And thank you, Hoyt Axton, for a great song… “Never Been To Spain”

I wonder if one of my medical professional readers might help me out with this one.

I went to the “lab” this AM for “blood work” (god, I hate that cliché) and, sitting in my car outside the store, I used the texting/email check-in thingie to let them know I was there and ready to be jabbed, repeatedly if necessary. (Hey, I’m a team-player.) And they sent me back a page that said they were glad to see me, that the needles were all warmed up and ready to go and then asked me if I had eaten in the last 12 hours?

Guys, you’re taking a tablespoon-and-a-half (that’s what the nice MedTech lady told me) of blood from my arm…this isn’t a brain transplant. What difference does it make if I ate something in the last 12 hours? Or for the last 12 years for that matter? Yeah, I had breakfast.

I wasn’t irritated at their question, just perplexed.

So they buzzed me and said “come on down”, which I did, and the nice lady said yes, they had to use my blood, sorry, the blood I had borrowed from my pet llama Larry would not suffice. (Larry was none too pleased with my method of withdrawal either, lemme’ tell you.)

She verified my address, my doctor’s name, my birthday (I wouldn’t let her say the year out loud), my inseam and shoe size and then, The Question again…have you eaten in the last 12 hours?


Okay, brace yourselves for the next one…

And what did you have?

A huge bowl of lobster bisque, a peanut butter and chorizo sandwich, two alpaca burritos and an apple fritter…WHAT THE HELL DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?!?


I understand that if I were being given a shot of something, a vaccine or medication of some sort, that I might possibly, conceivably have an allergic reaction, in some dark magic, cauldrons bubbling evilly, chemical interaction of mystical import, and yark my two pieces of toast and glass of OJ on your floor, but they weren’t making a deposit, the lady made a withdrawal, so how is it that I might react magically, mystically, chemically to that and somehow grow a fourth eye?

Really? Really?

Now I’m not being critical of the laboratory company; I’m sure their Legal Department has prepared multiple lengthy memos for their executives on the “contingent liability” that might arise when jabbing someone with a sharp needle if they’ve consumed food recently. And several of my ex-wives have mentioned to me on numerous occasions that I was often times overly critical and that they hoped I would someday be stricken with a debilitating disease and that it would rot and fall off.

Ungrateful cretins…this was the thanks I got for allowing them to bask in the warmth and sheer beauty of my magnificence for all those years.

So I get the “why” the lab people wanted to know if I had eaten in the last 12 hours, I just don’t get that they needed to know the “what” as well.

And why a “tablespoon-and-a-half”? Sorry, but when I asked the lady how much they take, strictly out of idle curiosity, that was her response, and I have to tell you, I felt a little let down. A tablespoon-and-a-half? Geez, could you be anymore unscientific? I’m expecting something like, oh, we take 15 cc’s or 1.63 ounces or 56 vaulted scones, you know, some measurement that lab/medical folks would commonly use.

A tablespoon-and-a-half. What is this, a recipe? “When you’ve finished braising the alpaca livers, then, using a wire whisk, gently fold the tablespoon-and-a-half of Old Wrinkly Guy blood into the yak batter until thoroughly blended.”


Soooo, tell me, Ms. Mary the Nice MedTech Lady (not her real name), just ‘xactly how much is a half-tablespoon? ‘Cause if you fuck up and only draw a tablespoon-and-a-quarter and I have to come back and go through this whole bright lights in your eyes, rubber hoses and pliers for your fingernails interrogation about my eating habits again, I’m going to be displeased.

So just to keep Mary the Nice MedTech Lady on my side, you know, provide her with a little levity to brighten her day and so she wouldn’t miss my arm and stab me in the eye or the right uvula or whatever, I told her the story of how I had gotten my second Covid vaccine shot, eight months previously…

The nice Pharmacist Lady at the Publix where I went to get shot, after I sat down and got comfy, had me pull my sleeve up and then she wiped about a tablespoon-and-a-half of some red liquid on my arm, drawing a circle. (A few moments later I realized she had actually drawn a target.)

Then she told me to turn sideways in my chair, basically “presenting” my upper left arm to her, and to not move. From behind the Pharm counter she pulled out a plunger/needle assembly that was probably 18” long overall with a needle about as big around as a birthday-cake candle, and proceeded to suck up about a half-gallon of some evil-looking liquid from a bucket on the counter that dripped off the end of the needle onto the floor, where it hissed and bubbled and burned the linoleum, hoisted the whole rig up to her shoulder like a M16 rifle, and tensing like a runner on the starting blocks, let out a blood-curdling scream and charged across the room at me as if she were a knight on his trusty steed, lance forward and ready for battle.

It was horrible.

After the ordeal had ended, they made me stay for 15 minutes more, just to make sure I didn’t have an allergic reaction and fall to the floor, start to froth at the mouth, loss all control of my faculties and start voting Republican. (This “allergic reaction” thing apparently scares the shit outta’ medical providers.)

Oh great, just what I wanted to do for 15 minutes, walk around inside a Publix grocery store, seeing as how I work part-time, when I’m not being the Captain and Master of the venerable boat the R U Kidding, at another Publix grocery store. Boy, look at all the cans of Green Beans…wow. And that Rump Roast, man, the last time I saw a rump like that it was dancing. Look at those Triscuits, holy shit, never saw the like before.

Gag me with a shopping cart.

But know this, and somehow I think it is significant, that the Nice Pharmacist Lady at Publix did NOT ask me if I had eaten in the last 12 hours nor ask me to disclose what I had consumed, prior to shooting me. She apparently didn’t care if I yarked up my two pieces of toast and glass of OJ onto her floor.

Mostly I’m just getting tired of people sticking me with needles.

I wonder if maybe this might be a good time to get a tattoo…never mind.

Love and Medicare,

Cap’n John


Sometime subsequent to my arrival here on the Left Coast of Florida (for those of you who are “limb-recognition challenged”, that would be the same side as the Gulf of Mexico, which by the way could just as easily have been named the Gulf of Florida or the Gulf of Texas or even the Gulf of Waffleirons for all of that…where the hell do the Mexicans get off naming an entire Gulf for themselves? For my money, I think President and The Man Who Kicked the Shit Outta’ Donald Trump in the 2020 Presidential Election Joe Biden should declare war on those jerks down there south of the Rio Grande and get our Gulf back, thank you) a number of years ago, I became aware of a, well, I don’t know exactly what to call it, a PR campaign I suppose, the basis of which was the statement, “Jesus Is The Answer”. It’s become ubiquitous here in the Gunshine State over the years.

On billboards. On bumper stickers. Yard signs. Church signs. Small planes flying overhead towing banners. Wristbands. Printed on the sides of migratory birds. On visors. Tee-shirts. In Cracker Jack boxes. (Can you still find Cracker Jacks at the store? I should check.)


That’s it, just the statement “Jesus Is The Answer”, in white letters on a black background.

The campaign, if I’ve gotten my research correct, and there didn’t seem to be much information available as to the origins of this effort, was started back in 2008 by the Campaign for Core Christianity (rhymes with insanity), in an effort to convince people that, well, Jesus Is The Answer.

I was driving down the street when I saw this for the first time, on a yard sign stuck in someone’s front lawn.

And it struck me, okay, yeah, but what’s the question?

(Followers of Former and Never Again To Be President Donald Trump operate in the same manner…according to them, they have all the answers. Sadly, just none of the questions.)

Well, I have questions, several of them in fact, and I’d appreciate it if someone out there in ReaderLand could help me find some answers, ‘cause I’m pretty sure it isn’t Jesus in most cases.

And don’t any of you come harping to me about being an atheist, heathen, devil-worshiping, llama-defiling perverted reprobate, although I am…I mean no offense.

I was and am just asking.

Okay, why are they called “coasters”? If “coasting” is the reliance on previously achieved momentum for continued motion, I don’t get it. I mean, I’ve never seen any of them move, in any manner. They just sit there, parked under your glass so the ice-sweat stuff doesn’t get all over the table and screw up the finish. So why “coasters”? Did they come from the coast? Were they invented in say, California or Maine, and migrated their way across the country like lemmings, saving table-tops everywhere from the ignominy of water circles? Couldn’t we just as easily have called them “waffle irons”? (All right, yeah, that one was already taken, sorry.) What the hell kind of name is “coasters”? (I really liked the Coasters’ “Searchin’” and “Charlie Brown” a lot. Just FYI.)

Why do we sing the National Anthem just before sporting contests? I mean, how patriotic do you have to be to hit a baseball or throw a football or play in the No Defense All They Do Is Shoot Threes NBA? Is it really necessary to acknowledge our allegiance to America so two hockey teams can then go out on an ice skating rink and pound the crap out of each other? Besides, beyond the utter lack of a good reason for singing this tune prior to games, most of the “entertainers” (using the term guardedly) who lead us in the singing can’t sing the fucking song properly anyway. Listen, I’ve been singing all my life and I have a pretty good voice and a rather large range; I can sing either bass or tenor parts, although I strain at the lowest lows and the highest highs. But I have enough range to sing the Anthem, and most of the people you see on TV doing it don’t. From that very low note in the opening phrase, “Oh-oh say…” up to the screecher on “…land of the FREE…”, is a range of about 17 octaves, and most of the folks I’ve ever heard try to sing this tune possessed a range of about 1.5, which is not enough, believe me. So why sing it at all? What’s the connection between sporting events and our Anthem? Couldn’t we just as well sing “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” or the Queen of the Night aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute? And why do the Canadians sing their anthem when a game is played in Canada (clever idea…wouldn’t make much sense to sing the Canadian anthem at a soccer game in Brazil) or the Canadian team plays in the U.S.? Poop on the Canadians…for all we know, they might be in cahoots with the Mexicans over this bullshit about whose Gulf it is.

Why do we have eyebrows? What do they do, what function do they perform? I mean, really? Two rows of hair, one above each eye, like caterpillars sitting on twigs?

For years I kept my head shaved…at first I did it because I thought I would contact those CCC people about their ad campaign, you know, paint “Jesus Is The Answer” on my bald head, for a modest fee, of course. Later I just shaved it because it was easy to maintain, and besides, I didn’t think you should keep something that pretty covered up.

They never answered my letter.

Anyway, one day during my Naked Pate Days (wouldn’t that be a great name for a rock band?) I was staring in the mirror and realized something…I had just shaved my face from the base of my neck up to my cheekbones and I had shaved my head from the hairline down to the base of my neck (around the other side) and yet, smack in the middle of all this naked, shaved-smooth flesh were these two 3/8ths wide strips of hair, sitting there quietly turning grey. I thought maybe I should grow a mustache so it would look like a family.

So last week I shaved my eyebrows…inadvertently.

I made the colossal mistake of thinking that I could trim them, since they grow in nine directions and ALWAYS look ridiculous, with my disposable razor, rather than the electric clippers with which I cut my hair, as is my habit, using the #2 guard. I just had to be careful, go over them lightly, don’t bear down too hard…shit.

Like I’d used a fairway 7-iron (not to be confused with a waffle iron), yep, I dug a good divot right out of the left one, so now instead of having two eyebrows about 2 inches long each, I now had one two-incher on one side and two ¾” inch eyebrows on the other. It looked like Morse code written out.

Being pretty sure that I couldn’t make the shaved portion grow back spontaneously by the application of Positive Energy, the only other option I seemed to possess was to cut the other legs shorter to match the one that was making the table rock. Easy, right?


I no longer have eyebrows, I have eyewhiskers.

For a relatively bright human being, it amazes me sometimes how completely able I would be to fuck up a two-house paper route.

And lastly, why haven’t the Democrats demanded vote audits of the 2020 Presidential election in ALL 50 states by now? Talk about vote fraud. Because as much as I hate to think that the election was tampered with, the only other alternative is to accept the fact that there really were 74,222,959 people in this country goofy enough to vote for Former and Never Again To Be President Trump.

That’s as dumb as eyebrows.

Love and enquiries,

Cap’n John

Post Script…so did you guys like my definition of “coasting”? I made that up, all by myself, and I think you people ought to be suitably impressed. Thank you.

Click on the link below for one of the all-time great rock tunes…all three chords of it.

Question Mark and the Mysterians “96 Tears”



(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to one of the most adventurous, fun, sexy, strong and slightly askew human beings I’ve ever had the privilege of calling “friend”, a young lady who has my great affection and has earned my respect at her decidedly ripe old age of 24 (25? I think she’s 24), which by the way is 3.43 in dog years. Thanks, Mags, for brightening all of our lives…the world was denied a fine person when you weren’t born twins.)

Okay, I’m done…I just wanted to write that dedication.

Just kidding.

I recently took a poll among the various officers and crew members of the venerable ship the R U Kidding, looking to determine if they, like myself, think that Polish as a written language wouldn’t be near as interesting to read without all those curlicues and squiggly things they attach to the letters…they look like they’re trying to grow roots and branches and limbs and shit.

Word plants.

No, what I really asked them was who they thought was the biggest asshole ever to walk the planet, Donald Trump, Ron DeSantis, Greg Abbott, Charles Manson, Adolf Hitler or a person of their choice. (They all refused to participate unless I allowed them a “write-in” candidate, and they also made me let them answer anonymously…when I saw their responses I understood why, the ungrateful cretins.)

There were two votes for the former and no longer President Donald Trump, one vote for the My Pillow goof, Mike Lindell, a vote with which I completely agree, and 18 votes with my name written on the ballot.

Later on that day, my First Mate Taffie Wetzel came to my cabin and told me that the guys were just having some fun with me, and that they really all would have voted for that repulsive shitwad Sidney Powell, Donald Trump’s “Kraken” lawyer who is about thisclose to being disbarred from practicing law anywhere in America and in several foreign countries as well (Poland has said that if Powell shows up in Warsaw to try a case in court that they will immediately launch an invasion into Slovakia) for her advancement of and litigation concerning fake (i.e., crazy) 2020 Presidential election fraud theories.

I think she was lying. My First Mate, I mean. I know the dumbass lawyer is lying. (You’ve heard the old joke about how to know if a lawyer is lying…are his/her lips moving?)

So let’s talk about characters (no, I don’t care to be bothered with segues).

In addition to being the Captain and Master of the good ship the R U Kidding, I also, as most of you probably know by now, work part-time at a Publix grocery store here on the Left Coast of the Gunshine State (Florida) as a Front Service Clerk, which is a prime example of typical Publix corporate jargon…I’m a bagger.

At work I am surrounded by “characters”, people who, in one way or another, are not quite right, as in approaching bat-shit crazy, if you get my drift.

Allow me to give you an example…

(I was going to give you an apple fritter but I don’t have any, but Publix does.)

Yesterday, in the midst of my shift, one of our Customer Service persons called me over to the CS counter, needing to tell me something. Now let me digress a moment for some clarification…

If my family name was Post, my parents would have named me Deafasa. I wear hearing aids; my audiologist says that if she had to characterize my hearing loss in one word, that word would be “profound”. (True story.) So they help me to hear, immensely, but unfortunately, grocery stores are really, REALLY loud places. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re shopping, stop and listen, I mean really listen. There’s the background hum of the ventilation system fans, the whirr and chirr of rolling carts, the almost constant “boop, boop, boop” of the registers as they announce to the cashier and most of the surrounding county that the item has scanned properly, the overhead PA speakers, barking out instructions for the Embalming Department to take the call on Line Two, children screaming at the ignominy of being refused a candy bar and all manner of noises that fall in the “Other” category that add to the cacophony. (It would be pretty funny if every other register said “Betty”. Betty, boop, Betty, boop, Betty, boop, all day long.)

So here’s the CS person, my good friend the Pixie Girl, who by the way has total cosmic sweetness, is at the top of the “cutie” scale and a very good sport for allowing me to tease her all the time about pretty much everything. She was saying something in her rapid-fire but soft speaking voice from behind a cloth mask to a guy who wouldn’t hear a cannon fire even if it went off back in the Deli Department, something about an electric cart, a gallon of Lime Jello, two Frisbees, a black Tahoe and all-you-can-eat chicken tenders, all the while pointing towards the back corner of the store where we have the milk coolers and the chain saw display.

So being the epitome of subtle, I delicately enquired as to what she had said, i.e., “PG, what the hell are you talking about?” She knows that with me, often times there is only here, and no hear.

An interpreter was brought in and it was explained to me via sign language, raised voices and printed page that a customer had phoned in and requested an electric cart be brought out to her car (a black Tahoe), as she was unable to walk due to having just had foot surgery. (Good thing it wasn’t hemorrhoid surgery…she probably would have wanted me to carry her around the store.)

(Ahh, a really cool idea just hit me…Publix could get a couple of those sedan chair thingies for each store, you know, the chair on a platform thing that some king or Grand Vizier or Winnie the Poohba from olden days parked his butt on and then was carried around by several big strong guys in matching loose trousers and vests. We could charge people an extra 50 bucks to have four Front Service Clerks (baggers) carry them around the store, like they were the Pasha of Genoa salami Italy or the Duke of Earl maybe. Hey, it’s just a thought, okay?)

I never did get a completely lucid answer as to why the PG was pointing southeast towards the milk and yogurt section of the store instead of southwest towards the parking lot, where typically patrons park their cars. I have never found a vehicle in the Dairy Department. (We have cows in Dairy. There are, however, no cows in Bakery.) All I got from PG was her cute little grin and a denial that she was pointing in the wrong direction, which of course was patently untrue and had added greatly to my confusion at the time. (I’m deaf, not blind, you stinker.)

She’s a snot.

It could have been worse…one day last week an LOL (little old lady) walked up to me, and judging from the way she was moving, I would imagine she was born sometime during the Reconstruction, and asked me where she could find “assholes”. (My immediate thought was to tell her to try either Washington or Tallahassee, but my more judicious side overruled my major smart-ass side and I said pardon me, ma’am, I didn’t understand your question. (Here not hear.) What are you looking for?

Assholes, she says through her mask, a little agitated.

Drive cross-state to Palm Beach, lady…there’s a big orange one living at the Marm-a-Lardo Resort there.

Ma’am, I’m really sorry, I still don’t understand what you said.

She pulls her mask down and in a disgusted voice says to me, Where. Do. You. Keep. The. Apples?

Ma’am, go right down this aisle until you get to the rubbers and then hang a left.

She looks at me, shocked.

Young man, do you just say “rubbers’?

No, ma’am, I said assholes.

Love and Beltone,

Cap’n John

Post Script…hey, Mags, if you guessed that the PG’s real initials are SK, you’d be in the right aisle to find the apples.


(Editor’s note: the following is dedicated to my buddy and fellow sufferer (Publix employees) Julia C., who besides being a major cutie and a good kid is one of my biggest fans, thereby proving conclusively that there is indeed no accounting for taste. This one is for you, young lady. Three years? When is his contract up for renewal?)

Last week when I was at the grocery store, laying in a supply of sensible things like celery, whole grain bread and Teriyaki Spam (oh yes there is…Google it) for the week to come, I decided to indulge myself and added a totally decadent and completely unnecessary piece of chocolate cake with chocolate icing to my basket of comestibles. (Is that a great word or what?)

A momentous occasion indeed, for I rarely “cheat”…Nature has blessed me with the metabolic rate of glacier movement, which means that I don’t have to actually eat fattening shit to gain weight, I just have to look at it, or walk past it. The calories jump aboard unbidden. If I eat an extra Triscuit I gain three pounds. I’ll have to live to at least 146 to work off all these cake calories.

And not just a simple, every-day cake and icing combo, oh no, this was the Publix Bakery version of the venerable dessert, wherein they use their ultra-secret, triple potency Eck Stream Chocolate, developed at the company’s hush-hush Bakery Testing Center and Laundromat facility, located in the foothills of Hershey PA, along with other exotic ingredients like whole milk so fresh that the cows didn’t even know they’d given it up, eggs from free-range, no antibiotics, no MSG, STP or LGBQT chickens, flour from 24-caret wheat stock and just a smidge of Jack Daniel’s best walking around whiskey for emphasis.

This is good chocolate cake. Maybe not sex-good, but good, and at my age, when it comes to doing the horizontal mambo, given my current state of unintentional and long-term celibacy, I’m in the same position as a dog chasing a car…if I caught one, I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.

I put the cake/icing on the shelf in the back of the walk-in closet in my bedroom, as far away from my kitchen as you can get in my flat (common people have “apartments”, writers have “flats”), to limit the “jumping-off calories” as much as possible.

And there it sat all morning, calling to me, tempting me, cajoling me (not as good as “comestibles” but not bad), crooning in a low, sultry voice, Cap’n John, Cap’n John, you don’t need to wait until after lunch, eat me now, come, Cap’n, partake of my velvety sugarness, don’t wait, be wild and adventurous, eat dessert first, oooh, look how chocolatey and sweet I am, oooh, Cap’n, come and see how my creamy icing has dripped down my…well, you get the picture.

But I was stalwart and firm in my resolution to not give into the cloying temptations being clairvoyantly broadcast from the closet by my dessert…I resisted until after a late lunch of Schezwan Spam, bok choi and Post Raisin Bran, when, my honor and dignity intact, I was ready for a serious chocolate rush.

C’mon baby, light my fire.

Like I said, this was good chocolate cake, emphasis on “was”.

I was standing at the counter in my kitchen, going through my after-lunch cleaning ritual when I espied (whoa, that’s three now, am I a rock n’ roll word badass or what?), sitting there quite openly, a crumb, no, a morsel of chocolate the size of a baby pea that, apparently in an attempt to escape, had leaped from the serving plate and landed on the countertop, only to have his flight to freedom about to be ended unceremoniously by your Cap’n.

I reached out to this last tasty bit of “cocoa heaven” and, utilizing the industry-standard “Between the Index Finger and Thumb” grip, picked it up and, turning towards the sink, raised it towards my awaiting, and agape, mouth. (What, you thought I was going to throw it in the garbage? Are you nuts? Not in this lifetime.)

But when I went to place the morsel on my tongue, nothing happened. Perplexed, I looked down at my index finger and realized that said bit of cake was still attached…to my thumb. (See, I had intended, as an integral part of the “Between the Index Finger and Thumb” grip, to use my index finger as the positioning tool, with my thumb as the support tool. Industry standard.)

Apparently, somewhere during the transfer process, my thumb had told my index finger, hey, I got this, and took control of my cake crumb.

Okay, I’m down with that, I guess, I thought to myself, being alone at the time, and began raising my thumb to my cake receptacle, taste buds alert and standing by…

…when the morsel fell off my thumb and dropped straight down into the disposal, executing a one-and-a-half gainer with a twist dive that was given all 8s and 9s by the panel of judges.


Is it possible that this is some kind of karmic justice, imposed upon me by the boomerang of sowing and reaping good and bad shit throughout my life, a retribution for some affront by me towards some person long forgotten? What sin did I commit to deserve this fate? What ignominy was debited to my Breaks account, making me so vastly over-drawn? (I think I can squeeze in one more sentence before it kicks in, ah, shit, too late.)


I was really looking forward to that last crumb…yeah, I know, I had already had the entire piece, how many more calories do you need, you old fart, but still, in that brief moment between discovery and loss, I had developed a genuine fondness for that last little piece of chocolate cake, a caring that was shattered when it fell to its demise.

If it had still had some icing on it, I would have gone down after it.

Love and Betty Crocker,

Cap’n John


Please note…Our regular (and only) contributor, Cap’n John Krissongs, is taking the day off for personal reasons. Cap’n John has informed us that he will be taking some time over the next few weeks to consider whether or not to continue his ongoing relationship with the WATRUK blog. Apparently, “the Cap’n” is thinking about hanging it up forever.

We wish Cap’n John the best of luck in whatever endeavor he chooses to pursue. And if he quits writing posts for our blog, we hope he gets a bad case of crotch lice.

The Editors




My very good friend Robin, who is also my frequent partner in crime, is a big fan of sloths.

The animal, not the sin.

Robin and I both work part-time for Publix Super Markets here on the Left Coast of Floriduh, her as a Cashier, said job title being self-explanatory, and myself as a Front Service Clerk, said job title needing clarification due to it being another example of Publix’ rampant corporatese…I’m a  “bagger”. (I’m surprised the geniuses over in Lakeland FL, where the home office is located, haven’t decided to call our cashiers “Electronic Scanning and Payment Clerks” or some such nonsense.)

Anyway, Robin and I have been working together for over five years now, and we’ve become great friends, which I firmly believe is a testament to her patience, forbearance and somewhat questionable taste, so last year, knowing of her affinity for the South American mammal, I bought her a stuffed animal sloth for her birthday, which she thought was adorable. (It was, I have to admit…of course, she thinks I’m adorable, which supports my earlier assertion regarding her taste.) The real ones? Not so much, and despite my friend’s insistence that they’re “cute”, I think they’re creepy as hell. (She will from time to time text me little cartoon pics of the hideous damned things, apparently with the intent of convincing me of their massive cuteness…sorry, doesn’t work.)

If you’ve never seen one, look to your right…yeah, that hairy thing with the large, dark eyes, fur that grows backwards (per WikiPedia), a Mo Howard haircut and the dopey expression on its face is a sloth. (My brother, the Pompous Ass, once dated a girl that looked suspiciously like one…he learned after they split up that she had been seeing an alpaca on the side. And he was my mother’s favorite.)

Sloths are known for, among other things, the extreme slowness of their movements…in French, they’re called paresseux, which translates to English as “hideous hairy things that hang upside down from trees like overripe fruit”. (Okay, it actually means “lazy”.) Their couldn’t-win-a-100-yard-dash-with-a-glacier movements are creepy enough, but Holy Coke Nails, Batman, how about those two-feet long claws? Eeeeyeeeew.

Creepy, I don’t care what Robin says.

As stated above, sloths are indigenous to Central and South America, and by no means are ever found in Canada.

The other thing you never find in Canada is black basketball players, at least none that are natives of our frost-bitten neighbor to the north.

This all came to me last week when, on an evening of having nothing better to do, I decided to watch some of the exploits of the 1992 American Men’s Olympic Basketball Team, the “Dream Team” as they were called, as they did their “Sherman’s March To The Sea” plundering of all the other competing teams in both the Tournament of the Americas, the Olympic qualifying competition for this side of the world, and the Olympics themselves; the NBA guys won every game they played by an average margin of fifty gazillion points, give or take a few bajillion.

The game I chose to watch was their second game of the T of the A against the team from Canada.

Now none of the teams in the qualifying tourneys or the Olympics themselves were bad teams…some of them were pretty damn good, especially the teams from Croatia and Lithuania, but they weren’t the Dreamers. (If you’re not familiar with the ’92 games, imagine the hordes of Genghis Khan invading a city protected by a bunch of middle-school kids armed with BB guns or David and Goliath, where David fucks up and leaves his slingshot in his other pants.)

Midway through the first quarter, with the Americans up by 156, the Canadian coach started sending in his bench guys, to give the starters a breather from the onslaught, and wait, what?, in comes a young man at the shooting guard position who is black.

A black Canadian basketball player? Oh no, I don’t think so. (There were only two on the team.)

To the best of my knowledge, there are no black people in Canada, anywhere. None…I looked. The kid was pretty good, made a couple of nice drives to the basket, played decent defense, but an African Canadian? Shit, that doesn’t even sound right for goodness sake.

Canada’s all-time greatest athlete is probably Wayne Gretzky, the Hall of Fame white guy hockey player, but as Michael Jordan remarked to comedian Bill Murray in the movie Space Jam, talking about Boston Celtic great Larry Bird, “Larry isn’t white, he’s transparent”. Thus Wayne Gretzky. I mean, people in Canada are WHITE. So I don’t know where this young man on the Canadian basketball team was REALLY from, but it wasn’t Toronto, believe me. (My thought is that the Maple Leaf Gang sent roundball spies south over the border into the United States to recruit players, and then gave each guy they signed to play a phony Canadian passport and a pet moose.)

Although the sloth is from the same family as the anteater, to the best of my knowledge they are not in any way related to moose.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline Planet Zatox

In a complete departure from anything that even begins to approach sanity, according to a recent opinion poll conducted by Politico/Morning Consult, 29% of Republican respondents believed that former and no longer President Donald Trump will be reinstated to the Presidency by August of this year. (In the State of Florida, pollers said this belief was to some degree predicated on the fact that the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won Super Bowl XV back in January, proving conclusively that anything is possible.) 84% of the Democrats and just over 70% of independent respondents said that they thought the idea of Trump’s return to the White House was “nuts” or “bullshit”. In a follow-up question, 100% of the Republicans who believed in Trump’s reinstatement also said that the Dems and Indies were “stupid fucks” and that their opinions don’t count. When asked by RUKME Chief Political Correspondent Ben Tover about why the poll had a +/- accuracy factor of 10%, Politico President and CEO Count Em Again replied that “getting in and out of all those trailer parks safely hindered the accuracy of the poll results to some extent.”

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

I am the frequent recipient of letters, emails, text messages, carrier pigeon notes and messages in a bottle, asking for advice and/or an opinion on any of a number of subjects, and I thought I would share with you some of the more pathetic, err, sorry, interesting of these missives.

 “deer scumbag:

                i hop yur prepard to dye you heathen asshole becus god is shirley gone to strike you ded very soon for yur pinko commy idees on that shitty blog thing you rite. yur a commy and a dickbrain and i hope you rott in hell, you shitbag. why don’t you move to canda or lithutia or one of thos other commy cuntrees? it’s riten in carpathians 15:52 that sloth is “the habitual disinclination to exertion” and you will be judgd harshly for yur actons. you prick we hatt you.

                som decnt god fering peepul in tenassee who luv donld trump”

Dear “Peepul”:

                Per Leviticus Chapter 18, Verse 23, Subsection 42(n), “Do not have sexual relations with an animal and defile yourself with it.” I hope this doesn’t mess up your love life. Or Mr. Trump’s, for that matter.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                Since you are the most intelligent and best-looking person in the known universe, I thought you might be able to answer this for me…is it true that your nickname is “Salami Boy”? No wait, that wasn’t my question…in attempting to determine the likelihood of Donald Trump being reinstated to the Presidency, is it true that the geometric probability density function builds upon the binominal distribution, thus making the value of x equal to pi R squared intrinsic? Or more easily stated, an ice-cube’s chance in hell? That sloths are cute? Please share your wisdom with us, Cap’n…is Donny on his way back to Washington?

                Mary the Mathematician From Maine”

Dear “Mary”:

                After much consideration and after consulting with the leading minds in American politics, I would have to say that the chances of Donald Trump being reinstated are two…no way and no how. Buh bye, Donny, you are seriously toast. And will he run in 2024? Well, he couldn’t win in ’20, so you wonder what makes him think he can win in ’24?

“Cap’n John:

               Is it true that you recently saw a panel truck parked in the lot at the Publix grocery where you work that had a sign on its side that said “Florida Keys” and then right underneath was painted, “Locksmith”?

                Connie From Underlocken Key FL”

Dear “Connie”:

               Yes, it’s true. (When questioned about the name, the owner of the vehicle/business said that he was surprised that no one else had ever thought of it previously as he incorporated in the State of Floriduh 15 years earlier when he started the company.)

“The habitual disinclination to exertion”? Boy, if that isn’t sinful it oughta’ be. Sounds like some of our fellow Publix associates, doesn’t it, Ms. Robin?

Love and capital sins,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I hope you folks are proud of me; I was under 1600 words this time (my self-imposed limit), unlike so many of my posts that seem to ramble on for days with no end in sight. I promise to do 


On this national holiday of Memorial Day, 2021…

In the Revolutionary War, it was:

                -Samuel Prescott, doctor

                -Andrew Sprole, merchant

                -Joseph Bowman, chandler

                -Simeon Wheelock, blacksmith

                -and 7,996 others.

In the War of 1812, it was:

                -Joseph Hamilton Daviess, attorney

                -William Sharp Bush, career Marine officer

                -Angus McDonald, farmer

                -William Whitley, farmer

                -and 2,256 others.

In the Civil War, it was:

                Charles Ellet Jr., civil engineer

                -Edward Dickinson Baker, attorney

                -Conrad Feger Jackson, businessman

                -Newton Spaulding Manross, engineer

                -Ormsby M. Mitchel, astronomer

                -and 214,933 others.

In the Spanish-American War, it was:

                -Dennis Mahan Michie, college instructor

                -Worth Bagley, mason

                -and 383 others.

In the First World War, it was:

                -Enoch Bagshaw, athlete

                -Robert S. Calvert, public official

                -Marshall Cornett, businessman

               -Abe Goff, attorney

               -Troy Houston Middleton, educator

               -William I. Traeger, policeman

               -Herbert Yardley, cryptologist

               -and 53,395 others.

In the Second World War, it was:

                -Michael Basca, football player

                -John Bushemi, photographer

                -George Lansing Fox, minister

                -Nelson Stuart Ray, actor

                -Ellen Ainsworth, nurse

               -Bernard Gavrin, machinist

               -and 291,551 others.

In the Korean War, it was:

                -Edward Clyde Benfold, grocery clerk

                -Jack Arden Davenport, boxer

                -Frances Hammond, nurse

                -Melvin C. Brown, mechanic

                -and 33,682 others.

In the Vietnam War, it was:

                -Loren D. Hagen, laborer

                -Robert W. Hartsock, career Army

                -Robert Carmody, athlete

                -Terrence Graves, teacher

                -and 47,420 others.

These thousands, these patriots, these American men and women, these soldiers, all died in the service of their country.

They died, they sacrificed their lives, so that the rest of us could enjoy the awesome beauty of freedom.

We are saddened, we are proud, we are grateful, we are humbled, as we should be.

We remember.

Love and thanks,

Cap’n John




For those readers of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog who are squeamish about and/or uncomfortable with a frank and open discussion about, well, umm, sex, today’s post is all about, umm, sex.

And if recent activity is a criteria, than I am frankly not qualified to speak on this matter, not that I intend to let that stop me. I mean, if good taste and common sense aren’t enough to keep me from writing some of the shit that I write, then I see no reason to let forced-upon-me-by-circumstances celibacy be a deterrent either. Please be forewarned.

And much like the social media trolls that you frequently see and read online, screaming at the top of their lungs about subjects upon which they are “experts”, given their extensive “research” on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, I intend to expound largely, confident in my ignorance.

Despite my warning (above), something tells me that none of you have stopped reading…sluts.

Now before I get too far into today’s post, I need to pause for a moment and give a big shout-out to the Two Bandits, the Pixie Girl and Boogerbutt, my four young friends from the Publix grocery store where I work part-time, also and better known as Janessa and Maggie, Sarah and Janessa’s hubby Sean, who are headed for Alaska on a cruise next week…have fun, kids, be safe and, if you think of it, bring me back a penguin or an elk or an Eskimo or whatever. (Leave the Aurora Borealis there.)

(FYI, Aurora Borealis comes from the Inuktitut language and means “multiple orgasms”.)

Back to the subject matter at hand.

It was simple when I was young and still in my prime, which was just a few weeks after fire was discovered, because there were only two genders…female and other, and there was little debate about a person’s membership in either category; “females” knew they were “females” by equipment and temperament, and those of us who were in the “other” category knew who we were because the “females” told us, just before they said to shut up and go stand in the corner.

(Listen, I have NEVER won an argument with a woman…never. Women are not only better-looking than men, they’re smarter, have WAY more common sense, smell better and are all-around nicer people than their “other” counterparts.)

Now the sex part was a little more complicated than that I admit; I mean, there’s always been a whole lot more than the “missionary position” going on between people. Sure, we knew that some guys liked other guys, and some girls liked other girls and some guys liked hamsters but once we got past the Sexual Revolution in the ‘60s and gays and lesbians and McHamsterHeads began to come out of the closet and live among us openly, the majority of people got used to the idea and were mostly okay with it. (That’s not to discount the “haters”…I just don’t think they’re in the majority. Oh, and I’ll explain “McHamsterHeads” another time.)

Certainly for me it was pretty much, oh, what’s her name is a lesbian, no shit, really, hey, who do the Bears play this weekend?

It’s called priorities. I mean, if the only way a person can get off is to dress in a latex nun’s habit, put Wagner’s The Ride of the Valkyries on the stereo at about “9” volume in the background while he/she does disgusting things to their cat with a salad fork, it’s none of my business. Unless you’re using MY latex nun’s habit, then I might have something to say about the matter.

But these days, much to the bewilderment of someone my age (think tortoises or redwood trees), there are suddenly a lot more classifications of “gender” than there used to be, and lemme’ tell you, folks, I am some sorely confused.

Believe me, all this confusion hasn’t diminished my interest in ”sex”, but sadly, when it comes to women, I suspect I’m much like a dog chasing a car…if I caught one I wouldn’t know what to do with it. But for me, being in my declining years (oh please), it’s truly a comfort to be able to admire a beautiful, sexy woman without all the compulsion and “drive to reproduce” that I had when I was younger. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not declaring myself a monk…given opportunity, sure. I mean, I’m old, not dead, okay?

But these days, it’s enough to admire a beautiful lady and appreciate her various “assets” without having to “slobber a bibful” watching her. (I have never been one of those guys who stare…they’re assholes.)

Now being one of the Internet’s top humor bloggers (per myself) is lots of fun, but it has responsibilities as well, one of which is leadership…my loyal readers (all several of you) look to me for answers, for guidance, and it has come to pass that I have received a number of letters, texts, DMs, emails, pre-and postcards, etc., asking me to clarify all the various “genders” that have sprung into existence over the past few years. This of course is much like asking a four-year old to give a detailed explanation of quantum mechanics, but hey, I’m game if you guys are.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline LaLaLand CA

In an announcement that surprised most of the known world, former Bruce, once husband of Kris, father of Kendell and Kylie, stepfather (mother?) to all those moron Karhootzians and winner of the 1976 Olympic Decathlon as a man, Caitlyn Jenner came out of her political closet today and said she is running for Guber of California in the 2021 gubernatorial recall race. Jenner, who is a conservative, Christian, right-wing Republican and who believes that all women should have the “XY“ chromosome and be subservient to their husbands, has said publicly that she voted for former and no longer President Donald Trump in 2016, although voting records showed her casting no vote in the election, but that she now thinks he’s a flaming asshole and that she further supports same-sex marriages but does not believe that transgender girls should be allowed to compete in woman’s sports. When asked by RUKME Senior Political Correspondent Boy George if he supported Jenner’s candidacy, Mr. Trump stated that he thought Jenner “should grow a pair”. Mr. Trump then suggested that Correspondent George perform an unnatural act upon him/herself and walked away.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

So I thought for your general edification and amusement that I would share with you some of the more inane, uh, excuse me, interesting missives that I’ve received on this subject and my responses thereto.


“Dear Cap’n John:

I don’t get all this hetero-, gay-, cis-, dis-, mis-, Lebanese, queer, trans, binary (oh good, like I wasn’t confused before, now there’s math involved), regular, extra-crispy, unleaded, geez, this list seems endless and I’m still back at “boys and girls”. Give us a show of your massive intellect, Cap’n, and explain all this crazy shit, would you?

A Swiss Cis Miss From Geneva”

Dear “Miss”:

            Okay, here goes:

            ~hetero= boy/girl, all OEM parts

            ~gay= boy/boy, all OEM parts

            ~bi= a word to say when leaving, as in “doe, a deer, a female, non-binary hetero cis deer”

            ~trans= six-speed on the new Chevrolet C8 Corvette, a car for which I would sacrifice a testicle, making me an old, cranky, hetero, binary, incel one ball male

            ~queer= no idea

            ~incel= typically a male hetero who, due to circumstances, such as most of them being roving assholes, is celibate involuntarily

~Lebanese= female person from Lebanon

~Symbionese= female person from Symbion

~Manganese= female person from Manga 

~cis= if your birth certificate says you’re a “male”, you have the XY chromosomes, the appropriate male equipment amidships and you identify as a “male”, you’re a “cis” male (that whole concept is almost as stupid as Donald Trump telling people to ingest bleach as a way to combat the coronavirus)

~binary (not “bi”)= is a number expressed in the base-2 numeral system, or third-and-long from the Bucs 43-yard line, tax, title and license not included

Well, “Miss”, I certainly hope this cleared up any confusion there might have been on your part; if not, just go with what feels right, or as Steven Stills once so succinctly put it, love the one you’re with.


“Cap’n John:

            I’m an early-30s, recently divorced, hetero, binary, translucent, cis male that does not want to slip into being an incel; I would like to start dating again, but I’m not sure about partners. Should I be looking for a helio, binary, XX chromo female with a tendency to Lebaneseism or would a Snap-On CDI 3/8s Drive 10-80# Torque Wrench be more appropriate? Do you think it’s okay if she doesn’t have all OEM parts, like What’shername Jenner? Would that make me a binary, cis, 3rd Degree Black Belt homosexual? (Caitlyn says she likes girls, and I didn’t even know she was from Lebanon.)

            Anyway, thanks, Cap’n…you’re a lot nicer than that Berkowitz humor guy says you are.

            Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places”

Dear “Looking”:

            What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree and is dangerous as hell?

            A sparrow with a machine gun. (Gleefully stolen from the 1960s Batman movie.)


“Doe a Deer Cap’n John:

            I’m a single, hetero, trapezoidal, binary cis female turret lathe operator in my late 20s, never married, but not a virgin, having had previous relationships with hetero binary males with OEM equipment, and I’ve always thought that was what I wanted. Lately though I’ve been getting these “urges” to seek out Lebanese, binary, lemon-flavored, cis females for some “girl on girl” action. I’m feeling a little guilty about this…I don’t want to betray my sister cisters and not be true to my real sexual identity, but there’s this really hot girl with a great butt in Accounting that I’d like to explore the Mariana Trenches with, if you get my drift.

            So here’s my question…does this make me Lebanese, or worse yet, a Republican?

            I Can Lick My Own Eyebrows Edna”

Dear “Eyebrows”:

            I once played in a band with a guy, our guitar player, who was convinced that if one of us would sit on the back of his neck, very gently but firmly, he would be able to bend down far enough to perform fellatio on himself.

            I’m not sure if that qualifies as “an unnatural act” but it’s gotta’ be in the ballpark. (I told him once that his problem wasn’t a lack of limberness but a deficiency in size…he didn’t think that was humorous.)

Well gang, I see from the word-counter thingie down in the lower left-hand corner of my monitor that I have, once again, blown right by my self-imposed limit of “x” words, rambling on like coked-up magpie on speed.

Tell the truth, it would have been okay with me if we had left this whole subject right where the little kid in the movie Kindergarten Cop left it…”Boys have a penis and girls have a Virginia”.

Unless they’re from Lebanon.

Love and hamsters,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I don’t know is this means anything, but a friend of mine tells me that he knows of an “adult toys” website that sells “personal lubricant” by the 55-gallon drum…I checked it out and he was right. Fifteen hundred bucks.

Order now and have it in time for Memorial Day picnics and 4th of July cookouts.



“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and now we’ve got the Dumb and Dumber Roadshow going on with those two morons Greene and Gaetz)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a loud squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, everyone please, can you please take your seats so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please find your seats…thank you. Thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I wasn’t able to get to during our last meeting, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce to the guy behind him again)…”Geez, what a bunch of douchebags…”

~From the An Explanation For My Readers In FL Department…

Just an FYI, but contrary to what some of you folks here in the Gunshine State might believe, sotto voce is actually Burmese for “alpaca spleens”; it is not some Liberal left-wing conspiracy motto endorsing pre-marital sex, gay marriage, defunding the police, blatant abuse of the welfare system, coming for your guns and/or rampant mopery.

And what an amazing happenstance, that FL (pronounced “fluh”, as in “duh”) is now home to both ex-, former and no longer President Donald Trump, and his Mini Me, Ron DeSantis; Governor DeSantis recently extended an invitation, to further enhance our great State’s reputation as a bastion of right-wing, conservative, god-fearing redneckness, to both William F. Buckley and Senator Joe McCarthy to move to FL and join in the festivities. According to several people in the capital at Tallahassee, Governor De was quite disappointed to learn that both Buckley and McCarthy are deceased. As in dead.

~From the My, What An Unusual Design That Is On Your Wall, Cap’n Department…

I made an interesting discovery the other day while I was eating dinner at my dining room table in my humble flat (average people have “apartments”; writers have “flats”) here on the Left Coast of Fluh, this while having a nice piece of filet of blobfish, some delicious homemade potato salad (not made by me, but by a friend…I cook like old people fornicate) and a very nice fresh ear of corn. To wit, if you have a mouthful of partially masticated corn kernels and suddenly have to sneeze, and for some reason my sneezes have become WAY more thunderous as I grow older, the resultant spray pattern can be quite decorative.

~From the Some Of Those Who Wander Are Not Lost Just Deeply Confused Department…

Am I the only one in the Universe that is concerned about a “wandering black hole” that was recently discovered by astronomers at the Center For Astrophysics and Other Totally Confusing Science Shit and reported in an article in the Astrophysical Journal? The apparently confused-about-where-it-lives region of compacted spacetime was spotted meandering through galaxy J0437+2456 (the name “Snickers” was suggested and rejected by scientists, saying that we have enough galaxies named for candy bars with the “Milky Way”…so was “Ford”, but that was vetoed as being too obvious) by astrophysicist Dominic Pesce, who was quoted in the article as saying, when questioned about just exactly where the hell Billy the Black Hole was headed, “The damn thing acts like a drunken Republican who can’t find his car in the parking lot of the strip joint he just left…it’s just wandering all over the place.”

Mr. Pesce went on to add that while most black holes are stationary, due to their size, weight and general lack of interest, this one, described as being “like a bowling ball that is several million times the mass of our Sun”, just seems to be “conflicted about where it wants to settle”. Fortunately for inhabitants of Planet Earth, Billy is over 230 million light-years away and is not likely to pose a threat to life here…at least not for another few weeks.

Governor DeSantis is said to be considering extending an invitation to Billy to move to Fluh and “join the festivities”.

~From the It’s A Way Better Name Than The 1910 Fruit Gum Company Department…

I recently went back and re-read author Dan Brown’s 2003 massive bestseller The Da Vinci Code (hey, even sea captains occasionally need some “light” entertainment, and despite the very improbable storyline, it is a great tale) and re-discovered the scene where the assistant Bad Guy, an albino quasi-Catholic monk named Silas (oh sure, Dan, that’s not improbable) has removed his cowled robe in the privacy of his cubicle for the purposes of self-flagellation as penance for his earlier in the evening cold-blooded murder of FIVE innocent people (Holy Grail, Batman) and is now clad only, in Mr. Brown’s words, in a “loin swaddle”. (Apparently Opus Dei, a Roman Catholic sect of which Silas is a member and is described in real life by many as a “bunch of right-wing religious conservative nutjobs” has banned their “monks” from wearing either a thong or bikini briefs under their robes.)

And it struck me, like Muhammad Ali partying with Sonny Liston, that “Loin Swaddle” would be a great name for a rock band.

As an addendum to the above, The Da Vinci Code is not considered appropriate reading for Republicans, as Da Vinci was gay. In an inadvertent nod to the “cancel culture” people, Fluh Governor DeSantis recently asked the State Legislature to introduce, consider and pass a bill naming Bronwyn R. Peabody as the true artist responsible for painting the Mona Lisa.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline Menlo Park CA

In a flip-the-bird gesture to both ex-, former and no longer President Donald Trump and Facebook founder and chief gutless coward Mark Zuckertoots, the Facebook Oversight Board for Rubber-Stamping Everything Mark Does actually grew a pair recently and upheld the ban from the social media platform that was imposed on Trump for inciting the January 6th insurrection and attempted seizure of our nation’s Capital. The Board gave Mr. Zuckertoots six months to respond and either lift the ban or have Mr. Trump permanently banished. (One Board member suggested having Mr. Trump taken out and flogged.) When asked by Chief Fluh Correspondent Coral Gables about the decision, Governor Ron DeSantis said that it “was an affront to Mr. Trump’s 1st Amendment rights”. When further questioned by Ms. Gables about his own flouting of the 1st Amendment by his excluding all media other than the Trump fave Fox & Friends program from a recent bill-signing event, the governor glared at Ms. Gables, gave her the finger and stormed off the podium.

More on the breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

~From the They Must Have An “11” on Their Volume Knob Department…

For the entirety of my misspent youth, our family resided in Northern Illinois, home of Al Capone, the Chicago Bears (“Da Bears”), one of America’s first amusement parks, Riverview Park, built in 1904, at that time the world’s tallest building, the Sears Tower, Chicago-style hot dogs (NO KETCHUP!) and periodic visitations, every 17 years to be precise, of the Cicadoidea, or as they’re more commonly referred to, those noisy little fuckers. (In a parody of the state slogan “Land of Lincoln”, my old man always called Illinois the “Land of Gangsters”…I was never really sure exactly what he meant by that, but Dad’s good sense could always be called into question for having married my mother, which did keep me from being a bastard, so there’s that.)

My first experience with cicadas was in 1956 (full disclosure…I was five) and even at that tender age, I can still recall the mess and the ungodly cacophony produced by their arrival. Again in ’73 another “brood”, as they’re called, hatched in Illinois, and I clearly remember that fiasco. In addition to shedding their “nymphal skin” (see photo) which produces an incredible mess on the ground, considering that each brood consists of gazillions of the little fuckers, the males also “sing” to the females in an attempt to convince the ladies to engage in making whoopee with them. And always at night, and believe me, you get several BILLION of the things all singing “Let’s Get Physical” at the same time…well, according to the article in today’s Tampa Bay Times, the noise level at its loudest has been measured at 105 decibels, or dB; to put that in perspective, a 747 taking off right over your head is about 110 dB, give or take a chirp or two.

So here we are in the Year of Our Ford 2021 and my old friends the cicadas are due back across the Mid-Atlantic states this summer (thankfully not in Fluh), bringing with them used exoskeletons, those hideous red eyes and that awful noise.

To all my readers in that area, a note of caution…don’t stand still outside; cicadas climb anything vertical.

~From the Did You Know That Republicans Backwards Is Snacilbupers Department…

I saw an advertisement featuring LPGA golfer Paige Spiranac the other day on the Sports page of Yahoo.com, and it struck me (see Ali/Liston above) that if you read her last name backwards, it’s Canarips, and then for a devastating right/left combo, if her last name was Nroconac, it would be Canocorn backwards. (I wonder if Paige has ever sneezed a big mouthful of corn all over her dining room wall…me neither. Oh wait…)

~From the Happy Mother’s Day 2021 Department…

To all my fans who indulge in this pastime, Happy Mother’s Day. And to my mother, who is no longer with us, due to an untimely demise, as I suspect it was in her mind at least, thank you for the outstanding job you did raising me…I turned out awesome.

Ladies and gentlemen, and that stretches either term in some cases, thank you for your attendance and your attention today.

Love and blobfish,

Cap’n John


“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and thank you DOJ for finally going after that roving asshole Rudy Giuliani)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a loud squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, everyone please, can you please take your seats so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please find your seats…thank you. Thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I need to share with all of you, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce to the guy behind him again)…”Geez, what a bunch of douchebags…”

~From the Where’s the Little Blonde Girl from Poltergeist When You Need Her? Department…

For the three or four of you who read the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog regularly, you might recall that back on March 21st of this year I notified all of you that “your Cap’n” was taking a vacation, and would return, tentatively, on April 1st. Good thing I made it tentative, because I blew right through 4/1 on the calendar, it being at once too soon to return, due to “writer burnout”, as well as April Fool’s Day, which by the way is now a state-wide holiday in GA, SC, AL, KY (home of the famed Jelly) and my home state, FL. (“FL” is pronounced “fluh” as in “duh”.)

(FYI, I’m aware that saying that I was afflicted with “writer’s burnout” credits me with considerably more talent than that to which I am entitled.)

Anyway, “I’m baaaack…”.

(I just discovered that the actual quote was “They’re HERE“, not “They’re back.”)


~From the Or Maybe Eustace Department…

I did a lot of pondering during my hiatus, having no other really pressing matters to which I needed to attend, and one of the things I pondered on was how much more interesting my life might have been if my given name had been “Lalo” rather than “Cap’n”. (For the people in the above-mentioned states, that was a play on words…see, my first name is really John, but since my title comes before my name, some people, like you folks, might think that the name my parents gave me was actually “Cap’n”, which it wasn’t. I hope this clears up any confusion on your part. And yes, my parents were married, to each other.)

~From the Too Bad She Forgot the Pepto Department…

Recently I was standing at the back end of Checkout Lane #2 at the Publix Super Market located here on the Left Coast of Fluh where I am employed part-time as a Front Service Clerk (translation from Publix Corporatese: “bagger”), chatting with my cashier bud Rita during a brief lull in the hostilities, when I look up and see this women coming down the main cross-aisle with a full head of steam and a look of determination on her face, headed for the checkouts. When she gets to #2, she hangs a hard left into the lane and promptly deposits two items on the conveyor belt…a large can of Hormel’s Hot Chili and a four-pack of Charmin toilet paper.

Although Rita and her hubby Dennis (another Publix associate of ours and a great guy) have lived here in Fluh since ’89, she has never lost her NYC Brooklyn accent, or attitude. Best way to describe it? Picture Marisa Tomei in her role as Mona Lisa Vito in the movie My Cousin Vinny, thirty years later…sounds exactly like her. She is about as tall as a fourth-grader, has an impudent little smile that breaks me up whenever she flashes it and might weigh 100 pounds with a full meal in her stomach.

So Rita/Lisa and I exchange “looks”, and I can tell she’s thinking the exact same thing I’m thinking, which is, geez, lady, if you know it’s going to be so bad that you need a quad of TP to handle the aftermath, maybe you should just skip the Hormel’s and go for something a little less explosive.

What made it even funnier was the nonchalant way she approached the whole transaction, like, hey, I’m gonna’ head home, suck down this big can of intestinal rocket fuel and then wait a couple of hours and see what develops.

I live for bagging groceries.

~From the Adventures From the World of the Hearing-Challenged or Sorry, That’s the Wrong End Department…

And speaking of names (go back a couple of departments), I’ve been thinking for some time now about changing mine to Deafasa Post, which I am. Being “hearing-challenged” is a major pain in the ass, let me tell you; that said, it’s no big deal. It is embarrassing sometimes, but It’s not painful, it’s not debilitating, it’s not fascist, it’s just an effing nuisance. I mean, I’m ashamed to be considered as having a “disability” when I think of all the poor folks out there dealing with blindness or being wheelchair-bound or whatever. Yeah, it sucks, but compared to Stage Four cancer of the uvula, things could be a lot worse.

Despite the obvious drawbacks to being Deafasa Post, my hearing limitations have caused me to chuckle ruefully (oh my) from time to time.

Case in point: the other night I was watching the movie IT! The Terror From Beyond Space (oh yeah, LUV the old ‘50s sci-fi flicks, the really awful ones, like I Was A Teen-Aged Werewolf or I Was A Teen-aged Frankenstein or I Was A Teen-aged Turret Lathe Operator…after a bowl or two and a big glass of wine, they’re so camp they’re hilarious) and in that early part of the movie where they’re making you hate the bad guy by telling you all the shitty things he/she has done, there’s this scene where one of the “good guy” characters shows the “Bad Guy” a skull with an obvious bullet-hole in the temporal lobe. (Don’t ask about how the bullet-hole got there or how I knew it was the temporal lobe…it’s not important.) So of course the Bad Guy character has to say, just in case anyone in the audience wasn’t perceptive enough to know what it was, “It’s a bullet hole”.

Not to my hearing-challenged ears it wasn’t; I would have sworn on my autographed copy of Hamlet (alas, poor Yorick) that the Bad Guy said “butthole”…honest.

Having a totally and typically “guy” sense of humor, of course I thought that was hysterical.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline New York NY

In response to the service and execution of several Department of Justice Federal warrants to search both his home and his office, Attorney (using the term very loosely) Rudy Giuliani said in a press conference today that since former and no longer President Donald Trump was actually re-elected last November and therefore still President and since he was in fact still Mayor of New York City as well, that he was not subject to the jurisdiction of the DOJ and that they could take their warrants and have them probated and notarized for all he gave a shit, just after Federal Marshalls were seen leaving his residence and office with wheelbarrows full of evidence. Before Senior RUKME Correspondent Forest Fire, who is the head of RUKME’s Granola Department (Fruits/Nuts/Flakes), was able to question Mr. Giuliani further, the former chief Trump lickspittle (good word, huh?) lurched ahead and continued, saying that he was merely tucking his pants back in and was in no way getting ready to release his Italian Stallion on the allegedly 15-year old young lady in the hotel room with him in that movie. And that we should beware of alien abduction. Mr. Giuliani then turned from the podium, muttering something that sounded to Correspondent Fire like “truck pew”, and walked off.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

~From the Thank You Very Little Department…

Big THANK YOU SHOUT OUT to all the citizens of the great state of KY, for first of all giving us your great Jelly, although I have little cause to use it these days, given my forced-upon-me-by-circumstance celibacy, unless I’m lubing a stuck zipper that I can’t get up. (Did that sound mildly disgusting, or was it just me?) And second, for being the state that sent two of the most reprehensible douche-bags in this country to our national Senate, Mitch “Lickspittle #2” McConnell and Rand “I Am The Lord of All I Survey” Paul. Boy, I thought the people in Fluh were stupid, but that takes the word to another stratosphere altogether.

Lubing a zipper that is stuck open (or closed for that matter) with KY Jelly is a company-tested and approved “alternative” usage for this product. Please read the label for further company propaganda.

~From the Cheer Up, Things Could Be Worse, So I Cheered Up and Sure Enough, They Got Worse Department…

How do I know when things have gone from bad to ballistically stupid? Give you an example…

I was watching a video on YouTube on my desktop the other evening (1958’s I Was A Teen-aged Hog Farmer), leaning back comfortably in my recently purchased high-back office chair, feet up on the little foot-rest I have under my desk, sipping a beverage and mostly content with the world, when my stomach starting giving little (not so) signs of imminent rebellion and I thought to myself, since I can’t think to you because I’m not telegenic, uh-oh, this might be ugly, given the Hormel Chili, broccoli and frijoles casserole I had earlier in the evening for dinner, and sure enough, just like night after day or asshole after Republican, here it comes, a 20-megaton blast of such intensity that I felt my eyes watering and my olfactory nerves leaving immediately on vacation…it was Hello Boys, Damn the Torpedos, Full Speed Effluvium, so bad in fact that after about 30 seconds, I had to leave the room to seek oxygen in a larger supply elsewhere and then I started sputtering from the horrible odor now swirling about my entire apartment which of course turned into a coughing fit and I started to choke and I couldn’t get my breath so I stumbled over to the front door and somehow managed to get the chain-lock off and the deadbolt opened, threw open the door and stumbled out on the porch that I share with my neighbor, who heard me dying through his door and came out to see what was going on and he says, seeing my extreme distress, maybe I should call an ambalance (his term) for you to which I thought, oh, thank you, Mr. Obvious Man, for clearing that up for me and yes, please call an ambalance immediately so he did and the EMS guys arrived in a few minutes but by then I was pretty much done coughing other than some small fits and starts so the one EMS guy, who I knew from my bagger’s job at Publix says do you still want to go to the hospital and I said no, I’m fine, no need and he says well, okay, but we still have to charge for the call and I grimaced and asked stupidly, how bad? and he says, well, since I know you I’ll give you our Guy We Know Discount of 25% which will knock it down to just under the national debt of Uruguay and I said geez, I hope my insurance will cover that and he laughed derisively and responded good luck, bagger boy so they left and the next day I called my insurance company and they laughed too so now I’m out the all that money for the ambalance call and, well, buttholes.

Ladies and gentlemen, and that should cover most of you, thank you for your attention today.

Love and Maalox,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Sorry, I was a little long today, a phrase I have never had occasion to use previously, in any manner whatsoever.