IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE

(Please note: the following “opening” for this week’s post is being presented as a “probationary” piece, is in no way permanent, and as such is subject to recall and replacement at any time should the said “opening” fail to command the reader’s attention or bore the reader to tears. A determination will be made subsequent to the reading of the said “opening” as to its permanence in this post. All hail rock n’ roll. The Editor.)

And speaking of fertility, as many of you know, I am the proud father of a fine and beautiful daughter, Gunther, who has given our family two fine sons, my grandprogeny, as it were. (Zounds, I believe I just invented a word; Tammie, I know you’re there monitoring…please call Funk and Webster’s and tell them we intend to copyright the word “grandprogeny” and that we’ll sell them the rights of usage for a bajillion dollars, or rupees, or douchebags or whatever currency they prefer to use. Thanks.)

(Tammie Wetzel, my stalwart First Mate, monitors my posts as I’m writing them in real time for content/spelling, and most importantly to keep me from stepping on the ol’ crank too often; nice lady.)

Anyway, my two grandprogeny©, namely The Ballplayer and his kid brother, The Smaller Ballplayer, are of course the apples of their grandfather’s eye (which is a really dumb saying, by the way)…

(Over the intercom on the desk…)

“CAP’N?”

Excuse me…

‘Yes, Ms. Wetzel.’

“UH, SIR, FIRST, THAT’S ‘DRACHMAS’, NOT ‘DOUCHEBAGS’. SECOND, I CALLED ABERCROMBIE AND FITCH AND THEY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I MEANT ABOUT COPYRIGHTS AND USAGES AND ALL THAT OTHER LEGAL SHIT.”

Tammie, being a sailor, is sometimes guilty of using “salty language”…she’s also sometimes guilty of being able to screw up a two house paper-route.

‘Ms. Wetzel, that was Funk and Webster’s, the dictionary company; Abercrombie and Fitch sells so-called “trendy clothing” and abuses their sales associates.’

“OH YES SIR, SORRY, SIR, I’LL CALL FRANKS AND BEANS IMMEDIATELY.”

‘First Mate?’

“YES, CAP’N?”

‘That’s Funk and Webster’s.’

“YES, SIR.”

‘Thank you, First Mate. And Ms. Wetzel?’

“YES, SIR.”

‘We need to work on your communication skills.’

“YES, SIR.”

Geez.

Now, all of the above came about because I couldn’t come up with an opening for this week’s post…I was sitting here completely stumped when for some reason an article I saw (didn’t read) in this morning’s Tampa Bay Times about “fertility” (not mine, someone else’s) popped into my head, there being PLENTY of room in there for things to just “pop in”. Being in an advanced state of “stumplativity” (holy Scrabble, Batman, I think I just invented another great word. Tam…whoops, bad idea; I’ll call them myself when I finish here), I thought “why not”, pulled my keyboard/revolver out of its holster and like the outlaw “Billy the Squid”, I just let fly.

And that, dear readers, is what you get when you approach writing a blog post using the “Get Your Scatter Guns, Boys, The Camshaft Rollers Are Baking Iron Oranges Again” Method of Writing Fine Literature.

And speaking of “communication” (boy, that is the segue of the century for me), did I mention I got a call from the White House the other day? No? Did I mention having grandprogeny©? Oh, I did…sorry.

Anyway, yeah, I got another call from our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump; seems he had a few more things to tell me about since last we spoke (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED). And if you guys all pitch in and give me a hundred bucks, I’ll keep the story to myself…otherwise, here goes.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

Skip that.

My phone was ringing (without my permission, I might add) as I walked into my office that day; when I went to pick it up I noticed the caller ID…it said “202-456-1111”.

Oh shit, the White House again.

Geez, the last time I heard from the WH, PTB had to be subdued by large security personnel with ginormous biceps to get the phone away from him, and then his psychia, sorry, his “personal” physician, Dr. Basil Leaves, came on the line and told me that His Eminence had taken ill and that he (PTB, not the doctor) would call me back (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED).

Oh, lucky me. First time I’ve heard from him since then…I was hoping he had forgotten me.

“Cap’n John…”

“This is the White House calling…please hold for the Supreme Commander, His Royal Awesomeness, the Second Coming of the Alien Messiah, Donald Trump…”

Oh gag me with a holy sepulcher.

Then that voice, that high-pitched, odd voice came on the line…

“Cap’n John? Can I call you Cap’n John? This is SCHRASCAM Donald Trump…we spoke back in April of 2, TE (Trump Era)…how you doin’?” he asked breathily.

“Pres, we had this conversation previously…you call me ‘Cap’n’ and I’ll call you ‘Satan’, sorry, ‘Pres’ and we’ll get along fine. Not.” Was that rude, do you think?

“YOU WILL BOW TO ME, CRETIN, OR I WILL RAIN DOWN FIRE AND BRIMSTONE AND HOCKEY PUCKS AND LAY WASTE TO YOUR HOME AND FAMILY, INCLUDING YOUR AUNT RALPH…uh, sorry, just a little joke there, you know? Heh-heh, just keeping things loose…”

“Pres, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Why are you calling me?”

“Well, Mr. Impatient Cap’n, I’ll just tell you why. I recently sat down with my advisors…”

“Which ones?” I quickly broke in with.

“Well, Mr. Rude Blogger, even though you interrupted me, I’ll go ahead and answer your question anyway. There was my son-in-law Wretched, err, I mean Jared and my daughter Tonka, my wife Melonoma, that guy Pompous or Pompeii or whatever the hell his name is, the SecState guy, the little dude that sweeps up the in East Wing at night, a couple of other Cabinet people who are always hangin’ around here and not doing anything, KellyAnne Conway Twitty and of course my new Chief of Staff, uh, uh, shit…(puts his hand over the phone, muffling his voice, and speaks to someone there with him)…hey, Secret Service guy, what’s the name of the new ChiefStaff? What is it? Mulvaney, right, got it…who the hell hired that Mick asshole? Okay, you’re dismissed…(comes back online)…and yeah, Mulberry, my new and improved ChiefStaff, and I decided, with their agreement, that we needed to make more people aware of the dangers of an unprotected Southern border and the need for a |WALL| between us and all those small, brown drug-dealers and rapists down there in Meckizo or Humdinger or whatever they call those Third World shitholes they live in, and that the best way to do that was with a series of “in-depth” interviews with select media and blogging personalities, such as yourself, which would be so amazing, to more deeply explore and allow me to better explain why the building of my |WALL| is so imperative.”

“So, Pres, like I said, now that you’ve bored me to tears with your three minute explanation that explained nothing, why me?”

What did PTB REALLY want with me? Why was he calling to grant an “exclusive interview” to an insignificant but devastatingly good-looking blogger such as myself? What was he up to? What was he trying to gain? How the hell did the Bears manage to blow that game last Sunday against the Eagles? Is there no justice in the world? And who is John Galt?

You guys come back here next week and I’ll give you all the answers to those questions, except the one about the Bears…that was inexplicable.

I forgot to ask the grandprogeny© if they watched the game last weekend…note to me: text the boys and find out.

Further note to me; don’t take any more calls from 202-456-1111.

Love and Gonadotropins (here, I’ll save you a Google, it’s a fertility drug),

Cap’n John

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