NOW WHERE DID I PARK MY DUMBO?

(Editor’s note: this week’s post is dedicated to my buddy Jennifer, another of my co-workers at Publix, where she works in the bakery. Putting Jen in the bakery is a case of perfect “casting”, ‘cause she is a major sweetie. If I had a high-wattage smile like hers and know what I know, I’d be in trouble all the time. Happy apple fritters, buddy.)

The response from many of the loyal readers of the WATRUK blog (all several of them) to last week’s column on the launching of RUKME (ALL THE NEWS, SOME OF THE TIME, OCCASIONALLY), the brand-new “R U KIDDING MEDIA EVENTS” News Service and Laundromat has been overwhelming, to say the least. (Okay, maybe more like underwhelming.) Although I haven’t kept any figures, the feedback has been mostly positive, with one or two notable exceptions, which I’ll get to in a moment.

RUKME (pronounced as one word…think Scooby Do) was created with the express purpose of being an alternative to the CNNs, the APs and UPIs, the MSNBC and FOX News outlets, even the National Enquirer, to give a new “slant” to the news…and as soon as I wrote that, I immediately decided to make that phrase the slogan for the world’s latest news organization.

A NEW SLANT TO THE NEWS.

Like those clowns at all of the above, especially FOX News, don’t slant things enough already.

(You’d think I was getting paid to use the words “new” and “news” judging from the last couple of paragraphs, wouldn’t you? As a matter of fact, I am.)

So here’s what some of the Cap’n’s fans had to say about RUKME…

~From President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump:

                “So good to hear about a new reporting agency…hope you’re more fair then the FAKE NEWS Washington Post or New York Times. Even FOX News has gone over to the LOSERS side lately. NO COLLUSION, NO OBSTRUCTION, NO STRIPPERS.”

~From Jeff Bezos, Bajillionaire Owner of Amazon and the Washington Post:

                “Cap’n John, best of luck with your RUKME news service…I’m sure you’ll give the Post a run for its money. By the way, if you sign up for Amazon Prime right now for only $100,000 annually, you’ll receive, absolutely free, an autographed copy of my new book, How To Make A Million Without Using Daddy’s Money.

~From Pete Buttigieg, Mayor of South Bend IN and candidate for the 2020 Democratic Party Presidential Nomination:

                “Looking forward to hearing how RUKME reports the news…it has to be better than those douche-bags at FOX. By the way, I hope you get the pronunciation of my name right: its FAR-BLE-TOOTS. Best of luck.”

~From Mark Zuckerberg, owner of Facebook, Instagram and YouTube:

                “I hope RUKME isn’t going to report on the 27 million Facebook accounts created by Russian troll-farms that were active during the 2016 Presidential election; to date, we have deleted three of them, and are investigating another seven or eight. Facebook and Instagram are committed to keeping these kinds of organizations off of social media, to ensure blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada.”

~From Stephen King, author and liberal activist:

                “I categorially deny the allegations in your post of 5/17/19; I was NOT abducted by Langoliers, was not subjected to any sick, disgusting, gross, vile, perverted, repulsive, gross, deplorable or perverted sex acts by them (although I would have liked to have been) and I am most certainly not a “far-left liberal snot-wad”. If you persist in making these spurious and completely false allegations against me, I will be forced to take legal action, including both sanctions against the WATRUK blog and having your peenie whacked. Good luck with your new agency.”

~From I. Dontknow Howe, of the law firm Dewey, Cheatem and Howe:

                “I represent Mr. Malcolm Glazer, owner of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team, who you viciously maligned in your post of 5/17/19; this letter is to advise you that, should you continue your libelous remarks re Mr. Glazer’s incredibly shitty football team and organization, or make any further mention of his alleged support for the legalization of psilocybin and it’s use by his football team and its players, we will be forced to seek any and all legal remedies as may be available to us, as well as having your peenie whacked seriously. Have a nice day.”

~From Mr. Yogi Berra, former MLB player and Hall of Fame member:

                “When you come to a fork in the road, take it. Good luck with that new thing you’re doing.”

~From Lori Laughlin, actor and arrogant snot-wad:

                “I was going to ask you, as a favor from one media god to another, not to report on the allegations against myself and my husband involving bribing University of Southern California officials to guarantee our daughter’s admission to the school; it wasn’t our fault she was too stupid to get in on her own. However, considering how important I am, I decided not to. You may kiss my ring, peasant.”

~From Mr. Benjamin Franklin, First American:

                “Best of luck with your RUKME news agency, and remember, in wine there is wisdom, in beer there is freedom and in water there is bacteria.”

And finally this one from Ms. Rose Garden, which was the most curious of all the letters and messages I received; it seems like Ms. Garden thought, based on my breath-taking intelligence (high) and tremendous influence as a “media god” (zero), that I could be of some assistance with the myriad problems she has involving a number of laws here in the Gunshine State of which she has run afoul recently.

“Cap’n John:

                I hope you’ll report my story on your RUKME news service; I’m further hoping someone will read it and be able to help me.

                I’m a “neighbor” of yours, living near Pensacola FL, and I recently ran into a string of troubles that is truly unbelievable.

                I’m a single women, and a former employee of the Ringling Bros., Barnum and Bailey Circus, which as you probably know used to be located here in Florida and is now out of business. As a legacy and remembrance of my years with the circus, I was allowed to keep one of the elephants I trained, as well as a small hand-cart used for selling ice cream around the circus grounds.

                My troubles started on a recent Sunday, when as a treat to myself, I went sky-diving for the first time. I contacted a local sky-diving service, arranged for a flight, went aloft, did my jump, had the most exhilarating experience of my life and upon landing was detained by two officers of the Pensacola PD, who asked me if I was a married women. When I answered with much confusion that I was not, I was immediately arrested and charged with being an unmarried women parachuting on a Sunday. To say I was flabbergasted would be the second largest understatement of the century.

                I was jailed, posted bond, which took all the cash I had in my bank account, and after being found guilty at a trial the following month, was fined the entire amount of my bond.

                I was now penniless, so in an effort to raise money, I rode my elephant, Mitch, who I named after the biggest Dumbo in the Senate, into downtown Pensacola, with my ice cream cart in tow behind. I tied Mitch to a parking meter, but having no money, put nothing in it. I left him and took the cart to the business place of a friend, the owner of a Baskin-Robbins, who had promised to give me some ice cream to sell. When I returned to check on Mitch, I found that I had received a ticket that carried a $50 fine for parking an elephant without feeding the meter.

                I was so distraught I just started walking down the street, pushing my ice cream cart and leaving Mitch at the curb with the parking ticket dangling from his tusk. About a half-block down from where I left him, I came to a small cemetery, and needing to sit for a moment and gather my thoughts, I entered, found a bench and sat down to rest.

                I had only been sitting for a few minutes when a Pensacola police car drove up; two officers exited the car and walked over to me. They asked if the ice cream cart was mine, and when I told them yes, I was arrested again for selling ice cream in a cemetery.

                They took me to the police station, and when they were emptying my pockets, they asked if I had any money on me. When I told them that I did not, they informed me that it was against the law to have less than $10 in a person’s possession at all times, and I was further charged with pecuniary strangulation.

                By now it was getting late in the afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten all day, so one of the officers kindly got me a bean burrito, which I ate while I was sitting on a bench outside of night court, waiting to be arraigned.

                About a half hour went by and Cap’n John, I just couldn’t help it; I suddenly had the worst case of gas ever. I tried to keep it in, but no power on Earth was going to stop this explosion. I finally gave up, and out it all came, in a thunderous rush of methane. I had barely finished expelling when a Deputy of the court walked over, waving his arms around his head and face, and informed me that there would be another charge added to the list for which I was waiting to appear before the judge to answer…it seems that it’s illegal in Florida to fart in public after 6:00pm.

                I hope you can use your influence or in some way do something to help me, otherwise I won’t get out of jail until February 2023.

                Thanks.

                Rose Garden”

Love and gavels,

Cap’n John

Post Script…all of the above laws are currently on the books here in Florida…as if the ‘gators, the Palmetto bugs, the hurricanes and the gun-toting Republicans weren’t bad enough.

Post Post Script…yes, Yogi and Ben are dead. So sue me.

ALL THE NEWS, SOME OF THE TIME, OCCASIONALLY

(Editor’s note: the past two weeks I have dedicated my posts to some very nice young people to whom I wanted to give some recognition…not that they deserved it or anything, just my way of saying, hey, don’t marinate that iguana, try the light blue 56mm socket wrench first. Accordingly, there will be no similar dedication this week. So there.)

Reefer Madness.

For those of you who have seen the 1936 movie, a morality tale of hit and run accidents, manslaughter, attempted rape, suicide, aggravated mopery and the defiling of innocent llamas, all fueled by the killer weed MARIJUANA, you’re probably already laughing to yourself. For those of you who have not seen the movie, yes, hit and run accidents, manslaughter, suicide, aggravated mopery and the defiling of innocent llamas, at least in the context of the film, have a funny side.

(Actually, even I’m not dumb enough to think ANY of those things are in any way humorous…especially to the llamas. It’s the overall dark tone of the picture, the over-blown, HUGELY melodramatic presentation, the dire and oh-so-serious warning of the DANGERS OF MARIJUANA TO THE YOUTH OF THIS COUNTRY that is so laughable. Yeah, I know, but honest, it’s pretty funny. Okay, don’t believe me…check it out yourself. Roll up a phatty first though.)

The depiction in the film of drugs being sold to high school kids isn’t in the least bit humorous either, but again, taken from the viewpoint of 83 years later, having a WHOLE lot of new information, education and a good deal of personal testing by, if polls and all the newly voted-in laws in a majority of the states in this country legalizing the weed are any indication, a rather large percentage of the American populace have shown that all the furor that the movie attempts to create didn’t amount to a cup of warm spit.

Not that I have any personal experience with cannabis…just hearsay.

In fact, looking at the the map of states showing which ones have either legalized cannabis completely, or for medical purposes or who at minimum decriminalized it, there’s only 17 states that still cling to the 1936 point of view that MARIJUANA is evil and disgusting, and that the users of same should be tried, convicted and sentenced to doing hard labor in a Siberian gulag. And have their peenies whacked as well.

I’m sure the original producers of the film would be shocked to note that last week, in the city of Denver CO, where recreational MARIJUANA is already legal, lending some credence to the term “the mile high city”, a referendum on the decriminalization for the possession/use of psilocybin, or “magic mushrooms”, which is classified as a Schedule 1 controlled substance by the Einsteins at the FDA, was narrowly defeated…my, how far we have come from those paranoid years of the 1930s. (Full disclosure…remember, even paranoids have enemies.)

Although this is hardly conclusive evidence in support of the medical benefits of ‘shrooms, I have a friend who, after occasional but regular usage of psilocybin, has pitched her Prozac and her other anti-depressant meds and says she has never felt better.

I’m not advocating here, merely reporting.

Which leads me to the topic of this week’s post (Holy Syntax, Batman, another segue sighting on the WATRUK blog)…

                                     ********** !!!ANNOUNCING!!! **********

A BRAND NEW, ALL-MEDIA NEWS REPORTING SERVICE IS NOW AVAILABLE WORLDWIDE AND WILL BE MAKING ITS INTERNET DEBUT !!TODAY!! ON THE WELCOME ABOARD THE R U KIDDING BLOG!!

This isn’t CNN, this isn’t AP, this isn’t UPI, this isn’t MSNBC or FOX News or even WKRP In Cincinnati, this is…wait for it…R U KIDDING MEDIA EVENTS!

RUKME (pronounced as one word…think Scooby-Do).

To give all my loyal readers (all three of you) a taste of what you can expect from RUKME, I thought I would give you a sampling of the headlines, the stories, the snappy writing and concise editing that you can expect from RUKME, all day, every day.

You could see this coming, right?

~Dateline Bangor ME:

                “Author Stephen King Abducted By Langoliers And Subjected To Weird Sexual Shit!!!”

                Horror/mystery guru and far-left liberal snotwad Stephen King told RUKME correspondent Justin Case that he was recently abducted by the creatures from his eponymous novella, blindfolded and taken to a secret location where he was the subject of a number of weird, sick, disgusting, gross, sick, perverted, disgusting, gross, filthy and sick sexual experiments and then later released. King further said that while he “enjoyed most of the experiments, the ones involving a llama, a clarinet, two Brillo pads and a 55-gallon drum of Cool Whip were really revolting”. When asked what he thought prompted the attack, King opined that he thought it was retribution by President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, who King believes is an alien from the planet Zatox, for his (rightful) opposition to everything the current administration says/does.

~Dateline Philadelphia PA:

                “Benjamin Franklin Was Really A Three-Breasted Space Alien!!!”

                Recent discoveries by archivists at the Benjamin Franklin Museum, located in the “City Of Brotherly Love”, have led experts to the conclusion that Franklin, the discoverer of electrolysis and the founder of the Franklin Mint, was in fact a space alien from the planet Zatox, home of American President and serial llama defiler Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, and in fact possessed three alien breasts. (Franklin, not Trump…Trump is believed to have no breasts but several spleens.) When asked what evidence led researchers to this startling conclusion, museum president Reginald “Snotwad” Farbletoots told RUKME correspondent Al Toona that recently unearthed documents and three-hundred year old Polaroids (not to be confused with paranoids or hemorrhoids) show the American genius “in a space suit with the necessary corresponding three bumps on the chest”. When asked to elaborate, Farbletoots declined, stating that further investigation was necessary and that a porno movie addressing the subject was in pre-production.

~Dateline Cowflop IA:

“Giant Rutabaga Attacks And Kills Farmer In Tragic Incident!!!”

RUKME has learned that a giant, rabid rutabaga, grown on the farm of Udder County IA farmer Frank Lee Scarlett recently was pulled from the ground during harvest and, apparently angered at being yanked from its earthly home, turned on the unsuspecting soil-tiller and after doing a number of sick, disgusting, gross, revolting, perverted, vile, sick, gross, repulsive things to Scarlett, all of which were too disgusting, gross and sick to be mentioned in a family news-organ, then ran off with the farmer tucked under his Brassica napus appendage and has not been seen since. Scarlett, whose body was later found in a field several miles from his home, was a supporter of President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump until he realized how His Largeness had hoodwinked him into voting Republican in the ’16 election and until found was listed as “missing presumed parboiled”, is survived by his wife, Deeply, and a son, Pimpernel. A memorial is being planned by the family and the IA Society of Rutabaga Growers.

~Dateline Tampa Florida:

                “Tampa Bay Bucaneers Still Suck, Will Lose 12-15 Games This Season, Per Coach!!!”

                RUKME Sports correspondent Brandon Iron, in an exclusive interview with new Bucs Head Job, er, Coach Bruce Arians, has learned from the possessor of a 1-3 lifetime NFL post-season record as a head coach, that Arians believes that with current quarterback and all-around dumbfuck Jameis Winston as the team’s starter, the Sucs will be lucky to win 2-3 games in the 2019 season, set to “kickoff” in September. “Are you kidding me? Winston? He couldn’t quarterback a Pop Warner team to a winning season; the kid is a moron,” Arians was quoted as saying. Arians and a slew of unknown players were brought in over the off-season to improve the team’s 2018 record of 6-10 by General Manager Jason “I’m An Incompetent Snotwad” Licht. Bucs owner Malcolm “Who Cares If The Team Sucks As Long As We Make Money” Glazer, when asked to respond to Arians comments, said he had no idea who Arians was but that he was in favor of legalized psilocybin for NFL players and owners.

Good thing Glazer doesn’t own the Denver Broncos.

Fortunately for all my loyal fans, that’s all I have time for today…you may express your gratitude monetarily, should you so choose.

Love and headlines,

Cap’n John

SPAM SPAM AND SPAM

(Editor’s note: this week’s post is dedicated to my co-worker and good buddy Ms. Megan, a super-nice young lady who has a mega-watt smile and a serious case of major sweetiness. She’s a joy to work with, and even better, a fan of the Cap’n, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is absolutely no accounting for taste.)

Over the past almost four years that I have resided here in the Gunshine State I have on several occasions remarked on the varied and extensive wildlife that populates the Gulf Coast here in Central Florida; to say that we have a poop-load of species, both common and exotic, would be the understatement of the millennia. (Of course, we’re only 18+ years into the current millennia, so greater understatements over the next eighty-one and one half years are certainly possible.)

Alligators, ibises by the truckload, green iguanas by the container-load, anoles lizards in quantities so vast as to defy counting, sand-hill cranes, some of the strangest looking ducks I’ve ever seen, hippopotamuseses, cardinals, dolphins, armadillos, otters, manatees, opossums (I’m assuming they’re Irish), key deer, lock deer, camels, llamas, panthers, skinks and, every spring in numbers so vast as to be nearly suffocating, love bugs.

That’s right, ceiling fans, love bugs.

Piecia neartica, also known as “march flies” or in the more common parlance, a bigger pain in the ass than our current President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, the little fornicators are EVERYWHERE. Literally. And not just by the dozens or the hundreds or the thousands or the millions but by the gazillions. The other day at work at the Publix grocery store where I’m employed part-time as a bagger, just inside the main entrance which is protected by one of those automatic doors that opens as people approach from either side, I counted over two hundred of the “couples” (I’ll explain that in a moment), lying about on the floor, on the window sills of the big plate-glass windows, on the windows themselves, on the carts just inside the door, flying through the air, on the hand sanitizer dispenser, on the walls, on the “Caution Wet Floor” holder thingie, on the bulletin board, every friggin’ place you can imagine and a few you probably can’t. They’re invasive and they’re disgusting. (Much like some of my ex-in-laws.)

These little fuckers are so named “love bugs” because they stay “coupled” during and after mating, even when flying, for several days post-coitus. (According to scientists, the female of each pair is the one who does the flying, as the male has rolled over and gone to sleep.)

Fortunately the damned things don’t bite or sting, but by a curious fact of their nature, they have a slightly acidic body chemistry; if one of the couples (or several bajillion) die on the surface of your car, the remains are difficult to remove and can cause “pits and etches” in automotive paint finishes. No big deal for me and my 1989 Yugo, but the folks with new Beemers and/or Studebakers can’t be too pleased.

Once believed by urban legend to be the result of a University of Florida genetics experiment gone WAY wrong, it is now widely thought that P. neartica have been inflicted upon Florida as retribution by Mother Nature for giving Supreme Ruler of the Universe Trump its 29 electoral votes in the 2016 Presidential election.

It is difficult to describe how disgusting it is to see these repulsive creatures flying by, wings wrapped about each other, smoking their little bug cigarettes, smug and content in their post-coital bliss.

As if hurricanes and the gun-toting Republicans weren’t bad enough.

Speaking of disgusting and invasive (yes, that was a segue, a literary device seldom used here on the WATRUK blog), I’ve noted an increase in the amount, and in many ways the inventiveness, of the junk emails that I have been receiving lately. Since I have both a personal email address (obnoxious@poopmail.com) as well as one for the WATRUK blog (krissongs@hotmail.com), I’m blessed with double the pleasure and fun, like the old ads for Wrigley’s DoubleMint gum, of folks sending me all kinds of offers, tips, warnings, gifts, notifications, etc., every day.

Yes, I am truly blessed.

Since I know none of the rest of you out there in InternetLand ever receives these messages, I thought I would take a moment today and share with you some of the more interesting and informative ones that I’ve gotten recently.

~From Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws, President of the Third Nigerian Bank and Tire Center:

                “I am writing you this day tomorrow to tell you of a sad dying of Mrs. Styrpdf Dghbarmj, just of lately, who left in her account pigeons the sum of $5,000,000,000 USD, and not claimed by hairs or relations tenants and so to be distributed to those worthy doughnuts as by decree to from Mrs. Dghbarmj, should the money not be claimed by vandals or surfers. Your name has come to attention of my orifice, as being on the list of rhinos not currently displaced, and I need information from your person as to where to send any portion yours of the $5,000,000,000 USD soon yesterday. Please give your name, address, cellphone number, hat size, bank account number, password, Social Security number, name of first-born children mantis, suit size and favorite flavor of ice cream dispersely and I will forward your part of the $5,000,000,000 USD soon last week tonight. And do not be taken in congeal by others on Internet with offers to yes money as they are lying, love bug hating llama defilers and only want to blowtorch your goodwill roughly.

                Sincerely, Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws, President,

                Fourth Nigerian Bank of Nairobi Switzerland”

~From DHL:

                “Your package cannot be delivered due to indifference of the address as we know debenture so closely. Please provide your name, correct address, cellphone number, hat size, bank account number, password, Social Security number, name of first-born children, suit size and favorite flavor of ice cream so we can upbraid your address and deliver love bugs.”

~From Big Dicks R’ Us:

                “Tired of being in a locker room full of guys hung like stud horses when you’re hung like a stud chipmunk? Tired of being called Tiny Tim, or having your girl ask, is it in? If so, then RIP-A-DICK is for you! That’s right, the all new and completely safe MALE ENHANCEMENT compound, tested and declared potent by the FBDA (Federal Big Dicks Agency), RIP-A-DICK is the new chosen path to the size women love! Recent experiments on love bugs in Florida have resulted in male member increases that boggle the mind! Men everywhere are praising RIP-A-DICK as the wonder of the 21st century! Try RIP-A-DICK today!”

~From Dr. Halie Unlikely, M.D.:

                “If you’ve tried all the fad diets and weight-loss programs on the market today with no success, seen and heard all the fake ads for “lose up to 3000 pounds eating nothing but Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey Ice Cream and Carrot Cake Oreos everyday”, then you’ll be pleased to learn that a NEW physician-tested weight loss program is now here and available. That’s right, if your weight is almost the same as a North Atlantic right whale, then the Dr. Unlikely Weight Reduction Plan Diet is for you! There’s no weekly weigh-ins, no calorie counting, no special milkshakes or “mix with water” powders that leave you hungry enough to eat the north end of a south bound iguana, just delicious pre-packaged meals and desserts that satisfy your appetite and empty your bank account. Don’t wait, try the new Dr. Unlikely Weight Reduction Plan Diet today and start losing those unwanted pounds immediately, if not sooner.”

~From Svetlana Titslova:

                “Hi there, remember me? We talked on the Web recently and I sent you my picture…you know, the one of me in the string bikini? Sorry about the hairy legs but I LUVED your comment about being into Russian girls with three breasts and defiling llamas and thought we should “hook up” again. You’re a real stud muffin, I’m sure. Send me your name, correct address, cellphone number, hat size, bank account number, password, Social Security number, name of first-born children, suit size and favorite flavor of ice cream and let’s get it on! Can’t wait to hear from you, macho dude! Svetlana”

Makes you really grateful for the “Empty Folder” icon, doesn’t it?

Love and love bugs,

Cap’n John

Post Script…FYI, krissongs@hotmail.com is a for-real address that you can send any comments, complaints, ideas, gripes and observations you might have. Play your cards right and I might even answer. CJK

I GET LETTERS_VOL. III

(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to my friend and co-worker Alex S., who is graduating on Saturday from the University of South Florida with a Bachelor of Science in Personal Financial Planning. The world was deprived of an outstanding human being when Alex wasn’t born twins, and I am as proud of him as if he were my own grandson. Congratulations, buddy, and damned fine job.)

Baphomet.

An interesting word, one that slides off the tongue in a manner that is at once lyrical and yet mildly obscene. (I knew a woman like that once.)

Baphomet is a deity that the Knights Templar were accused of worshipping back in 1307, the same year the Los Angeles Dodgers last won the World Series, during the inquisition of the now famous group of medieval knights by King Phillip the IV of France; the suppression, arrest and subsequent torture/death by burning at the stake of these warriors all commenced on Friday, October 13th, thus leading to the superstition of bad luck happening on that day…it was certainly true for the KTs that fateful Friday.

Rumors that President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump and a number of Republican Senators are worshippers of the “Sabbatic Goat” are unsubstantiated but there is support for a full investigation into the matter by a number of Democratic Congresspersons in the House.

None of the above has the slightest thing whatsoever to do with the subject of today’s post, but I thought you might like to have the information nonetheless.

You’re welcome.

And speaking of things completely unrelated, I saw an ad for a weight loss program in the Tampa Bay Times (motto…All The News Occasionally) recently that featured both a picture of a curvaceous and very attractive young woman and a headline that read “Get the body you want”, and all I could think was, yeah, and how do I get her to cooperate?

Please insert the requisite rim-shot here.

As my regular readers are aware, I have a disdain for concise yet flowing segues, so I’ll not use one here and plunge ahead.

Lawrence Peter Berra, better known as “Yogi” to his millions of fans across the baseball world, was renowned for a number of things, not the least of which was a Hall of Fame MLB career spanning 19 years as a player, most of those as an 18 time All-Star catcher with the famed New York Yankees. Yogi was the American League MVP three times, in 1951, ’54 and ’55 and won 13 World Series rings, as both a player and a coach, which is still the record; the Yanks retired his number “8” back in ’72.

Yogi could play.

He was also known for his pithy and often hilarious statements about the great game of baseball, about life and about being a Yankee. He was credited with being the first to say, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over” and “It’s just like déjà vu all over again” and “You better cut the pizza into four pieces, ‘cause I’m not hungry enough to eat six”. (I love that one.)

But the one quote that Berra was credited as saying is the one that applies to my post for today…

“Never answer an anonymous letter.”

Hardly a day passes here at the WATRUK blog that I, as the Captain and Master of the vessel R U Kidding, don’t receive a goodly number (one) of letters, postcards, emails, text messages, smoke-signals and secret decoder-ring communiques about something I have written previously; some are complimentary, and some take umbrage with my point of view. I don’t mind that they take umbrage, as long as they put it back where it belongs when they’re done.

So I thought that, in an effort to edify the vast sea of Cap’n John followers on what it’s like to be a major media figure/blogger in today’s 24/7 Internet world, I would share some of the more pathetic, excuse me, interesting missives that I have received lately.

Good luck stopping me now.

“Dear Scumbag Capen John:

                As presadent of the Arkansaw chapter of the Nashonal Union of Trump Supporterrs (NUTS) and a GOD FEARING MURICAN citizen, I think you’re a real asshole for righting ensulting articles about out GREAT presadent Donald Trump and sayin all kinds of rude things about His Emmanance like that there one you rote back in Febawary (BRINGING IN THE SHEEPS 3/21/19) callin Mr. Trump His Largeness and sayin that peepul who voted for him are his sheeps. MURICA don’t need no more libural shitwads like you, asswipe, and I hope you rot in hell.

                                Beanie N. Cecil, Presadent, Arkansaw Chapter,

                                Nashunal Union of Trump Supporterrs”

“T0: Cap’n John Krissongs

FROM: Bea L. Zebub, V.P., ROUND

RE: (Your blog post from 4/5/19)

I have been asked by the Executive Council of ROUND (Republicans Operating to Unify North Dakota) to address your comments in the subject post about several ND Republican legislators refusing to join in prayer to a heathen god led by a godless heathen from Nevada, one of the epicenters of sin and degradation here in America. By referring to the Great God Almighty as an “imaginary friend” and belittling our courageous representatives for not joining in when some pagan “cleric” offers some ungodly mumbo-jumbo to his heathen “god” as a “prayer” only goes to prove that you are nothing more than a unprincipled lying sinner that will burn in HELL for your apostasy. You not only stink, but I understand you have a small penis as well.

                                Sincerely,

                                Bea L. Zebub, V.P., ROUND”

“Mr. Cap’n John Krissongs:

                My name is Warren Peace and I am the Marketing Vice President for Major League Soccer, and I’m writing today to complain about your comments on our organization in your post from the 5th of April, comparing MLS members to “sissy vegetarians, vegans or some other Commie, pinko nonsense”. Despite your insulting remarks, including saying that MLS did not have an official hamburger, such as Wendys being the Official Hamburger of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, but instead had an Official Tofu, which apparently was some kind of reference to the fans of soccer being major wusses, as lovers of the great game of “football” we know that even though it looks like a sissy game with a bunch of “players” running back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like ants all over an anthill, soccer is a fabulous sport along the same lines as the almost as exciting game of golf. If you persist in maligning MLS, we will be forced to boycott the WATRUK blog, bring about sanctions against you personally and even go as far as to have your peenie whacked. I must close now; it’s time for my prune/beet/squash kombucha. And no, MLS does NOT stand for Major Little Sweeties.

                                Warren Peace, MLS”

“Cap’n John:

                I’m a big fan of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and I really enjoy your writing, but I was very disappointed in your remarks about Bill Murray in your post “OSCAR (AND HIS OTHER YOUNGER COUSIN ARNOLD)”. I’ve followed Bill’s career since his days with SNL and I think he’s one of the funniest men on this planet or any other. So your saying that he “pretty much played the same character in about 200 movies” was really a low blow and totally unfair to Mr. Murray. Anyone that knows anything about his films knows that he played the same character in no more than a 150 movies, tops. I’d like to take you out behind the “Caddyshack” and kick you in the “Meatballs”, and “Groundhog Day” is not a sale on Thursdays at your local butcher shop.

                                Lacy Underwear, Punxsutawny PA

“Hey Cap’n John”

                Dude, great tip about how to remove a bra with only one hand in last week’s column (OF BRASSIERES AND BIBLE STORIES). I tried it on my girlfriend the other night while we were having dinner with her folks at this swanky Chili’s restaurant and it worked excellent. So now my gf says I ruined her fave white blouse because when I released her “chest baskets” her boobs dropped onto her plate, right in the middle of her Italian linkwienie or whatever it’s called and she’s really pissed and won’t talk to me. I was going to try it on her Mom but she moved back from the table too fast. You da’ man, bubba.

                                Cliff Hanger, Mammary Falls NY”

I have many more just like the above (or worse), but for the sake of brevity, a drummer to whose beat I rarely march, I will close here…no point to prolonging the agony.

Love and postage stamps,

Cap’n John

TWINS SEPARATED AT BIRTH??? YOU DECIDE.

OF BRASSIERES AND BIBLE STORIES

I am constantly reminded these days of “age”…my own in particular.

Just last week I was talking to a customer at the Publix store where I work part-time as a Front Service Clerk, which by the bye is corporate jargon for what has been known pretty much universally as a “bagger”; I’m fairly sure that the HR people working for large companies like Publix get bonuses for coming up with vague, semi-confusing gibberish that, in their fevered little brains, describes something/someone in a concise, definite manner, when in reality, the simpler form is the more descriptive and more readily understood; making up fancy-sounding titles like “FSC” is mere tautology.

Anyway, the lady I was speaking with and I are “of an age” as it were, and we were bemoaning the rapid passage of time these days, which we both agreed seems to be exacerbated by the fact that, as seniors, we’re a lot closer to the end of things than to the beginning. I mean, wasn’t it just New Year’s last week? How the hell can it already be Easter? Geez.

Since the nice lady was a customer, I refrained from reciting for her my Old Age Rules, which go thusly:

  • Never pass a toilet if you think the next one is well down the road;
  • Never waste a boner;
  • Never trust a fart.

Despite all appearances to the contrary, I do have the good sense to know when to keep my big, dumb mouth shut.

I stumbled onto an article on the Internet the other day that got me to doing the old “stream of consciousness” thing, and following the flow, led me back to some memories of my now long-past youth, and specifically, to bras.

That’s right, exhaust fans, brassieres.

Bras date back to ancient Greece and have evolved over the centuries from support garments to fashion statements; Roman women wore “breast-bands” while competing in sporting events, as an example. Today’s bra is colorful, more comfortable (so I’m told by wearers of same), often times more obvious when worn and, I suspect, just as hard to remove by the male of our species as it has always been…more on that in a moment.

The article that started this trip down mammary lane was entitled How Do You Put On A Bra? New Debate Proves It’s Not That Simple. Now I freely admit that my experiences with brassieres has been from the taking off point of view, rather than the putting on, other than that one time and excess Jack Daniels was involved then. (Apparently, I’m a 38 A-, which I suspect looks like some kind of half-assed sling-shot with two thimbles attached to the front.) Various methods for putting on a bra were discussed in the piece, with women weighing in on their preferred method (one women said she steps into hers, like a skirt, and pulls it up…hard to see how this would work for the lady with an “hour-glass” figure where the sands of time have all run to the bottom) without any consensus being reached.

So how did this article take me back in time? Simple; I may not have any relevant input regarding donning a “boulder-holder” (as they have been indelicately described by comedian Larry the Cable Guy) but as I said above, I do have some experience in removing them, and can still recall the agony of trying to get one off of a person of the female persuasion when deep in the throes of teenage lust.

For those of you who have never tried it, believe me, it ain’t easy…I refer you to this clip from the movie Animal House as evidence of this.

(I once made, and won, a two-beer bet, this being much too esoteric a skill for a mere “one-beer” wager, with a very well-endowed young woman in a bar one evening, that I could reach around her, using only one hand, and unclasp her bra, which as is common, she was wearing underneath a blouse of very thin material. The trick is to grasp the back-strap of the garment between your thumb and index finger, being careful to lift it away from the back of the wearer, and then pinch the ends together so the hook thingie slides out of the loop thingie…trust me, it works.)

I learned and then honed this technique as an adult, in direct response to the difficulties I had experienced on rare occasions in my youth; in high school, most of the girls I knew were bi-sexual…any time I tried to get sexual they said bye.

Ah, sweet bird of youth. (And thank you, Mr. Williams.)

I had another reminder of my now long-lamented youth and the rapidly passing years recently when, in the spirit of the Easter holiday, I dug through my CD collection to find my well-used version of the Andrew Lloyd Weber/Tim Rice rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar. The album was recorded and released in 1970, when I was 19.

I am not a believer in the traditional Christian concept of “God”, and since it isn’t relevant to this post, I’ll refrain from expounding on just what I do believe in…suffice to say, and contrary to the cast in concrete stance of most “religious” types, whose idea of their “imaginary friend” is unassailable, after many years of deep contemplation, I have no idea whether or not God exists. (I remember a character from a book I once read stating that “if God exists, he should be sued for malpractice”.)

But the story of Christ is to me compelling, no matter your thoughts on the existence of a “god”; there is intrigue, politics, betrayal, personal agony, joy and even some sluts thrown into the mix. (FYI, I have done research on this…there is no mention anywhere in the New Testament that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute; none. Author Dan Brown takes a fair stab at how she came to be portrayed as such in his book The Da Vinci Codes. Frankly, I think the lady was hosed by Matt, Mark, Luke and John.)

What a story…here’s this young man, by all accounts a person of unapproachable integrity and an all-around good guy, who rises to such a position of prominence in turn-of-the-millennia Palestine through his preaching of the “Gospel” and as such so threatens the existing power structure of the time that the head priest of the ruling religious council, a man named Caiaphas, declares, as he says in the play, that “Jesus must die”, thus greatly abetting the rise of Christianity throughout the world by making a martyr of Jesus and thoroughly ruining Christ’s Passover that year.

The opera is a towering achievement; the lyrics, the music, the musicians and mostly the cast, led by one of my all-time fave front-men, Ian Gillan of Deep Purple, singing the role of Jesus in a stunning display of his amazing prowess as a vocalist, are breathtaking.

To me, it makes no difference if you believe or not, because as Caiaphas also says, “Jesus is cool”.

Jesus was indeed cool.

I am not inclined by my nature to be serious for any extended length of time, and in so keeping with the usual tone of my articles here on the WATURK blog, I’ll bring today’s post to a close with this…according to a report from local TV station WKYC, a man entered a Painesville OH restaurant and attempted an assault on the manager of the establishment by taking an iguana from under his shirt, grasping the animal by the tail and then swinging it over his head and launching it at the man.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/crime/man-arrested-in-painesville-for-trying-to-commit-assault-with-iguana/ar-BBW0hzg?li=BBnbcA1&ocid=mailsignout

The attacker was apprehended by local police and charged with disorderly conduct, general mopery and assault with a herbivorous lizard. When asked what prompted his attack, the iguana-wielding culprit stated that he was moved by the passage in the Christian Bible from Mark 16:18, which says, in reference to persons who “believe in Jesus” that “they will pick up snakes with their hands”. When told that he was confusing iguandae with reptiles, the man further stated that he didn’t have a snake available and he figured that “you filthy, unbelieving heathens wouldn’t know the difference anyway”.

It was further learned in subsequent interrogations of the man that he had been raised a Roman Catholic back in the ‘60s and had become increasingly frustrated by his inability to successfully unclasp a woman’s bra, and was merely acting out his anger.

Love and birthday cakes,

Cap’n John

 

 

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE)_VOL 8

Back on May 25, 1961, then President John Kennedy announced to a joint session of Congress that it was his intention to do everything necessary to put an American on the moon by the end of the decade, a promise that was fulfilled on July 20, 1969, a mere eight years and change later, when Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed the lunar module Eagle on the moon’s surface. The flurry of NASA activity during those years was in direct response to the various Russian successes in space exploration in the late ‘50s, notably the launch and successful orbiting of the satellite Sputnik, the first manned sub-orbital flight of Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin and the insertion into earth orbit and subsequent return via rocket/capsule of Dogmonaut Laika.

It is always been a source of no small amazement to me what this country can accomplish when given a “goose” with a large enough cattle prod.

I was almost finished with fourth grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Motion grade school when President Kennedy made his historic commitment that May, and I have been fascinated by space/space exploration ever since. The original Mercury guys, the ones novelist Tom Wolfe said possessed the “right stuff”, the later astronauts like White, Lovell, Chaffee and Haise, heroes all, the awe-inspiring launches of the massive rockets from Cape Canaveral, the name later changed to Cape Kennedy to honor the man who seriously got the ball rolling, the Voyager missions in the ‘70s, the Mars rovers Opportunity and later Curiosity, the International Space Station, even all the great science fiction of Heinlein, Bradbury, Asimov, Burroughs and Michener (I have read many of  Mr. Michener’s works, and for my money, Space was one of his finest novels), all of these things and many more have contributed to my ongoing love of everything “out there”. Throw in all the great movies/TV shows like Star Trek, Contact, Star Wars, The Right Stuff, the Alien series, even spoofs like Mel Brooks’ Spaceballs and the spot-on hilarious Galaxy Quest and you get an idea of my fascination with the concept that homo sapiens will someday go off-planet, “to boldly go where no one has gone before”. (I briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Mars recently, but sadly, in response to the immigration crisis facing this country, I’m told that President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump intends to close the border between here and there, making the move impossible.)

I read with great enthusiasm all the articles I come across involving “space”, including the one I read just this morning (see link below), in which researchers at the National Science Foundation announced that back in May of 2017, per CNN, they were able, using a “global network of telescopes to see and capture the first-ever picture of a black hole”. Until recently, it was not generally known that black holes are in fact extremely camera shy.

https://www.cnn.com/2019/04/10/world/black-hole-photo-scn/index.html

I suspect the reason we haven’t previously been able to obtain visual images of these amazing phenomena is simply the incredible distances involved; the said “supermassive” black hole is located near the center of the Messier 87 galaxy, or M87, which is roughly 55 million light years from Earth. (You will recall from my post of 3/14/19 ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE_PART TWO that a light year is 1.9 TRILLION miles…I tried to multiply 1.9 trillion by 55 million using the calculator on my desktop computer and it laughed at me.) In addition to being one helluva long way off, the black hole is incomprehensively large, having a mass 6.5 BILLION times that of our Sun, or about the weight/mass of our current President.

Space…the final frontier.

Speaking of space(y), hardly a day goes by that I don’t receive a letter, an email, a text, a telegram, a CandyGram (remember that great scene in Blazing Saddles where Cleavon Little, dressed as an old-time telegram delivery guy, marches into the saloon with a box of chocolates in his hand, calling out “CandyGram for Mongo, CandyGram for Mongo”), a smoke signal or a secret decoder-ring message, seeking my help and/or advice on someone’s love life, or lack thereof.

Yeah, right…asking me for help with your love life is like asking a kindergartener for tips on the stock market.

But people do write me, and occasionally I like to share some of the more pathetic, er, excuse me, the more heart-rending stories that I hear about love unrequited, or non-negotiable at least, with you, my loyal readers.

By your leave…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a single female in my late 20s, a classic case of “never a bride, always a turret lathe operator”; I’m a school teacher by profession, providing pre-schoolers with instruction on the stock market and investments. My luck with men is catastrophic…if my love life was a financial matter, I would be the ’08 recession. I live in a rural area, and I recently met a guy at a cud-chewing contest who I really have a case of serious hormonal attraction for; he was there with his pet Guernsey Hermione, and he seemed quite attached to the beast. Cap’n John, what can I do to take his mind off the milker and get his attention refocused on someone with a much smaller set of mammary glands?

                                Tired Of Being A Milk “Maid” in Mooville”

Dear “Maid”:

                Think you’ve got it rough, how would you like to be the guy who administers enemas to constipated bovines? Eeeeeyeewww. (FYI, they’re not taken orally.)

“Dear CJK:

                I sure hope you can help me, Cap’n…I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve been dating a guy who is a NASA scientist for over five years now (I’ll call him Bob, although his name is actually Robert) and despite the fact that my biological clock is starting to sound like a Canaveral countdown, Ol’ Bob still hasn’t popped the question. He’s a great guy, good-looking and very smart but preoccupied with things like propulsion, rato jets, Moon rocks and the theory of reliability, or some such silly thing. Any suggestions on how I can get Rocket Man off the launch pad and into my heavenly body?

                                Mary from Mission Control”

Dear Mary:

                I’d look Slide Rule Bob in the eye and ask him if he’s ever had an Atlas rocket enema and then offer to provide one for him if he doesn’t start thinking more about a trip to the altar than the manned mission to Mars.

“Dear Cap’n:

                Where can a mid-30s single hetero male find an attractive, intelligent woman with all her own teeth that wants to pursue a serious relationship? Yeah, I know, it’s a rhetorical question, but boy, I sure wish I had an answer for it. I’ve tried online dating services, singles bars, cud-chewing contests, tribal gatherings and church socials (I’m a lay deacon at Our Lady of the Blessed Fundament church) with absolutely no luck at all. I’ve gotten so desperate that now I’m writing to a guy who, sorry, no offense, hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in this century, asking for dating advice. Please help me, Obi-Wan, you’re my last hope.

                                A “Lay” Deacon In Name Only”

Dear Lay:

                “…hasn’t had a girlfriend in this century.” Hey, Church Boy, you ever had an Atlas rocket enema?

“Dear Kris Johnsongs Cap’n:

                You have ignored our repeated attempts to collect this debt, making it necessary…”

Never mind that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I read your WATRUK blog every week, which might explain why women think I’m mentally challenged. When I’m not raising gerbils for fun and profit as a hobby, I date with some regularity, if you want to call once a millennia regular. I’m a dressing room attendant at Thongs R’ Us, so I get to meet many attractive, single women, but meeting them is one thing, getting them to go out with me another. I’m not ugly or socially awkward (well, not much anyway), but I just can’t seem to click with that “special girl”. Any ideas on what I can do to kick-start my love life, oh Dating Guru?

                                Reese N. Thong”

Dear Reese:

                Remember when thongs were something you wore on your feet and “flip-flop” meant you reversed your course 180 degrees? Ah, the good old days, when men were hairy-chested, women double-breasted and being a Republican wasn’t a social stigma, remember them? Yeah, me neither.

Well, according to the “word count” thingie at the bottom of my screen, I’m now 1.9 trillion miles into this post, so I’m pretty sure it’s time to quit. I sincerely hope the above has helped any of you having problems with the opposite sex, although I’m pretty sure it didn’t. (I’m told by experts at NASA that ”opposite sex” requires a trombone, a 15-amp fuse, a Chia Pet and a 55-gallon drum of CoolWhip.)

Space, in between my ears.

Love and galaxies,

Cap’n John

SHTICKS OF ONE AND HALF-A-DOZEN OF THE OTHER…CAP’N JOHN FOR PRES

President Teddy Roosevelt, at his desk in the Oval Office, reading a press release

Back in the mid-80s, I was living on the south side of the great city of Chicago, in what has been known for years in the Windy city as the “Back of the Yards” neighborhood, and managing a medium sized steel warehouse not far from there, up on 35th and Pulaski; I had moved into the city, rather than commute every day, as I had been doing for a number of years, after I got divorced from Bubona, the evil, conniving Goddess of Cattle and perpetual tormentor of yours truly. (I think it was the comedian Gallagher who once said that “there’s no such thing as an un-contested divorce…somebody’s pissed”. Ours wasn’t uncontested.)

About a year after Bu and I went our separate ways, I got a call from her kid brother, whose name was Alfred, although everyone had called him “Shithead”, er, sorry, “Skip” ever since he was a baby; at the time of this incident, he was not quite 19.

I had extended an invitation to him to stay with me for a time, during a period when he and my ex-in-laws were battling over, at any given time, either his lack of a job, his hair, his attitude, his friends, his music, his shish-kabob, his pet tortoise Heloise or whatever; Skip was fundamentally a good kid, and when I volunteered to take him in and get him a job at the steel warehouse, my offer was, despite being the hated “ex-husband“, accepted by all with great relief.

So young Skip came to stay/work with me, and I’m happy to say that I believe I contributed mightily to making him the total failure he is today. (Hey, it’s a gift, you know.)

We were sitting in my living room one evening, after he had been staying with me for about a month, dinner eaten and dishes done, watching TV, when an ad came on soliciting funds for research into finding a cure for the devastating childhood disease, spina bifida. The Grasshopper turned to his older mentor and asked, what’s spina bifida?

It’s a disease of the spinal cord, I replied, being the “older mentor” in this instance.

Weird name, he said.

Yeah, I replied, it was named for the guy who first identified the disease, Dr. Biff Kadootie.

Now one thing Skip knew about me, despite his youth and inexperience, was that I occasionally “finagled” the truth a bit…

Yeah, I repeated, Biff Kadootie, Spina Bifida.

He looked at me with suspicious eyes and asked…you sure?

Yeah, absolutely certain, I said. Hey, they sure weren’t going to call it Spina Kadootie, were they?

I have always thought, since that day, that the denouement in this instance was pretty funny. So much for being a mentor and teacher.

And thus were the seeds of good Cap’n John planted in fertile soil and allowed to grow to immaturity.

Speaking of “teaching”, one thing I have learned, being a major party candidate for President, is that there’s always more info you need and/or should assimilate into your thinking as you run for the highest office in our country.

That’s right, radiator fans, the Cap’n John for President 2020 campaign is running full-speed ahead, and gaining momentum and supporters at a furious clip…all three of them.

My campaign manager, or “camman” as I like to call him, Mack DeKnife, has assembled a top-notch staff, with a number of politically savvy men and women as Department Heads, to focus on certain aspects of the campaign and to keep me abreast of news/developments in their area of concern; I get reports regularly.

And unlike our current President, I actually read them…of course, I don’t pretend to know everything, like some Presidents.

Anyway, I thought I would share with you folks some of the reports that I have received from the various persons on our staff recently…

~From the Midgets Aren’t The Only Thing Vertically Challenged Department, it was recently learned by my crack team that the highest point in Florida is the town of Britton Hill, which is 345 feet above sea-level, or about one REALLY big tsunami wave away from being the only spot in the Sunshine State that you don’t need snorkel gear to visit.

And isn’t “snorkel” a great word?

~From the When We Pray To An “Imaginary Friend” It Won’t Be To Your Heathen God Department… according to an Associated Press article on 4/2/19, several legislators from the great state of North Dakota recently abstained from participating in a pre-session prayer that was offered by Mr. Rajan Zed, a visiting cleric from the Universal Society of Hinduism in Nevada, “marking the second time in recent years that some GOP representatives have objected to an invocation from a non-Christian”.

Really? Are you kidding me? Really? You mean to say that only Christians are allowed to have an imaginary friend, and that all the other equally confused religions can go pound sand?

~From the If Publix Ever Enforces A Minimum IQ Requirement They’ll Lose Half Of Their Employees Department, comes this news. According to one of our FEC’s (Publix corporate jargon…Front End Coordinator) who will remain nameless here, on a day when we were short-handed in Customer Service at the Publix Supermarket store where I work part-time as a Front Service Clerk (more jargon…I’m a bagger), we were expecting several cashiers to come into work in the next few hours, thus alleviating the personpower shortage we were experiencing. The FEC involved, a nice lady who has over-stayed her time with the company by a factor of “a bunch” (she’s 75 and getting squirelly), mentioned to me that Alice, Fern (the names have been changed to protect the foolish) and Payola were due into work soon.

Who, I asked her, thinking I hadn’t heard her correctly.

Payola.

Okay, now the term “payola”, as many of you will remember, refers to a scandal that involved record companies making payoffs to certain well-known disc-jockies/radio stations back in the late 1950s to ensure their records got increased on-air playing time…I was pretty sure this wasn’t what she was talking about, although it was possible, given the individual involved.

I glanced down at the schedule she was holding, and then it dawned on me…we have a sweet nice lady from Peru who works as a cashier at our store, a wonderful lady who smiles all the time and with whom it is a genuine pleasure to work.

Her name is Paola. (And for those of you who don’t have the benefit of 3-1/2 years of HS Spanish as I have, the word is pronounced POW-la.)

This could easily be the explanation for why some species eat their young.

~From the I’m So Old, When I Was In School We Didn’t Have History Department…I was watching another of those re-runs of America’s Funniest Home Videos on YouTube the other evening, of some boys and girls playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey at a kid’s birthday party, and it struck me that, given how long ago it was that I was young (I started to write “a kid” rather than “when I was young” but I’m still pretty much, even today at the ripe old age of old, an overgrown kid) that if that had been myself and my contemporaries portrayed in the video, that we would have been playing Pin The Tail On The Dinosaur.

~From the I Assume Trojans Are The Official Condom Department…it was announced on numerous occasions during the television broadcasts of the preliminary rounds of this year’s NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament that Wendy’s is the Official Hamburger of the NCAA Tournament. It must be noted here that MLS, being mostly sissy vegetarians, vegans or some other Commie Pinko nonsense like that, has no Official Hamburger…they do however, have an Official Tofu of the MLS, but I can’t recall the name of the company right now.

And last, from the Pictures of Adorable Animals Department, which has nothing to do whatsoever with my campaign for President, comes this pic (see below), taken of one of my kitty buddies that I feed all the time that live on the abandoned golf-course out behind my apartment complex; I was standing in my living room, looking out my window, when I saw him/her.

The Photography Gods were good to me that morning…sadly, if I was in the North Dakota Legislature, I wouldn’t be able to offer a prayer of thanks to them out loud.

Love and sound bites,

Cap’n John

BRINGING IN THE SHEEPS

Today’s post will be educational in theme…we will be learning about a well-known hymn and sheep. In that order.

Bringing In The Sheaves (click here to be spiritually uplifted) is a well-known Protestant Christian hymn; the lyrics were written by a man named Knowles Shaw back in 1874, who used as his inspiration Psalm 126:6 from the Christian Bible, which speaks of sowing and reaping and tilling the soil and tractors and natural fertilizers. (Did you know that the average horse, one who is married, owns and lives in a home in the suburbs, has 2.3 children and commutes to his job on the farm, produces roughly 50 pounds of manure every day? Back in the “horse-drawn” era, if you wanted to make someone aware of how pervasive something was, you’d say it was “everywhere, like horseshit.” Now I understand what that means.) Though Shaw wrote his own tune for his lyrics, the song is nowadays played using the music written by George Minor, although it is in a major key (L)….well, it sounds like “L”. (An old musicians joke, told by old musicians.)

I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, and you can blame both those conditions on my parents, so I was never exposed to Mr. Shaw’s uplifting music in our church, Our Lady of the Blessed Fundament, but I did manage to hear the song a number of times as a child, and I always thought the lyrics said “sheeps” not “sheaves”…in those days, I had no clue what a “sheave” was. For the longest time I had no idea what a “sacerdotal” was either, although a peek at my Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language, not to be confused with English, tells me that the word has something to do with natural fertilizers, tractors and beer consumption. (I remember one of my grade-school classmates had the same confusion with this tune, although he thought the word was “sheiks”.)

(Click here to see how not to mount a waverunner)

Now that I have been edified as to the meaning of the words “sheaves” and “sacerdotal”, the lyrics to Mr. Shaw’s bucolic hymn make a whole lot more sense…the confusion I experienced was partly caused by the fact that the plural of “sheep” is not “sheeps” but “hypotenuse”.

I’ll get back to the “sheeps” in a moment.

So there I was one evening last week, sitting at my desk in my cabin aboard the worthy vessel the R U Kidding, staring at my computer screen and scrolling through the YouTube home page in search of an interesting video to help fill my sad, lonely senior citizen hours, when I stumbled (didn’t fall) onto a collection of old clips from the television series America’s Funniest (Home) Videos, or AFV, to which it was commonly referred. Although I have never been a wholesale consumer of TV, I used to watch AFV frequently in its heyday, back in the 90’s. (I understand it’s still on in places like Moosejaw, Saskatchewan and Lower Uvula AK.) I liked the show because a) despite the moronic level of the much of the humor, many of the clips were genuinely funny and b) it reminded me that if there was ever a Most Stupid Person On The Planet Award given out by some group or another, I wouldn’t be the recipient. I mean, shit, how many times do you have to see clips of guys using a 4-foot rope to hold a piñata in place for a kid using a 5-foot stick get smacked in the nuts before you realize it’s a dumb Idea? Or wondering what possessed some Einstein to think that he could ride a skateboard along the top of a concrete wall and then drop six feet down off the wall onto a steel sidewalk railing and not have said railing wind up forcefully embedding itself deeply into his crotch?

Stoopid.

(Click here to see Christmas trees enjoying a prone position)

(FYI, although the producer of the show, Vin Di Bona, and its long-time host, Tom “I’m A Pathetic Weasel” Bergeron, were men, the show seems to have been written with a decidedly feminist tone, given how many videos they featured that showed men doing abysmally stupid things and then getting seriously whacked in the cojones…over and over and over again.)

It was a source of no small amazement for me to watch one person tape another person’s calamity, like the clip of a large women stepping off of a dock into a boat that hasn’t been tied securely to said dock, and then see her slowly become spread eagled over the water as the boat recedes from its berth and deposits her in the drink…instead of rushing over to help, the person behind the camera just kept rolling, and typically laughing hysterically.

One thing for certain…you would know, rather quickly, who your REAL friends were after one of these episodes.

It was also noteworthy, although not that surprising, that a significant number of the people starring in and then sending in their videos to AFV were, well, how do I put this appropriately, umm, rednecks.

(Click here to learn about using “P” when you park)

Full-blown, dyed-in-the-wool Trailerus Trashsarious of the genus “Redneck”. As Gene Wilder’s character The Waco Kid said to Sheriff Bart, so beautifully played by Cleavon Little in the movie Blazing Saddles, “…these are just simple people…you know, morons.”

So I sat and binge-watched Tiny Tom and his band of misbegotten amateur video stars and the more I watched, the more I came to the realization that, even though most of the footage came from shows over 20 years old, these were MAGA people.

That’s right, exhaust fans, these were most certainly would-be supporters of/voters for our current President.

Although this was two decades before the rise and triumph of his Eminence, the Supreme Commander of the World, His Largeness Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, the people in these clips were the spiritual forerunners of the group of American voters who elevated PTB to the Presidency back in 2016.

November 8, 2016…a day that will live in infamy. (And thank you, FDR.)

(Click here to see a beekeeper speak too soon)

I’m sure, given the proliferation of political polls, political scientists, “spin doctors”, campaign advisors and such that someone, somewhere, has done a profile of the “typical Trump voter”. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it, but I’ll bet you a box of Publix’ incredible Apple Fritters that I can replicate that profile here, keeping in mind the operative word being “typical”…one size does not fit all, but a helluva’ lot of MAGAists wear a Size 44 Long dummy suit.

Predominantly white male, or white female attached to said white males, low(er) class or at best middle class, middle-school or high-school education max, NRA member or sympathizer, a serial llama defiler, far-right Republican and vehemently opposed to climate change theories, women’s rights, Hillary “Lock Her Up” Clinton, the liberal media and any asshole that doesn’t agree with their point of view.

Among others.

So what does all this have to do with a Christian Protestant hymn written back in the late 19th century or for that matter, reruns of the TV show AFV?

Sheeps.

Donald The Shepherd and his flock.

My point is that although The Donald is a 21st century man today (if Trump stopped using Twitter, a decidedly 21st century phenomena, the company would have to layoff half its employees), the roots of his support and eventual election to an office he is no more qualified to hold than the woman on the tape who puts 90 candles on her Dad’s birthday cake, lights them all and then wonders why the resulting conflagration almost burnt down her house, go way back…we’ve had scores of misguided mopes in this country for as long as I can remember, and that goes back many, many years.

(Click here to see a man playing leapfrog with a parking meter)

Many. (Don’t believe me? How about the inventors of Lawn Darts, who thought this would be a great kid’s toy, or the women who called 911 to complain that the bag of pot she had just purchased was not a full ounce?)

Take us to the Promised Land, oh Fearless Leader, we are sorely in need, for we are besought by liberals who, GASP, want to CHANGE things, who resist the idea of a return to the 1950s, where the man of the house was the de facto ruler, his wife was barefoot, pregnant and confined to the kitchen and his children were to be seen and not heard.

Where there was none of this gay marriage nonsense, no LBGTQ crap, no women’s liberation, no people of color having or being allowed to voice opinions, where the U.S. of A. was the foremost country on the planet, thank you, and we seriously got after the Commie, pinko snotbags that threatened our country’s peace and tranquility.

You don’t qualify for MENSA if you believe that you can set-up a home-made wooden ramp onto the back of your pickup truck using several old pieces of plywood and then, without flipping over backwards, drive your 600 pound ATV up said ramp and into the bed of the truck.

Dream on, genius.

These are PTB’s people, the ones who don’t/can’t think, the ones who are terrified of any change in their docile, everything-in-it’s-place world, and he plays to them, like an actor to a full house of paying customers.

Baaa. Baaaa.

(Click here to see one of the effects of excess beer)

Love and wool sweaters,

Cap’n John

ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE FIRST_PART TWO

(INFOMERCIAL BREAK)

According to a number of the science-type folks who study planets and galaxies and stars and gelignites and stalagmites and such, some reevaluation was necessary here recently about the size of the Milky Way (the galaxy, not the candy bar) and just where exactly our Sun and solar system are located therein…apparently there was some confusion amongst the astronomers, the astrophysicists, the astrologists, the numerologists, a couple of the NASA dudes and the members of the Universal Rocket Atomics and Nautical Uvular Society (URANUS) as to whether the MW is 170,000 light-years or upwards of 200,000 light-years in diameter, as is now thought by many…if the second figure is accurate, by doing absolutely nothing, our Sun has moved closer to the center of the Galaxy, thereby increasing our rating as a solar system on the Corona® Star-o-meter Board and virtually guaranteeing Ol’ Sol and Company a spot in the New Chevy Vega® InterGalactic Games® on Planet Zatox next summer.

OMG, I got so excited writing that I think I peed myself a little.

To provide a little perspective as to just how long it would take to traverse 200,000 light-years using, say, a dog-sled and Chihuahuas…remember the last time you had to go in person to the DMV to renew your driver’s license and how long you had to wait in line (your “take-a-number” slip says #4,352,655 and the meter thingie on the wall says “Now serving…#7”)…yeah, about that long.

As I explained in my post of 4/15/18 (CONTACT, AS IN SPACE, NOT PAPER), a “light-year” is calculated thusly: 186,000 miles per second (the speed of light) times 60 seconds in a minute times 60 minutes in an hour times 24 hours in a day times 365 days (prox) in a year, or 186,000 x 60 x 60 x 24 x 365=5,865,696,000,000 (that’s FIVE TRILLION, 865 BILLION, 696 MILLION MILES).

In one light year. Now multiply that by either 170,000 l-ys or 200,000 l-ys, and you get a shitload. (Considering the mind-boggling size of the numbers involved in planetary physics, members of URANUS have been debating giving their organization’s seal-of-approval to making “shitload” an official scientific term.)

Think about how far this is the next time you’re circling the mall parking lot for the 4th time, looking for a spot closer to the door because you’re too lazy to park out in Aisle P.

(The above informational spot was paid for by the Universal Rocket Atomics and Nautical Uvular Society (URANUS)…blame them. The Editors.)

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, using those terms broadly…I’m Cap’n John Krissongs, your host and modulator…Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding…

In our post here on the WATRUK blog last week (ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE FIRST), our cracked WATRUK Investigative Team’s editors and writers presented Part One of the secretly obtained audio transcript of the summit meeting between Supreme Leader, Marshall of the State and Chief Notary Public Kim “Rocket Man” Jong Un of North Korea and the President of the United States, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump; you will recall that the meeting between the two rotund leaders was held in complete privacy, due to the surprising fact that SLMSCNP Kim in fact speaks English, enabling the men to meet alone, sans any interpreters or aides for either in the room.

(EXCERPTS, PART TWO)

When we left off last week, PTB (President “Tweety Bird”) had just taken a long look around the ceremonial conference room where the summit was taking place, after sharing some very mellow weed with his BFF SLMSCNP Kim, and queried Kim as to whether or not there were McDonalds’ restaurants there in Hanoi. “I would kill for a half-dozen Big Macs”, said the now-considered obese American President.

Kim, turning red in the face while holding in a huge toke, was unable to respond at that moment.

“You guys got Micky D’s there in North Podunk, don’t you?” the well-baked Trump rudely continued. “Whatta’ they have, like McPossum burgers or Moo Goo Guy McRib?”

The hefty Korean leader let out the smoke, coughing a little, and glanced at Trump with a disgusted look. “Man, you are so lost…(he begins speaking in a grandiose tone)…North Korea, under my benevolent leadership, is growing into a major economic power in the Asian market, and as such, my country has all the modern conveniences, like McDonalds and iPhones, (getting back to his normal squeaky voice), ‘course, we call them “EyePhones” ‘cause that’s about what you have to give up to buy one. Hey, they’re all peasants, what the fuck do they need a smartphone for anyway, huh?” He giggled to himself evilly and took another hit off his collapsible bong. “And we’ve got the Internet and Starbucks and microwave ovens and VHS tapes and Pepsi Cola and “rap” music and all kinds of good shit like that.”

Then Kim, with one eye closed against the smoke leaking up from his mouth, stopped for a moment and frowned at PTB, who sat just staring blankly at the NoKo leader, and said, “You’re a real racist asshole, Donnie, you know that?”

“No I’m not”, His Largeness managed to quickly retort. “Hey, I came all the way here to ‘Nam just for this meeting, just for you, right smack in the middle of fuckin’ RiceLand, and believe me, I sure as hell didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, that’s the second time you tried to avoid going to Vietnam, isn’t it? Couldn’t use “bone-spurs” as an excuse this time, could you?” Kim tucked his hands up under his armpits and “flapped” them, laughing and making “BOCK-ba-BOCK” noises at the same time.

“Hey, fuck you, Rocket Man, whatta’ you know? Big deal, “Supreme Leader” of some shithole piss-ant country somewhere in CommieLand, shit, I got more money, more golf courses and more slaves than you’ll ever have.” Trump began to rattle on incoherently, talking about kilotons and throw-weights and no collusion and nanoseconds and building a wall and plutonium dumps and Super-Sizing your order and on and on, getting louder by the moment, until he began shouting at Kim that America would “turn North Dakota into a parking lot” if Kim wasn’t careful.

The door to the conference room suddenly burst open and a crowd of Secret Service agents and Presidential aides, led by the President’s personal physician, Dr. Basil Leaves, a practicing psychiatrist, rushed into the room, grabbed the by now babbling Trump and hustled him out, down the hall and out of the building, into a waiting limo, which then drove off.

SLMSCNP Kim was very upset when his advisors entered and approached him. “Shit”, he said, “I didn’t even get a chance to ask Donnie how many bajillion dollars in foreign aid the U.S. would give me if I stopped building nukes.”

The tape ends there.

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

At this time, it is unknown whether SLMSCNP Kim and President Trump will meet again in the future to discuss the various issues that face the two countries.

In news from the business world, McDonalds Corp. announced today that the giant hamburger chain will be expanding its operations in the Asian market, and intends to build dozens more of their restaurants throughout China, North Korea, South Korea, Nepal, East and West Tibet, Japan, Lower Botswana, Siam, Burma and at any intersection in Asia where a Starbucks and/or a Wendys/Pizza Hut/Burger King and/or a Walmart is already located.

For all of us here at Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding, we wish you,

Love and asteroids (that’s what they call hemorrhoids on Planet Zatox),

Cap’n John

ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE FIRST

(INFOMERCIAL BREAK)

I really dislike hearing people yacking about the various programs of vitamin supplements and diet schemes and exercise regimens and the benefits of grazing in a field of timothy grass like a Holstein cow or purging your system with refined gelignite every lunar period (“quack nostrums”, as the great author Robert Heinlein once put it) or whatever “live longer” fad is “trending” these days. This includes all the health-food experts and/or the vegetarian goofs and/or the vegan nuts with their fitness magazines and their workout videos and their “up at o’dark thirty to run 56.89 kilometers every morning” and indeed the entire “Live Healthy” movement with their insistent and continuous implications, insinuations and hell, just coming right out and saying it, that if you follow their particular program, their advice, their ideas, their recommendations and bow in the face of their guru-like awesomeness, that YEARS AND YEARS will be added onto YOUR LIFE.

Guaranteed. (See fine print below, sucker.)

Yeah, thanks a lot, you asshats. Oh sure, I see it now, I take the bait and live a healthy active life, eat properly, exercise, avoid caffeine, nicotine, red meat and wanton women and I get my reward down the road.

WAY down the road…WAY WAY down the road.

When? When I’m old, and probably totally deaf by that time, considering the great running start I already have on hearing-challengedness, confined to sitting hunched over in a shabby, rusting wheelchair, my legs covered with a threadbare blanket, drooling all over myself, incontinent and just generally old-age icky. And I’ll probably have halitosis and sclerosis of the blowhole by then too.

Thank you so, so much. Big…effin’…deal.

Hey, Live Healthy Nazis, here’s an idea…ready? Take your “extra years” and drive them straight northbound into the Southbound Poop Shoot Tunnel…now, if you geniuses could have given me those “years” back when I was in my Twenties, when I still had my hair, still had my hearing, hadn’t taken on the shape of a pear and could be counted on to raise a pretty good boner more often than every several millennia, I would be mucho impressed. Mucho.

But you didn’t, did you? Shitbags.

(The preceding advertisement was paid for by the DriveItNorthbound PAC, and as such absolutely represents the views and opinions of the writers/editors of the WATRUK blog.)

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and I assume that covers most of you, I’m Cap’n John Krissongs and you’re not. (Thank you Chevy Chase.) Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding…

It was learned earlier today by the award-winning WATRUK Investigative Team, in a shocking follow-up to the recently failed summit meeting between Supreme Leader, Marshall of the State and Chief Notary Public of whatever Commie name the North Koreans are using for their God-forsaken country these days, Kim “Rocket Man” Jong Un and His Eminence, the World Supreme Commander, Master of, er, sorry, the President of the United States, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, that despite all reports to the contrary, SLMSCNP Kim does in fact speak English…that’s right, radiator fans, the Big Un was able to let Dealin’ Donnie know that they could speak directly, mano y mano, without the good offices of any interpreters, advisors, assistants or any other governmental lackeys or certified butt-lickers.

“Rocket Man” cover by Iron Horse

The source of this incredible news, who chose to remain anonymous so as to ensure that President “Tweety Bird” doesn’t have the guy’s nuts removed, said SLMSCNP Kim slipped a note to President Trump when they shook hands (see photo left). Our source was also able to provide the WATRUK Investigative Team with a secretly recorded audio transcript of the conversation between the two super ego-freaks, pardon me, leaders, just prior to the breakdown of talks, in which it became quite clear that SLMSCNP Kim not only speaks English, but can also do the Hokey-Pokey, and that Pres Trump couldn’t find his butt with two hands, a flashlight and a road map.

The following are excerpts from this transcript, as edited by the WATRUK Investigative Team editors…the Eds have taken the bold step of using an exact transcription, which includes all profanities, inanities and bold-face lies spoken by the two men.

(EXCERPTS)

(After greeting each other with the obligatory handshake and phony foreign-diplomat smiles, the two leaders stood silently until all their staffs had exited the room and they were alone.)

“Yo, Donnie,” cried SLMSCNP Kim as he turned to share with his BFF the also nowadays obligatory half-handshake with the right hand, half-right shoulder embrace with the left hand that manly men share with other manly men when meeting/greeting each other.

“Shrfio[rhwwnl”, replied PTB, his response muffled by the fact that Kim had his hand on the back of Trump’s head, pushing PTB’s face into his shoulder and garbling the message better than Trump himself usually does.

Art of the “Man Hug”

“Wassup, “Hung”? exclaimed the American Pres, when he was finally released from the throes of international “bro”therly love. “How you doin’, man?”

“I am totally chillin’, dude, totally. Welcome to Hanoi, Donnie…too bad we can’t sneak in a little side-trip up to Hong Kong, that place rocks. There’s a shortage of men in the Kong and all you have to do to get a broad there is grab’em by the pussy.” Kim looked at Trump with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah”, says PTB, “I’ve done that. Works great, just don’t say anything about it out loud or the press there in North Dakota will crucify you.”

“That’s North Korea, shitwad. Anyway, Donnie, think…what press?”

“Oh, yeah, forgot that…how the fuck did you get rid of that bullshit 1st Amendment, free speech crap, huh? Man, I wish I could get the Department of Commerce or the C.I.A. to overturn that shit.”

“You?” says Kim, poking the rotund American President in his ample gut, “You couldn’t turnover an apple with Betty Crocker’s help. Shit, your Congress won’t even give you money to build a crummy wall. If you had any cajones, you’d order your generals to march into the Capital one day with a division of troops and take the money you need. You’re a pussy.”

“Yeah? Well, if you’re such hot stuff, how come you live in a shithole country like North Dakota? Nothin’ there but hills and swamps and nuclear weapons facilities.” Trump smirked at the idea.

“Hey, Nimrod, it’s North KOREA…not Dakota, you flamer.”

“Korea, Dakota, what’s the diff? Shitholes. Hey, did you bring any smoke?” Trump asked his Korean counterpart excitedly.

SLMSNCP Kim’s brow furrowed. “I thought it was your turn to bring some.” When he saw Trump’s jaw drop, he burst into laughter at the sight of the crestfallen President.

“Ha, you flamer, got you.” Kim reached into his Chairman Mao jacket and pulled out a baggie of pot. “Hey, no shit, this stuff is some righteous weed, buddy. I got it from a guy I know, supplies Putin with his shit.”

Trump broke into a huge smile. “Let’s get fucked up and call Putin,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

Kim laughed as he packed some of the primo buds into his collapsible bong. “That’s a great idea. That fucker still owes me a hundred thousand bucks from our last poker game.” He handed a lighter and the little glass pipe to Trump, who took it, sparked it up and inhaled a ginormous hit of Commie Russian cannabis. Holding in his breath and the smoke, he handed the pipe and lighter back to Kim.

Kim smiled to himself as he fired up the bowl again, taking in a good-sized lungful of pot, just as PTB was explosively exhaling what he had been holding in. “Dollars?” said Trump, in between coughs, “you guys play for dollars? You don’t even play for rubies or gerbils, or you know, whatta’ you guys call your money there in North West, uh, you know, wongs or wangs or some shit? You couldn’t even play for your national currencies? That’s cold.”

“It’s the won, dipstick”, Kim said as he also exhaled a roomful of used pot smoke. He and PTB handed the pipe back and forth a couple more times.

“Anyway,” he continued, “you know what the exchange rate won to dollars is? Are you kidding me? No way I’m playing for that shit. And take rubles from Putin, are you nuts? They’d probably be counterfeit, that crook.”

“Yeah, good point. Whoa, I am seriously baked. That’s good shit, man, wow.” Trump looked around the conference room one way and then back again the other, encompassing the entire room. “I wonder if they have a McDonald’s here in Hanoi? I would kill for a half a dozen Big Macs.”

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

This was only part one of the WATRUK Investigative Team’s exclusive story on this shocking development that apparently led to the recent collapse of the summit between North Korea and America. The rest of the transcript will be included in next week’s post right here on the WATRUK blog.

For all of us here at Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding, we wish you,

Love and a long life,

Cap’n John

(FADE TO BLACK)