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 “sacerdotal”.

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?


(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, “…real salt of the earth types…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?


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



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.)


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.


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.


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



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.)


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.


(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.”


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



I have a Facebook friend whose husband is a Hollywood screenwriter…for privacy reasons, I’m mentioning no names, but he has written several screenplays that were made into successful movies.

My friend (hereinafter to be known as Zelda) often accompanies her talented spouse on the set of the movies he’s working on, and of course meets many famous celebs, actors and Hollywood types. (It’s hard to avoid celebs in LaLaLand, otherwise known as Los Angeles…you pretty much trip all over them out there…I once spent 15 minutes talking to Mary Stuart Masterson in front of the Meat Department in a Whole Foods store.)

Anyway, Zelda tells me the story of the time she was backstage on a movie set and fell into conversation with the leading lady, a notoriously self-absorbed ego freak, in between takes. The actress launched into a detailed and highly complimentary depiction of her own acting in her most recent role. She was, according to Zelda, not reticent to express her pleasure with her work.

After about 10 minutes of blowing her own horn vigorously, the diva, grasping my friend’s arm, exclaimed, well, that’s enough about what I thought of my performance, what did YOU think of my performance?

Which I why I didn’t watch the Oscars last Sunday.

Believe me, I have nothing against movies and/or actors…I love movies. Between my own DVD collection, movies on YouTube (the free ones) and all the classics on TCM, I suspect I average watching 12-15 movies every month. That wouldn’t make me a died-in-the-wool, second coming of Gene Siskel, serious expert on films, but I’m a fan nonetheless.

But all these ubiquitous award shows, the Oscars, the Emmys, the Grammys, the People’s Choice, the Golden Globes, the Crappies or whatever they call them, the ESPYs, the Trotskys, the Church Keys, geez all ready, enough.

Gag me with a film canister and a microphone.

Because all these award shows are essentially the same exercise, over and over again. A bunch of preening, self-centered praise junkies get together and tell each other how much they like themselves, then give each other a pat on the back and a small statue.

I know that they’re not all weasels…as I said, in my 13 years living in L.A., I met a number of actors, most of whom were pretty much decent, average folks with a strange job. (Played guitar with Adrian Zmed’s kid once, and another time had a three-minute convo with Elliott Gould in a Border’s bookstore, just enough time for me to understand that he is a very strange dude.) Yeah, some of them are assholes, but can you name me any portion of our society that doesn’t have its share of undesirables, nuts and jerks? Why do you think there are so many proctologists?

But if I did put any credence in award shows, I would want to alter them somewhat, you know, create a new show that updates the categories for the awards and recognizes some of the up to now ignored segments of the performing arts.

Since we’re talking about movies/actors, my suggestions will be limited to that field of artistic expression…someday I’ll take on the music industry and the Hammys, er, Grammys.

My award show will be sanctioned by the American Society of Screen Hacks and Turkeys (ASSHAT) and my award statue will be a playful rendition of an Ebert©, which you will recall from my post of 1/24 (I’M NOT BEING CHASED, BUT I AM RUNNING) is a small, furry mammal of the Saskatchewanis ebertis genus that has rather prominent, flat ears, enormous genitalia and is indigenous to Canada.

Here are some examples of the new categories and potential winners you can look forward to from the ASSHAT’s The Eberts© Awards show…

Best Actor Playing the Same Role in Multiple Comedies

                The first such Ebert© award would go to Bill Murray, who played pretty much the same character in about 200 movies before he finally branched out to become Harold Ramis.

Or how about…?

Biggest Bunch of Untalented Hacks Raising A Stench In A Movie

                As an exemplar for this Ebert©, you need look no further than the old Star Trek mission…yeah, I was a fan but that didn’t render me blind, deaf or stupid; with the possible exception of James Doohan, the gentleman who played Engineer Scott, the rest of them were abysmal, William Shatner and DeForest Kelley in particular. Leonard Nimoy didn’t count…during the entire run of the show (and the subsequent movies), all he did was wear that same dopey expression on his face and make obscene Vulcan hand gestures.


Worst Musical Score In An Otherwise Fabulous Movie

                If I ever get the ASSHAT Awards show off the ground, I might give this Ebert© to one of my most fave movies ever, Harper…if you’ve never seen it, it is an outstanding, 5-star flick. Based on uber-mystery writer Ross Macdonald’s award-winning novel The Moving Target (great, great book), the movie stars Paul Newman, Lauren Bacall, Janet Leigh, Arthur Hill, Robert Wagner, Shelley Winters, Strother Martin, Julie Harris and Robert Webber. The cinematography is excellent, the acting and direction first-rate, the screenplay beautifully written and the background music absolutely putrid.

How about…?

Most Atrocious Case Of Miscasting In A Drama

                Best example of this travesty would give the Ebert© to Alixe Gordin, the casting director for the movie The Boys From Brazil, in which he cast Gregory Peck to play the Third Reich’s Schutzstaffel Dr. Josef Mengele. Gregory Peck? What, are you kidding me? You had Atticus Finch, Scout and Jem’s kindly, highly moral, upstanding-citizen-and-all-around-great-guy father playing the Nazi’s “Angel of Death? WTF? (And to show what an incredible actor Peck was, he was brilliant as Mengele, just as he was as Atticus.)

***AND THIS JUST IN FROM THE WATRUK NEWSROOM…scientists, having nothing better to do, recently discovered why zebras have stripes…polka dots weren’t available at the time. And if you made a bunch of brassieres from striped animal material, you could call them Zee Bras.*** 


Another proposed new category could be…?

Most Totally Unbelievable Screenplay

                And this Ebert© would go to…FLASHDANCE! Really, this kid is all of what, 18-19? And she’s already a fully-certified arc-welder, an accomplished dancer of on-stage erotic fantasy scenes, has an amazing loft apartment, complete with rehearsal hall, dog kennel, pizza joint and currency exchange and her boyfriend drives a Porsche 911 Turbo, lives in house the size of Buckingham Palace and is the owner of the company where she works, having built an empire of industrial holdings by the time he was 13. Yeah, that’s real life…just happened to me last week. (I look pretty stupid in the leotard.)

Or we could have an ASSHAT Award for…?

Worst Idea For A Movie Remake

                If the ASSHAT Awards ever gets off the ground, a good example for an Ebert© for this category would be the 1998 remake of one of the all-time classic thriller/scare-the-crap-outta’-ya movies, Psycho. Really? Anne Heche, the lost in the desert, done up on Ectasy Anne Heche? Really? I mean, it’s a classic, Hall Of Fame horror/mystery flick made by the recognized master of the genre Alfred Hitchcock, so you’re going to remake it and in some manner improve on the original? Whoever funded this abortion should have been drawn and quartered.


Biggest Box Office Flop

                My best example for this Ebert© would be the 1997 remake of the Vladimir Nabokov classic Lolita, which cost, according to WikiPedia, my go-to source for arcane and highly esoteric information, SIXTY-TWO MILLION DOLLARS to make and grossed a paltry $1,100,000 in return, for an adjusted-for-inflation loss of NINETY-FIVE MILLION DOLLARS. Give or take a mill or two. I suppose if you’re a wealthy Republican investor and need a strong tax write-off, this would work, but man, that’s ugly.

And lastly…?

Best Unintentionally Hysterical Melodrama

                Hands down, if I ever make the ASSHAT Award show a reality, this Ebert© would go the 1936 classic Reefer Madness. Having sampled cannabis in my wild and mostly out-of-control youth (this morning) on several occasions, I can assure you that, other than the wild sex scenes involving a trombone, an arc-welder and a 55-gallon drum of CoolWhip, the actions and reactions of people who are seriously toasted, as they are depicted in the movie, are some of the funniest things I’ve ever seen on the screen; the humor is driven by its serious melodramatic tone.

Oh, FYI, I would absolutely kill for a box of Publix’ Apple Fritters right now.

Love and celluloid,

Cap’n John



This week’s post will serve as a “sort-of” PSA…my hope is that any person who is guilty of any/all of the following and who reads these words will be so overcome with remorse and shame at their actions that they’ll cut it the fork out immediately, thereby making the grocery shopping experience for the rest of us a MUCH more pleasant undertaking than it is currently.

Because if this shit continues, people, legislation will be introduced in Congress to recognize and address this problem, and arrest, convict and severely punish the above-said abusers.

In other words, if the bill passes, you get caught doing this crap, you’ll get your peenie whacked.

As many of you already know, my other gig, when I’m not functioning as the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, is working part-time as a Front Service Clerk for a Publix Supermarket store here in Florida (Publix jargon translation…an FSC is more commonly known as a “bagger”), and as such, get a first-hand and up-close view of all the things you see on the list below.

Once again, as is often the case these days, an article on the ‘Net caught my eye the other day…”13 Rude Things You Need To Stop Doing At The Grocery Store”. The Rude 13 were determined by a poll taken by Treadmill Reviews, whoever the hell they are. (

Let me just dive right in, whatta’ say?

1st Rude Thing-Leaving your cart in the parking lot

                Now as “rude things” go, this one is low on the totem pole of offensiveness…I mean, it’s not the end of the world if you don’t put your cart in the outside “corral” or push it back inside the store, but the newer carts being used in today’s modern grocery store are some kind of plasticized metal of some mysterious chemical origin (in its liquid form, one slight change in the formula and instead of “plamet” you get a high-quality floor-wax remover) and as such are really, really light and on a windy day blow all over the parking lot, smacking in to other’s peoples vehicles and denting the shit outta’ them. Me, I drive a 30-year old Yugo, so I’m not real concerned about dings, but for the guy/gal with last year’s 510 Beemer, that sucks. 72% of respondents thought this was a shitty thing to do and want the offenders drawn and quartered. (Rude asshat rating=5 Anuses)

2nd Rude Thing-Leaving your cart in the checkout line while you go grab another item

                Sure, the entire world revolves around you, so certainly, park your cart so your spot in line is assured and then make the mad dash ALL the way back to the Produce Department to get a strawberry/kumquat/broccoli kombucha. Hey, no problem…you wanna’ stop in Frozen Foods and pick up a turkey roll on your way through? (I had a customer ask me if we carried “frozen turkey roll” the other day…yeah. I checked on that one with three other employees, including the Grocery Manager, none of whom had ever heard of it either. I went back to the lady and told her that if the damn things can’t fly, they probably can’t roll either and to forget it.) This offense should net those convicted of doing this a life sentence to hard labor picking Grown In Idaho© potatoes by hand. (Rude asshat rating=6.5 Anuses.)

3rd Rude Thing-Leaving the checkout line while your groceries are being scanned (for another item)

                See “2nd Rude Thing” above. At Publix, we can scan your order, bag it, “save” it in the computer and put it aside, allowing us to move on to the other customers in line while you’re out roaming the store looking for organic dingleberries. (Rude asshat rating=7 Anuses)

4th Rude Thing-Blocking the aisle with your cart

                Geez, give us all a break…move the fuck over. (These people who “aisle-hog” are the same assholes who get in front of you in the far left-hand lane on the highway and then drive 10 MPH below the speed limit.) Once again, yes, Mr./Ms. Self-Absorbed, YOU are the center of the universe, and the rest of us mere tokens in the ongoing drama of YOUR LIFE. Should be punishable by 10 years in prison/39 lashes. (Rude asshat rating=7.5 Anuses)

5th Rude Thing-Cutting the line

                This is serious offense just begging for a severe peenie-whacking…sure, you can walk up behind/on the side of the cash register and ask the cashier if he/she will ring your newspaper/candy bar/condom, thereby avoiding that boring, plebian task of waiting your turn with the rest of us in line in front of the register, hey, no problem. WTF, are you kidding me? (This happens a lot, and of course I’m standing at the end of the register so I see/hear the whole thing…I tell people, sure, no problem, you can cut in but there’s a special “Line-Cutters” fee of five bucks applied to your order. Then I just wink at them.) (Rude asshat rating=8 Anuses)

6th Rude Thing-Encroaching on anyone else’s personal space in line

                I do so roundly hate this…back up. (I love being tail-gated as well.) And as an adjunct to this Rude Thing, People talking on cell-phones while waiting in line. Hey, Ms. Oblivious, none of us want to listen to you rant at the top of your voice about your boyfriend or your boss to your BFF. Send her a text and STFU. If convicted, 10 years, solitary…you can crowd all the people in your cell as much as you want. (Rude asshat rating=8.5 Anuses)

7th Rude Thing-Gaming the Express Lane

                This is so thoughtless. Okay, granted, it’s not on a par with say, murder or armed robbery or llama defiling, but it sooooo sends the message to the other shoppers behind you that, well, gee, OF COURSE I can have 15 items in the “10 Items Or Less” lane, I’M SPECIAL. And WAY better than the rest of you misbegotten cretins. 20 years/loss of a limb. (Rude asshat rating=7 Anuses)

8th Rude Thing-Letting your kids misbehave

                By show of hands, besides me, how many of you would be in favor of making this a capital offense for the parents of the unruly children, punishable by life imprisonment and/or a full frontal lobotomy? And I love kids, truly, and it breaks my heart to see these little anarchists acting out, knowing that what I’m really seeing is the next Ted Bundy or Donald Trump. My mother came from the “Ralph Cramden School Of Discipline”…right to the moon I would have gone had I acted like that in public, or Publix, for that matter. (Insert winky face here.) (Rude asshat rating=8 Anuses)

9th Rude Thing-Not putting perishables you no longer want back where they belong

                I.e., sure, we always keep packages of calf’s liver on top of the cake mixes…keeps better that way, gives it an “aged” flavor. (I accidentally spelled it “batter” rather than “better” and when I noticed, I thought, yeah, cake mixes, makes sense.) Come on, people, put the shit back, or at least give it to the cashier when you’re checking out and we’ll put it back where it goes. What, are you ignorant? Should receive a 10 year sentence if convicted, to be served in a meat locker in Siberia. (Rude asshat rating=7.5 Anuses)

10th Rude Thing-Not putting non-perishables you no longer want back where they belong

                See 9th Rude Thing above. Geez.

11th Rude Thing-Sampling food (other than actual samples)

                It’s just a couple of grapes, right? Or a strawberry or two? Tell you what, multiply “a couple of grapes/a few strawberries” times a few thousand people every day walking through a particular grocery store times ALL the supermarkets in the country and then complain to me that food prices are too high. You want it? Then pay for it. Lock’em up. (Rude asshat rating=6 Anuses)

12th Rude Thing-Helping yourself to your haul before paying

                This doesn’t strike me as the crime of the century but, okay, it is kinda’ gross. I mean, you can’t wait until you get home to start stuffing your face? Give the rest of us a break, can you? Misdemeanor offense, 60 days or $60 bajillion. (Rude asshat rating=5.5 Anuses)

13th Rude Thing-Being a complete asshat at any time

                Hey, do I sound like a bitter old man? Well, what do you expect from someone who is old, lonely, depressed, old, sad, cynical, old, bitter and old but who possesses a sparkling personality and devastating good looks?

So I guess the moral of this story should be, don’t be a dick, at the grocery store or for that matter any place…nobody likes a dick. Well, okay, there was Pat Nixon, but other than that…

Love and civility, something that is severely lacking in our society today,

Cap’n John


One of the things about St. Valentine’s Day that has always disturbed me most is the fact that the Roman Catholic Church actually recognizes THREE different “St. Valentines”, and all of them died martyrs…this seems to imply that there is some correlation between being in love, expressing your devotion to your amour with flowers, cards and candy and then dying an untimely, unpleasant death.

The “original” St. Valentine (I’ll call him Val1) was, supposedly, a priest back in ancient Rome in the 3rd century, who was imprisoned by Emperor Claudius II, who outlawed marriage because he felt young, unmarried soldiers made better warriors if they had no wife and children, which strikes me as dubious reasoning at best. Val1 was so outraged by this decree by Claudius that, in defiance of the Emperor, he continued to marry young couples in secret, which of course The Emp finally got wind of and ordered Val1 arrested, imprisoned and put to death. (Can you imagine if our current resident of the White House, President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, had that kind of power? There would be dead Democrats all over the steps leading up to the Capital.)

Anyway, legend has it that Val1, while awaiting his execution in prison, was visited regularly by the daughter of his jailer, and they quickly fell in love, or at least in a pretty decent case of lust, and since he was incarcerated, he began writing long, gushy, disgusting love letters to the girl, and signed them “from your Valentine”, making them the first Hallmark greeting cards ever sent.

(FYI, had Claudius been Emperor of say, Botswana, he would have been Claudius the Second…however, since the Romans were the inventors of “Roman numerals”, as well as the roman a clef, a style of novel about real people with a fictional overlay, he became “Claudius II”.)

(Actually, the roman a clef was invented by the French, but I figured they were already getting enough recognition as the creators of “French fries”, so I decided that was enough, and gave it to the Romans, who were not better lovers than the French necessarily, but did build better aqueducts.) (Click here for Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung”)

I couldn’t find much info on Val2 and Val3, other than Val2 being renowned as the first person to ever sell chocolate candies in boxes, using little paper cells to imprison each individual candy therein.

Apparently the only thing that Val3 was ever known for was sustained flatulence.

(Did you guys hear the one about the really shy young man who walked into a bar on Val Day, spotted a beautiful young woman alone in a corner and then spent the next half hour working up the courage to go over and speak to her. He finally did, asking her if she would like to dance. She immediately became indignant and exclaimed in a loud voice that everyone in a three block radius heard, how dare you ask me to sleep with you tonight. Being thoroughly embarrassed, the young man turned and slunk away. About 10 minutes later, the young woman walked over to the guy and apologized, saying that she was a psychology student and that she was studying how people reacted in embarrassing situations. Being shy doesn’t necessarily mean stupid, because the young man quickly replied, in an equally loud voice, what do you mean, 200 dollars?)

So in keeping with the theme of “love and greeting cards”, I thought it might be time to open some of those numerous letters, texts, secret decoder-ring messages, emails and smoke signals that I receive every week, asking for advice/help with some person’s love-life, or the lack thereof, and give out some of the famed Cap’n John advice to the love-starved and lonely.

Of course, asking me for advice on love and relationships is like asking an Eskimo about conditions on the island of Fiji, but hey, why not?

“Dear CJK:

                I’m an early-30s lady, attractive (so I’m told by my mother), unmarried and lonely, but try as I might, I just don’t seem to be able to “hook-up” with an eligible man with whom I can share my life, have a family and raise kumquats. I’ve already tried all the traditional ways of meeting someone; I’ve done online dating, I’ve attended church functions for singles, I’ve gone to barn-raisings, I tried the bar scene for a while (okay, maybe going to gay bars wasn’t such a hot idea, but my girlfriends tell me that gay men make great friends, so I thought, well, never mind what I thought), and nothing. I’ve even shown up at Republican political rallies. What can I do, Cap’n John, to find that one special guy?

                                                Lonely In Louisville”

Dear Lonely:

                Oh no, no way, lady, there’s no way I’m giving advice to a Republican from KY, home of the premier asshat in the country (after the President), Mitch McConnell…you’re on your own, toots.

“Cap’n John:

                My friends convinced me to write to you, thinking you might be able to help me. I’m a hetero male in my late 20s, and still single. I’ve dated a bunch of women over the past few years, but none of these relationships have blossomed. I’m afraid that my hobby (raising piranha in my back-yard pool) turns off some ladies, and yeah, there was that one unfortunate accident a few years ago with my then girlfriend, but I apologized many times afterwards and then paid for her new prosthetic arm; I mean, it WAS an accident. Anyway, I’m wondering if you might have any ideas for me? (Oh, FYI, I import my piranha from Botswana.)

                                                Nine-fingered Fred”

Dear Fred:

                Is it true that a school of piranha can strip a full grown Republican down to bare bones in under 30 seconds? Is that the world record?

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’ve been married to a beautiful lady for over 10 years now, and we’re really in love. We have a fine home in the suburbs, 2.3 wonderful children and a pet gerbil named Ignatias. We are both professional people (I’m a proctologist and my wife is a golf-ball diver at a local driving range) and we have a good life. Recently however, a snake has crept into our Paradise…my wife says she’s bored with our sex life and wants me to wear a scuba diver outfit from now on when we make love. Problem is, I get seasick very easily (I throw up watching old reruns of Baywatch) and I’d just rather continue wearing our Louis the XIV and Marie Antoinette costumes in bed. This disagreement is beginning to affect our marriage; any thoughts on a compromise we can both live with?

                                                Dr. Bob, the Butthole Doc”

Dear Bob:

                I’ve always wondered what would make a person getting an MD degree choose dealing with rectums as their specialty…and speaking of assholes, YES, the Dodgers FINALLY got rid of that oxygen thief Yasiel Puig over the off-season by trading him to the Cincinnati Reds for a box of balls, two used jockstraps and a player to be named later; L.A. got the best of that deal.

“Kind Sir:

                I am Mr. Dweezil Ptrumnlewhytdwski Director of Finance for Bank of Botswana, telling you of great good fortune you have everyday twice. Our bank for pianos and deposits…

Okay, never mind that one…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a professional golf-ball diver and a mother of 2.3 kids who is married to a great guy that I have a wonderful life with; I’m not really unhappy with Bob, but lately our sex life, after more than 10 years of marriage, is getting a little stagnant. I’ve suggested a couple of things that we could do to “spice things up” in bed, but my husband isn’t interested. He says that anal sex is enough for him and refuses to try anything else. I don’t mind the “strap-on” so much but what about my needs? I mean, geez, it would be nice to make love just once when I’m facing him. Any ideas on how I can loosen this guy up, other than with KY jelly?

                                                Back Door Barbie”

Dear Barbie:

                Try getting an industrial sized spatula and flipping him over.

That’s about all the letters/emails, etc. I have time for today, for which I’m sure we’re all thankful.

Oh, and FYI, Publix, where I work when I’m not being the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, has a BOGO on Hallmark greeting cards/gift wrap going on right now…just in time for the holiday. Saw one the other day with this little bit of doggerel inside…

                “Roses are red, and lawyers have torts,

                You’d be a great Valentine, except for the warts.”

Love and Cupid (rhymes with “stupid”),

Cap’n John


I was reading a thread on Facebook sometime back, although with today’s 24/7 Internet/media onslaught of our senses, it could have been yesterday around 3:30 for that matter, about the deterioration of good grammar/spelling/syntax in the world today…the various commenters were bemoaning how bad it’s gotten on social media, as well as in newspapers, advertising, day-to-day communications between people in their homes, in the workplace, in schools, in houses of ill-repute and mortuaries; if the consensus of opinion in the post was accurate, there are currently no more than 568 people in America who use proper grammar, correct spelling and the appropriate sized socket wrench for removing sparkplugs (which by the way would be either a 5/8” or 13/16” with an extension, unless the car came with the optional kanoonten valve booster for the inlet framitz, then the correct size would be 89mm).

The underlying theme of the thread was one we’ve all heard often in the past: the general “dumbing down” of America. Although I can offer no statistical evidence or empirical research to support this claim, I agree with the folks on the FB thread…it sure seems like Americans, when it comes to their ability to express themselves, either verbally or in writing, can’t find their butts with both hands and a map.

The incidents of no punctuation, abysmal spelling (I had a friend who always spelled it “frend”…always), poor or no use of paragraphs, 24-second violations, an utter lack of understanding/using the rules of proper syntax, run-on sentences, no capital letters and having 12 men on the field are rife in our culture today…you can hear it from folks when they speak and read it in their writing.

It’s ugly.

I, on the other hand, having absorbed all my grammar and punctuation rules by being on the receiving end of a ruler wielded by various and sundry of the Sisters of Corporal Punishment at Our Lady of Perpetual Motion grade school, to this day, MANY years later, still in fear, make sure I capitalize, use good grammar and punctuate properly at all times.

And yes, I have an anus the size of a BB. (Several years after I graduated from OLPM, the good Sisters of CP were replaced by a new order, the Sisters of the Blessed Fundament.)

Given this instructional background of proper English usage, I rarely hear complaints from my readers, all several of you, about my language or my manner of expression; however, I do get letters, emails, texts, telegrams, smoke-signals and notes in bottles (hey, I live a mile and a half from the Gulf of Mexico, okay?), praising or taking me to task for something I’ve said here on the WATRUK blog. And since I had virtually nothing else to do this morning (I was going to re-jet a couple of four-barrel carburetors for a buddy, but he called to tell me he wouldn’t need them until next week, so I decided to wait), I thought I would share a few of the more pathetic, err, sorry, interesting comments I’ve received from my fans recently.

Batten down the hatches, maties, there’s rough seas ahead.

“I’m a God-fearing Christian women that who been a proud member of the Nashinel Rifle Asociashun for over 200 years now, and I voted for Messiah Donald Trump for Supreme Ruler of the Planet, and I sure don’t cotton to sum of the things you’ve been sayin bout the Messiah on that flog or whatever ya call it of yours lately. You said that Our Master was crazy (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED_VER 4.0), talking about how his pursonal doctor was one of them head-shrinker guys, like he was nuts or sumthin. It ain’t funny to be speakin bout His Holynis like that, it don’t show no respect. Yur gonna burn in hell, Cap’n Shitbrain, and all yur famly and the rest of you liberel media shits.”

                                                           Tess Tickles, Deadhorse AK (as in 47)

“Cap’n John, I wrote to you previously (THE USPS…ON THE JOB, LIKE IT OR NOT) to complain about your poor treatment of the great state of Idaho (home of the one and only Grown in Idaho© potato) on your Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, apparently to no effect. Only a disgusting, gross, despicable, degenerate, ugly, rotten, disgusting, repulsive, gross, degenerate low-life weiner-head like you would continue to mash, err, sorry, trash the Potato State, as you did in your post of 1/21 (THINGS YOU NEEDED TO KNOW THAT YOU DIDN’T KNOW YOU NEEDED TO KNOW), and I for one, as a loyal Idahoian, am getting damn sick and tired of being baked, excuse me, raked over the coals by repulsive, disgusting, degenerate, low-life cheeseballs like you. It’s an au graten, dammit, rotten thing to do and you’re a degenerate, gross, sickening, perverted slimewad and your mother dresses you funny.”

                                                             Jack Cheese, Santa ID

“As the President of the National Organization To Assist Lollipop Leaguers (NOTALL), I have been asked by our numerous members to address your seeming lack of regard for those of us who are considered to be “vertically challenged”. You have made several disrespectful comments about “midgets”, including a joke of seriously dubious taste in your post of 1/17 (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED_VER 4.0), and by so doing have shown utter contempt for the VC. My six brothers and I will be considering a campaign of boycotts and economic sanctions against you and the WATRUK blog should these demeaning remarks of yours continue. You are sick, disgusting, repulsive, gross, hideous, dirty and disgusting.

                                                              Dr. Forest (Doc) Fire, Pres, NOTALL

“Krissongs, John Cap’n: you’ve been pre-approved for up to $150 gazillion to be used to purchase a…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“My name is I. Dontknow Howe, of the law firm Dewey Cheatem and Howe, and this letter is to inform you that our clients, the Funk and Webster Dictionary and Pizza Parlor Co., Inc. absolutely refuse to pay the totally scandalous sum of one gazillion dollars ($1,000,0000,00,0000000,0,000,00000) for the usage rights to the word you allegedly claim to have “invented”, grandprogeny© (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE). Under no circumstances does F&W pay to use words in their publication, and I have been directed by my client to advise you to perform an unnatural act upon yourself with your demand. Have a nice day.”

                                                              I. Dontknow Howe, Atty At Law

“Any more I just can’t wait for Thursday to come around, knowing there’s going to be a new post on the WATRUK blog…I get so excited I just tingle. (Wait, I think I left my vibrator on…oops, yeah, there we go, that’s better.) I really liked how you talked about your “sardonic, mildly sarcastic voice” in your post of 1/3 (LEARNING MY LINES); I once had an acutely exasperated spleen, but never a sardonic, mildly sarcastic voice. That’s totally rad. And FYI, your writing makes me hot.”

                                                               Penny Stocks, Bald Knob VA

And on and on.

And since I don’t believe in segues, thinking them to be over-rated, I’ll just plow forward…one of the questions that I posed in my post of 1/10 (IS HIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE) that remains unanswered is “Who is John Galt?”…so here we go. Galt was a philosopher, inventor, engineer and track laborer for a railroad who decided to “stop the motor of the world”; he owned a large library of books, including an atlas, and he shrugged frequently.

How was my grammar?

Love and prepositions,

Cap’n John

Post Script…here’s a link to the excellent song by Simon and Garfunkel (no relation to Funk and Websters of which I am aware) A Simple Desultory Philippic…



(Editor’s note: This week’s post is dedicated to Brooke, my newest buddy and clandestine partner in crime, and the proud owner of a serious case of major sweetieness. She has a cute smile and she makes me laugh, and that’s a damned good combination anywhere I’ve ever been. CJK)

Each time I sit down to write a post for the WATRUK Blog, I stop and read all the Post-It notes with “Blog” ideas written on them that I have stuck to my “Blog” clipboard, to see if I can find anything pertinent to what I have in mind for that week’s topic (and yes, all my posts have topics, appearances to the contrary).

Since I really wasn’t sure what I was going to write about this week (I decided to give President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump a break and talk about somebody/thing else for a change), I decided to just lump together a bunch of unrelated but devastatingly clever bits of information that I’m pretty sure most of you would like to have.

~I found this first item on the website that’s run by a company owned by an asshole, so I won’t tell you the name of the site, other than to say it’s the opposite of MacroHard. The site is called

Anyway, the article was called “EIGHT THINGS YOU SHOULDN’T LEAVE IN YOUR CAR DURING POLAR VORTEX” (and wouldn’t Polar Vortex be a great name for an movie action hero?); anybody that would leave these things in a car in that kind of weather is probably one of those people who owns a “Snuggie”, one of those “keep you warm” thingies you used to see advertised on TV…apparently they’re too dumb to know how to operate a blanket.

  • Cellphones…You’ve heard about getting your tongue stuck on a metal pole during the winter? Try putting a frozen iPhone to your ear and see what happens.
  • Soda/beer…guess what guys? Any state that doesn’t have a law on its books making it a crime to leave beer in the car in ANY climate is not a state in which I care to reside.
  • Musical instruments…really? You mean extreme cold is hard on musical instruments, especially wooden ones? Gee, thank you, Obvious Man. Or to quote Mortimer Snerd, who would have thunk it?
  • Eggs…yeah, I always leave my eggs in the car in the winter when the wind-chill is 50 gazillion degrees below zero; gives them a nice frosty taste.
  • Canned goods…in case there isn’t room in the pantry, right? I mean, everybody I know keeps a couple of cans of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup and some Green Giant Lima Beans in their vehicle. (I asked this question previously in one of my posts (NORTH, SOUTH AND OPINION) but never got a straight answer from anyone…why is the word l-i-m-a pronounced “LIE mah” when the word refers to a legume, but it’s “LEE mah” when it’s a city in Ohio?) (Click here to check out the Kingsmen’s JOLLY GREEN GIANT.)
  • Medicines…I’m sure many of you keep your meds in your car, right next to your collection of 1910 Fruit Gum Company albums, which by the way shouldn’t be out in the sub-zero weather either, now that I think about it.
  • Low gas…this is the one item on this list that truly does make sense; you do not want to get caught in a two-hour backup during rush-hour on the expressway/freeway/tollway due to “inclement conditions” i.e., a blizzard dropped 15 inches of snow on the highways during the day while you were at work that the plows didn’t have time to clear yet, and then you ran out of gas as you sat in traffic on the way home. Stoopid.

This was the best one…

  • LOVED ONES…yes, that’s correct, oscillating fans, you don’t want to leave Grandma out in the mini-van overnight when the temperature outside heads down into Antarctica range. LOVED ONES? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? GEEZ.

~I heard a story back some time ago from a friend about an incident at a U2 concert in Ireland a few years ago; I was reminded of the story when I saw an article about that insipid Boner or whatever his name is on the ‘Net recently. Anyway, supposedly the way the story goes, Boner was up on stage with the band this one evening and had been haranguing the audience all throughout the concert about the awful living conditions in Africa for the native peoples. (Although the subject matter is by no means funny, the incident is.)

At one point in the show, in between songs, Boner starts clapping his hands slowly, clap…clap…clap. He walks to the mike and says to the crowd, some of whom were apparently tired of the ongoing celebrity political awareness shit, every time I clap my hands, another child dies in Africa. And some wise guy in the back of the auditorium yells, then quit fookin’ clapping your hands.

Which certainly made sense to me.

~Love this one…taking a page from their President’s favorite fuckpuppet Donald Trump, the lower house of the Russian legislature recently passed a bill seeking to punish any media outlets for airing/distributing “fake news”. ( )


Apparently, they want all the fake news to be shown and read here in America only.

~There was a guy on the old “American Hot Rod-The Series” reality show a few years back, the one about Southern California hot-rod designer/builder and all-around roving asshole Boyd Coddington and the cars that were built in his shop. The cars were amazing, the show was stoopid. Anyway, one of Coddington’s body and fender guys was a man from Sweden named Bernt Karlson, pronounced “burnt”. (True story.)

And I always thought that if his last name hadn’t been Karlson but Toacrisp, it would have been a helluva lot funnier.

~I watched this same group of Coddington goof-balls totally decimate a beautiful ’27 Ford Model T in decent original condition to use the “T” body for a Bonneville Salt Flats speed record car that Coddington decided to build. One of the shop guys said something about the car being black, and I was reminded of the old joke about what Henry Ford said about how Model T’s were painted…the customer could have any color they wanted, as long as it was black.

~There will be an open house at the Richard M. Nixon Memorial Home for the Chronically Bewildered and Relentlessly Cheerful next Sunday between the hours of 12:00pm and 3:00pm. Clothing is optional and so is attendance.

~It’s good to know that authorities in the great state of Illinois (home of the world’s first McDonalds in the city of Des Plaines back in the 1950s) took matters into their own hands, and defying Mark Twain, who once said that everyone complains about the weather but no one does anything about it, arrested Queen Elsa of Arendelle for bringing polar vortex down on the state and the rest of the Midwest over the past week. The snotty weather slut will be arraigned later this week and a trial held in McLean County IL, where the arrest was made, sometime in late February. If convicted (the charge is first degree mopery), Queen Elsa will be transferred to a holding facility near Tampa Fl, where she will spend her remaining days roasting and sweating her buns off in the humid Sunshine State summers. (

~And last, according to the website 44 Interesting Facts About Idaho, the Esto Perpetua (the state motto, Let It Be Perpetual) state is also known as the Lentil Capital of the World.

There, now don’t you feel better knowing all that.

You’re welcome.

Love and trivia,

Cap’n John

Post Script…hey, Brookester, thanks a bajillion (not) for that little tidbit you laid on me re the DMV Lady…now every time I see her, I’m going to be wondering how they look. (Insert “winky face” here.)



(Editor’s Note: Today’s post is dedicated to my good friend and comrade Robin…the world was deprived of a fine, decent lady when she wasn’t born twins. I have no idea what her “politics” are, but she’s a sweetie, no matter for whom she votes.)

It’s been cool down here in the Sunshine State over the past few weeks, with the lows overnight getting down into the upper 30’s on a couple of occasions; okay, it’s not the Antarctic, but for FL, that’s brisk. And of course the “natives” are all freezing, and griping about the weather as if there has never been another time in the entire history of the planet that the southern peninsula off the east coast of North America has had temperatures in the 30’s. I saw one lady go striding through the Publix grocery store where I work part-time dressed in a heavy, insulated coat, boots, a scarf and…wait for it…earmuffs. At the time the temperature outside was in the mid-40’s.


It’s certainly been cool enough to necessitate a light jacket or a sweatshirt if you’re going out, but dressing like you’re about to race in the Iditarod is a bit ridiculous. (I wonder if she had her dogs and sled parked outside?)

But the need to dress a little warmer recently led me to a discovery that I just had to share with you guys.

I was getting ready to go run some errands the other day, and in line with the depiction above of the weather conditions, I grabbed my fave black hooded sweatshirt off the shelf as I headed for the door. Being in a bit of a hurry and therefore not paying attention, I didn’t realize I had the sweatshirt backwards as I was pulling it over my head. As I brought it down, the hood, rather than falling forward in a neat fold, instead came straight down on the top of my cabeza (that’s Burmese for “llama intestines”) and parked itself thereon, completely covering my face, which I’m sure was a vast improvement over the uncovered version, leaving the back of my head totally exposed to the elephants. While I wouldn’t recommend this arrangement for driving an automobile, it is good for one thing…not seeing all the BS and nonsense that’s going on currently in America.

(Sounds of a phone ringing in the background…)

Excuse me…

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate.”

“I wrote what? Oh, I didn’t notice that I had done that; thank you, Ms. Wetzel.”

That was my First Mate, Tammie Wetzel; she monitors my posts in real time for spelling/content and also tries to keep me from screwing up too badly…she tells me that word should be “ELEMENTS”.


Anyway, with the ongoing debate over the |WALL|, in addition to the stock market, global warming, President Trump, the shutdown, the Russia investigation, Trump, the Patriots’ 417th consecutive appearance in the Super Bowl, gun control, Trump, Congress, China and Russia, Trump, that roving asshole Mitch McConnell, the Iranians, the Saudis, the Burmese, Trump and his Insane Clown Posse of a Cabinet/advisors, all coming at us at the same time, all the time…boy, some days it just gets to be too much.

Pull the hood down over my eyes, men, I don’t want to see anymore.

But rather than be like an ostrich and bury my head in the hoodie, I have a better idea, one that I hope I can convince all of you, my loyal readers, to buy into…vote for me for President in 2020.

Yes, that’s right, circulating fans, the Cap’n is running for President…I will be the candidate for the Hearty Party in the next Presidential election.

You might recall that I originally announced my candidacy back in January of last year (LET’S THROW A POLITICAL PARTY!); at that time I also presented to the voters of America a number of positions that I hold with regards to the many issues that face our country today, including imitation, the economy, global warming, the 2nd Amendment and women’s rights, just to name a few.

(Phone begins to ring in the background…)

Shit…excuse me again.

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel.” (When the audio book of my blog comes out, you’ll be able to hear a bit of exasperation in my voice.)

“Oh, I see. All right, I’ll change that. Thank you, First Mate.”

That was First Mate Wetzel again, telling me that the word I wanted was “immigration”, not “imitation”.

I apologize for the confusion, my own in particular.

Anyway, I would like to take the time now (and good luck stopping me) to restate my views on various issues, and to give you all firm reasons to cast your vote for me, Cap’n John.


If you read my comments on this most exasperating of the issues that confront America today from my post last January (POLITICS CAMPAIGNS FOR $500, ALEX), you’ll note that I addressed the problem of “imitation”, which as far as I know isn’t a pressing dilemma for our country right now, but Mr. Trump’s goofy idea that we need a wall on our southern border to slow the influx of illegal immigrants, drug dealers, rapists, dumbfucks, international terrorists and who knows what other undesirables most certainly is. I agree with the need for a wall to be built, but I believe it should be built on our NORTHERN border rather than southern, to slow the influx of the “Canadian influence”; keep in mind, it was the Canadians that introduced hockey to the United States, and I for one do not intend to ever forgive them for doing that. Just what I want to see as “sports entertainment”, a bunch of stupid-looking Neanderthals with no front teeth squaring off with and wailing the shit out of each other, retaliation for some perceived slight that occurred while the teams were skating back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, allegedly playing hockey, and for the entire time the fighting continues, the fans are throwing dead fish, hats, cups of beer, snowblowers and eberts onto the ice. Oh yeah, that’s entertaining. Build the wall up North…the next crazy idea we’ll import from Canada is probably socialized medicine, and who wants to have quality medical care paid for by the government?


This one is simple…men are stoopid and women are, generally, always right. Anybody with an IQ above the level of room temperature knows that.


Another easy one…yes. And as your President, I’ll make it free for all citizens over the age of 65 (I’m 67).


As I said back in January (POLITICAL CAMPAIGNS FOR $500, ALEX), I firmly believe that all Americans should have the opportunity for a 2nd chance…if at first you don’t succeed, get a bigger hammer, I always say. So absolutely, if you screw up the first time at something, you certainly have the right to a 2nd Amendment. I cannot understand why this is an issue.


I am not in favor of euthanasia at the exclusion of kids in America…let the Asian countries look after their own children.


Given the status of the weather here in Florida recently, and considering that many of our residents are currently freezing their butts off down here, yeah, I’m in favor of global warming, and I think it had better come to the Sunshine State pretty damn fast, thank you.


When I’m elected President, I will immediately make several moves to further enhance the American economy; first, I will present to Congress legislation that will address a number of problems we have with commerce, including but not limited to the high price of marijuana, the rescinding of sheriffs for Chinese and other imported products (why we need law enforcement to monitor imports from overseas is beyond me), the procreation of municipal bond debentures, the acquisition of defrauded commodity ankles…

(Phone begins ringing again…)


“Cap’n John…”

“YES, First Mate Wetzel, what is it now?”

“It’s what?”

“Yes, I’ll see to that immediately, thank you.”

Ms. You Screwed Up Again Wetzel informs me that the word I wanted above was “tariffs” not “sheriffs”; geez, she can be such a snot sometimes.

I see from the word-counter at the bottom of my screen that I have reached a point of no return, which was a pretty good song by the rock group Kansas back in the late 70’s, and that I need to wrap this up.

More later.

And besides, why shouldn’t I run for Pres? I mean, what does Elizabeth Warren have that I don’t have, other than looks, brains, talent and a Native American tipi in her back yard?

Love and ballots,

Cap’n John

Post Script…FYI, an “ebert” (see above) is a small, furry mammal of the Saskatchewanis ebertis genus that has rather prominent, flat ears, enormous genitalia and is indigenous to Canada.

Post Post Script…Here’s the link to Kansas’ “The Point of Know Return”…enjoy.


“A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.” Edward Abbey

So there I was, meandering through our local Walmart, just looking around, in a semi-daze and not really paying attention (probably overwhelmed by the excess of incredible !RollBack! bargains all around me), when…bump…I ran into something.


I looked down and around the front of my cart, and, OMG, I had accidentally bumped into, pardon my lack of PC etiquette here, a midget. I immediately reached down to help the poor guy up…geez, I felt terrible…said I was really sorry and I asked him if he was okay.

Well, he says, I’m not happy.

Oh, I says back, so which one are you?

My inadvertent and vertically-challenged victim wasn’t the only one who wasn’t happy; I was by no means thrilled to be singled out as one of the sacrificial foot-soldiers for President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump’s wall-building war with Congress…no thanks, Pres. (See my post from 1/10/19 IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE for the sordid details.)

Yet there I was, the recipient of another call from His Eminence, telling me how he, with the input of his advisors, had decided that engaging various media/blogger persons in a “dialogue” would be a better way to tell in more detail his side of the Great Southern Wall debate, and the best way to sell the idea to what is becoming, outside of his fanatical base, an increasingly skeptical public.

Might work…might not. (I’m betting “not”…this wall idea stinks worse as the days go by and a significant portion of the Federal government remains shut-down as retaliation by Mr. Trump on Congress for not giving him what he wants. Not sure how he thinks he’s hurting Congress by shutting down government services to American citizens.)

So it was with no small amount of disgust and trepidation that I saw the caller ID…202-456-1111, the White House, and stopped dead in my tracks.

(Off camera announcer, in his best melodramatic game-show announcer voice…)

“Cap’n John Krissongs, here are your choices…a) you can choose to have a red-hot fireplace poker shoved into your right eye; b) or you can choose to become infested with crotch lice the size of Hummers; or c) you can take the call from the President and listen to what he has to say.”

Tough choice…can I have a few minutes to think it over?

Shit…I took the call.

After PTB and I got some very brief prelims out of the way, it was right to business…I asked the Pres to clue me in on why he was calling me, and received a three minute explanation that explained nothing.

“So, Pres, why me?” I asked again; what was he really after?

“Well, Cap’n John, let me give you the entire truth of the matter.” (And as he said this, I thought shit, PTB, you wouldn’t recognize “the truth” if it walked up and bit you on the ass. Whatever…I was in it now, and might as well listen attentively.)

“And what is that, Pres?” I asked.

“That this country needs a wall on our Southern border, between us and the Moccasins and the Humidorians, or whatever they call themselves. The flow of illegal drugs has increased by 250,000% in the last fifteen minutes alone, and is only going to get worse. Then there’s all the rapists and criminals that are moving north over the border into the United States, to say nothing of the international terrorists that are flowing into this country from down South as well. When we finally get my wall built, it will be so beautiful, and the people will love me…or else.”

He muttered that last phrase under his breath, so I didn’t realize what he had really said until later when I was mentally reviewing our conversation.

“But Pres, according to the U.S. Customs and Border Protection people, under your administration, in the first 11 months of 2018, well in excess of 90% of all heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine and fentanyl shipments that were seized were coming through legal crossing points. The FBI, Interpol and all the major Western intelligence agencies will tell you that “international terrorists” get to their destinations by flying, not walking in the midst of a human caravan, and it isn’t “rapists and criminals” whose children are being kept in detention centers, away from their families and subjected to who-knows-what horrors. And believe me, your wall won’t stop smuggling or illegal entry either. Hell, the Mexican authorities have found three tunnels used for smuggling into Arizona in the last month alone. You’re kidding yourself.”

“YOU WILL BOW TO ME, CRETIN, AND ACKNOWLEDGE MY AWESOMENESS, OR FEEL THE MIGHTY WHIP OF VENGEANCE…oh, sorry, got a little carried away there, I just get so frustrated listening to people like you repeat “fake news” like those statistics from the U.S. Customer and Border Collies people, or that garbage about terrorists flying, that’s absolute crap…if that were the case, what would keep them from taking over planes and flying them into build…never mind. Listen, this country is facing a serious threat from the flow of illegal aliens and drugs over our Southern border,” he repeated himself, “and the only thing that will stop the flow is a wall.”

“You never hear a thing anyone else says, do you?” I asked him.

“What? Did you say something?”

“Point, Cap’n John. Well, Pres, there’s another issue that you keep waltzing around…you want Congress to give you $5.7 billion, billion with a very large “B”, of the American taxpayer’s tax dollars to build your wall. But you repeatedly said during your campaign back in ’16 that you’d build the wall and Mexico would pay for it. Of course, then the President of Mexico told you to stick it, so now you want the American people to pick up the tab. I don’t think so, Your Arrogance.”

“All right, if you’re going to argue using facts, which is a really uncouth way to argue, then here’s a fact for you…remember when I told you that I was the Second Coming of the Alien Messiah, last time we spoke (see my post from 12/11/17 CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?)? Well, hear this, Mr. Smarty Pants With Your Facts Cap’n John, this Messiah isn’t coming back to a country overrun with little brown people with small brown fingers and toes, I’ve come back to be the leader of decent white Christian folks (beginning to yell) WHO WORK HARD, WANT TO RAISE THEIR FAMILIES IN THE SUBURBS, GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY AND HAVE DELUDED THEMSELVES INTO THINKING THAT MY SHIT DOESN’T…”

All of a sudden there was some commotion from behind PTB, like someone was trying to take the phone away from him, again. “No, don’t you touch me…lemme’ go, damn it…” I heard the phone hit the top of the desk, as the sounds of struggle there in the Oval Office continued. “TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME, I AM THE MESSIAH, YOU WILL OBEY…” PTB’s voice trailed off as I assume security people with ginormous biceps dragged him away.

Another voice came on the line…

“Uh, Cap’n John, uh, this is Dr. Leaves, we spoke back in April, the last time President Trump called you.” It was Basil Leaves, the President’s personal physician, who also happens to be a board-certified psychiatrist in the State of New York.

“Yes, Dr. Leaves, how is your patient?” I inquired.

“Uh, the President? He’s fine, just fine, but he was suddenly called away from your conversation to handle other serious matters of state. He said to tell you he was sorry and that he would be calling back soon.”

“Doctor, lemme’ ask you a question…have you ever wondered how many assholes there are in a dozen?” I hung up without waiting for an answer.

Oh goody, another potential call from President “Tweety Bird” in the future…I can hardly wait.

(Announcer’s voice from offstage…)

“…and the “Jeopardy” answer is…Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey, Sleazy, Bashful, Doc…sorry, SNEEZY.”

(Voice of Alex Trebek…)

“Cap’n John, you wagered (number appears on podium) $5.7 Billion…and your answer is ‘What are the names of some of the people being considered for Cabinet posts in Donald Trump’s administration?’” That answer is correct. You are this week’s loser, along with everyone else in America.”

Love and construction,

Cap’n John

Post Script…the “midget” joke was gleefully stolen from comedian Larry the Cable Guy…git r’ done.