. Let me show you what I had in mind…”

(There is a general shuffling of papers and some miscellaneous meeting noises before an announcer’s voiceover is heard through the speakers of a computer device.)

“Are you suffering from ABL, or as it’s known by its formal name, Accidental Bowel Leakage? Or maybe you’ve been cursed with the heartbreak of psoriasis? Has your doctor just recently given you the bad news that you have all the symptoms of sclerosis of the blowhole? Well my friends, those are serious problems indeed, but they’re NOTHING compared to the new sheriff in town, COVFEFE-20, the cartablancavirus! You want to impress your friends? Tell’em hey, I’ve got cartablancavirus! No sissy flu or hemorrhoids for you, big guy, you go ALL THE WAY! And ladies, this is THE LATEST! This is yoga pants with a bullet! Be the first in your group to become infected! Cartablancavirus…coming SOON! to a crowded restaurant or airport terminal or classroom near you!”

Meadows (is heard to rush back in the room, a little breathless): “Your Holiness, the McDonald’s delivery van is here, and lunch is served, sir, Your Grace.”

PTB: “Well, it’s about time.” (Sounds of sandwiches being unwrapped and consumed and drinks being slurped and packets of ketchup being squeezed and occasional belches are heard for the next few minutes…)


There is a great deal more on the audio tape of this meeting between President Trump and his senior advisors, and RUKME will “air” Part II next Thursday, 3/26/20, right here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog.

We return you now to our regularly scheduled program, Full House, S3E5, where Mary Kate attacks, kills and then eats her twin sister Ashley in a disagreement over personal hygiene.

Love and Dos Equis,

Cap’n John

Post Script…props to Colin Mochrie, he of the infamous (and hysterical) Whose Line Is It Anyway? cast, for the “Thor Buttucks” name. I really, really miss those guys.


(Editor’s note: to my buddy Angel…thank you, thank you.)

Mary, much to the surprise of her family and friends, to say nothing of her doctor and the medical profession in general, had a little lamb. The surprise of her delivery of the small creature was further compounded by the fact that she had been expecting an alpaca.

However, the song doesn’t work near as well as “Mary had a little alpaca, little alpaca, little alpaca”; in wanting to give Sarah Josepha Hale, the lady who wrote the poem on which the song was based, a workable rhyming scheme, Ma Nature provided Mary with a lamb instead.

The father of the lamb has never been determined and conjecture on the subject at this juncture would be pointless and inappropriate, given that the song was written in 1830, putting the issue WAY past the statute of limitations for filing a paternity suit.

Now that I have that out of the way, I would like get on with this week’s post.

In addition to my duties and responsibilities as the Captain and Master of the good ship Lollipop, er, excuse me, the good ship the R U Kidding, I am also employed by the Publix Supermarkets chain of grocery stores as a part-time Front Service Clerk, which as I have said on a number of occasions is a ten dollar title for a three dollar job; a much more accurate (and earthy) description of my job is “bagger”. As such, I have from time to time browbeaten a number of my fellow “Associates” (more corporate jargon) into reading the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and periodically, mostly to shut me up I suspect, they have done so. And periodically, they have provided me with feedback on what a spectacular, top-notch job I’m doing as a “humor blogger”. None of them has ever told me, geez, you really suck as a writer; whether their lack of criticism is from politeness or reticence I have no clue, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

This past Saturday, in a short break between customers, my good friend and fellow co-worker, an extra-special lady named Angel who reads “the Cap’n” from time to time, exclaimed to me rather breathlessly that she had really enjoyed reading my post from back on 2/20 and that “the ending made me laugh right out loud”. Of course, having been raised properly, I immediately thanked her and then offered her ten bucks, which she declined, saying that $5 would be plenty. (Actually, she said that a buck three eighty-five would be sufficient, but I didn’t want either of us to appear cheap.)

After we gotten the negotiations out of the way, I told her how much I appreciated her kind words and that she had, inadvertently, stumbled onto the very reason why I write the WATRUK blog, that is, to give my readers a few minutes of what I hope is a humorous tale each week that causes them to forget the world and its tribulations for a brief time and just have a good laugh; that I had succeeded in doing this for Angel was, for me, a major achievement. We got busy again right about that time and I didn’t have the chance to follow-up with her and ask her to do something for me, something that I am now going to ask all of you.

In fact, I’m going to beg, although not down on one knee…this isn’t a proposal of matrimony.

Please, please, please, if you enjoy “the Cap’n”, if the stories and reports and all the rampant frivolity you see here on the WATRUK website gives you a moment of laughter or makes you think in a different way about some subject I’ve written about, please, please, share your good fortune with the people you know or who you think would benefit from a good dose of “Cap’nisms”.

Please share with your family, your friends, your co-workers, your workout partner, the members of your church, your yoga class, your therapist, your gynecologist (if I had to stare at ladies’ you-know-whats all day long I know I’d sure as hell need a good laugh now and again), your buddies down at your fave bar, your ex-mother-in-law, who hopefully isn’t as surly as mine was, your neighbors, anyone you feel might think, hey, this Cap’n John guy is pretty funny, in a convoluted and occasionally disgusting way.

I so desperately want the WATRUK blog to succeed, not for any monetary gain that I might realize, although that would be nice, but because I truly believe in what I’m doing here; in a world fraught with wars, killings, strife, Donald Trump, hunger, pollution, Donald Trump, disease, slavery, hatred, Donald Trump, racism, the Houston Astros, horrors unimaginable and human fuckery of every stripe and kind, if I can provide a few moments of humor, of good cheer, a brief respite from their day-to-day worries for my loyal readers, I have seen my duty and doed it.

Please, please share the good news of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog and Cap’n John.

Please, please, please.

You can follow “the Cap’n” on Facebook, on Twitter and on Instagram; I post a new column every Thursday, and announce it that same day on all of the above.

My friend Angel is a positive, upbeat person who loves to laugh, does so easily and is a joy to be around, so to thank her again for her support and kind words, later that same day I told her the following story…

I ran into my downstairs neighbor out walking her dog one day several weeks ago, here at the Torpid Whales Senior Living Complex, and she mentioned to me that Mitzi, her dog, seemed to having some trouble recently with her hearing and that she had an appointment to take her to the vet the next day. I wished her luck and asked her to let me know how it went.

Several days later I ran into them again, and asked my neighbor what the vet had told her about Mitzi. Oh, she said, you won’t believe what happened.

She went on to tell me that when she explained the problem to her vet, the man opined that it looked like Mitzi just had too much hair in her ears and that it was an easy thing to cure. He took a bottle of Nair out from under a cabinet, put a little on a Q-tip and applied it to Mitzi’s ears, let it set a few minutes and then cleaned it out. Mitzi immediately responded in a way that indicated that, sure enough, she could hear a great deal better. The vet told my neighbor to do this for the dog every few weeks and that she should be fine.

So my friend tells me that, on the way home from the vet’s office, she stopped at a local pharmacy. She approached one of the clerks and asked the lady where she could find Nair, and the lady directed her to the correct aisle. When she got to the front counter with her purchase, the same clerk asked her if she was familiar with the product, and when my neighbor said, no, not really, the helpful lady told her that, if she was going to use the product on her legs that she wouldn’t need to, and shouldn’t, shave for at least 4-5 days afterwards. Oh no, my friend said, I’m not going to use it on my legs. Before she could say anything further, the clerk said, oh well, if you’re going to use it on your underarms, same thing, no shaving for several days. Oh no, said my neighbor, I’m going to use it on my Schnauzer.

Oh, said the pharmacy lady, then you’ll need to stay off your bike for at least a week.

(Insert rim-shot here.)

Remember, if you don’t share “the Cap’n” with all the people you know, you’re depriving them of hearing about my neighbor and her Schnauzer, among other things.

You guys are the best…thank you, thank you.

Love and little lambs,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: this week’s post is dedicated to a pair of outstanding individuals that I have had the honor and privilege to come to know as friends and as loyal readers of the WATRUK blog, my buddies Angel and Emma. Thanks, guys, for all your support and kind words…you’re the best.)

In last week’s post here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog I wrote about, among other subjects, male urination, more specifically, various positions used by men when relieving themselves. (Urinating while jumping on a trampoline was not discussed.) I came out in favor of the nocturnal use of a little-known position for peeing that I labeled “wall-leaning”; given physiology, this position is, obviously, applicable to the male of the species only.

Along with the above, I would propose the addition to the list of “odd things men do besides kicking their underpants up in the air to catch them and not making eye contact with women” two other activities in which males are involved, things that have caused much head-scratching on the part of your Cap’n (that would be me) of late.

First, men kneeling to propose marriage to their partner…

Seriously, why do men have to drop to one knee to ask someone to marry them? Is this some ancient ritual, the origin of which has become obscured with the passage of time? Who thought this one up? Why the guy? I was watching a video of a baseball game the other day and, in between innings, they showed some poor slob in the stands, down on one knee like a knight errant in front of his queen, asking for her hand and other body parts in marriage, when all of this occurred to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with seeing a man in a position of subservience to a woman (and FYI, for my gay readers, as far as I know you guys don’t do this kneeling stuff, so if you want, you can just skip down a few paragraphs), given that, in properly-run households, the women, who are smarter, more clever, smell better and are WAY better looking, will be running things anyway, so guys might as well get used to it ASAP.

I mean, why does the guy have to do the kneeling? Is it a dominance thing? Why do either of the interested parties have to kneel at all? Why couldn’t the woman of the pair swing from a tree dressed in a kimono while she sings the Hawaiian Wedding Song, or maybe the guy could yodel a proposal and then do a handstand? (Wouldn’t “Yodel A Proposal” be a great name for a rock band?)

Truly, I don’t have a problem with the practice, I just don’t understand it. Seems to me that the direct, standing face-to-face approach from either party would be more desirable, you know, like, hey, partner, I like your gender, I like your attitude, I like your pet bigmouth bass Wendell, I like how your parts are configured and I’d really like to cohabitate with you, avail ourselves to the attendant tax breaks thereto and raise a family of Peruvian alpacas. And hey, can you lend me 10 bucks?

Or something along those lines.

Second, men shaving body parts other than their face…

From an aesthetic standpoint, I get it…there’s a reason why people make jokes about guys with a pelt on their chests/backs and furry nether parts. Any man whose body hair falls somewhere on a scale between a wire brush and a Himalayan yak can definitely benefit from some specialized grooming, and thank you from the rest of us for doing so. But I’m seeing guys shaving (SHAVING!, not trimming) bellies, chests, underarms, backs, nether regions, arms and those little hairs that grow on your toes, all I assume for the sake of appearances, much like women shaving their legs, etc.


I mentioned to a male friend of mine the other day, re this subject, that I thought the practice of men SHAVING! everything on their bodies was, umm, let me see, what’s the right word here, ah, weird, yeah, how’s that, weird. He’s a bit of a porn aficionado and he tells me that it’s commonplace in adult movies to see both men and women completely hairless, thus taking “naked” two degrees farther than usual, past “seriously naked” all the way to “double-secret probation naked”. (I assume when he said “hairless” that it didn’t include bald.)

I need to call my broker and have him buy a bunch of shares of Gillette (PG). (I once had a buddy who, in response to losing a drunken bet, shaved his underarms…he said the worst thing about the experience was 2-3 days afterwards, as the hair was growing back in, it got “prickly as hell”.)

I can only imagine (not).

                     ~~~ATTENTION! THIS IS THE SEGUE! ATTENTION!~~~

Turning from the world of hairlessness, we now go to the RUKME news desk, to examine the news stories of the day.

RUKME…R U Kidding Media Events. (Spoken as one word…think Scooby Doo.)

Our motto…“All of the News, Some of the Time, Occasionally”.

RUKME sends its crack Investigative Teams out to span the globe in search of the stories that YOU want to hear, then we edit the hell out of them to make them as inflammatory, slanted to our viewpoint and biased as we can, just like FOX News.

And let’s hear it for the First Amendment.

~Dateline Ballarat Victoria Australia:

“Natalia Shows Off Her Muff”

During a recent segment on the Today Show Australia about “Christmas In July”, which apparently is when people “Down Under” celebrate the Yuletide every year, a confusion which might explain why Aussies attempt to barbecue shrimp on a grill (and how they keep those little fuckers from falling off, down in between the slat-thingies and into the fire is beyond me) and have strange two-legged animals with large tails, short arms and designer pouches running all about the country, an enterprising young female reporter, while modeling the latest in Aussie Christmas garb, showed off her muff. The video (above) tells the tale in a short one-minute piece. When questioned by RUKME Investigative Reporter Rocky Rhodes about the incident, Natalia commented that she “loves her furry muff” and that she was happy to display it, and then hinted that Today Show Australia viewers may be treated to other showings of her muff in the future. (Watch the male anchorperson on the left.) . PARENTAL WARNING: THIS VIDEO HAS MOMENTS OF UNRESTRAINED HILARITY AND MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR ANYONE WITH A HEART CONDITION, HALITOSIS OR SEBACEOUS CYSTS.

~Dateline Tampa FL:

“QB Winston Has Eye Surgery”

According to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers’ Head Coach Bruce Arians, Bucs quarterback Jameis Winston recently underwent successful LASIK eye surgery to repair a problem that has plagued the Number 1 draft pick since his college days; on top of being a moron, Winston was also near-sighted, which certainly might account for the fact that the QB has thrown more interceptions in his five-year career than any other ten NFL quarterbacks combined. Arians, when asked by RUKME Sports reporter Marty Graw if the lack of 20/20 vision was the reason for Winston’s incredibly sorry performance over his first few seasons in the league, replied that “well, he could see the center, so he knew who was snapping the ball to him, and the left guard, but other than that, he was pretty much blind as a bat, on top of having an IQ equivalent to room temperature”. Winston did not return calls seeking a comment on this story, so we can only assume that either the QB was avoiding RUKME reporters or is as deaf as a post as well as blind and didn’t hear the phone ring.

~Dateline New York NY:

“Manfred Tells Astros No On New Reliever”

MLB Commissioner Rob “The Owners Toady” Manfred today ruled on the controversial use of a Golden Retriever as a relief pitcher by the Houston Assholes, er, pardon us, Astros, telling the cheating SOBs from Houston that they cannot use Luke, the dog in question, as a late innings reliever. Manfred spoke to RUKME Investigative Reporter Perry Scope about his decision to not allow Luke to play and said that it had nothing to do with him “being a dog”, but rather that, since Luke is not only known for his pitching prowess but is also a wonderful, affectionate and well-mannered animal, Manfred didn’t want the pet to be contaminated by playing on the same field as “that bunch of lying, cheating, scum-sucking pieces of crap” from Houston. “I wouldn’t let my kids go anywhere near any of those lying fucktards, and I won’t allow Luke near them either”. Besides, the Commish continued, Luke might slip and take a dump in the clubhouse someday, which would only add to the amount of shit already there.

~Dateline Hell Michigan:

“Researchers Say Anal Sex May Cause Pregnancy”

In a related story to the above, doctors at MUFFS, the Michigan University Fred Feely School, which researches sexual function and dysfunction, today startled the world by claiming that their studies indicate that anal sex may in fact cause pregnancy. Dr. Tess Tube, lead researcher for the study, made this comment to RUKME reporter Ann Arbor: “Of course anal sex can cause pregnancy; where do you think all those players and coaches for the Houston Astros came from?”

Where indeed.

Love and headlines,

Cap’n John



(Editor’s note: today’s column is dedicated to several of my most loyal fans, Ms. Robin, Ms. Marycharles, Ms. Gaylene and Ms. Barb…you girls are truly awesome. Thank you so, so much. And please ignore the pic above, which has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with you ladies. Obviously.)

One of the features that I like best and enjoy most in the 800 square foot one-bedroom “flat” (people have apartments, writers have flats) I live in here in the Torpid Whales 55+ Senior Living Complex, located conveniently on the Gulf Coast of FL and so named for the number of the resident elderly sunbathers/swimmers seen lolling all over the chaise lounges at any one of our several pools every day, is the short dividing wall in my bathroom. (See diagram below.)

Besides discretely, but only partially, hiding the toilet from overt view when someone enters “the bath”, the wall serves another much more subtle yet essential function in the life of your Cap’n (that would be me).

Having finally and reluctantly given into some of the vagaries of “aging”, all the while clawing and scratching and fighting for every moment of my squandered youth, I acknowledge that, all my resistance notwithstanding, I cannot stand tall and unbowed before the unrelenting betrayal of time. Thusly, I have reached the point in my life where, during the course of the night, EVERY EFFIN’ NIGHT, WITHOUT FAIL, THE BIG THREE SIX FIVE BABY, EVERY STINKIN’, EFFIN’ NIGHT, EVERY DAMN ONE, I have to get up to pee. Frequent nocturnal urination is the scourge of the elderly. (“Frequent Nocturnal Urination” would be a great name for a rock band.)

I have succumbed to the monster age and lay bloodied and defeated at its evil feet. (Poetic, huh?)

I have spoken to other “seniors” about this phenomena, had many open, candid discussions with folks my age, hoping someone, somewhere could enlighten me on how to avoid the dreaded nightly pee break, to no avail. It seems like, for the majority of the people I’ve spoken to, once you hit 60, your “sleep through the night like a baby” days are now in your rear-view mirror, never to be seen again.


No, excuse me, pee. (As an expletive, the word “pee” leaves a great deal to be desired.)

You will note from the drawing that I have painstakingly created, especially and exclusively for the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog (right), that the afore-mentioned short dividing wall is located directly to the left of the toilet, assuming the person is standing and facing said toilet, which if said person were male and urinating would be the preferred position, and quite close.

Close enough to lean on when you’re standing there in the middle of the night, typically smack between 1:00am and 2:00am, half-to-three-quarters of the way asleep, peeing.

Leaning brings a whole new dimension to male urination. (I tried to think what advantage a woman would realize by leaning on a nearby wall while emptying her bladder and couldn’t come up with one, although I am always open to suggestions from my readers.) This isn’t the old “hold your johnson in your left hand while you put your right hand on the wall above your head and lean forward” lean, no, this is something much more supportive, more relaxing. That hand over the head kind of leaning is fine, believe me, and although I’ve never been a big proponent of the position, it is effective.

No, wall-leaning while peeing is resting, it’s a near-total body relaxation, it’s killing two llamas with one hand-grenade, it’s tidings of comfort and joy, all in the mere act of…leaning.

And peeing. Simultaneously.

You just kinda’, you know, let your left shoulder slump against the wall, and once aim is adjusted, to avoid the dreaded “hit the rim instead of the water and splash urine all over your leg” mistake, you let both arms hang limp at your sides and just lean there and enjoy the pee.

I swear this has become one of the more sublime pleasures of my life of late.

And I don’t waste it…no, no. I never lean during the day, when I’m awake and alert and have no need for support, for leaning. No, it’s only in the dead hours of the night, well past the witching hour of midnight and with time moving inexorably towards another dawn in the eastern sky, only then do I avail myself to the secret luxury of leaning on a wall and urinating. (Insert large sigh of satisfaction here.)

As the Angel Bartleby said to the Archangel Loki in Kevin Smith’s hilarious movie Dogma, “You really are a simple creature.”

Yes, I are.

And as long as we’re on the general subject, please allow me an editorial comment here, if you would…ladies, I cannot for the life of me understand why you carp at men for not putting the seat down when they’re done peeing. Okay, yes, common courtesy would certainly dictate the return of the seat/lid to the down position, but sadly not all men are graduates of the Miss Manners School For Delicacy and Decorum. But really? Really? You guys aren’t smart enough to check behind you first before you park your butt on the crapper…I mean, it’s kinda’ like backing your car into your garage without first checking to see if the door is open. D’uh.


Regular readers of the WATRUK blog, and thank you very, very much if you are, are already painfully aware of my difficulties with segues; for my newer followers, suffice to say that I use segues about as well as old people fornicate. (I’m sensing a theme here.) No, my typical approach to the changing of the subject is to just forge ahead, unconcerned with and in no way restrained by the use of proper syntax, as I’m about to do now.

I have received a number of remarks and comments, some very positive, some curious, some supportive, some profane, dirty, disgusting, revolting (sorry), and some questioning my motives, all in response to my announcement in last week’s post that I was launching a new religion, to be known as the Roving Spastic Church, with the members to be called Spastics.

The Roving Spastic Church, home of “Capnism”.

And so…

~From Penny Stocks of Lower Podunk MN…

                “OMFG, Cap’n, I was laughing so hard when you said your new church was going to be called the “Roving Spastic Church” that I wet myself a little and then had the most intense orgasm I’ve had in 20 years. Are you married? (Asking for a friend.)”

~From Robin S of Trinity FL…

                “Oh Cap’n John, you’re so wonderful! And brilliant! Your post was sensational! I laughed so hard when I read it I couldn’t even go to work. I had to call in and tell them I wouldn’t be there because I had over-laughed…I almost got fired for “unprovoked hilarity” but everything’s okay now. Did I tell you you’re really wonderful?”

~From Rusty Nail of Butte ID…

                “I really like your idea to launch a new religion…what was it P.T. Barnum once said about suckers? Oh yeah, that there’s one born every minute. Nice job, Cap’n.”

~From Gaylene M (the Queen of Las Vegas) of Las Vegas NV…

“I hereby submit my application for any of the positions of either “dungeon guard”, “heretic” or “Head Barkeep”; am licensed, can provide own uniform, Bible and torture devices. Have vast experience in all aspects of dungeon management, including rack-stretching and flogging, and am adept at extracting confessions. Non-smoker, references available upon request.”

~From Marshall Arts of Plunkbottom OH…

                “You are a sick, degenerate, filthy, disgusting, evil, low-class, repulsive, disgusting, gross, sick, perverted, degenerate, twisted, evil, gross and repulsive human being and your mother dresses you funny. How dare you proclaim yourself to be “Head Pope” of your vile, disgusting, evil, sinful, blasphemous, sickening, evil, wretched, disgusting excuse for a “church”. You are putrid, sickening, repulsive, gross, perverted, despicable and occasionally pretentious and I hope you become infested with crotch lice.”

~From Sister Kitty Hawk of Makesme IL…

                “I represent the National Unified Network of Sisters (NUNS) and I have been asked by my sister sisters to advise you of our strenuous objection and opposition to your formation of a new religion, the Roving Spastic Church. We are deeply insulted by your obvious allusion to the Roman Catholic Church, and are further offended by the disparaging remarks you made regarding the various methods used by the REAL Church, the Catholics, to extort, er, excuse me, raise funds from our members to support our work. You are a vile, despicable, repulsive, sickening, disgusting, gross, opinionated fucktard and we hope you burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, or that you’re subjected to four more years of listening to Donald Trump, which would be approximately the same thing.”

~From Mary Charles of Net Worth TX…

                “You are the funniest writer of humor to ever put fingers to keyboard…. That Dave Barry guy can’t carry your jock, believe me, and you’re light years better than that Andy Leibowitz or Hershowitz or whatever his name is. I can’t wait to join the RSC and become a Spastic!”

~From Canadian Barb of South Saskahootski BC…

                “You are my hero. Unfortunately, I agree with Mr. Marshall Arts of Plunkbottom OH (above); your mother does dress you funny.”

So the overall score, based on the above and the many other messages I received, seems to be Beverly Hills 90210 and Cap’n John 3.

But I forge ahead, undeterred. Besides, we all know how much our dear President likes the “religious right” people…maybe I can arrange an audience with him (pardon the pun) in my position as the Head Pope of the Roving Spastic Church, and then convince him to undergo an exorcism; maybe I could drive out the evil spirit that has taken over this man. (Not.)

But I know this…after four years of this jerk, if Donald Trump fell on the floor in front of me and burst into flames, I wouldn’t take out my johnson and pee on him.

At least not without a wall to lean on.

Love and golden showers,

Cap’n John


There are hazards to –eing a humor –logger, such as writer’s el-ow, terminal smarminess or as my mother was wont to say, having diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the ideas, a malady from which I suspect I sometimes suffer.

_ut this is the first time I have ever encountered my current dilemma…I’ve lost one of the keys from my computer key-oard.

You guess which one yet?

-aloney, -alloon, -akery, -alance, -astard (sorry, didn’t mean to get President Trump involved in this mess), -anana, -a-ysit, -asket-all, -alloon, -itch etc.


Actually, the key still works…b,b,b,b,b,b,b,b,b,b. It’s just that the cover has come off and I have to rather deli-erately push down the little thingie that sits underneath the cover to get a “b”.

(I was going to make a bad joke about our FLOTUS, Melanoma Trump, after the last word in that series…glad I didn’t. No sense getting down to the level on which her husband typically operates.)

But I digest…

In last week’s post I hinted briefly at something I have been working on for, lemme’ see, at least 15 or 20 minutes now, and maybe it’s time I mentioned this new project to y’all to get some reaction from my loyal readers, all a couple of you.

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate.”

“I’m sorry, what was it? Yes, I see. Thank you.”

That was my First Mate Taffie Wetzel, who in addition to being my XO (that’s “executive officer” not “hugs and kisses”), also monitors my posts for the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog as I’m writing them to keep me from committing spelling errors, punctuation screw-ups, telling vicious lies or making potentially libelous/slanderous statements…Ms. Wetzel tells me that the word I wanted above was “digress”.


Anyway, despite the enormity of my current level of responsibilities, not the least of which is being the Captain and Master of the sea-going vessel the R U Kidding, and all duties attendant thereto, I have decided to launch a new religion.

Lemme’ run that one by you again, just for effect.

I’m going to start my own religion.

Hey, L. Ron Hubble, the man after whom the recent successful space telescope program was named, did it and look where it got him. According to the local newspaper, the Tampa Bay Times, the Scientologists own the vast majority of the real estate here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, significant property across the rest of the United States, a McDonalds in Hoboken NJ and another in Sheboygen WI, all of the banks in Switzerland and in fact are becoming so powerful worldwide that they’re preparing to invade Belize as we speak.

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel…”

“Oh, I see…I’ll take care of that right away. Thank you.”

That was my XO again…she tells me the name of the founder of Scientology was L. Ron HUBBARD, not HUBBLE.

Pardon me.

Okay, so the Hubble Space Telescope wasn’t named after Mr. Dianetics after all…big deal. Most of the ideas for his “religion” sure as hell seemed to come from somewhere out in deep space.

Don’t believe me?

According to WikiPedia, my go-to source for information, Scientologists pray to the “god” Xenu, who is described thusly: “Xenu, also called Xemu, was, according to Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy (the same position Donald Trump now holds) who brought billions of his people to Earth (then known as “Teegeeack”) in a DC-8-like spacecraft 75 million years ago, stacked them around volcanoes, and killed them with hydrogen bombs.” Other than the “Donald Trump” comment, all of the above is a direct quote from the article.

Oh yeah, and you guys think I’m nuts.

Anyway, I figure if ol’ L. Ron can gin up a phony religion and make gazillions in the process, I should be able to so as well. Case in point, another WikiPedia article I found says that the cost of the therapy, called “auditing” by the Hubbardites, that a Scientology member is required to go through is approximately $800/hour and that a typical session is 2-1/2 hours in length, and apparently these sessions occur with some frequency. All printed and video materials necessary for this “therapy” are available only through, surprise, Scientology.

Boy, how do I get on this gravy train?

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel…”

“It’s called sarcasm, First Mate…I’m aware that Donald Trump is not “the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy”. Thank you.”

That was Ms. Wetzel again…she pointed out to me that Donald Trump is merely the President of the United States, despite what he apparently believes to the contrary.

A substantial increase in the revenues enjoyed by la casa de Cap’n wouldn’t be looked upon unfavorably by management…I had a friend who used to say he was so broke he couldn’t afford to pay attention.

I resemble that remark.

Trust me, I’m not exactly causing the people at the IRS (speaking of audits) any concern with reference to the copious amounts of money I make as the Editor-In-Chief of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog…after 2-1/2 years of being a “humor blogger”, I have yet to make my first dollar. Or centavo for that matter. Factor in what it costs to maintain the WATRUK website, and I’m underwater, a scary position for a sea captain.

So effective today, I am hereby declaring myself to be the Head Pope of the newest scam, excuse me, religion on the planet, the Roving Spastic Church, with my followers to be known as “Spastics”.

It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Over the next few months as I get my new Church organized, I will be looking for candidates for such positions, in no particular order, as Bishop, acolyte, bud light, deacon, pastor, dungeon guard, St. Louis Cardinal, none, priest, epistles and heretics. (A link to an employment application for the RSC will follow soon.)

Like any well-run (i.e., profitable) Church, we will employ a number of the “old reliable” methods for raising $$$, such as bingo, selling indulgences, taking up collections at Sunday services, tithing, the sale of Papal Blessings, given exclusively by yours truly, exorcisms and bake sales, all duly sanctioned by the RSC. (Sound familiar?)

In addition to the tried and true methods above, the Spastics will also introduce new ways to extort, er, sorry, to induce members to contribute to the coffers of the Church, such as our own brand of “auditing” called “fleecing”, which will be a progression of steps in which all members will be forced, excuse me, urged to participate, each step having a higher price tag than the previous one, as they move along the “Road To Xanadu“, as the RSC brand of Utopia will be known. We will also market an entire line of clothing, which will be the only clothing that members will be allowed, pardon me, that members will be encouraged to wear at all times, much like the “magic underwear” that the goofs from the Mormon Church have to wear under their street clothes. (Unlike the Church of the Latter Day Saints, however, Spastics won’t be allowed more than one wife/husband per member without a special “permit” from the Church, available from your local Bishop, online at or on Amazon for the discount price of $99.99.)

All of the above, indeed everything concerned with the Roving Spastic Church will be predicated on our “book”, which will of course be authored by, gee what a surprise, yours truly, and will be called “Diabolics: The Highway To The Higher Heights Of Capnism” and will retail for $99.99 (available in Church bookstores, online at or on Amazon).

Rest assured that any worship ceremonies in the RSC will most certainly include the use of cannabis, patterned after the example of many Native American tribes that used peyote or some other hallucinogenic drug or the Roman Catholics who use wine in their ceremonies. (You can obtain a Medical Marijuana Card here in FL for various physical maladies, so I’m wondering if you can get one for a “religious exemption” as well.)

RSC headquarters will eventually be in Rome, Alabama, mostly because under no circumstances am I moving all the way back north to Rome Indiana and freezing my butt off every winter. Or what I might do is, after I make several bajillion dollars, I’ll go down to Clearwater FL and run the Scientology pussies out of town and buy up all their property and their headquarters and rename the area Roam, so as to avoid any copyright beefs with those asshats over there in Italy.

The Roving Spastic Church, cradle of Capnism.

Buy “Diabolics: The Highway To The Higher Heights Of Capnism” today…free delivery with Amazon Prime.

Donald Trump isn’t Dictator of the Galactic Confederacy, is he?

Love and Bibles,

Cap’n John

Post Script:

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“YES, Ms. Wetzel…”

“Yes, First Mate, I understand the difference between “epistles” and “apostles”…I was making a joke, okay? Has the poop deck been swabbed, the mizzen masted and all the hatches battened down yet, First Mate?”

“Thank you.”

She’s not so smart…she totally missed the word “none” I used instead of “nun” in that same sentence.

(Phone begins ringing in background…)


See that “banner” up above? Yeah, the one that goes across the top of the page. See where it says “Cap’n John is now on Instagram”? Okay, so go to your Instagram account and then do whatever you need to do to follow the Cap’n (“capnjohnk”) and then in the future, you know, the thing that Marty McFly went back to, you’ll know when the Cap’n (yours truly) posts a new column, which by the way I do every Thursday, since it’s my day off. Then each Thursday I’m going to remind everyone, hey, go read the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, ‘cause Cap’n John (yours truly again) has just graced everyone with more of his scintillating wit, awesome intelligence and devastating good looks.

To my loyal readers who take the time to follow me, thank you, thank you…muchly appreciated. For those of you who do not, well, I’m having difficulty describing how hurt I am…I’ll get over it, but boy (insert several large sniffles here).

As I was setting up my brand new Instagram account the other day and learning how to upload pics and text and other digital minutiae, it occurred to me that, in a moment of lax attention when taking a “naughty” photo of one’s self or of another, it would be possible, not likely but just possible, to push the wrong buttons and, instead of sending the image to the “Gallery” on your phone, you send a beautiful rendition of your/her/his genitalia to Instagram instead, to be displayed there in glorious detail along with pics of your recent visit with your Mom, your night out with the girls and the Trufflewart kid’s cornet recital.

One thing I’ve always believed about nudity…some people look great naked, and then there’s the rest of us. Sadly, I am one of the rest of us.

What a nightmare scenario…you’re sitting around one evening, maybe watching old YouTube videos of the 1910 Fruit Gum Company doing Goody, Goody Gumdrops, and maybe you smoke a bowl or two, maybe have a couple glasses of wine and hey, suddenly you’re thinking about getting amorous with your pet llama Wendell. One thing leads to another and, whoa, the whole episode winds up going “viral” on “social media”.

I had a friend from Texas who had a great line for a fiasco like the above…he would say that “you slobbered a bibful”.


The weather here in usually sunny and warm West Central Florida has finally regained its senses and returned to something approaching normalcy, with temps over the last few days edging up close to 70 during the daylight hours. (Geez, I sound like the weather lady on Channel Two AccuDopplerWeather.) This is an upswing from several weeks ago when temps got down into the high 30s on successive nights and comatose herbivorous lizards began dropping like the real estate market back in the ’08 recession. (Click here to get the scientific explanation for this phenomena.)

Residents of FL are greatly relieved to be out from under the awful threat of this air-borne menace.

Speaking of a Floridian who couldn’t find his butt with both hands and a map, our senior Senator from the Gunshine State, Marco (Polo) Rubio recently made some interesting remarks in re the comic-opera impeachment trial of President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, now showing at your national Senate. (I’m writing this on Super Bowl Sunday morning; by the time I post this on Thursday, I’m sure DTBT will have gotten his Get Out Of Jail Free card and be back to torturing kittens, lying every time he opens his mouth and grabbing female genitalia.)

Our good Senator wrote an essay for something called, which is an interesting looking sort of a blog site with varying authors, at least that was how it appeared to me. Anyway, Sen Rufio made the following statement, as a part of his defense of his idiotic vote in favor of not allowing witnesses at the above-stated impeachment trial.

“Just because actions meet a standard of impeachment does not mean it is in the best interest of the country to remove a President from office.”

Let’s pretend this is shampoo, you know, lather, rinse, repeat…go back and re-read the above statement. Please.

Okay, glad you’re back.

Donald Trump once claimed that he could “stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody” and not “lose any voters”.

I never believed that more than I do today.

Using a non-segue segue, since my triumphant return from The Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour back on January 9th of this year, I have received a number of letters, emails, texts, smoke signals, carrier pigeon notes and messages on my Star Trek Authentic AstroCommunicator Device Thingie, each and all from readers seeking help with the paucity of love and companionship that haunts their lives. (That last phrase was pretty good, huh?)

Why anyone would ask me for advice on their love-life is beyond my comprehension; truly, the one thing I know about “relationships” and “dating” and “hooking up” and “celestial mechanics” and whatnot is that I avoid them in the same way I would a hooker named Gonorrhea.

But in the Church Of Cap’nism, I am the Head Pope, and I take my responsibilities serially, so I will do my best to provide answers for the seekers in my flock. (Oh gag me with a miter.)

To proceed…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                Me and all the girls in the office here at Terrific Technology read your blog…we think you’re really funny, and a sharp dresser as well. So I thought, given all your background and experience, that you might be able to help me.

                I’m a 28-year old project manager for TerrTech, fairly attractive, financially okay, always a bride’s maid but never a turret-lathe operator; I’ve had a few romances but nothing long-term has ever come from any of them.

                There’s a guy over in the Celestial Mechanics Dept. who I really have a big crush on…he’s medium height, has nice eyes, a decent build, a small furry tail and is rumored to have both nipples pierced. I thought of just walking up to him and introducing myself, but I only have one pierced nipple and I’m afraid he might laugh at me. Well, that and the third eye in the middle of my forehead.

                I need a good way to meet this guy…can you help me Cap’n John?

                Three-Eyed Sandy From Silicon Valley”

Dear Sandy:

                Right or left?

“Dear CJK:

                I never thought I would be writing to an Internet/media All-Star like yourself for help with my love life, but I also never thought you could have a trial without witnesses either and, well, there you are.

                I need some advice, Cap’n John, because I’m stumped. I’m the events coordinator for the GooseBumps AllOver Nudist Colony and Tire Center; I’m a hetero male, six feet (tall…I have the standard equipment of two for walking), have all my hair and no visible warts. I don’t have halitosis, I don’t drool and I’m house-broken, so why can’t I attract a good woman with at least one pierced nipple who wants to marry, settle down and raise a family of Canadian badgers?

                Any ideas, Cap’n?

                Oh, BTW, you were right about “the rest of us”…some of our members naked could scare a virus away.

                Naked Ned From Norwich”

Dear Ned:

                Badgers!? We don’t need no stinkin’ badgers!!

(Offstage announcer, as camera pans over the faces of the anxious waiting nominees…)

“…and the winner in the 2020 Worst Joke in a Blog Post Category is…CAP’N JOHN KRISSONGS ON THE WELCOME ABOARD THE R U KIDDING BLOG!!”

I’m even embarrassed by that one, although not embarrassed enough to delete it. (Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.)

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                We cannot understand why you refuse to acknowledge this debt and our efforts…”

Okay, let’s skip that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a politician from one of our Southern states, a sharp dresser and a two-faced hypocrite, as well as being a lying sack of fetid badger spleens; I’m also a devout Christian, although I have the morals of an alley cat and the conscience of, well, a politician. Other than that I’m a terrific guy and you would think I wouldn’t have any problems attracting a Conservative, God-fearing woman with all her own teeth and no scruples. I have a hard time dating because of all the time I spend fulfilling the responsibilities of my office (not), to say nothing of all the time I spend flirting with lobbyists, donors and other wheeler-dealers like myself. Hey, I even met a constituent last year.

                Anyway, any ideas on how I might meet the woman of my dreams?

                Just Call Me Polo”

Dear Polo:

                I went looking for the definition of “oxygen thief” in the dictionary earlier, and here’s what I found; “oxygen thief: a person stealing oxygen from the rest of us decent folks”, and surprise!, there was your pic, right next to the definition. 

I had a dream last night…I dreamed I was being followed. Then I woke up and remembered oh, that was what I was hoping for.

You guys are awesome.

Love and social media,

Cap’n John

Post Script: No, the above pic has nothing whatsoever to do with this week’s post, but I found this pic the other day, after it had been missing for some time. A Cap’nMobile from many years ago. FYI, that’s a 1972 Porsche (you knew that, right?) 914 F4 with a 1.8 liter, flat-four air-cooled engine that was mounted midships behind the seats. It was a great car and I just wanted to immortalize the photo.

Post Post Script (written Monday 2/3 in the AM): Here’s what I predicted in last week’s post…”Mahomes will be the difference in the Super Bowl this coming Sunday in Miami, home of the falling comatose herbivorous lizard…take the Chiefs.”

Chiefs 31-20 over the ’49ers and Mahomes is named MVP of the game…boy, I’m good.


As you may recall, it was WAY back on 1/10/18 that I announced my intention to run for the office of President, the day I accepted the Hearty Party nomination and launched my 2020 campaign; as that candidate, in today’s post I’m going to once again address a number of issues that confront all of us as Americans by restating the “planks” of my campaign platform. But first, with your indulgence, I’m going to digress for just a moment…

 “…ladies and gentlemen, here are the starting offenses for the Lysol® 2020 Mega Toilet Bowl!!…”

Yeah, okay, I made that one up…d’uh.

With the holidays a dwindling image in our rear-view mirrors, we can now (gratefully) turn our attentions to more important matters…i.e., ”bowl season”. Starting with all the college bowl games from late last year/early this year, like the Aunt Jemima® 2020 Mixing Bowl, the Hidden Valley Ranch® Salad Bowl, the Uncle Ben’s Wild Rice® Bowl, or the Cheech and Chong Smoke A Bowl and finally culminating in the ultimate of the “bowl games”, the Dumb and Dumber Super Bowl-Cut Bowl, to be played this year on February 2nd in the beautiful city of Miami Florida, known as “The Cruise Capital of the World” and home to Miami Vice, the falling comatose herbivorous lizard, 300 downtown high-rise buildings and South Beach. This year’s game features the Kansas City Warriors, er, sorry, that’s the women’s roller derby team, the Kansas City Chiefs and the San Francisco 49’ers.

The Chiefs have the potential MVP of the league at quarterback in Patrick Mahomes, who despite having a very unusual last name, is pretty much All World in everything, and the 49’ers have Darlin’ Clementine’s father. Both teams possess excellent defensive units, an offense that can put up big points if the defense is sleeping, decent special teams and we’ll have Shakira and J’Lo at halftime as well. On the plus side, both Ms. Lopez and Ms. (unknown) are beautiful women and interesting entertainers; Lopez is also engaged to proven baseball cheat and all-around asshat Alex “I Only Did PEDs On Days Ending With The Letter ‘Y’” Rodriguez as well. Neither woman can pass-block worth a broke you-know-what and (unknown) has recently been prone to fumbling and bouts of inflated ego. On the minus side, once again, indeed for the past LIIV years now, I continue to try to understand what exactly the Rolling Stones, the Who, Katy Perry, Lady HaHa, TP and the ‘Breakers, the Everglades University Comatose Lizards Marching Band, this year’s Dipso Duo above and all of the other half-time extravaganzas have to do with football.

Yes, I understand ad revenues and demographics and spatial telemetry and how to throw a slider and what not, but…never mind.

Moving along…since the dumbheads in Chicago, more commonly known as the Chicago Bears, who are owned by the epitome of managerial incompetence, the McCaskey Family (with the Glazer Family of morons running a close second in ownership ineptitude here in another fine Florida city, Tampa Bay), only managed to finish the regular season with an 8-8 record, which won’t even get you in the playoffs in Pop Warner ball, to fill in the time between inane interviews with obviously bored players and coaches, CONSTANT re-hashes of big plays from the just finished playoffs, “expert” analysis from so-called “experts” and other mostly uninteresting features of “Super Bowl Week” like “Cornerback Warren Peace…Bedwetter and Raiser of Iguanas…His Story”, I recently entered the WayBack Machine® and POOF! returned to 1985/86, to an NFL football season when the “dumbheads in Chicago”, for one all too brief 6-month period, were truly the vaunted “Monsters of the Midway”.

I’ve watched all the regular season games I could find on YouTube (twice), which was all but two of them, plus the ’85 NFC Championship game against a very good L.A. Rams team (three times), who the Bears shut-out, and of course, Super Bowl XX, wherein Chicago embarrassed future football dynasty the New England Patriots by the rather lop-sided score of 46-10, second only to the 49’ers crushing of the Denver Broncos 55-10 in Super Bowl XXIV as the worst defeat in the history of the NFL Championship game. (The XX halftime show featured the musical group “Up With People“; considering the overall tone of the game itself, which featured the universally acknowledged “Best Defense of All Time” totally annihilating the Pats in a gruesome show of football dominance, this combination of football/music is akin to having the Munchkins do 15 minutes of Broadway show-tunes during a lull in the action in one of those ancient Christians/Lions match-ups at the Coliseum in Rome.)

Three observations about watching reruns of old football games on YouTube…1) at the commercial breaks, assuming whoever posted the video took the time to remove the ads, when the announcer says, “we’ll be back in a moment”, they really ARE back in a moment; 2) despite how it sounds, it really is nice to know who’s going to win, especially when the winner is YOUR TEAM; and 3) the 1985 Chicago Bears were the best team to ever play in the NFL…best defense most certainly, and probably GOAT for the entire squad as well. I invite dissenters to dissent.

Yeah, Go Bears! Or should that be past tense, since it was 35 years ago? Went Bears?

Anyway, bowl games etc., are not the subject of today’s post, despite how it appears; no, as I said above, I’m going to give you a redux (that’s Burmese for “iguana testicles”) of my various stands on the issues.

Believe me, my campaign slogan says it all…My name is Cap’n John and I ain’t kidding©.

Catchy, huh?

Here goes…


                No American stands more firm in his/her support for the rights we are guaranteed by our Constitution, and certainly the personal freedom for members of the media to be sociable between themselves and with others is most assuredly one of these precious rights. I cannot imagine why such a fuss is being raised over this issue by members of…ah, wait a minute, of the media. Okay, now I’m totally confused. Never mind, we’ll come back to this one.


                Once again, it occurs to me that this is a very simple matter and one that really shouldn’t need debate. It is my firmly held belief that ALL Americans have the unalienable right to re-do something a second time. I mean, they put erasers on the ends of your iPad, don’t they? Of course you can have a second chance to amend something…it’s your right, and the Constitution says so. The Constitution further says, in the 3rd Amendment, that, “No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in the time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law”, but that isn’t really relevant here.


Yes, yes. Absolutely right away first thing immediately yesterday. Except for any state that is carried by the presumptive Republican candidate Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump. I say “presumptive” because we all know that, after a fair trial in the Senate on the impeachment charges brought by the House recently, Mr. Trump will of course be removed from office and banished to island of Madagascar, where he can commune with the Aquatic Tenrecs, which are indigenous to the island. Yeah, right, when monkeys fly out of my butt. Anyway, there will be no legal smoke for any misguided state that swings its electoral votes to DTBT in ‘20. Like Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania did in ’16.



                No one is ever going to confuse me with great sports strategists like George Halas or John Madden or Salty Parker or even Wade Ingpool but I am steadfast in my belief that a strong DEFENSE and great pitching wins games and championships. Accordingly, after the good people of this country make me their President, I promise to spend money like a crazed wombat to obtain all the Gold Glove-level players I can find, as well as recruiting and bringing up through the farm system no less than a dozen Top 10 pitching prospects every year, along with accelerated schedules for building new, larger and more sophisticated aircraft carriers, drones and slingshots. I will further ask Congress to increase funding for more highly-trained linebackers and shortstops as well. Okay, and I’ll also have Congress throw in a few new F35s for the Air Jockeys too.


                NOBODY PAYS ANYTHING! As President, I will order an immediate military take-over of Dubai and the UAE and then make them pay for everything…shit, as much money as those guys have, they can probably take care of the U.S. National Debt out of petty cash.


                If I’m elected Pres, the taxpayers of America are buying me a new C8 Corvette…hey, I could have held out for a McLaren P1, but I thought, no, I’ll be Pres then, no foreign junk for this Great American. So get ready everyone, ’cause come January 21, 2021, the nice folks at Generous Motors (since my old man was an employee of the said GM, that was how we referred to them at my house when I was a kid) will be getting an order for a fully loaded, all the bells and whistles, 495 horses smack in the middle of the car and painted bright red 2020 C8 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, with the Presidential seal prominent on the side of the car.

Hey, if Tweety Bird can spend a bajillion dollars of the taxpayer’s money on trips back and forth to fucking Mar-Ma-Lade or whatever the hell you call it just so he can play (with himself) golf, the least you guys can do is pop for an AMERICAN sports car for your new Fearless Leader.

Patrick Mahomes will be the difference in the Super Bowl this coming Sunday in Miami, home of the falling comatose herbivorous lizard…take the Chiefs.

Love and the Bear’s “46” defense,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Yeah, I know Harry’s dead and YOU know Harry’s dead but I’m hoping no one tells HIM that.



My mission today here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog is to quell a persistent rumor I continue to hear/see on various social media platforms and news organs that the state song of Florida is Iron Butterfly’s 1968 hit In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida; this is incorrect. In fact, the state song of Florida is Stephen Foster’s Old Folks At Home, written back in 1851, or as it’s known by the more common name, Way Down Upon The Swanee River. And no, I didn’t know that until just a few moments ago, nor did I know that 4-1/2 years ago when I moved to the Gunshine State, as we affectionately refer to it down here.

Even had I known that Swanee River was Florida’s state song it probably wouldn’t have prohibited me from moving here; as far as I’m concerned, the state song of any state is not critical information to be used in determining where someone cares to live. Climate, services, taxes, cost of living, percentage of good-looking women in the state population, housing, yes, those were factors I considered before I relocated to FL, but no, not the state song. Didn’t even come up on my radar.

Florida at least had the good taste to make an officially-sanctioned change to Mr. Foster’s decidedly racist lyrics to a more acceptable version prior to declaring Swanee the state song. (Foster didn’t even get the spelling correct, the big doofus…it’s S-u-w-a-n-n-e-e.)

So we have guns up the butt, a generally agreeable climate, senior citizens by the bucketful, a state song with rather dubious lyrics, Weeki Wachee, Mickey and the gang, “snowbirds” and now, proceeding right to “Ludicrous Speed” unimpeded, citizens of Florida have to be concerned with falling iguanas.

Yes, that’s correct, exhaust fans, if you’re living in/visiting Florida right now and you walk under a tree, you need to be careful not to get conked on the noggin by a falling comatose herbivorous lizard. (Wouldn’t Comatose Lizard be a great name for a rock band? Or how about Falling Iguanas?)

Apparently, iguanas being cold-blooded, when the temperature drops into the 30s/40s, which it has over the past few days down here, they become immobilized and drop like, well, an immobilized iguana. They’re not dead, they’re just…immobilized. (“Cold-stunned” was the way one guy down here put it, which I thought was a great turn of a phrase.) And FYI, iguanas are not indigenous to Florida; considering how damn ugly the things are, they appear to me to be recent escapees of the Planet Zatox.

Some enterprising Floridians have taken to marketing/selling iguana meat recently during this crisis, calling it “Chicken of the Trees”, which you have to admit is also pretty clever. While I admire the entrepreneurial spirit, I’ll pass…yuck.

So there I was, avoiding any falling lizards and dreaming about being on the “Swanee River”, when the letters, emails, text messages, telegrams, smoke signals and secret decoder ring communiques starting pouring in, in response to my last two posts here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog.

You want to gauge readership? Say something you know a lot of people will want to smack you upside the head for and you’ll hear from them, believe me. Especially in this day and age of the instant gratification of social media and the Internet.

Being the generous and wonderfully warm person that I am, I thought, as a public service, that I would share some of the more pathetic, weepy, er, excuse me, interesting notes and letters I received…no, no, don’t thank me; it’s just my way of helping y’all to reach the path of enlightenment.

“Cap’n John:

                Hey, Coach Madden here. Thanks for quoting me in your post last week; I love your blog. But you got the quote wrong, buddy; instead of, “Don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon”, it should have been, “If the oleander is twice to the left, then the persimmon will be not transparent”. Just thought you might want to get it straight for the record. Keep up the good work, my man; I think the Cap’n is almost as funny as the idea that Jamis Winston will lead the Tampa Bay Bucs to a Super Bowl.


                John Madden”

“Dear Cap’n Krissongs:

                In response to the remarks in your blog post of 1/9/20, Mr. Crane has asked me to clarify his position, in an attempt to help you and your readers better understand his recent actions. While it is true that Mr. Crane is an “unprincipled bucket of warm spit”, he vigorously denies that he had prior knowledge of the sign-stealing scheme that his team, the Houston Assholes, er, excuse me, Astros, were recently found guilty of employing during the 2017 and 2018 baseball seasons, after an extensive investigation by Major League Baseball. Although Mr. Crane is aware that by denying his involvement and thereby avoiding his responsibility in this matter that he is also confirming to the public that he is not only a total moron but a lying sack of fetid llama parts as well, nevertheless he insists, should you persist in your defamations and libelous accusations towards him, that he will be forced to bring suit against yourself and the WATRUK blog to address damages to his reputation, even though said reputation is now totally and completely in the toilet since it was learned what a no-class dirtbag he is. We hope that this letter will be sufficient in stopping your continued attacks on Mr. Crane, since it is not his desire to bring this matter into open court, knowing what a laughing stock it would make him.


                I.M. Pane, Attorney At Law

                Law Offices of Moore Pane Enagony LLC”

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                The kids asked me to let you know how much everyone in the band appreciated your recent great review of our concert (Prism 2019) and to show our gratitude, we would be happy to take you up on your idea to assemble all 200 members, complete with instruments, of the J. W. Mitchell High School Debating Iguanas Marching Band at your apartment some morning around 3:00am to serenade your idiot neighbor downstairs…we thought we could do our version of the state song of Florida, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Already looking forward to next year’s concert.

                Yours musically,

                Juan Atatime, Director”

“Mr. Cap’n John Krissongs:

                I represent Her Grace the Most Wonderful Ms. Lori Loughlin and I was directed by HGTMW Ms. Loughlin to assure you and your readers that the recent news report on RUKME that she had undergone ego-reduction surgery in the past is false and that HGTMW Ms. Loughlin emphatically denies the report. HGTMW Ms. Loughlin demands an immediate apology and a retraction from you. Also, HGTMW Ms. Loughlin will be available to all peasants for ring-kissing and other modes of worship every day next week from 10:00am to 2:00pm, by appointment only.

                Sue Perficial, Publicist for Her Grace The Most Wonderful Ms. Lori Loughlin”

“cppn Joohn guy:

                Snot true didnnt kidnap guy only wanted to be frend thought him cute tell man me sorry if hurt man ask man come back will not try to mate again honnest man was sexxy studmuffin love man

                tell man plese com back plese

                a b dominalsnowman

ps you funny guy make a b laugh much”

Please note: no iguanas were harmed during the writing of this column…

Love and Florida oranges,

Cap’n John

Post Script…yeah, okay, there was that one little guy that wanted me to tie him up and spank his little lizard butt, but I wasn’t having any of it; none of that preevert shit here on the WATRUK blog, no sir. I don’t need those PETA nutjobs or the ASPCA folks busting my chops for abusing a comatose herbivorous lizard.

Falling iguanas…boy, what the hell is next, low-flying alligators?


Post Post Script…another great quote from Coach Madden, back in 1985, talking about Chicago Bears free safety Gary Fencik, who played football at and graduated from Yale University and had an “All-American clean-cut youth” image: “Fencik played football at Yale…that’s like saying ‘clean dirt’.”

Post Cereal…coming next week, to a blog near you…THE RETURN OF THE CAP’N JOHN FOR PRESIDENT 2020 TOUR. Exciting, huh? I know I almost peed my pants just writing it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.