(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to my good friend Sarah H., a major sweetie who, at least as far as I know, had the best of intentions and the purest of motivations. Thank you, thank you.)

Last week one of my fave “kids”, a member of the casual group of young people, mostly co-workers, that I have informally and unofficially adopted as surrogate “grandchildren”, offered to “fix me up” with a “friend” of hers, an “older lady” that she characterized as “she’s fun, interesting, single, she has no visible warts and all her own teeth” for some kind of social interaction between us that could eventually I would imagine, since the person in question here was of the female persuasion and myself of the male counterpart, lead to some form of romantic liaison. (Not that the female/male thing is a prerequisite in our 21st century, “hook up with whomever” world, a world by the way of which I whole-heartedly approve…there’s precious little love and caring in this life often times and for my money, people should be free to seek it with anyone they so choose.)

Although I was much flattered by her interest (pity) in bringing this lady and myself together, I declined in what I hope was a gracious manner. Even after she showed me a pic of her friend, I still declined, though my declination had nothing to do with the fact that the woman had an orange Mohawk and a third eye tattooed in the middle of her forehead…those things were of no consideration, believe me. (Okay, maybe a little.)

No, my lack of interest in dating at my age (ancient) is predicated on more practical matters: I can’t afford it, I have physical limitations that would, in my mind, make it difficult, I under no circumstances desire the “intimacy” of a relationship and the vulnerability that accompanies such closeness and frankly, women scare the shit outta’ me.

I like them, very much in fact, but they’re really, really scary. (I like pizza just as much, it doesn’t frighten me nearly as bad, and it’s cheaper.)

I suppose some people will find my attitude stunted and confining, limiting myself to a lonely life of romantic poverty and deprivation (gag me with a hearing aid), and they may be right. Just the same, it still ain’t gonna’ happen.

So I don’t understand, from my narrow, constricted point of view, this urge by so many of my fellow “seniors” to date. I mean, if that’s your gig, more power to you, and believe me, if the right lady walked into my life tomorrow by accident, I would embrace the opportunity (maybe); of course, I feel the same way about suddenly coming into a lot of money and buying a 2020 C8 Corvette as well, and the ‘Vette wouldn’t require an emotional attachment. (I almost made a smart ass remark here about being able to get a boner over the new mid-engined ‘Vette as easily as I could a woman, but then thought better of it…oh shit…well, too late. It’s also a sad testament to who I am as a person.)

Anyway, all of the above leads me to the mystification I felt recently upon reading an article in the Tampa Bay Times that carried the headline: “Lawsuit: Dating site refused refund despite virus”. (Fortunately I soon learned that the “virus” in question was Covid-19, not something more sinister.)

According to the report, an 86-YEAR OLD MAN brought suit against a local dating service for refusing to refund his fee (more on that in a moment) because his doctors informed him that he “should stay home during the pandemic”; since he couldn’t go out, he wanted his money back.

The dating service contracted with this guy to provide “eight introductions” to women over the course of a year, based on his specifications, for the paltry sum of $4,995.

That’s right, ceiling fans, FOUR THOUSAND, NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY-FIVE DOLLARS. A mere five-spot short of five grand. In his suit he’s asking for $8,000 in damages plus fees and costs.

The service, whose name I am not using so as to not give them any free advertising, although I’ll name them for the right amount of money, lists a number of “categories” from which clients may make their selections, including Christian, divorced, mature, over-50, alive, professional, possessing a pulse, senior, serious, Satan-worshipers, active, Republican and other. (Boy, wouldn’t you just LOVE to know what constitutes “other”…”Hi, my name is Bronwyn and I’m a three-breasted lover of Zen hang-gliding, and I’m also into nude fencing and macrobiotic Mayan cooking. I love shaggy dogs and llamas with large testicles.”)

The article went to say that another suit had been brought against the same dating service for failure to perform (couldn’t get it up, I would imagine) by a woman who alleged that she was charged $3,500 for the same eight “intros”, but only got three…#1 she had “nothing in common with”, #2 “didn’t qualify” and #3 was a “no show”. Sort of a “three strikes and you’re out” scenario, I suppose.

And how come Larry Lothario had to pay $4,995 and his female counterpart got by with only $3,500? What the hell is that all about, anyway? That’s discrimination, pure and simple.

I mean, really, are you kidding me? Really? You’re 86 frigging years old and “looking for love in all the wrong places”? Shit, the guy would be lucky to live long enough to get all eight introductions, for crissake.


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

-Dateline Washington, D.C.

*President Makes Surprise Nomination for SCOTUS Vacancy*

In an apparent effort to broaden his support base and appeal to a younger constituency, President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today announced that he has nominated the cartoon/kid’s book star Curious George to fill the vacancy on the Supreme Court left by the recent passing of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Mr. George, whose ancestral background is somewhat murky, being referred to in both his TV shows and children’s books merely as a “monkey”, has no prior judicial or legal experience, and in fact does not even possess a college degree of any kind. When asked about this complete lack of apparent qualification to be a member of the highest court in America by RUKME White House Correspondent Alice Inchains, President Trump was quoted as saying, “Mr. George, because he is a conservative and he is, umm, great, is perfect for the position of Justice. And he isn’t a “monkey supremacist” like his critics have claimed, just because he, well, he doesn’t believe in supporting rioters, or anti-fa Dems and he’s a great, great person and Sleepy Joe Biden hasn’t been able to stop the protesting and will raise everyone’s taxes, that’s what he said just last week, if he and his VP Crazy Nancy get elected.” When it was pointed out to Mr. Trump that Kamala Harris is the Democratic candidate for Vice-President and not Nancy Pelosi, who is the Speaker of the House, the President left the podium abruptly after giving Ms. Inchains the finger. When asked to comment on the strange nomination later in the day, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell replied, “I support the President and his selection for the post. We have the votes and we will cast them for anyone that Mr. Trump nominates, qualifications be damned.”

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to our regularly scheduled blog post…

So for absolutely FREE, I thought I would help “seniors” find potential “mates” by answering the questions about “love in your golden years” that I get from many of my loyal readers…

And so…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a 79-year old “gray hair” single lady that is still active, mostly continent and who doesn’t want to spend my declining years doing sick things to small animals with a fork for recreation. If I had a “partner” I’d be a lot happier, at least I think I would be, although my late husband was never able to “ring my bell” if you get my meaning, but still, I’d like to try again. I can’t afford one of those expensive dating services, so can you help me find the man of my dreams, or at least one with a pulse?

                Still “Looking For The First One” Laura From Louisville”

Dear “Laura”:

                I’m sending you a “$10 off coupon” for the website Adult Toys R’ Us; they have a number of “friends” you can buy that will help you get your “bell rung” without all that messy dating shit and that you won’t have to cook for either.

“Dear Cap’n:

                Can you help a male “golden ager”, in his late sixties, find true love and companionship “among the ruins” with a lady of the same age bracket? Someone who is warm, gentle, kind and into doing sick things to small animals with a fork? I tried one of those “senior dating” websites, but they wanted $10 gazillion, the deed to my house and my first-born grandchild to get me 5 “introductions” and that’s too much by a grandchild. Any ideas, Cap’n?

                No Dates Don from Danville”

Dear “Don”:

                Danville? Home of the Danville (IL) State Prison? You sure you’re not an inmate? Is this one of those sick “prison romance” things?

“Dear CJK:

                Cap’n, I’m old, wrinkly, have a bunch of unsightly liver spots, fifty pounds overweight, have halitosis and I can’t get it up anymore; can you help me find some worthwhile lady to spend time with?

                Needs Help in Hannibal”

Dear “Needs”:

                Yes, I’d be happy to bet with you that the Dodgers make the World Series again, and that Clayton “Charlie Choke” Kershaw blows it for them one more time. It’s what he does best.

I’m sorry to say that I have run out of space to answer any more of your pathetic, err, sorry, your heartfelt letters about love in last light of your lives…but for the amazing low price of $9,995, tax, title and license not included, I’ll be happy to respond individually and confidentially to your requests for assistance with dating. Just because I have no experience doesn’t mean I’m not qualified.

Just ask Donald Trump.

Love and vitamins,

Cap’n John


Although I don’t do it on a piece of paper as the “experts” (whoever they are) tell you that you should, that is dividing a sheet into two columns with the headings “PRO” and “CON”, a method used by many for considering their decisions yea or nay on some subject or another, I do it in my head typically when I’m trying to decide something, like whether or not I should invest in a new, larger flat screen TV (the one I have now is 32”, which is miniscule by today’s “home theatre” standards) or if I should get my left nipple pierced. It really does help to examine both sides of the coin, even if you’re pretty sure which direction you’re already leaning. (Nay on the bigger screen television…I watch TV about as often as Donald Trump tells the truth, which as we all know is infrequently, so I don’t see the point in spending the money. Piercing my left nipple…the jury is still out on that one. I know a woman who has both of her nipples pierced, and she’s a total asshole, and I’m afraid there might be a connection there. Hi, Candace.)

So when I saw the headline about NASA’s recent call for “companies from around the world that can grab lunar rocks and dirt” as part of their Artemis Project, i.e., for moon miners, I was intrigued. (FYI, being “intrigued” is a generally painless state, akin to being “curious”, but haughtier, more snooty somehow.) It got me to thinking about the Apollo 11 mission 51 years ago and what the “pros/cons” were of what we derived from man’s first venture to the Moon. No decision-making process, just idle curiosity.

On the plus side of the ledger, here are some of the things that came out of our first lunar landing:

*Improved pacemaker technology-

                No, I have no idea how landing men on the moon led us to being able to improve regulating people’s heartbeats; I assume it had something to do with the lunar pull on the tides and the rumor that the moon is a hollow spacecraft, piloted by aliens from the planet Zatox.

*Cordless power tools-

               The Black & Decker people developed a group of “cordless, lightweight, battery-powered precision power tools” for the Apollo 11 astronauts, including a drill, a screwdriver, a miniature Roto-rooter and one or two devices of a personal nature that NASA declined to identify.

*Improved heart monitors-

                Along with the enhanced pacemaker technology, improved heart monitors were developed as well, these being among a number of “biotelemetry monitoring” instruments that the Apollo 11 guys had to wear continuously so doctors on the ground at Mission Control could keep track of such physiological factors like heart rate, oxygen consumption, flatulence and respiratory patterns. And believe me, beans, burritos and broccoli were NOT part of the astronaut’s basic meals. For obvious reasons. (Hey, would you want to be cooped up in a small space capsule with a guy who just ate a giant beef and cheese burrito, a side of frijoles and a large Diet Coke? Well I should say. And by the way, frijoles is Burmese for “the dog did it”.)

*Solar panels-

                Since the Apollo 11 guys were denied using gas-driven energy, an alternate power source had to be developed to provide electricity for the various systems on both the Command Module and Lunar Lander…thus, solar panels, which have since been adapted to Earth-bound usage to generate power to virtually all types of residential and commercial buildings, other than the White House, which is still gas-powered (see above).


                No shit, I’m not making this up. Black & Decker, once again, was commissioned by NASA to create a device that would allow astronauts Armstrong and Aldrin, the two original “Moon Men”, to extract rock and dirt samples from as much as 10 feet below the Moon’s surface, which B & D was able to do. The “Dustbuster” was an outgrowth of that technology. Armstrong was said to have been greatly confused when he was first handed the extraction device, being told that “it sucks”, until it was more thoroughly explained.

_________________________FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!________________________

We interrupt this column to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! From the RUKME News Desk…

-Dateline Washington D.C.

*President Trump Announces Lunar Mission To Greatly Aid Dairy Industry*

In a surprise election-year move, President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today announced that he has directed the National Aeronautics and Space Administration agency to team up with scientists from the National Dairy Council in an effort to extract what is expected to be “millions of tons” of green cheese from the interior of the Moon, giving the domestic dairy industry a much-needed economic shot in the arm. When asked about the unusual announcement by RUKME Senior White House Correspondent Thor Loser, the President was quoted as saying, “The NASA guys haven’t even been able to accurately predict how many tons of cheese there are on the Moon…it may be bajillions, and it all belongs to the tremendous, great people of America. I mean, we did get there first, back in 1927, right before World War Two ended, and we know that the Nazis had a secret base on the Moon, and that Hitler didn’t actually commit suicide but fled there in a spaceship in 1960. The Moon was previously inhabited by aliens from an alien planet, and they were great, great cheese makers and left gazillions of tons of cheese that could feed many, many of the citizens of our wonderful, beautiful country.” The President wouldn’t say when the mission to the Moon would take place, but added that, “Sleepy Joe Biden has tried to stop this mission by our great, great NASA people, and the BLM people didn’t respond to, well, the trees could easily just go ‘boom’, that is, and you know, the protesters were somewhere they shouldn’t be…” When reached for comment on this momentous news, NASA Director Jim Bridenstine had “no comment”, but sources within the agency, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said that “the idea was the most stupid thing they had ever heard”.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to our regularly scheduled blog post…

On the minus side of the “moon pro/con ledger”, it took almost FOUR HOURS to get a pizza delivered to my sister’s apartment in the late afternoon of Sunday, July 20th, 1969, due to the gazillions of people who, like my sister, myself and several of our friends, were glued to their TVs watching the lunar landing and didn’t want to stop to make dinner. (We ordered pepperoni, sausage and mushrooms with extra cheese. Just not green.)

Speaking of headlines, I’ve been getting some very interesting emails recently from various sources, and thought that I would share some of them with you…

“Clogged Metabolism? Melt Arm and Belly Fat Fast

                If you suffer from unsightly arm and belly fat, making you look like a human caricature of the Michelin Man, you need MetaBlast®, the metabolism booster that melts away fat from your arms, belly, legs, head (if you’re a Trump supporter) and even from your uvula, by increasing your metabolic rate three-fold. MetaBlast® is fast-acting, totally safe and is pending approval by the USDA. Don’t wait, log onto the MetaBlast® website at and start watching that blubber melt away. And if you order in the next 25 nanoseconds, you’ll receive your first 30 day supply FREE. MetaBlast®, your key to a spare-tire free life.”

From Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws, President of the Third Nigerian Bank and Mini-Mart:

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

                Sincerely, Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws”

“Are You Getting Forgetful? Can’t Remember Things? Lost In Space Sometimes?

                It’s a well-known medical fact that, as we get older, our memory lessens, a sad result of the aging process. Many times, this horrible loss of memory robs people of their ability to function in their daily lives, leading to such things as depression and unfortunate incidents like losing a hearing aid and finding a suppository in your ear, thus leading you to remember, too late, where you misplaced your hearing device. But memory loss is now a thing of the past, with a NEW scientific breakthrough resulting in a revolutionary product…MemoBlast®. If you’re tired of forgetting why you walked into a room, where you left your keys, what day it is or what planet you live on, MemoBlast® is for you! From the makers of the amazing fat-melting compound, MetaBlast®, MemoBlast® is the answer to your prayers for an enhanced memory. Log onto our website at and order yours, um, hang on, what was that date? Oh yeah, order today, before you forget and misplace your car.”

“Increase Your Size and Potency Today!

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

Was there a full moon last night? Yes. Is there any truth to the age-old stories of full moon-induced craziness? Nah. (“Where wolf? There wolf.”)

Love and sharp cheddar,

Cap’n John

Here, take a listen to The Byrds: “Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins”


(Editor’s Note: This one is for my buddy Megan P., whose been up North and seen “the Bean”, so at least she gets Chicago a little bit.)

A couple of weeks ago, which seems like an eternity in our 24/7, new events happening every 10 seconds, constantly breaking stories, Internet-driven world, I declared myself to be, besides the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, an “advice columnist”, writing under the nom de plume (that’s Burmese for “alpaca testicles”) of “Ask The Cap’n”, and dedicated myself to the notion that I would be able to right the world’s wrongs, promote justice, encourage folks to floss, ensure domestic tranquility and maybe even occasionally get lucky by addressing all the problems, crises, tribulations and general whining that many of my loyal readers (all several of you) present me frequently in their communications with the Cap’n.

So far, it hasn’t worked so well, but hey, I’ve only been at it for two weeks, gimme’ a break, okay?

In that post I related some of the background of arguably the world’s most famous “advice columnist”, Ann Landers, but I never mentioned the fact that Ann had a twin sister who was also wrote an advice column…yep, “Ann Landers” had a sibling who called herself Abigail Van Buren and wrote an advice column called “Dear Abby”.

Honest to goodness, totally true, “Ann” and “Abby” were twins. Not the Minnesota kind, but you know, the “born at the same time, same egg, mother dressed them in the same ugly matching outfits when they were kids” kind.

You’ll love this…”Ann” was born Pauline Esther Friedman, and her nickname was “Eppie”; “Abby” was born Esther Pauline Friedman, and was known as “Popo”.

Pauline Esther/Esther Pauline…their mother and father suffered from a severe lack of imagination, if you ask me. And “Eppie” and “Popo”, what, are you kidding me? Unless those are some kind of esoteric references to a dueling sword and the Vatican guy, boy, I don’t get those names at all.

Although the sisters were born in Sioux City IA, their fame and notoriety was established back in the decade to which the GOP would love to have us all return, the 1950s, by the competing giants of the Chicago newspaper industry, the Chicago Sun-Times and the Chicago Tribune. “Ann” wrote for the Times, “Abby” wrote for the Trib.

And they hated each other, and didn’t speak for years after “Abby” got started with the Tribune in 1956. “Ann” was once quoted as saying that, “…and the ugly outfits that our Mom used to dress us in were Popo’s fault, and becoming an adult hasn’t improved her taste any, believe me…” and “Abby” shot back that, “I hope she gets a bad case of crotch lice.” (Okay, I made all that up, but the sisters were estranged for many years due to the competition between them as America’s foremost and most popular advice-givers. And yes, they once had to be separated by Sheriff’s deputies at a Bar Mitzvah for Jerry Mathers, that kid who played Beaver on the ’50s TV show Leave It To…, and he wasn’t even Jewish. And if it seems like “Eppie” and “Popo” were bad, who the hell names their kid “Beaver”?)

Chicago has produced a number of other famous sets of siblings, this in addition to being the home of “the blues”, the only river in the world that flows backwards (true), the Twinkie and spray paint. (Back in 1887, the Illinois General Assembly decided, for various and sundry reasons WAY too technical and boring to get into here, to reverse the flow of the river; instead of INTO Lake Michigan, starting in 1900, by using some engineering trickery, the river was made to flow OUT OF the lake, setting an example for the city fathers and the politicians downstate in Springfield, the capital of IL, to do things ass-backwards from that day forward. And yes, Twinkies were invented back in 1930 by a baker for Continental Baking Company out in suburban Schiller Park IL, thus giving Harold Ramis the opportunity to talk about a 600 pound version of the treat in the movie Ghostbusters 54 years later.)

Anyway, Chicago was home to Jim and John Belushi, John and Joan Cusack, Richard M. and William Daley, the sons of Mayor Richard J. Daley, the 800-pound gorilla of Chicago politics all throughout the ‘50s, ‘60s and ‘70s, and the man who once exhorted the citizens of the Windy City, just prior to a local election, to “vote early and vote often”, thus encouraging our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, to follow suit decades later, and probably the most famous set of siblings from the Second City, Elwood and Jake, the Blues Brothers.


We interrupt this column to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! From the RUKME News Desk…

-Dateline Washington D.C.

*President Issues Executive Order Nationalizing McDonalds Corporation*

In a stunning move apparently calculated to save millions of taxpayer dollars, President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today issued an executive order “nationalizing” the McDonald’s Corporation, effectively taking control of the giant hamburger chain and placing it in the hands of the federal government. The Board of Directors for McDonald’s was notified earlier today that Mr. Trump, needing to bolster his sagging poll numbers and hopefully boost his chances of winning reelection in November, had issued the order and that the President would be sending his White House chefs and kitchen staff to the Oak Brook IL based company to take over operations immediately, thus saving taxpayers the millions of dollars that are being spent annually to provide the President and his advisors and family with Big Macs, French fries, chocolate and vanilla shakes, apple pies and an occasional Happy Meal by the truckload. When questioned by RUKME White House correspondent Brooke Trout about the move, the President was quoted as saying that he felt it necessary “because of the terrible prices that the Mickey D’s people have been charging us for their food.” The President went on to say that, “McDonald’s is a great, great American company, founded by that tremendous American Ron Brock, and I didn’t want to do this, but the great, great taxpayers of this country were paying way, way too much for lunch, and I know that Sleepy Joe Biden will allow terrible, terrible people to run crazy in the streets if he’s elected, and I want to make sure, you know, that Commiela Harris doesn’t control any Mickey D’s soup either, so it can’t be used by rioters and thugs and you should all vote twice, since the election will be rigged if we allow mail-in voting.”

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to our regularly programed blog post…

Considering the overwhelming response I got to the announcement and first edition of the “Ask The Cap’n” advice column, I thought I would give you, my loyal readers, another edition.

And so…

“Dear Cap’n:

                I was invited to an informal summer wedding recently, and I wore summer weight dress slacks and a nice “flat bottom hem” dress shirt untucked. Most of the male guests were similarly attired, and the women for the most part wore casual, flowery summer dresses, etc. All except my genius son-in-law, a man in his 40’s, who showed up in cargo shorts, an untucked, wrinkled polo shirt and sandals. So here’s my question…should I act like I don’t know this jerk when we’re out in public or just send him a copy of Miss Manner’s book, “How To Dress Like An Adult Instead of a Middle School Moron For All Occasions”? (P.S. I was helping my youngest grandson with his spelling one evening last week and asked him to spell the word “tunes”…when my grandson hesitated, his Mr. Class father, who was also in the room at the time, looked up and said, “You know, like the ‘toons you see on TV on Saturday mornings.”)

                My Daughter Married A Trump Supporter”

Dear “Supporter”:

                I bet he belongs to the NRA as well, doesn’t he?

“Dear Cap’n:

               I’m a voter living in Berwyn IL, just down the road from Oak Brook where the McDonald’s headquarters is located, and I’m undecided about who to vote for in the upcoming Presidential election. I mean, Joe Biden is a good man and a political moderate, and Kamala Harris looks like a excellent candidate with a strong background as a prosecutor, but President Trump says he’s going to lower the price of Big Mac’s now that the government has taken over Mickey D’s, and because of that, I’m leaning towards Trump. Which one should I give my vote to, the decent guy who can probably save America or the fast-food King?

                Two All Beef Patties, Special Sauce, Lettuce Pray The Right Guy Wins”

Dear “Lettuce’:

                Tell you what, vote for Biden and I’ll send you a dozen books of McDonald’s coupons.

“Dear Cap’n:

                If x1=56.9/x2*piR2+tax(44.569/sharks) annually, how do I solve for the formula for apple fritters?

                Baking By The Numbers”

Dear “Baking”:

                If the expression piR2=homily, then the coefficient of the equation XXL dominant is not applicable, therefore making the sum of the bitch undetermined spatially.

“Dear Cap’n:

                Can you provide me with any scientific evidence that supports the theory of “virgin birth”? Because my sister and I cannot begin to imagine our parents having ever had, well, you know, sex.

                Could This Be the Immaculate Exception?”

Dear “Exception”:

                I could never imagine that either, I mean, your parents having sex. At least not with each other.

The rest of the letters that I have from you guys that I haven’t answered are mostly offers of marriage, invitations to lunch at McDonald’s or indecent proposals involving blenders, a clarinet, two used tires and a 55-gallon drum of Cool Whip (those get my immediate and personal attention), so I suppose I should probably stop here before I say something that might result in a felony charge.

Did you guys know that McDonald’s now offers Chocolate Chip Cookies? I sure hope PTB doesn’t find that out, otherwise he’ll balloon up to a half ton.

Love and the Golden Arches,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: The following comments on “posters” was a Facebook item found on Cap’n John Krissongs’ home page, and was deemed worthy by the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding editors to be included in today’s column…we can do that, you know.)

In this unsettled time of political foment, debate and discontent, the national awakening to systemic racism and the resulting upheaval, the Covid-19 pandemic and all its attendant horrors, natural disasters such as Hurricane Melania, err, excuse me, Laura, and a general feeling of, geez, what the hell is next?, I have an issue that I feel needs our immediate attention and scrutiny, despite all of the cacophony going on around us. This is something that must be recognized and, in my opinion, eradicated from our midst, right now, today.

I’m talking about what I call “posters”…you may call them other things, or maybe you are totally unaware of their existence, but they’re out there, and they’re undermining the integrity of our social media. (Oh brother, that’s an oxymoron for sure. And I hope you’re all impressed with the fact that I was able to use the words “their”, “they’re” and “there”, all in one sentence, all correctly and I might add, completely inadvertently.)

These are people who spend endless hours “posting” myriad items on their personal page for the perusal and edification of the rest of us. News reports, commentary, points of view from a million sources, videos and GIFs, every conceivable type of observation of life in today’s America (and elsewhere in some cases), flow from their fingers on their keyboards in a constant barrage of unsolicited information. And yet never once, not once, not one stinkin’ time, do they ever make a comment or a remark or even give you a “Like” on something that you posted on your page.


I have several “friends” who are guilty of this social media faux pas, people who never engage in a dialogue with others, but assume that the media platform they’re on (in this case I’m talking about Facebook) is like a stage in a comedy club, where they have the mic and it’s their monologue. Blahdey fucking blah blah blah. (I spend very little time on Twitter, but from what I hear, it’s pretty much the same.)

I don’t mind their posts; hell, I read a lot of them, but these days, I never comment on them. Hey, if you can’t comment on the brilliant and erudite piece that I posted earlier, poop on you, I’ll be petty and petulant and do the same. (A little known law was passed recently by Congress allowing people over 65 to be petty and petulant any damn time they please, so there.)

I’m calling my Congressman today to demand that legislation be introduced and passed immediately banning anyone from posting endless remarks, comments and articles on their social media page without engaging in dialogue with others on theirs. This scourge of our social media platforms must cease…before it’s too late and we elect a President that frequently misuses social media as well.

________________________FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!_________________________

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

-Dateline Rome Italy

*Pope Francis Announces Excommunication For Cardinal, Nun*

In a letter to the Roman Catholic Cardinal Secretary of State and the College of Cardinals, Pope Francis today announced that he has initiated proceedings to excommunicate Cardinal Timothy M. Dolan, the arch-bishop of New York, as well as Sister Deirdre “Dede” Byrne for their roles as shills for President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump at the recent Republican National Convention. Although the entire text of the letter has yet to be released, a Vatican source, who spoke anonymously for fear the Pope would have him burned at the stake, said Francis was “incensed” at the appearances of both Dolan and Byrne at the RNC, and that “both of them should be taken out and flogged for supporting that horse’s rear end Donald Trump”. Francis was further quoted as saying that he “would have thought a Cardinal and a doctor wouldn’t be so stupid as to fall for Trump’s bullshit”. (Sister Byrne is a surgeon as well as a big-mouthed idiot.) When asked about the Pope’s letter, Cardinal Secretary of State Pietro Parolin had no comment, but sources in the Cardinal’s office said Parolin would lobby to have “both of them boiled in oil if he could”. Dolan and Byrne have been notified of their ouster from the Church and Dolan is said to be seeking employment as a maintenance engineer and Byrne as a nurse’s aide in a home for chronically unwed mothers.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post…

I learned recently that Democratic Vice-president nominee Kamala Harris pronounces her first name, “COMMAla”, like the punctuation, rather than the more common, “KaMALa”, which is what I thought it was until I found out differently. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if she pronounces her name “Sigmund”, that’s her business, but it does bring to mind the fact that a lot of Americans, be they Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, Catholic, Protestants, Jews, atheists or heathens, black, white, brown, green, tiger-striped or whatever, male, female or “other”, wealthy or poor, in sickness and in health, haven’t got a clue when/where to use a comma or not, as the case may be.

Now I don’t want to say that a lot of Americans are stoopid necessarily, but we did elect Donald Trump as President back in ’16, so that should tell you something.

Misuse of commas, or for that matter, any punctuation in general, isn’t near the “pet peeve”, at least to me, that those asshats (above) are, the ones that can’t find it in their hearts to engage in a little “social discourse”, to bother with dignifying something that someone else said on Facebook with a response, as if they’re just too aloof, just too cool, just too well-informed, educated, in-the-know, or just too fucking arrogant and vastly superior to the rest of the social media hoi polloi to lower themselves.

Actually, not only do the common misuses or exclusions of commas not upset me, frankly I think many of them are pretty damned funny.

It’s no pet peeve, believe me.

(No one will ever be able to accuse me of not using commas…in fact I have been told by readers, apparently because they think I seem to believe myself to be erudite and pithy as hell, that I use too many of the “sentence separators” and that I should cut it the hell out immediately. Like our fine President I pay no attention to critics, deeming them to be envious of my great skills as a writer and of my prowess with women of the opposite gender. (Full disclosure…actually, ever since a certain very nice lady and good friend from Texas pointed out to me that I use commas like they’re going to become extinct in the near future, I’ve been a lot more careful about “over-punctuating”. She also told me my frequent jokes about woman’s breasts were childish and immature, and that I was a serious male oinker sometimes, so I now only think about woman’s breasts incessantly but rarely write comments about them. Men are indeed pigs. And yes, I am a BIG supporter of the “Free the Nipple” movement, and free mine at every opportunity.)

Do I have any examples of the misuse of commas or the dreaded “neglecting to insert a comma at an appropriate place in a sentence” mistake? Why, I thought you’d never ask…

“Is that a Tyrannosaurus, Rex?” (The Latin translation of that sentence is “Qui est de tyrannosaurus, King?”, which isn’t as funny but a lot haughtier.)

“Is that your Austin, Healey?” (Maybe even better…”Have you seen Austin, Texas?”, assuming you know someone who goes by the name “Texas”, which I do.)

“I’d like to take a moment to thank my parents John and God…”

From the annals of being a bagger at a Publix grocery store, which I am…”Would you like everything in this, bag?”

“It’s time to eat Grandma…”

“Don’t let your worries kill you let the Church help.”

On a recent resume I received, applying for the position of Dungeon Master, Lower Hold…”My interests include cooking dogs and running…” This was in response to my ad, “Help, Wanted.”

One of my favorites…I’m sorry I love you.”

I have a friend who teaches 2nd grade who sent me this one…”We’re going to learn to cut and paste children…”

Frequently seen road sign (speaking of kids)…”Slow children playing.”

“I had to help my Uncle Jack off his horse.”

From a text message I saw recently…”You better call me bitch”

“It was a summer’s, Eve.” (Which doesn’t really make much sense, but I still thought it was funny. Shit, it was better than “Have you seen Austin, Texas?”)

I love this one…”The panda eats, shoots and leaves.” (I’ve had women accuse me of that.)

“She was known as Calamity, Jane.”

“Have you seen Sponge Bob, Square Pants?”

Obviously, judging from all of the above, proper sentence construction is greatly impacted by knowing when and when not to insert, commas.

Love and “Is that a Harley, Davidson?”,

Cap’n John



Now I’m going to try and be as precise and as careful as I can be in how I say the following, because the last thing I want to do is sound like a pretentious, egotistical jerk…I admit to being a bit of a jerk at times (ask my ex-), but the pretentious, egotistical part I avoid like Covid-19.

I’m going to divorce (and can you hear Tammy Wynette, wailing in the background?) myself from “The Kidding Crewe” other than to use it as it was originally intended to be used, when my good friend and bestest buddy Barb Ewert set it up some time back, and that is as a vehicle to allow me to announce to several of my loyal readers on Facebook that “the Cap’n” had posted a new piece on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog. Other than to add new members from time to time, I’m going to butt out and keep my big mouth shut from now on. (Don’t any of you dare laugh at that, despite how ridiculous it sounds.)

Okay, now comes the “pretentious, egotistical” part (mumbling prayers to the writing gods here to not let me fuck this up)…I feel strange and somehow awkward with the interplay back and forth between all of us; it’s not that I don’t enjoy it, but somehow I just feel like “the Cap’n” should maintain an aloofness, some aura of mystery if you will, and should be worshiped only from afar (okay, I was just teasing with the “worship” shit).

I don’t mean aloof as in haughty or self-aggrandizing or, once again, pretentious. But I struggle with the dichotomy of being “John, the FB bud” and “the Cap’n” at times. A lot of the time, in fact. (I wonder if Samuel Clemens ever went through this? And OMG, did I just mention Mark Twain and “the Cap’n” in close proximity to each other? I have no shame.) It’s a lot like that meme that a bunch of us were bouncing around recently…(see pic —->)

It’s sure not because I don’t like you guys, or enjoy our repartee (that’s Burmese for “sheep kidneys”); believe me, I do, a lot. But I want to enjoy my friends as “John’s friends” and not as “fans of the Cap’n”. I hope that makes sense. I also seriously hope I’m not stepping on my crank here, which is damned unlikely, given the logistics of length and…uh, never mind.

And please, please know that the absolute last thing on earth I would ever do is to insult any of you…I am so grateful for your support and your “readership” that it makes me a little breathless sometimes. (Jennifer Aniston has always had that same effect on me as well.)

“The Cap’n” and the WATRUK blog exist for one purpose…to bring a little humor, a little joy, a brief respite to my readers from the vagaries of the increasingly hostile world that surrounds all of us, every day of our lives. My sole and oft-stated aim has always been to bring laughter into your lives, if only for the few minutes it takes to read one of my posts. (Pictures of me would achieve the same goal, but I do have my dignity.)

So the next time “the Cap’n” speaks to you will be a few days from now (8/31), when he posts his most recent column (and here’s a hint…think screenplays). In the meantime, the silence will be deafening.

I love you guys a ton…thank you, thank you.

Love and with all humility,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Okay, so how’d I do? Was the “stepping on my crank” thing too much?


Back about a gazillion years ago when I was a kid growing up in the Cretaceous Period, when mighty dinosaurs still roamed the Earth and people were, well, Cretaceous, I lived in Northern Illinois, about 45 minutes southwest of Chicago. (It’s 45 minutes or so now, but back then, since we had to go by wagon train, it was more like a road trip of a couple of days, and there was always the fear of Indian attacks, although nowadays they wouldn’t be called “Indian” attacks, they’d be called “Native American” attacks. Of course, there was also the fear of being attacked by roving gangs of crazed midgets, which these days would be referred to as people who are “vertically challenged“.)

Even though my parents were mostly moderate Republicans, at least as I recall, they subscribed to and read the daily Democratic newspaper, which was the Chicago Sun-Times…I have never understood that, but there you are. (I also thought until I was about six that my first name was “goddammit”…that I do understand.) In those days, the dominant Republican newspaper in the Midwest was the mighty Chicago Tribune, a paper founded back in the 1850s and closely aligned in those days with Illinois’ favorite son, Abraham Lincoln; in later years, the “Trib” stayed predominantly conservative under the guidance of Colonel Robert R. McCormick, the grandson of the original founder and the namesake of the eponymous exhibition center in Chicago, and was a staunch supporter of everything GOP through those ensuing years until in 2008 when they shocked the right-wing, Tea Party world and endorsed another native son, Barrack Obama, for President.

One of the things that the Sun Times had going for it back then that the Trib didn’t, although I’m fairly sure it wasn’t why my parents took the paper, was an “advice columnist” who wrote a daily column under the heading “Ask Ann Landers”. Yeah, that’s right, exhaust fans, the Ann Landers franchise was originated in my home town of Chicago, a town also renowned for its toddling. (Chicago is further well known as being the home of deep-dish pizza, Al Capone, the worst team in MLB, the Chicago Cubs, Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, topless turret lathe operators, “the Bean” and as having one of the finest art museums in the world, the Art Institute of Chicago, which the city fathers were originally going to name the “Art Institute of Hoboken”, but since it was located on Michigan Avenue, just south of Chicago’s famous “Loop”, they decided that AIC was a lot better, one of the few things the city fathers ever did that made any sense.)

“Ask Ann Landers” (you thought I forgot, didn’t you?) was started by a lady named Ruth Crowley back in 1943, and was eventually taken over in the mid-50s by the woman who put it on the map, Esther Pauline “Eppie” Lederer; I never read the Crowley version, but even as a kid, I thought “Ann” rocked.

                                            FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!                                          

…dit-da-dit-dit-da-dit-dit-da-dit-dit-dit (that’s supposed to be the sound of a telegraph, which gives you an idea just how friggin’ old I am)

We interrupt this column for breaking news from the RUKME News Desk…

-Dateline Washington D.C.

“President Declares War On Planet Zatox”

President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today announced that he was declaring war on the planet Zatox and as Commander in Chief would direct the Joint Chiefs of Staff to immediately mobilize the Space Farce Corps for a direct invasion of that planet. President “Tweety Bird”, in explaining this extraordinary move, said the Zatoxians were guilty of “many bad things, terrible things that some experts, and these are great experts, believe me, have said were terrible, like, well, the Zaproxians are originally Yo Semites, and many, many years ago they denigrated from Earth to a new planet and, you know, they’ve done these terrible things like doing experiments on people they’re abdicated and taken up in their spaceships. And the Democrats and Nancy Pelosi have let them do this, ever since the Civil War ended back in 1926, and Kamala Harris is a Zahoxian by birth, according to some other well-known and really great, great experts.”

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

…and now back to our regularly scheduled blogpost, like it or not.

“Ask Ann” wasn’t just an “advice for the lovelorn” column, although she did give plenty of pointers to people who wrote in about having problems with their wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, pet llama or that special Zatoxian in their life. No, “Eppie” was a non-discriminating advice columnist…if you had a problem or a concern or a beef with whomever, whatever, “Ann” probably had an answer.

A lot of what people wrote in about (yeah, WROTE, you know, like pen and paper, a typewriter, crayons on construction paper, WRITING, none of this sissy texting or emailing or Skypeing or any of that other digital bullshit) was “relational”, i.e., I have a problem with someone I know, live with, go to school with, play Uno with, got abdicated by aliens with, whatever, things like…

“Dear Ann:

               My Aunt Tillie has halitosis really bad and she insists on French kissing me every time she and Uncle Ferdinand visit. How can I get her to stop…I don’t want to insult her, because she and my uncle are worth about a quadrillion dollars and she might write me out of her will. Any ideas?

                Overcome by Bad Breath in Bermuda (onions)”

Dear “Bermuda”:

                Next time she visits, hand her a bottle of Scope, point her to the bathroom and tell her to have at it.

Stuff like that, and believe me, she was just that blunt; “Eppie” pulled no punches.

Now I get all kinds of those bullshit digital communications I alluded to above on a frequent basis, and occasionally even an actual written letter from some reader who is as old as a tortoise, asking me for, like “Ann”, not just advice about their love lives, but just tips on getting by in general in this fast-paced, Internet dominated, crazy ass world we live in these days.

So I decided to start my own “advice column” (not to be confused with the posts I write regularly giving help to the love challenged), and I’ve also decided to call it “Ask The Cap’n”…catchy, huh?

And so…

 “Dear Cap’n:

                My sister-in-law has recently become a dyed-in-the-wool, right-wing conservative, Bible-thumping supporter of President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, and these days, family get-togethers have become really ugly, since the rest of us in the family are decent, sane Democrats. Is there any way we can politely shut her up whenever we meet?

                Tired of Trump in Toledo”

Dear “Toledo”:

                Next time your family congregates, give your sis-in-law a BIG glass of Clorox and tell her “Tweety Bird” recommends it as a way to prevent being infected by Covid-19…then “accidentally” forget the emergency number for your local fire rescue department.

“Dear Cap’n:

               My neighbor is vertically challenged and we can never see him behind the fence that separates our two yards. Should I use a left-handed scullery wrench to remove the arboreal nuts from the tailpipe on my ’58 Edsel, or should we have Chicago-style hot dogs from Portillos for dinner tonight?

                Perplexed in Palatine”

Dear “Perplexed”:

                Yes, I definitely recommend wool, as opposed to cotton, parts for the intake manifold on your Edsel.

“Dear Cap’n:

                I’m planning a trip to Chicago next month, and I’m wondering what the hell this thing they call “the Bean” is all about. It doesn’t involve being a right-wing, goofball follower of Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, does it? Because if it does, I think I’ll visit Hoboken instead…I hear they have an outstanding art museum there.

                Why Is It Called A “Vacation” When I’m Not Vacating Anything

Dear “Vacation”:

                That shit about New Jersey being the “Garden State”? Don’t believe it, I’ve been there…all they have is Newark, Bruce Springsteen, a bajillion petro-chemical facilities where they make Clorox, and the Nets, who suck. No “Bean”, no Art Institute, no deep-dish pizza and no really ugly metal sculptures in the downtown Plaza.

“Dear Cap’n:

                Is it true that the square root of the hypotenuse angle is nominally abstruse and fully concentrated in the statement, “I take no responsibility at all”?

                Don’t Blame New Jersey, We Voted For Hillary in ‘16”

Dear “Voted”:

                The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides, unless it’s the second Tuesday of the last week of the Winter Solstice, then the quadrangle of the cretonne is considered to be the dominant aspect.

“Dear Cap’n:

                I’m told that the majority of the voters in Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania possess the IQ level of a doorknob; is that the case, or is it a vicious, dirty rumor being circulated by Tess Tosterone, the Libertarian candidate for President in 2020?

                They Asked Me If I Came By Greyhound and I Said No, I Rhode Island”

Dear “Rhode”:

                Are you asking me that just because Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump carried those three states in ’16? If so, what a terrible thing to insinuate, even if it is fundamentally true.

That’s all the time we have for questions today, boys and girls, and I assume that covers most of you, but please tune in next week when we hope our special guest will be President Abraham Lincoln, assuming we can stop him from spinning long enough to do an interview.

Love and “Da Bears”,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I always took the pickle off and ate it by itself. And never ketchup.

And oh, this is “the Bean”.


(Editor’s note: Every now and again I get the urge to dedicate one of my posts to someone who I deem worthy of this august and I’m sure humbling honor, so today’s bit of frivolity goes out to my two newest fans, Ms. Kathi and Ms. Sus, both of whom seem like very nice ladies with decidedly questionable taste in humor. Welcome aboard, girls.)

Opening shot: Masked man in all gray cowboy outfit and a white hat riding hell-bent for leather on a large, pure white stallion as he repeatedly fires an “Old West” style Colt six-shot revolver at unseen villains, moving left to right across a western plains setting with mountains in the background. As shot opens, begin playing final measures of Rossini’s William Tell Overture. (See link below.)

Voiceover: “A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hi-Yo, Silver…the Lone Ranger”.

I always wondered who LR was firing at in that opening sequence, ‘cause they never showed who it was…his ex-mother-in-law? Bank robbers? (The Old West seemed to have a shitload of bank robbers.) The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders? Donald Trump? The Pillsbury Doughboy? I guess we’ll never know now.

The Lone Ranger.

Lemme’ tell you, I spent more than a few hours as a kid parked in front of our old black and white TV back in the late ‘50s watching Clayton Moore, who played LR, and Jay Silverheels, who played “his faithful Indian companion” Tonto, mesmerized by the stories, the action, that amazing big-ass white horse, the fact that he only used silver bullets (later on, after the whole “TV Westerns” thing died out, Moore, having kept the silver ammo, went on to star in a cheap, straight-to-video B movie, The Lone Ranger: Vampire Hunter), and the whole mystique of no one ever knowing just who the hell this masked guy was. Each episode ended with some befuddled townsperson asking the sheriff, “Who was that masked man?” and the sheriff answers, in a voice dripping with respect and admiration, “That’s the Lone Ranger”, as you hear LR shouting in the background, off-camera, “Hi-Yo, Silver, away!”.

The story-line goes that LR, before he was “Lone”, was part of a group of six Texas Rangers (the lawmen, not the baseball team) who were cruelly ambushed by some dastardly villains and left to die, and by some miracle of TV, “Lone” manages to survive, is found and nursed back to health by Tonto, discovers a silver mine, which accounts for the bullets and the horse’s name, puts on a mask, apparently because that was the way he swung, which by the way Tonto wasn’t buying into even a little, being straight hetero only, and goes off to right wrongs, defend the little guys, stomp the crap outta’ criminals and occasionally talk some pliant young Western gal into a “hook-up” involving him, the mask, the bullets, Silver, who not surprisingly was hung like a horse, a tuba, a midget named Horace and a 55-gallon drum of Jello chocolate pudding.

Of course, nowadays, in this PC society that has evolved around us, Tonto would be a Native Canadian, being a member of the Mohawk aboriginal tribe from Canada, and Horace would be a “vertically challenged” person. And Albert Einstein would write a letter to the producers of the show, complaining about the “speed of light” nonsense in the opening, explaining that according to his equation E=mc “squared”, (I have to write it out, since I can’t figure a way to put the little “2” behind the “mc”), a horse couldn’t actually run that fast, without being converted into pure energy, which would then mean that LR wouldn’t have anything to ride on, since Silver would have been changed from matter into…shit, never mind.

Tonto always called LR “kemo sabe”, which I learned was from the language of the Pot o’ Watami and means “he looks out in secret”. (Why he spoke in the Pot o’ Watami tongue since he was a Mohawk is still a mystery to me.) Anyway, Tonto spent quite a bit of his time bailing LR out of stupid jams that he, LR, had he possessed the brains of a doorknob, shouldn’t have gotten into in the first place. The “faithful Indian companion” often looked to me like he wanted to shake his head in disgust and tell LR, you know what, white man, you’re as dumb as a cannonball in a swimming pool, I think this time, I’m just gonna’ leave you here for the bad Indians to use you as a pin-cushion. (The Pot o’ Watami Native Americans derived the name from their habit of filling large iron cauldrons with “watami” and then placing them out on the prairie for the buffalo to eat (the “watami”, not the cauldrons), which was pretty stupid when you think about it, considering how many bajillions of acres of grazing land the buffs already had available. All right, the correct spelling of the word is actually “Potawatami”, a for-real tribe from what is now the Illinois/Wisconsin area. And FYI, Gary Larsen of The Far Side fame, one of the funniest cartoonists ever in the history of mankind, once opined in a cartoon that “kemo sabe” actually meant “horse’s rear end” in Navajo.)

As it relates to modern times, at least the Lone Ranger was wearing a mask, and yes, it only covered his eyes but he seems like a pretty good guy so I’m sure we could have gotten him to cover the rest of his face as well without all the griping and bitching we hear these days every time some mouth-breathing MAGA knuckle dragger is asked to wear a mask to protect the rest of us. Geez, you’d think it was the imposition of the century, like they’re being asked to wear a ball and chain complete with steel manacles and a full coat of armor along with which we’re going to staple this 50 pound weight to your scrotum, or in the case of the female representatives of the mouth-breathing MAGA knuckle draggers, thumbtack the damn thing to your forehead, and then ask you to swim the entire length of Lake Winnebago, thusly clad, all the while chanting “kemo sabe, kemo sabe” over and over again.

Hey, LR wore one, hockey goalies wear them, bank robbers wear them, catchers wear them, Batman wore one and a shitload of guys in cheesy porn movies wear them, not that I’ve ever actually seen a cheesy porn movie, but my friends have told me about them. So get with the fucking program, all right? Geez.

Now that I have all that out of my system, on to today’s topic, which is once again, as I do periodically, answering all the letters, emails, texts, smoke signals (typically from the Potawatami folks), carrier pigeon messages and notes in bottles, asking for my advice on my reader’s love lives.

Yeah, like I have a clue…the last time I had a date, buffaloes were eating watami out of big iron kettles on the prairie.

And so…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I hope you will be discrete with this inquiry, as I have to remain onmagneto, or whatever the hell that word is. I’m a hetero male in my early 30’s, virile and studly, but I’m having serious problems attracting a good, decent pioneer-type “little woman” to settle down with and raise little cowboys and cowgirls. I’ve tried all the typical singles places, the saloons, the church socials, the barn raisings, some quilting bees, even went to a Singles Bronco Busting Night once at the local rodeo, and nothing. I wear a mask as part of my work, and I thought, gee, maybe some of the ladies will think that’s kinky and, you know, express some interest, but nope, not a one. I’m getting tired of it being me and my horse, out on the prairie, just the two of us…shit, even Silver is starting to look pretty good to me. Can you give me a “hands up”, Cap’n John?

                Riding The Range Alone, Ranger”

Dear “Ranger”:

                You know, I’ve heard you frontier types weren’t real big on personal hygiene…maybe get the smell of buffalo dung off your boots and try splashing on a little Eau de Horse Blanket and you might have better luck with the gals.

“Cap’n John:

               Tonto here. Have heap big problem with squaws, no can find any that don’t already have little papooses in their tee-pees. Tonto need help finding Indian maiden who like Tonto, want to smoke peace pipe and make wampum with Tonto. Have much silver from big, dumb white man with sissy mask, so Tonto okay for money. Need Cap’n to say where all the fine, young Pocahontas’ are. Cap’n please send smoke signal soon, help Tonto pronto. Thank you, kemo sabe.

                Quiver Full Of Arrows, Nowhere To Shoot”

Dear “Quiver”:

                Have you tried the Squaws R’ Us Dating Service? Heap big medicine.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a vertically challenged person who is having difficulty finding a soul-mate who sees life in the same way I do, that is, at a very low level. I’m financially secure, having been very successful as a partner in a silver mining business, have all my own teeth and hair and a closet full of hip, trendy size XXXX Small clothing that should impress any young (tiny) woman I meet. I don’t want to go on the Internet to one of those online dating services like Loving Munchkins or Tiny HeartThrobs because it just seems like a shortcut to me; I’d rather find a source of eligible bachelorettes to possibly hook up with and spark a romantic fire, even if it’s just kindling at first, rather than logs. I could sure use a hand up, Cap’n John…can you be a big man and help me out?

                If This Were Baseball, I’d Be A Shortstop”

Dear “Shortstop”:

                Tell you what, the short version, I’m afraid my answer might go right over your head.

Looking at the word counter thingie down in the corner of my monitor, I see I’ve gone over my limit again; time to get astride my mount and ride off into the sunset.

Love and saddles,

Cap’n John

Thanks to Rick Kirkman and Jerry Scott for the above. 


Now one thing you have to understand about Florida, or as I like to call it Floriduh, is that it’s the retirement capital of the known universe (aside from being the Covid-19 capital of the world as well, and thank you, Governor DeSantis), maybe only superseded in its number of “senior citizens” by Arizona and Lower Botswana. Truth is, we are up to our gunwales (armed crustaceans) in old people, awash in wrinkles, skin tags, walkers and hearing aids. I was 64 when I first came to the Gunshine State a few years ago, and my arrival down here lowered the state median age by a considerable margin.

Think old people…lots and lots and lots of old people. A place where if you could land an exclusive Ensure franchise you’d make a fortune.

I see lots of my fellow “seniors” every day at my part-time job as a bagger at a Publix grocery store here in the wilds of West Central Floriduh, so I get a first-hand view of this phenomena. I was standing at the back of the checkout line one day recently, waiting for the next item going up for bid, when this elderly couple toddled up with their basket of carefully chosen groceries. (I had noticed them when they first walked in the store, and it had only taken these two octogenarians 45 minutes to pick out eleven items.)

We weren’t particularly busy that day, and one of the little courtesies we do for our customers, especially the ones that look like they voted in the ’64 election (1864), is when we have time we walk down to the unload area and help them get their groceries up on the conveyor. It gives the baggers a chance to shoot the shit with the customer a bit before we check’em out, get’em bagged, load’em up and toss’em out. Besides which, these two looked like the strain of moving the few things they had from their cart to the belt might cause one or both of them to have some kind of unpleasant medical incident.

So I approached Mr. and Mrs. Old Person and gave them my usual greeting.

“How you folks doin’ today?” I said with a smile.

“We’re just fine,” says Female Old Person, apparently having authority to speak for both of them.

“And how you doin’, young man?” I said, addressing the Male Old Person, as I put their groceries up on the conveyor. (FYI, they’re all “young man” and “young lady” to me, even the ones that are demonstrably within spitting distance of being the same age as a redwood tree or a large tortoise.)

“I’m doin’ fine,’ he croaked, “I just had my 92nd birthday last week.” His smile was warm and missing several teeth.

“Is that right?” I replied. “Boy, you sure don’t look it.” He didn’t…I wouldn’t have guessed him to be a day over 106.

“Yep,” he says, “she calls me the old fart,” pointing to the Female Old Person.

I started laughing, and he gave me another of his gap-toothed grins.

“So what do you call her?” I asked him in between chuckles.

He dropped his smile, looked me dead in the eye and said quite seriously, “Honey.”

Welcome to a day in the life of a bagger at Publix.

But what I really want to talk about today is the news, which brings me to a bunch of recent reports from the crack Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding Investigative Team, which operates under the good offices of RUKME. That’s right, exhaust fans, the infamous, excuse me, famous RUKME team of reporters has been out scanning the globe for the stories we know YOU want to hear.

We hope.

So without any further ado…

-Dateline Washington D.C.:

“President Names Witch Doctor New Surgeon General”

In a stunning but not uncommon reversal for President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, who routinely says and does things that wouldn’t make any sense at all unless you understand that he apparently has the IQ level of room temperature, today ousted U.S. Surgeon General Jerome M. Adams from his post and named Dr. (using the term loosely) Stella Immanuel to the post. Dr. Adams, a celebrated Vice-Admiral in the U. S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, and who holds a BS in Biochemistry degree, a BA in Biopsychology degree and a Masters in Public Health degree, was replaced by Witch Dr. Immanuel, who has stated that…

“The Magic 8-Ball toy is psychic and a part of a scheme to get children used to witchcraft.”

“Hydroxychloroquine cures Covid-19 and protective face masks aren’t necessary.”

“The Illuminati has a plan hatched by a witch to destroy the world using abortion, gay marriage and children’s toys.”

“Gay marriage will lead to adults marrying children, and gay Americans are practicing homosexual terrorism.”

“Jesus Christ will destroy Facebook’s servers if my videos aren’t restored to the platform.”

“Sex with night demons causes gynecological problems.”

President Trump stated upon the elevation of Witch Dr. Immanuel to the prestigious post that he did disagree with her statement about the Magic-8 Ball toy, saying that he had been using one for years with no discernable negative effect.

(Editor’s note: as is common knowledge among our readers, the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog is meant to humorous and is satire, or at least we hope for at least one or the other of them most of the time. However, all of the above comments attributed to Dr. Immanuel are quotes and in no way a fabrication of this site. And if that doesn’t scare the living crap out of you, it should, ‘cause even I can’t make up shit that crazy.)

-Dateline Washington D.C. (again):

“NOAA Publishes Study Showing Largest Anus”

In a study commissioned and published by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, Dr. Phyliss Navidad, a distant cousin to newly appointed U.S. Surgeon General Witch Dr. Stella Immanuel, reported that, after an exhaustive study and painstaking measurements, it can now be stated that the anus of the blue whale can stretch up to as much as 40 inches, thus making it the 2nd largest asshole in the world, just after American President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump. Dr. Navidad was quoted in the study as saying that, “Although the anus of a blue whale is, much like the animal itself, enormous, it pales in comparison to that asshole in the White House by at least an order of magnitude.” Trump campaign manager U. B. Quiet immediately issued a press release stating that, “As so often happens, President Trump is the world leader in so many areas, and this is just one more example of that leadership and how he continues to improve conditions for all Americans.”

-Dateline New York NY:

“Fox News Anchor Tucker Carlson To Sue NOAA”

In a statement released earlier today, Fox News anchorman and lapdog to President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump Tucker Carlson angrily dismissed the findings of a recent National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration study that stated that, despite the enormous size of the anus of a blue whale, President Trump was still the largest asshole in the world. Carlson said that due to his being headquartered in New York rather than in Washington D.C., he was not given proper consideration by Dr. Phyliss Navidad’s extensive examination of anuses around the world and would have easily placed second on the list, had Dr. Navidad done a “fair and impartial” study of all candidates and that he intends to bring suit against the NOAA to claim his rightful spot on the list. The Fox News celebrity was quoted as saying that, “Although I don’t pretend to be near the asshole that our great President is, I am a much bigger asshole than anyone or anything else. This study is obviously ‘fake news’ and it’s a well-known fact that Dr. Navidad is a left-wing Democrat, as well as a member of antifa and a cancel culture Black Lives Matter thug that will soon be replaced by Witch Dr. Stella Immanuel at the NOAA.” Mr. Carlson didn’t respond to questions from RUKME Investigative Reporter Ben Tover to elaborate on just how he became such an enormous asshole.

-Dateline Crazyfuck CO:

“Did Jesus Smoke Weed?”

In an email message recently received by RUKME Investigative Reporter Anna Rexia, conservative pastor Reverend Alfredo Sauce, of this small but totally batshit community high (yes) in the Colorado Rockies claims that, among other things, Jesus Christ did in fact smoke cannabis regularly during his time on Earth. Reverend Sauce goes on to state that “cannabis was an integral part of religious ceremonies of the time and was even mixed into the holy anointed oil used by Mary Magdelene on the Savior’s forehead and feet”, in the famous scene from the Bible. Reverend Sauce was very emphatic in further stating that this combination of holy anointed oil and weed “has amazing curative powers and has been successful in treating all types of diseases, including Covid-19. In fact, we’ve forwarded our evidence to U.S. Surgeon General Witch Dr. Stella Immanuel for her consideration”. When asked by return email what this evidence was, Reverend Sauce replied with a number of quotes from the Bible, including such passages as Excretions Chapter 56 Verse 25, which says, “The ephod is to have two shoulder pieces attached to two of its corners, so it can be fastened to the phenoltart with holy oil,” as well as Dalmatians Chapter 61 Verse 22, which says, “There are some that only chews the cud or only have a divided hoof, but you must not eat them without the proper ephod.” Reverend Sauce is pastor of the Divine Temple of the Holy Doobie in Crazyfuck CO.

(Editor’s note: Most of the information above was contained in an email I received recently from some organization called “The Exodus Effect”, with a little creative editing by the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding staff.)

Do you think Tucker Carlson has dream sex with witches and demons? Because I’m thinking that if he does, someone should report him to the new Surgeon General, who obviously doesn’t approve of such things.

Love and stethoscopes,

Cap’n John



There’s an old saying we’ve all heard…“no good deed goes unpunished”…

These days, in this time of social upheaval, discontent and unrest, when folks are outraged and angry over such issues as the Covid-19 pandemic that is ravaging the world and our country, of the renewed awakening to systemic racism and the gross mistreatment of African Americans over the years in America, of the sickening and callous jailing of immigrants at our borders, of rancorous debate over the symbols and statuary of the Confederacy, of the demise of Strawberry Cheese Danish Pop Tarts (yes, they have been discontinued), I have come to a point where I pretty much don’t like anybody. Good deeds? Yeah, fuck you, I gave at the office.

But stories about good deeds are typically uplifting, so I have one to tell you. (FYI, I’m told that push-up bras are uplifting as well, although I have no personal experience with them, having never worn one…okay, there was that one time, but alcohol and illicit drugs were involved so that shouldn’t count.)

His name was Phil Harmonic, and he was by profession a door-to-door vibrator salesman and by avocation a nature photographer. As a young man, through being frugal with his earnings and lying on his 1040 tax form, Phil was able to save enough money to realize one of his most cherished dreams…a photography “safari” to the Serengeti in Africa. (“Serengeti” is derived from the Maasai language and means “push-up bra”.)

After months of planning, preparation and great anticipation, Phil finally arrived one momentous day on the African plains, where he met his guide, collected his equipment and together they embarked on their journey to record the beauty and mystery of that portion of “the plateau continent” and especially of the denizens that populate the area, the wildebeests, the cheetah, the cantaloupes, the various types of monkeys, the Chevrolet Impala, the majestic lions, the hyena, and of course, the noble African elephant.

It was truly a dream come true for him.

Phil and his guide were out early one morning, driving down a rutted dirt track deep in the African veldt when they spotted a lone bull elephant, standing some distance from the road, his left front foot lifted off the ground; they stopped their truck on the roadside, got out and carefully approached the monstrous animal, who would now and again place the obviously wounded foot down on the ground and immediately bring it up again; as they got closer, it seemed they could even see the pachyderm wince in pain as he did.

Our hero handed his camera to his guide, a local man named Fred (what? you were expecting Swintua or Mbetwee?) and began walking ever so slowly towards the elephant, barely listening to the warnings of the guide to be very, very careful. As humans always seem to do, he began to talk baby talk to the animal to calm the beast and make his friendly intentions known. Are you hurt, big guy? You okay? I won’t hurt you, just be calm, I just want to see what’s wrong with your foot, it’s okay, there you go, it’s all right, etc., etc. (African elephants, despite being unable to articulate speech, are known for their ability to understand gibberish.)

Phil was able to get close enough to the animal to see the problem…a large sliver of wood had become embedded in the elephant’s foot.  He began to stroke the mighty beast’s trunk, calming the animal he hoped, and then, so as not give the elephant any warning of what he was about to do, reached down slowly and then with a strong jerk, yanked the offending piece of wood from the animal’s foot.

The elephant started a bit, but then gingerly placed the wounded foot on the ground, testing it to determine the level of pain. When it realized the sliver had been removed, it turned its giant head and gave Phil what seemed to be a gentle caress with its trunk, a gesture of gratitude and appreciation for the good deed the man had just performed. As the elephant turned to leave, Phil noticed a scar on the left ear of the animal, a lightning shaped disfiguration right at the crease where the ear joins the head.

The elephant gave a small trumpet of thanks and swiftly, though limping, walked back into the jungle.

Many years later, Phil was visiting the local zoo, still taking photos of nature and its residents, when he came to the elephant enclosure. He was using a long “zoom” lens that day, and as he was focusing in closely on one large male, he noticed with a start that the animal had a lightning shaped scar on its left ear, and Phil was sure, in the most amazing of coincidences, that this was the very animal that he had once encountered on the African plain. The giant beast walked over more closely to where Phil was standing, and it seemed to the erstwhile photographer that, yes, this was “his” elephant.

With hardly a thought, Phil set down his Nikon, carefully climbed the fence that separated the enclosure from the people watching, managed to cross the protecting moat and approached the animal, using mostly the same silly, hopefully soothing gibberish he had used to calm the animal all those years before. The elephant watched impassively as Phil came closer and then, with a mighty roar, he turned to Phil and proceeded to stomp the living crap out of the salesman/photographer, ending his career as a purveyor of pleasure and a taker of photographs.

And the old saying about the punishment of good deeds was again proven to be true.


So isn’t it about time we reexamined some of these “old sayings” and gave them a more modern interpretation?

Sure, why not?

> “There’s no accounting for taste”:

                Well of course there isn’t; there’s accounting for such thing as expenditures, accounts receivable, accounts payable, expenses, inventory, scrotums, interest, dugouts and other such financial items, but taste, sorry, not really.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “There’s no understanding why anyone with an IQ higher than room temperature would vote for Donald Trump.”

> “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink”:

                Well of course you can’t; you can’t make the horse bathe or swim the 200 meter backstroke either for that matter.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “You can lead a horse to water, but it might prefer Swedish vodka for all you know”.

> “You can’t judge a book by its cover”:

                Well of course can’t; you can judge it by how many pages it has, or by the type of font the printer used (FYI, this is Calibri I’m using) or even by the copyright date, but not by the cover.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “You can lead a horse…”, no wait, that was the last one, sorry. “You can’t judge a book by its cover, but if it’s a “tell-all” piece by Dr. Mary Trump, most of what it says about her uncle being a lying, perverted, narcissistic, fucktard sociopath with delusions of grandeur is probably true.”

> “He was asleep at the wheel”:

                Well of course he was; he couldn’t be asleep under the hood in the engine compartment, unless he was a squirrel or a spark plug, or for that matter in the glove box, unless he was the size of a box of Kleenex tissues, which are currently on special at Publix, 2 for $3.99.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “He was being pursued by aliens from the planet Zatox at the time of the accident and was rendered unconscious by their anti-matter ray-guns.”

> “The early bird catches the worm”:

                Well of course it does; everyone knows that no self-respecting worm is outside any later than 5:30am, due to the fact that worms have extremely sensitive skin to the ultraviolet rays of the sun, and as yet have not discovered sunscreen with a sufficient PFS that will protect their little slimy, disgusting tubular bodies.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “The early bird may catch worms but later in the day will be reduced to eating baloney and Clorox sandwiches, unless it drives over to the local Publix and gets an Italian sub with Genoa salami, tavern ham, cappacola, a kanooten valve, provolone cheese, a raincoat, veggie toppings and your choice of either multi-grain, white, moldy or whole grain bread.”

> “You don’t miss your water until your well runs dry”:

                Well of course you don’t; you don’t miss your desk chair until you go to sit down one day and it’s not there and you wind up breaking your coccyx when you fall spang on your ass in front of the entire Marketing Department. (I was going to say “tailbone” but “coccyx” sounds vaguely dirty, like uvula or nipples.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “You don’t miss your water if you use a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon to shoot at it.”

Well, speaking of old sayings, “tempus fugit” (that’s Latin for “push-up bra”) and I can see by the word counter thingie down in the left-hand corner of my monitor that, indeed, tempus has fugited.

And remember…”Good friends never say goodbye, the simply say alpaca saliva.”

Love and undergarments,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Publix better cough up some cash for all the free advertising I’ve given them.


It was a cold, gray and gloomy early November morning, with gun-metal dark clouds scudding past overhead and just a hint of clammy dampness in the air, the kind that, as soon as you look out the window for your first glimpse of the just out of bed world, is immediately depressing, giving Rocky a sense the day was going to be a rough one. Ever have that feeling? Little things get out of whack quickly…you stub your toe on the leg of the bedframe as you walk past barefooted on your way to the kitchen for your coffee and pickled muskrat; you nick yourself shaving and the damn cut won’t stop bleeding, making you look like the survivor of a botched murder attempt; you’re halfway to your car when you remember you left your lunch sitting on your dining room table and you have to walk back to get it.

Little shit that makes you nuts and tells you, uh-oh, this is going to be “one of THOSE days”.

Traffic of course was worse than usual that morning; an accident up ahead, causing the morons to slow down to check for any dead bodies, hoping to see something bloody and gruesome to talk about when they got to work, and to put the cherry on top of the barbeque pork sundae, he had forgotten he needed to stop for gas, which of course would now make him late punching in.

Geez, he thought to himself, since there was no one else in the car with him at the time, how much worse can it get today?

The answer to that question, he should have known, would be forthcoming very soon.

And oh gee, what a surprise, guess who was standing by the timeclock when he walked in at 8:03am? Mr. Thehun, first name Attila, giving Rocky the “ol’ stink eye” while making a great show of looking at his watch pointedly at the same time.

“Late again, Roads,” he said with a sour tone in his voice and an equally sour look on his face. “That’s the third time in five years, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, Mr. Thehun, I forgot I had to stop to get gas,” Rocky replied, in what he hoped was a repentant manner.

“Well punch in and get to your bench. There’s a new batch of Thins that needs to be processed right away.”

“Yes, sir,” Rocky said. I’d like to shove your stinking carcass in the trash compactor and watch it reduce you to a small rectangular cube of asshole, he muttered under his breath.

Rocky worked for Church and Dwight, makers of Trojan condoms (“from Magnum to Ecstasy”), as a condom tester. If he could have tested them in person it would have been one thing, but he did it eight hours a day on a machine that looked like a stainless steel dildo at a work bench in a cavernous warehouse, which lowered the fun quotient down considerably.

When he got to his work station, his mood darkened even further; the overnight crew had left him 28 pallets of Ultra Thins (“40% thinner!”) to be gone through and checked randomly for tears, seams, fit, for any type of imperfection that might cause one of them to fail at the wrong moment and induce a dramatic increase in the birth rate.

One of his co-workers walked by just then, on his way to his bench. “Morning, Rocky. Attila climb up your ass again?”

“I hate that fucker.”

“So,” said Co-worker, “what did you think of the results last night?”

Rocky’s cable box had been on the fritz for several days and he hadn’t heard the news of the election the previous evening. “Shit, my cable is fried and I didn’t hear. How much did Hillary win by?”

Co-worker laughed. “Oh no, buddy boy, not Hillary…Donald. Trump won.”

“WHAT?!? That roving asshole won the election?”

“Yep, the pussy-grabbing reality show host pulled it out in the end and we have a new President. Sorry to be the one to tell you.” As Co-worker was talking, Rocky could hear his supervisor’s phone ringing in the Production office over in the corner.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Rocky pleaded with Co-worker. No, it can’t be, he thought. Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing in the office behind him and Rocky wondered why no one was answering. Ring…ring…ring…

And that’s when he snapped awake, bolting straight up in bed, his alarm clock screaming on the nightstand next to him. What a nightmare, he thought groggily, shaking his head…a condom tester? No wait, the nightmare wasn’t the job, it was Trump winning…now that’s scary, he thought, laughing uneasily to himself.

He sat down at the desk in his bedroom, logged onto the Internet, and clicked on CNN.

And that’s when he realized the nightmare was real…Donald Trump had indeed won. And while the network talking heads prattled on about the huge upset, all he could think was, Costa Rice…I’m moving to Costa Rica ASAP.

But what Rocky didn’t know was that the nightmare had actually just begun.


So lemme’ stop here and ask a question…when something “goes viral”, where the hell does it go?

(Great segue, huh?)

As one of the premier humor bloggers on the ‘Net and a legend in my own mind, hardly a day goes by when I don’t receive a passel, which is slightly less than a shitload, of letters, texts, emails, secret decoder ring messages and notes attached to a rock and thrown through my living room window, commenting in one manner or another about something I have written here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog. And from time to time, typically when I can’t think of anything else to write about, I like to share these messages with you, my loyal and extremely good-looking readers, all four of you.

And so, to proceed…

“Dear Captin shitface:

                Fuk you and all your libtard buddies, sayin all those awful things about His emmenance Presidint Trump on that desgustin blog you rite. all of you lyin sinners are Going strate to Hell for your blasfa, for the eval things you say, and good Rittance. I hopp you get a bad case of crotch lice, you asshole. Youll get yurs when Saintly Donald asends to Heaven and then returns in 3 days to smit the wikked.

                Makkin Amurica Grate Agin”

“Cap’n John:

                I’m so sick and fucking tired of being shamed by you liberal assholes for not wearing a mask when I go out in public. It’s ridiculous. Everyone with any good sense knows that this Corona thing is bullshit, it’s just a cold, and a plot started in China and now being used by the criminal left wing antifa BLT cancel movement to tear down President Trump and keep him from getting reelected and leading this country in the great manner that he has since back in ’16 when he beat that monkey Barrack Obama, excuse me, that bitch Hillary “Lock Her Up” Clinton. I hope you get crotch lice, you sickening asshole.

                The Unmasked Avenger”

“Dead Meat:

                Donald Trump has done more for 2nd Amendment rights than any President in the history of our great nation, and believe me, when he gets reelected in November, you and all your liberal pussy buddies are going to wish you had never opened your big mouths, because President Trump is going to issue hunting licenses to all armed, right-thinking persons in America to hunt you fuckers down and FINALLY stop you from tearing down our American values any further. I hope you get crotch lice while you’re waiting for one of us to show up at your door with an AR-15 to render Trump’s justice on you.

                Nothing Says Hate Like An Automatic Weapon”

“Dear Captain Butthole:

               The Grand Exalted Majestic Secret Nation of the Organic Pretentious Order of the Ku Klux Klan stands ready to assert the rights of all decent, law-abiding WHITE people in this country by ridding America of not only the Africans who don’t know their place, but all their disgusting, repulsive, perverted, sickening, gross, disgusting, retarded, perverted, gross liberal sympathizers like you who encourage the Colored race to revolt and wreak havoc in the streets of our cities and in our trailer parks, currency exchanges, laundromats, Walmarts, flea markets, tire stores, Cracker Barrels and everywhere else that decent WHITE people should reign supreme as well. I hope you’re infested with crotch lice, you left-wing asswipe.

                N.B. Forrester, Grand Wazoo of the Florida Chapter

                Knights of the Grand Exalted Majestic Secret Nation of the Pretentious                    Organic Order of the Ku Klux Klan”

“You Hell bound sinner:

                It is written in the Holey Bible, in the Book of Excretions, Chapter #2, Verse #2 that, “If the man with the discharge spits on anyone who is clean, they must wash their clothes and bathe with water, and they will be unclean till evening.” It further says in Dalmations Chapter 15, Verse 69 that, “Do not have sexual relations with your sister, either your father’s daughter or your mother’s daughter, whether she was born in the same home or elsewhere.” And again, in Crustaceans Chapter 23, Verse 45 that, “Take the finest flour and bake twelve loaves of bread, using two-tenths of an ephah for each loaf; arrange them in two stacks, six in each stack, on the table of pure gold.” Examining these passages, and others similar, it is completely clear that President Trump has been sent by God Almighty to rule and lead this troubled nation out of the den of sin and degradation into which it has been led. Those that choose to oppose him will feel his mighty wrath, be stricken with crotch lice and then be thrown into the fiery pit of Perdition.

                Jesus Was White, You Scumbag”

I’ll just bet President Trump is thrilled to have such loyal supporters.

Love and jammies,

Cap’n John

Post Script…all of the Bible quotes (above) are real…obviously I made up the Books, chapters and verses, but the words came right from various passages in the Old Testament.