So here I am in the midst of an unscheduled “vacation” from my part-time job at the Publix grocery store where I work as a Front Service Clerk, which is corporate Publixese for a “bagger”, a true case of a $27 title for a three-dollar job, brought about by an unpleasant run-in I had last week with one of our customers who, despite the fact that she wasn’t wearing a mask or even remotely attempting to observe the rules of “social distancing”, felt it was her unalienable right and duty to stand RIGHTNEXT to where I was working, face within inches of mine, to closely supervise the bagging/loading of her groceries into her cart. (Bagging groceries, although there is an art to it, is nevertheless by no means rocket science…the close scrutiny was unnecessary.)

At any rate, apparently she took exception to my tone of voice the SECOND time I asked her to please step back behind the green line on the floor (full disclosure: I was having a bad morning and I handled it poorly, walking right up to Mr. Rude without quite shaking his hand…I was wrong), causing her to complain to management before she left the store that, although I was the best-looking bagger she had ever run across, I was also very rude, had a poor attitude, was most likely a liberal Democrat and that I should be chastised mightily and then taken out behind the store and beaten with a blunt instrument. Management, with a real and somewhat surprising empathy for the stress all the associates have been under during the pandemic, decided that I should take the rest of the day off, told me to go home and regroup, get my head out of my butt and come back for my next shift with my attitude re-adjusted. Upon arriving at Chez Cap’n I decided that I was going instead to take a couple weeks off and determine my future with Publix while I decompressed.

That decision is TBD.

Anyway, having some time on my hands and nothing particularly better to do this past week, I’ve been catching up with old friends with whom I haven’t spoken for a while, to see how they’re dealing with life these days.

I have a buddy named Bob (not his real name…the names in this story have been changed to confuse the uninitiated) who I hadn’t heard from in a while, so I sent him an email to inquire to his health and well-being; he also lives here in Florida, south of me near Port Charlotte (elevation: 7 feet), where he works as a bartender and part-time condom tester. (For Trojan in a lab, for pete’s sake…you people are disgusting.)

So Bob called me the next day and we chatted on the phone for a bit, swapping lies and laughs, when I asked him what was new in the bartending world.

Well, he says, you know I haven’t worked since back in April when the lockdown started, but I had an unusual incident take place back just before shit got crazy and everything started going to hell in a grocery cart. Oh yeah, I rejoined, what was that?

He then proceeded to tell me the following story…

This guy he had never seen before walked in one afternoon, carrying a cardboard box under his arm. He sat down at the bar, put the box on the stool next to him, reached down and pulled out, first, a miniature grand piano, about the size of a serving platter and complete with a small stool, set them on the bar, reached down into the box again and brought out a tiny little man, dressed in white tie and tails, who according to my friend, then sat down at the piano and proceeded to give a beautiful rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, to the great surprise of both my friend and the other patrons in the bar. When he finished he stood, took a small bow as acknowledgement for the applause from everyone there, sat back down and launched into Chopin’s Nocturne in Eb, opus 9, again playing beautifully.

When the tiny performer was done once again, the man picked him up and put him back in the box; if I don’t stop him occasionally, the guy told Bob, he just keeps playing…gimme’ a double shot of Jack, would you?

Where the hell did you get this little guy, my friend asked.

Well, the man says, I have a place down on Manasota Key; I was out walking on the beach one morning a few months ago, you know, enjoying the breeze off the Gulf and watching the sand crabs run sideways all over the place, just minding my own business, when I saw something sticking up out the sand about 20 yards up ahead of me, like something someone left behind after a picnic, except that hardly anyone ever uses this stretch of beach ‘cause it’s kinda hard to get to. Anyway, I walked over to it, and boy, what a surprise I got, he says…it was this ornate, jewel-encrusted bottle, just the neck sticking out of the sand, the rest buried. I leaned down and pulled it out and whoa, it was like something out of the Arabian Nights, I mean, it was beautiful. So I starting wiping the sand off of it, and when I did it started to vibrate like in my hand, and suddenly the top falls out and this mist starts coming out of the bottle and, Holy I Dream of Jeanie, Batman, out pops this, I don’t know, apparition, ghost, shit I had no idea what it was but it was like a man and it scared the crap outta’ me. I dropped the bottle and the mist starts getting solid and, whoa, there stands this guy, all dressed in a turban and these flowing robes, who says not to be afraid because he’s a Djinn, you know, a genie. He says he was imprisoned in the bottle by an evil vizier for dallying with the guy’s daughter, has been in there for thousands of years, thanks me profusely for freeing him and says, as a reward, that he will grant me one wish, whatever I want.

Beach guy says he was so surprised that he just blurted out, anything I want?

I’m sorry, the genie replied, I didn’t understand you.

Anything I want, the guy repeated.

I’m sorry, says the Djinn, looking puzzled, I didn’t quite get that, putting a hand behind his ear.

So the beach guy, deciding to take a different approach, asks the genie, where are you from? No, says the genie, I don’t play the drums; no, no, says BG, what land are you from? And the genie gets this quizzical look on his face and replies, ham and rum, what the hell is that? and I realized right then, the beach guy said, that the genie must have had sand or salt water in his ears because he didn’t understand a thing I was saying.

So BG says to the genie, raising his voice, I get one wish? and the genie says, a crumb dish, what the fuck are you talking about, and the guy says he then screamed at the genie, ONE WISH? And he said, oh yeah, sorry, yeah, I can grant you one wish, anything you want.

So the beach guy tells me he thought about it for a moment and says to the Djinn, okay, I want a 12-inch penis. Really? says the genie. Well, okay.

Next thing I knew, says BG, all this mist starts coming out of the bottle, the air around me got all murky and weird and suddenly there was this big flash of light, knocked me spang on my butt and when the mist started to clear, there was this box sitting on the sand next to me, and when I looked inside, there was this guy, pointing to the box sitting on the stool next to him.

He reached out, took the double Jack off the bar, downed it and said, that’s when I started drinking.

He took the little guy out of the box again, placed him on the bar, and we watched as the foot tall pianist walked over to the piano, flipped his tails out behind him and then sat down and proceeded to start playing Mozart’s Piano Concerto #20.

I bought him the next round, said my friend.

Love and sheet music,

Cap’n John

Post Script…yes, I know you can’t play a concerto without an accompanying orchestra…call it artistic license.


I’m anticipating an outcry of protest and indignation from all my Liberal readers (all several of you) by my next pronouncement…

I am a fan of Ayn Rand’s books.

(Ducks down under desk to avoid flying verbal and written brickbats of anger and outrage)

Lemme’ know when it’s safe to come back up…

FYI, a “brickbat” is defined as “a remark or comment that is highly critical and typically insulting”. (Sounds like my ex-wife.) For years I thought a brickbat was what the coach made me swing back when I played Little League baseball, ‘cause that’s what it felt like…most seasons, I was lucky if my batting average equaled my weight. I had an arm like a cannon, a glove like a vacuum cleaner and a bat like a fly swatter.

For those of you who are residents of LiberalLand, give me a moment to explain why I am a reader of the late Ms. Rand…she mostly wrote really big, fat books that took like a gazillion years to read, which for me meant that I could stay involved in one book for an extended period of time and not have to change subjects, figure out new plots or learn about any new characters that I might not like. (My copy of her 1943 novel The Fountainhead is 726 pages long and my “large mass-market” paperback version of Atlas Shrugged is well over a thousand.)

She obviously had a lot to say.

Okay, that wasn’t the real reason I was a fan of Alisa Zinovyevna Rosenbaum (her real name)…actually, I just liked what she had to say about self-reliance and egoism.

I freely admit that I’m not sophisticated enough politically to comprehend all her ideas about opposing collectivism and statism and favoring laissez-faire capitalism and non-stick cookware; she sometimes gets all esoteric and deep with her philosophy of Objectivism, the general idea of which I understood, the details of which went past me in a great gust of literary hot air.

Objectivism, her own personal philosophy of how to live a clean, moral and thoroughly boring life, is explained by WikiPedia as “the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity and reason as his only absolute”.

Let’s dissect that statement, shall we?

“Man as a heroic being”: yeah, I can see men as heroic…any husband who has ever had to answer the dreaded “does this dress make my butt look big?” question from his wife/partner without stepping all over his manhood is heroic in my book.

“…with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life…”: I know a shitload of people out there whose ONLY and EXPRESS purpose for living is the pursuit of their own happiness, so yeah, I get that. (See Donald Trump.)

“…with productive achievement as his noblest activity…”: now this concept I have some minor problems with…if “productive achievement” is at the top of the heap of noble activities, where does that put compassion, love, working for the betterment of humanity and trombone playing? Besides, if this is the criteria, then I personally know a boatload of my fellow Publix associates who are destined to live lives of utter failure, given the amount of time and effort they spend trying desperately not to do any more work than absolutely necessary. (We have an employee at the Publix grocery store where I work part-time who has made an art of the above; she wanders the parking lot playing around on her cellphone feverishly when she is supposed to be gathering shopping carts, she ducks into the ladies room with a frequency that is shameless doing what in there I couldn’t say, you see her going upstairs to the breakroom several times a day when she has no business being up there, or just wandering the store with a vapid look on her face when she’s supposed to be working, and the worst of it, she does these things right in front of the rest of us, like we’re too stupid to see and understand what she’s (not) doing. She wouldn’t know productivity if it walked up and kicked her in her big butt. I won’t mention her first name, but it rhymes with the state that has Annapolis as its capital.)

“…and reason as his only absolute.”: sorry, Alisa Zinovyevna, but we’re talking America here, right? Reason? Really? 62,984,828 people voted for Donald Trump in 2016…reason? You mean like common sense? You gotta’ be kidding me.

More on Ms. Rand and her books next week; now it’s time to use one of my copyrighted and famed “non-segue segues” and move right along to the real subject of today’s post…advise on dating in the time of coronavirus.

You see, I get letters and texts and emails and PMs on FB and smoke signals and secret decoder-ring messages from my readers (both Liberals and Conservatives, although the questions I get from Conservatives often seem to involve sheep, vibraphones and 55-gallon drums of Lime Jello), seeking advice on how best to navigate the swirling rapids of dating and relationships in this era of lockdowns, masks, social distancing and a disease that makes gonorrhea look like a hangnail.

And so, to proceed…

“Cap’n John:

                I’ve penned essays, articles, books and an occasional thank-you note but I’ve never written to a sea captain who puts out an “advice to the lovelorn” column before; I grew up in post-Revolution Russia, and the Commies didn’t believe in love. Sex, yes, but love? No, no way, too bourgeois. So I’m now living in America, land of the free (lunch) and home of the Atlanta Braves, and I am having no luck whatsoever finding a reasonable, heroic man with whom I can settle down and raise a family of Libertarians. I’ve tried dating services, hanging around at the local John Birch Society chapter meetings and I even thought about attending the “Singles Nights” at the local church, but I’m an atheist and I don’t think “believers” are objective. Can you give me any ideas on where I can find the Conservative of my dreams? I looked at the atlas, shrugged in frustration and decided to write to you…please help me, Cap’n John.

                I Sure Hope Fountainhead Is Some Kind of Unusual Oral Sex Involving Water”

Dear “Head”:

                I just hope you’re never as disappointed as I was when I streamed the movie Babes In Toyland on the Internet recently, thinking it was a, err, you know, a porno. Well, hey, given the title, what would you think? “Babes” in “Toy”land? WTF? If that’s not the definition of “false advertising” than I don’t know what…it’s an animated Disney movie, for the love of vibrators. Geez. (Insert winky-face here.)

“Dear Cap’n John Krissongs:

                I’m a single woman in my late 20s and an editor for a book publishing firm; I lead an active life, am better than average looking and have no visible warts. (Keyword…visible.) I’ve had some experience with relationships in the past, all unpleasant. I’m in the market, but the choices seem so poor; where are all the attractive, heroic studs that I read about in the “romance” novels I edit? Where the hell are the Caleb Burlys or the Justin Hairychesteds in real life? I’m tired of living in a fantasy world populated by men that are handsome, loving, considerate, moderately clean and a figment of someone’s else’s imagination. The author Ayn Rand once said that “A creative (wo)man is motivated by the desire to achieve, not by the desire to beat others”, and believe me, I don’t want to beat anybody, although if some studly dude out there wanted to give me a light spanking because I’d been “naughty”, that would be okay. Where do I find the man of my fantasies, Cap’n John?

                Ellie the Editor, Manstarved in Manhattan”

Dear “Ellie”:

                Two words, Ellie…”deuterium oxide”, also known as “heavy water”, which because it contains both a proton AND a neutron, makes it twice as heavy as regular water. I realize this information probably won’t help you find the “man of your fantasies”, but if you ever hook-up with a nuclear physicist, it’s a good starting point. (I assume when you mentioned “a light spanking” that it didn’t include a hairbrush or a cane, otherwise I would have to edit out that part of your letter, this being a family blog.)

“John Krissongs Cap’n:

                We are frankly puzzled as to why you refuse to honor this debt we’re trying to collect…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I have a friend named Justin Hairychested (not his real name, which is actually Al Catraz…oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that, sorry), anyway, my friend suggested that I write to you about a problem I’m having with finding and attracting women of the opposite sex…where the hell are they? I’ve had blind dates (one was a real nice girl, but the dog kept getting in the way) and I’ve done some Internet dating, I’ve been to all the “singles’ bars” in the area, I’ve even tried Singles’ Bronco Riding Night at the local rodeo, all to no avail. I’m a hetero male in my early 30s, have all my own hair and teeth and no physical deformities (that show), I’m financially okay and I believe in productive achievement as the defining point of my life, well, other than my weekly “coffee enema”, which lately has become the real focal point of my life, and I need some advice: how do I find Ms. Right, when all I keep running into is Ms. Take?

                Just Call Me Freddie Folgers”

Dear “Freddie”:

                You’re kind of a sick fuck, aren’t you?

Okay, according to the clock down in the corner of my computer monitor, it’s 162 words past my being done, since I typically try to keep my posts at or below 1500 words total…I’m allowing for attention span, both mine and my readers.

I sincerely hope that this open and frank discussion of problems that single folks face in today’s world has given you some meaningful insight into your own relationships.

Yeah, right.

Love and bookmarks,

Cap’n John

Post Script…1704. Geez, no wonder I’m tired…


(Editor’s note…my last two posts here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog were so serious in nature, so dark, so foreboding, so chilling, so perverse, so, oh, sorry, that I decided to write a SPECIAL EDITION post that is actually humorous (I hope), in keeping with our comedy tradition. Oh, and this one is dedicated to Sarah K, the pixie girl.)

I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, and by no choice of my own on either account I might add, and when I was a kid (back in the Jurassic Era, but before the Park), I attended a Catholic parochial school in my neighborhood, Our Lady of Perpetual Motion, where I learned, interspersed with studying things like Arithmetic, English, Geography, Psychiatry, Phrenology and Medieval Sewing, that certain activities and actions perpetrated by humans are sinful.

Oh yes, Holy Mother Church had a real laundry list of sins back in those days, in the late 50’s and early 60’s.

Like all good organized religions, the Catholics are “people of the Book”, so we used the Ten Commandments that are found in the Bible in the Book of Amphibians, err, sorry, Book of Genesis, as our template for “what constitutes sin”. (Actually, it was my experience that “sin” was whatever the nuns said it was, including such activities as nose-picking, late assignments, pulling the hair of the girl that sat in front of you and calling your 7th grade teacher “Leadbelly” behind her back. Yeah, I almost got busted for that one; her name was Sister Mary Agnes of the Holy Ruler (her favorite weapon) and she was, at once, fat…and ugly. Sorry, but she was. Hands down she became a nun because she realized that her chances of finding a halfway decent guy/gal with that face and build were pretty slim. (Her chances were slim, her build…not so much.) She drags me out into the hall and says, what do you know about Leadbelly, and I looked at her with these wide, innocent eyes and said, nothing Stir, why? She said never mind and gave me a shot upside my head, just for good measure, and then sent me back inside.)

Okay, so here’s the Big Ten, paraphrased:

#1- No side gods…one is enough

#2- Don’t screw over Mom and Dad

#3- Church on Sunday, heathens

#4- No golden calves (see #1)

#5- No swearing using god’s name…say “shit” instead

#6- No killing

#7- No funny business with Mrs. WhatsHerFace next door

#8- No stealing…if it ain’t yours, leave it alone

#9- No lying (even if you are, especially if you are, the President of the United States)

#10- Don’t be looking greedily at Mrs. WhatsHerFace or her new BMW

Beyond the above, which we heard about frequently (daily), there were three other really heavy hitters for the nuns…”having impure thoughts”, “touching yourself impurely” and “eating meat on Fridays”. Pre-age 12 or so, the two “impures” were no big deal; by the time I was in 7th grade, however, pretty much all I did was have impure thoughts and then touch myself impurely. Hell, by the time I was 13, all I had to do was have a slight breeze blow past me and I got a hard-on; nowadays I can’t wake up my johnson with a trombone and a hand grenade.

These things were *MORTAL* sins, not to be confused with lesser transgressions, known as venial sins, as we learned from the sin arbiters, but the worst of all, we were told repeatedly, was EATING MEAT ON FRIDAYS. (Actually, the “impures” were way worse, but the nuns always got all mystical and vague when referring to them, due I’m sure to lack of practical experience on their part.)

For some reason the nuns at OLOPM had a real thing for meat-eating on the last working day of the week. AND WE WERE TO REMEMBER THAT A) IT WAS A BLACK, BLACK *MORTAL SIN* AND B) IF YOU DIED WITH THIS SIN UNCONFESSED ON YOUR SOUL, YOU WOULD GO STRAIGHT TO HELL, WITH NO DETOURS TO MIAMI OR THE CAYMANS. (Of course, we drove the pastor, Father Heftybags, nuts with our hypothetical questions during his weekly visit to our classroom to teach that day’s “Religion” class. “So Father,” says Steve Taylor, one of the “slower” (moron) kids in the class, “if I start to eat a baloney and sour cream sandwich at 11:56 on Thursday night, and the barometric pressure is 30.59 and I’m using a left-handed framitz wrench, if I don’t finish my sandwich until after midnight, which is then Friday in the Northern Hemisphere, is that a sin?”)

Be gone, Satan, get thee behind me.

Then it happened.

Back in 1995, Pope John Paul George and Ringo quietly decreed that, whoa, it was now all right to eat meat on Fridays, unless you didn’t have any of your own and had to steal some from Mrs. WhatsHerFace next door, which was a violation of both #8 and #10 (above), although by the new Papal decree at least you were okay on the Friday meat-eating sin.

Wait, are you kidding me?

Boy, I gotta’ tell you, if I’m some poor SOB languishing in the fires of Hades, parched and in despair, begging for just a drop of cool water but still having impure thoughts and I suddenly found out that I had been railroaded like this by the Church, I’d be some pretty pissed off. All I did was stop off at Mickey D’s for a Big Mac on the way home from work, totally forgetting it was Friday, I get home, eat my burger and then I have this major coronary event and bite the big one, hasta yo’ mama, senor, and next thing I know, there I am in front of St. Peter on the way through, who tells me, hey, special sauce lettuce cheese, you’re on your way to Perdition, have a nice trip, say hello to Lucy Fur for me when you see her.

And now all those Earthbound jerks still walking around up there can eat porterhouse steaks, lamb chops, burgers, the firm, up-turned young breasts of chickens, llama spleens, pork roast, gizzards, filets and carburetors on Fridays and it’s okay? Friday meat-eating is no longer a MORTAL sin? And I’m still stuck down here with Hitler, that roving asshole Jeffery Epstein, the guys from the 1919 Chicago Black Sox, my ex-mother-in-law and Richard Nixon? What the hell is that all about?

And worst, there’s no recourse, no higher Court of Appeals to hear your case, you’re hosed, happy fiery eternity, loser.

To say that I would not be a 100% completely satisfied customer under these circumstances would be the understatement of the millennia.

So the Catholics gave us no/no, wait, it’s okay on Friday meat-eating, the Mormons wear “magic underwear” and an have Italian angel as their patron saint, Martin Luther was probably certifiable and the Amish think they’re still living in pre-Civil War rural America and organized religion is surprised it has a credibility problem? Really? The same organized religion that gave us the Spanish Inquisition back in the 1500’s, flame-broiled “witches” in Massachusetts during the infamous Salem trials of 1692 and has a cadre of pedophile priests that have been giving “special dispensations” to young altar boys since who knows when, that the organized religion you’re talking about?

You have to figure that Satan is probably not happy with no longer getting new inmates from the ranks of the Friday Meat-Eaters Society, all the while he’s laughing like crazy at the poor assholes already in his custody on a First Degree Friday Hamburger conviction.

If you’re one of those assholes, that sucks, even worse than having Donald Trump as President, although not much.

I miss being a Catholic, about the way I’d miss root-canal surgery or having my car repossessed.


Dateline Rome…Pope Francis today announced that, due to frustration, depression and anxiety over the Covid-19 pandemic, all of the Ten Commandments have been temporarily suspended until further notice, and then further declared Donald Trump to be the Anti-Christ.

Francis also reaffirmed that eating meat on Fridays is still not a sin, but that being a Republican is.

Love and holy water,

Cap’n John

Post Script…speaking of the pandemic, I saw this headline on a news website the other day…

“How States Rank in Coronavirus Cases”

And I thought to myself, since no one else was there at the time, can I get a further clarification of the word “rank”? What was the criteria, best looking? Largest? Loudest? Best smelling? Most disgusting? What?

Hey, I just wanted to know, it might be important someday, all right?

Post Post Script…more Covid-19. So a bunch of cities got “flyovers” recently from various precision flying squadrons like the U. S. Navy Blue Angels, who fly the F/A-18, or the U. S. Air Force Thunderbirds, flying the F-16C, as recognition for all the folks out there on the front lines busting their butts and risking their lives during the pandemic…nice gesture.

So what did the Tampa area get as recognition from our good President and his Armed Forces for its “essential workers”? MacDill AFB, our local military base, gave us a flyover by a single KC-135 Stratotanker.

Tanker…a flying gas station.

Gee thanks, guys, what a thrill…I think I might have wet myself a little.



(Editor’s note: As with the most recent entry of 5/20 here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, the following was a letter posted on the Facebook page of Cap’n John Krissongs on 5/25 and once again the content, style and “voice” displayed in the piece was deemed worthy of inclusion by our editors. It should be further noted here that the opinions and viewpoints expressed in this letter and in the subsequent commentary absolutely represent the opinions of the editors.)

The Facebook Letter

“I was driving home from work earlier today, down my usual street, when I saw walking along the sidewalk coming towards me a young black man, jeans and a tee, maybe 22-23, headphones in place and living his life, minding his business.

And it hit me right then, as I drove past him…I have no idea, nor ever had, what it must be like to be an African American male in this country.

No fucking clue, but tell you what, it sure as hell can’t be much fun these days, if the events of the past few weeks are any indicator. Shit, past few weeks? Try in the history of America.

Now I’m not going to waste my breath and your time with the usual, “Oh dear, what is this country coming to?” bleeding-heart bullshit…we already know where this country is at, and it ain’t a good place. We are a racist society, simple as that. Black lives apparently don’t matter.

A cop in Minnesota knelt on some poor man’s neck for FIVE FUCKING MINUTES to subdue him, which eventually killed the man? Because he allegedly was trying to pass a counterfeit $20 bill? I’d hate like hell to know what those jerks in Minneapolis do to someone who jaywalks. Jesus wept in his hot chocolate, are you kidding me?

Or that poor guy there in Georgia, black kid (sorry, I’m 69, he was 25…he’s a kid to me, I don’t care what color his skin was), out jogging, when three redneck, racist assholes start chasing him in a pick-up truck, armed to the teeth, supposedly because they thought he had been involved in some neighborhood burglaries; at one point two of them, while buddy Jim Bob was filming the whole thing, confronted this young man with loaded weapons, and then, because he didn’t drop to his knees and immediately beg their pardon for being black and alive, executed him. And it took the local district attorney EIGHT WEEKS to charge them? Really? Really?

Or how about the other bajillion instances here in this country where an African American male has been rousted, roughed up and busted (and worse) by police or vigilantes for nothing more than existing?

And here’s where it all grinds together for me in an ugly mesh of cosmic noise…I have no conclusion for this piece.

What’s the message, don’t hate/murder black people? Well, d’uh, no shit. Hey, don’t crap your pants either or you’ll stink the place up.

Love thy neighbor, a little Christian preaching maybe? Bet you 10 bucks all three of those yoyos in Georgia were god-fearing churchgoers…any takers?

No matter what I say next, it sounds pithy to me, a cliché or a “nugget of wisdom”. (Given the treatment of African Americans in this country over the centuries, if I were black and had to listen to one more liberal goof spew forth another misguided, patronizing remark about how he/she can “feel your pain” or “we’re with you, bro”, I’d consider moving off-planet.)

But there’s one thing I can say, maybe to that young man I saw walking down the street this afternoon, certainly to the black community in general…I am truly, truly sorry.”


The Commentary…

Now let’s take a little stroll down this primrose path and consider something as we walk from one point to another…follow me please.

A man is walking/jogging/sitting on a bench/playing with his dog in the park/riding the bus/shopping in a store/whatever in a public place, breaking no laws and minding his own business.

He is not “suspicious looking” nor is he doing anything in a “threatening manner” to anyone; he isn’t being “loud and abusive” nor is he engaging other people in an “aggressive fashion”…he merely is, alive in his place in the world and living his life, exercising his constitutionally guaranteed rights to do as he damn pleases, when he pleases, where he pleases, well within the framework of the laws of this country.

And then, for whatever reason, he is suddenly confronted by the authorities or by parties who feel they have the right and responsibility to question him, and subjected to an interrogation as to his recent activities and whereabouts; he is told that this is being done based on a) his suspicious actions, even if there were none or b) a report (legitimate or fabricated) from some other concerned citizen about him or c) just general fuckery on the part of his confronters.

At some point the confrontation becomes physical…angry words are exchanged, accusations fly, resistance follows and the man is now involved in a situation that in his mind, if it continues to escalate, could have serious, disastrous results. Literally, he fears for his life and/or well-being.

His confronters, being several of them, manage to subdue him and place him in a position that in theory precludes him from further struggle…usually handcuffed or restrained in some fashion or threatened with a weapon; however, in his fear, he continues to fight to regain his freedom.

He has, in that fear and in his efforts to extricate himself from this nightmare situation, threatened his confronters with his response; they now feel compelled to further restrain the man, with the intent to “arrest” him and incarcerate him or to otherwise put an end to this ugly and totally unnecessary confrontation. And in their efforts to stop and/or punish this man for whatever illicit activity of which they suspected him, they become overzealous or indifferent to his struggles and, maybe inadvertently, maybe not, manage to harm or, horrifically, kill the man.

This fictional citizen was accused, tried, sentenced and executed by nothing remotely resembling “a jury of his peers”. This is, in my way of thinking, the textbook definition of “injustice”; any proper-thinking, morally upright person should agree with me.

So for the final stop on our stroll…

Up until now, as you’ve read what I’ve written above, you were probably thinking that I was using the incidents involving Ahmaud Arbery or George Floyd or Eric Garner or Trayvon Martin or Walter Scott, black men all, or any of a number of similar historic assaults as my template.

African American men killed senselessly for nothing more than “BBIA”…Being Black In America.

Now consider this…and read slowly here please: suppose the “confronters” in the above scenarios were black and the victim white?

Take a moment to think that over…

If with that revelation you are now outraged where you were not before, then with all due respect, you need to deeply reexamine your moral code. (If you feel no outrage at all, then you’re probably a hopeless oxygen-thief.)

And I absolutely promise you that, if this unhappy event ever actually occurred, the hue and cry for “bringing these animals/thugs to justice” from certain segments of the populace would be deafening.

Remember what I said at the closing of my Facebook letter (above), about any ending I came up with being “pithy” or a “cliché” or a “nugget of wisdom”? Sorry guys, I’m still there; I have no great, earth-shaking ideas on how to convince people that killing/harming/hating someone just because that person is of a different color or ethnicity or religion or sexual orientation then you is morally bankrupt…if you think that way, you’re an asshole.

How do we, as a society, fix this problem? Sadly, I’m convinced that no matter how much people like myself and others speak out against injustice and hatred, racism is here to stay…there will always be some insecure, down-trodden, hate-filled jerk out there who thinks that the only way he can boost his self-esteem is by belittling/harming/hating others that are “different”. Beats the shit outta’ me how to fix it, but I know this…the first step to rectifying a problem is acknowledging its existence.

And calling out the assholes that perpetrate the problem in the first place.

I hope, with everything I am as a person, that my grandchildren grow up to live in a better world.

Love and tears,

Cap’n John



(Editor’s note: The following letter was posted by Cap’n John Krissongs on his Facebook page back on May 7th; the editors felt that the message and style were of the same high quality of writing for which the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog has become renowned throughout the blogosphere and decided to make it a permanent part of the WATRUK experience.)

But before we get to the letter…

Now I want to clear up a few things about seafood…first and foremost, eating creatures from our rivers, lakes and oceans is, well, how can I say it best, ah, gross? Yeah, gross works fine. No, I’ll pass, sorry, I’m okay without most seafood.

I’m no vegan/vegetarian goofball advocating for the rights of animals or deploring the slaughter of innocent wombats or whatever, although for my money, if you mistreat an animal, you oughtta’ be hung up by your balls. No, I’m okay with oink-oink piggies and moo-cows and the firm, supple and up-turned young breasts of chickens, but no, not most seafood. Hey, I have a couple of pieces of catfish in the freezer as we speak, purchased in a nice container from the store, and I’m all for an occasional piece of blackened orange roughy from one of those seafood places that sit right on the shore and serve whatever they can hook off the back porch with a rod and reel, drag it in, smack it on the head a good one before they toss it in a big, black cast-iron skillet. That’s all fine, but for the most part generally, eating seafood is, as I said…gross.

Okay, you want examples?

I’m reading again (for the umpteenth time) the excellent novel Straight Man by world-class author Richard Russo; in it there’s a scene in a bar where two of the minor characters are eating oysters, her for the first time with instructions from him. Let it slide down your throat, he tells her, after a three minute dissertation on the proper preparation of the oyster sauce. Down they go, slurped up by the dozen by these two drunken oyster-slurpers in between copious amounts of beer.

Eeeeyeew…yeah, sure, I’m going to let something that looks the result of a sea lion sneeze slide down my throat. Sea lion expectoration. (After seven years of college with a Bachelors in Social Distancing, I refuse to write the phrase “sea lion boogers”.) You don’t even chew the damn things, you just swallow…bleah.

Or crab legs…oh, like I’m really going to eat the legs from an animal that looks suspiciously like something that should live on a web. No, no fucking way, no. We sell fresh crab legs from the Seafood Department of the Publix grocery where I work part-time, and every time I bag up a bunch, all I can think is, those were carrying a large spider-like creature down the beach sideways just last week. Creeps me the fuck out. And yeah okay, ground beef was “on the hoof” once upon a time as well, but there’s a BIG visceral difference between a pound of ground chuck in a celluloid package and a plastic bag of what looks like the hacked-off legs of an arachnoid that has been eating nuclear waste.

And lobsters? Really? You want me to have as my dinner an animal that was alive and ambulatory until right before you tossed his innocent little butt into a POT OF BOILING WATER, YOU SADISTIC FUCK?!? Are you kidding me? I mean, couldn’t you at least give them a quick one to the noggin with a meat tenderizing mallet and knock’em cold first? Geez.

Or eels…there are no words descriptive enough, at least not in my vocabulary, to even begin to do justice to the grossosity of an eel. (Yes, grossosity…look it up.)

I am literally getting goose-bumps sitting here writing this…creepy, slimy disgusting damn things.

I’m thinking pizza.

Okay, time for the letter.


An open letter to Covid-19:

Let me state here at the outset that, sir or madam, I don’t like you. (If you’re male, you’re a jerk, and if you’re female, you’re still a jerk.)

No, Mr./Ms. Covid, I don’t like you at all; you’re vile and you’re deadly and you’re creepy and your mother dresses you funny. You snuck into all of our lives a few months ago and things have pretty much sucked ever since you showed up. You’re making folks sick, you’re killing all kinds of innocent people, you kicked the economy in the nuts so hard that all it can do now is sit in the corner and make little mewling noises, you’re making those of us who you haven’t infected a little (a lot) nuts, you’re causing ALL kinds of angry arguments and debates over shit that, prior to your arrival, we wouldn’t have given a second thought to. (Wearing a mask in public? Only if it was Halloween or I was robbing a bank.) You’ve got some of the people in charge so paranoid that they’re telling everyone to stay home and remain in their bathrooms, cowering in fear while they spray disinfectant over their morning bagel, and then some other leader types saying, hey, fuck it, it’s time for full tilt boogey, the cure is worse than the problem, let’s go get a burger.

For me, and I suspect this is pretty much universal for most folks, I’m scared because I don’t know who to believe, I’m stressed out from the worry (am I going to die without getting laid at least once more?), I’m frustrated, I’m kind of dopey looking (okay, that one isn’t your fault) I’m confused about how to stay safe and I want my life back like it was before you came up on everyone’s radar.

And damn soon, thank you.

There’s been much speculation over the years among humans as to whether or not there’s intelligent life on other planets (there’s been some debate from time to time as to whether there’s any on our planet); if there are others out there, couldn’t you have landed somewhere else in the Galaxy and bothered them, like the Planet Zatox maybe? I mean, shit, I hate to wish any ill on the Zatoxians, but you know, hey, that’s their lookout.

I’m pretty sure I could get everyone on Earth to kick in five bucks (or rubles or francs or pilasters or douche-bags, you know, the German thing) and give the proceeds to you just so you would go away. Hell, I’ll kick in ten if you’ll take President Trump with you when you go. (You don’t have to make him sick, just drag his big butt out the door with you as you vacate the premises.)

It’s been so long since I shook someone’s hand that I’m not sure I remember how. (Yeah, I suppose it’s like sex, you know, a bike-riding thing. I hope anyhow.) And hugs? Not on your coronavirus, you prick, not these days.

You’ve made me angry, and I hate that; you’ve made me experience stress, and I hate that as well. You’ve made me afraid, and I REALLY hate that. Tell the truth, you’re not scoring a lot of points with me at all right now.

So, tell you what, Mr./Ms. Covid, do us all a favor and make like Apple stock and split, okay? Pack your bags, say your goodbyes and get on down the road. ‘Cause I’ve got several friends out there that owe me lunch and I’m getting tired of baloney and Clorox sandwiches. And I’d sell my kid sister to a band of itinerate nomads to be able to go to Walmart once again and make fun of all the rednecks. (Okay, I don’t have a kid sister, but you know what I mean.)

Go away, Mr./Ms. Covid, please…oh, if I make it $20 would take Mitch McConnell with you too?

Love and tartar sauce,

Cap’n John


There’s an old (please pardon the redundancy here) saying that’s been around for years that goes, there’s no fool like an old fool.

And as a good friend of mine is wont to say, I resemble that remark.

Okay, story time…be patient, children, I’m going somewhere with all this.

A couple of weeks ago, April 23rd to be precise, in a fit of rampant despondency, the result of spending a few hours/days/weeks wallowing in a slime-pit of self-pity, I posted a brief item here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog (since taken down) that said, basically, I quit.

No mas, that’s the ballgame, sayonara, turn in your badge and squirt-gun as you leave, hasta yo’ mama, I am already gone, on the road full-blast and top down, I quit.

I gave the middle finger salute to the whole thing and walked.

I was depressed (depressed my ass, I was irritated) about the “metrics” (stats…metrics just sounds like I know what I’m talking about) of the WATRUK website…they never seemed to go up (i.e., more visitors to the site, more readers), even after doing several months of Facebook advertising and constantly self-promoting on FB, Twitter and Instagram to the point that I feel like a shill for myself, the daily/monthly page views and visits just haven’t increased, and in fact occasionally have dropped a bit. (It was like watching the trading on a new stock you plunged your life’s savings into last year that’s now going nowhere, praying with your fingers, eyes and toes crossed.) And I got discouraged.

Now I’m not looking to be Dave Barry or even that Hershowitz guy here, but shit, come on already.

So I said fuck it and decided that, huffing and puffing and bloviating all over myself, I can find better things to do than bust my ass writing a blog that has, maybe, two dozen regular readers.

Good-looking readers, too, I will add, not like those ugly oinkers that read other humor bloggers.

In the meantime when all of this self-pity wallowing was going on, a curious thing began to happen.

I’ve gotten to be friends with one of kids that works with me at the Publix grocery store down in Trinity FL where I’m a part-time “bagger”; I helped her through a rough patch in her life last year and she laughs at my dumb jokes. Out of the blue one day recently, I get a Facebook “friend request” from her. I laughed at the idea, because most of my FB friends are contemporaries of mine, namely, old people. (Think tortoises and redwood trees.) But she’s a great kid (about 20), so I thought, why not?

Next thing I know, through that miracle of social media, like ripples on a pond, I now have this little group-cluster of 20-somethings, all fellow workers at Publix, all as my new FB BFF’s.

They remind me a little of those kids in the movie The Goonies.

So last week, again out of the blue and into the Black Sabbath, I get another FB “friend request”…

…and this one was from another co-worker, a young lady named Raneem, who is a friend of Sarah’s, a little pixie with a sweet, silly smile who is a member in good standing of the above-mentioned fellow workers/FB friends/Goonies groups (above).

Really? Really?

Now let explain about Raneem, best I can…I believe she’s about 20, college student, works part-time for Publix as a cashier, good worker, beautiful young woman, seems like a nice kid…and one I was pretty sure didn’t particularly like me. (It must run in her family, because her older brother works as a part-time cashier with us as well, and he hates my guts, which is okay, ‘cause I ain’t all that crazy about him either.) I mean, she and I haven’t passed six words to each other in the last year, never had a conversation about work or politics or what assholes some of our customers are or the Dodgers or anything. We’re like Tow Mater and Sally Carrera in the movie Cars…they’re both cars and they both live in Radiator Springs. And that’s it. Ditto Ms. R and myself.

Now I’m not well-versed in the fine art of subtlety, so the next time Raneem and I worked together, I walked over and asked her, point-blank and quote, why the hell would you want to be FB friends with an old fart like me? (I would have accepted the “because you’re obviously a pathetic, lonely old man with no life and a rather prominent nose, and I just felt so sorry for you” answer, albeit reluctantly.)

So this beautiful young woman looks at me and says, well Sarah told me about your blog and I read it and I liked it.

I immediately went in the office and called the local Sheriff’s Department, to come and arrest this girl for Assault with a Friendly Weapon.

I. Was. Stunned. Wash, rinse, repeat…I. Was. Stunned. I had absolutely no idea that she even knew about “the Cap’n” and/or the WATRUK blog and, bigger surprise, that, Holy Compliment, Batman, she liked it.

And it hit me, just like that, oh, Cap’n, you screwed up big.

I thanked her genuinely, telling her how flattered I was by what she said. Twice.

Oh, that thing that hit me? The realization of what I had done when I quit being “the Cap’n”.

I’ve said many times that I would write this blog even if no one read it, and despite my abrupt departure on 4/23, I still believe that. I am also not a believer in false humility…in my own stumbling way, I know I can write and that I’m funny; moreover, I like what I write, and I know some others that do as well. But being my own biggest fan should be enough.

All that I ever intended for the WATRUK blog to be is a place where my readers could go from time to time and a have a laugh or two in the face of all the horror and the fears and the worrying and the cruelty and the insaneness of our daily lives. (Yes, I know, you think I should have used the word “insanity” there, but I thought that “insaneness” portrayed what I was trying to convey more better.) A brief bit of levity to bring some cheer to someone’s passing hours, an oasis in a desert of everydayness. (Poetic, huh?)

Raneem isn’t the only person who has ever complimented me on the WATRUK blog; I’ve had a number of them over the past two-and-a-half years that I have been editor-in-chief. (Her’s just came as such a surprise.) So if you know that people (a few anyway) enjoy what you say here, that it brings them a moment or two of happiness from time to time, then aren’t you being a bit of an asshole, Mr. Selfish Pants Cap’n John, to decide to take your ball and bat and go home, just because The Huffington Post isn’t banging on your door, begging you to write a regular column? And I’m pretty sure she wasn’t just blowing smoke up my skirt, although if she had been, I would rather she had waited until I had my Little Bo Peep costume on, the one with the bonnet and the, well, never mind that now.

Anyway, I changed my mind…the Cap’n, after a short-lived and mostly below average retirement, has returned.

And the crowd went wild.

Maybe not every week like I’ve been doing for some time now…biggest problem with weekly posting is, as I like to call it, the disease of “writerius blockosis”; sometimes I just don’t have any idea what to talk about, and I’m bright enough to know to keep my big yap shut when I have nothing pertinent to say, unlike our President, who’s never had a thought he didn’t just blurt right out with a regularity that is astonishing. Hey, Mr. Trump, speaking of quitting, any possibility you’ll just get tired of the whole mess and go back to being a mendacious, obnoxious, woman-groping reality-show host and let America go find a real President? Huh? That likely?

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Love and a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,

Cap’n John

Post Script…hey, Raneem, thanks again. Much appreciated.

You’re a lot nicer than Sarah says you are. (Please insert winky-face here.)



I left work early today…I came home, sat down here at my desk and I cried. Only for a few moments, only a little. But I cried.

I can’t say whether this is a blessing or a curse, but throughout my entire life, I have always worn my emotions on my sleeve…I cry easily, I laugh easily, I get angry quickly, I get frustrated in a trice, I love hard and hate even harder. It is who I am, like it or not.

As you may be aware, I work part-time for Publix Supermarkets, a large regional grocery chain here in Florida and across the Southeast; my official title is “Front Service Clerk”, which is Publix’ corporate jargon for a “bagger” (a ten dollar word for a three dollar job). I’m at the store where I work between 20 and 24 hours every week, and for the most part, it’s a good gig.

Or at least it was until the advent of the coronavirus and Covid-19.

Now it’s a minefield, it’s a disaster zone, it’s a potential death-trap, a place of stress and tension and somewhere I’m terrified I’m going to die. Between being half-nuts from the constant fear, low grade I admit but always there, and the on-going battle to keep our customers happy and yet safe, in spite of all their attempts to thwart our best efforts, our cozy, warm little store, a place where our customers could come, buy their groceries or their pick-up meals or whatever and be greeted by and interact with a staff they know, get called by their names and have a “visit” that is pleasant, quick or leisurely (their choice) and get a smile and some kind words as they leave with their bags of joy, is no longer.

That all disappeared with the advent of the coronavirus and Covid-19.

I don’t need to work; I’m retired and I wouldn’t starve without the money. But the income that I get from Publix makes my car payment and after that, I bank the rest (actually I’m buying up Publix stock as fast as I can with the surplus). And I promised myself when I took my Social Security at 62 that I would continue to work part-time at some brainless, minimum-wage job until I had all the $$$ I felt I would need once I actually hang them up for good, and it’s a promise I intend to keep.

Up until recently, my job at Publix has provided me with an opportunity to be out with folks a few days every week, increase my retirement fund, lease a new car and make some excellent friends.

Despite the occasional asshole customer or a frustrating new company policy, it was, as I said, a good gig…but that is no more. It was gone with the advent of the coronavirus and Covid-19.

Where I was once the funniest guy in the place, I am now constantly tense and on edge, afraid at some level, overt or subtle, all the time. I’m frustrated because I feel like the “blue line cop” from asking people to please practice social distancing and stay back until I’m finished bagging their order. I’m worried about my fellow associates, who are, with a handful of notable exceptions, good, decent people just trying to get by each day; some of them need their jobs and come to work even though I’m sure they’d stay home if they could afford to do so; some of them continue to work based on a strong sense of dedication; some of the older associates work there a few hours a week so their lives don’t become stagnant, and some of those folks have left, promising to return when “things get back to normal” and I’m very concerned for all of them and for those of us still clocking in regularly.

Because nowadays, “normal” is the coronavirus and Covid-19.

I don’t sleep worth a damn these days…I wake up to pee just about every night at some point, usually around 2:00am, and then lie there wide awake, worrying. Did I remember to disinfect my wallet and car-keys, did I wipe down the light switches and counters, shit, I forgot to boil my mask (disinfect over a boiling pot of water), is tomorrow going to be the day that I win the big Mega-Covid-19 Super Lotto and end up dead in a month, is my family okay, who’s going to take care of me if I get sick, how the fuck did I get involved in this horror picture that is currently showing at a theatre near every damn one of us every minute of every damn day, gimme’ an “F” and what does that spell, kids?

It’s a word that rhymes with “truck” and that’s exactly what I wish I had right now so I could drive my fat ass off this picture and escape to someplace safe.

Someplace where my life won’t be impacted by the coronavirus and Covid-19.

I cried today because I’m afraid, I’m tense, I’m worried and I’m slightly disgusted with myself for being all of the above.

But like so many people, maybe everyone, I’ve never been through anything like this…I’m overwhelmed.

I’ve never experienced anything like the coronavirus and Covid-19.

And besides being worried and scared and concerned and whatever, I’m also damned angry…I’m angry because of the way my life has been turned upside down by the coronavirus and Covid-19.

I’m fucking angry.

I am one of the strongest persons I know…I bow to no one and I fear little. But this awful bug, this horrible, disgusting disease, this motherfucker has me bowing down in terror before it, groveling like a shivering dog standing with its tail between its legs in front of a cruel, sadistic master.

I hate being afraid, hate it, and that’s what the coronavirus and Covid-19 have made me.

So I sat today and cried a little…I’m not ashamed that I did nor to tell you about it. And the worst? Now that I’m done, I feel no better…I’m still afraid, I’m still angry and I don’t see this ending very soon.

I don’t let anyone intimidate me, anyone or anything. I fully intend to survive coronavirus and Covid-19. (I know that sounds like “whistling while you walk past the cemetery in the dark” but if someone has a better attitude to have to cope with this mess, please share it with me.)

I told my boss, a truly wonderful lady named Katrina, that I was also taking off tomorrow as well and that I wouldn’t be back until Tue, my next scheduled day to work; she not only understood, she encouraged me. (I’d walk through fire for that woman and enjoy the stroll.) I need some time to process all that’s taking place in my life right now.

The coronavirus and Covid-19…two phrases it wouldn’t break my heart if I never heard again in life.

To all the folks who have lost a loved one to Covid-19, to anyone who is battling this horrible disease, to all those who have lost jobs, either fired or laid off, and are now struggling just to eat and pay the rent, to all the other “essential” workers out there busting their butts to accommodate all those who depend on them and especially to all those people, like myself, reeling from the impact of Covid-19 on their lives, to all those poor, scared persons, I cannot tell you how much my heart goes out to you all.

I have been there and done that and you have my deepest sympathy and empathy.

If we ever get back to normal, I’m going to have a shirt made up…over a drawing of the coronavirus it will say “I Survived Covid-19…” and underneath it will say “…And All I Got Was This Lousy Tee-shirt!”

And my life back, without fear and anger, I so sincerely hope.

Love and vaccines,

Cap’n John


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So they went with “cannoli” instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and Macy’s,

Cap’n John


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

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

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

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

Penelope: “What’s ABL?”

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White: “Ah, it’s Paula, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

(Voiceover announcer…)

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

Love and tape recorders,

Cap’n John


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

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

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

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

“Ah, guys, we’re on live…”

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melonoma Trump, FLOTUS: “He hates you.”

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

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

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

Melo: “You heard it from your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Love and Dos Equis,

Cap’n John

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