SPORTS, HISTORY AND WHY SOCCER IS REALLY “STOOPID”

(Editor’s note: this week’s post is dedicated to my newest fan, although I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know she’s a fan just yet, my buddy and co-worker at Publix, Ms. Sarah. Even though we all keep telling her what a crappy attitude she has, she’s really a good kid and hard worker, both in school and at the store. Happy summer, sweetie.)

As I mentioned in last week’s column, and have mentioned numerous times in the past here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, your Cap’n (that would be me) is a major sports fan, which is not to be confused with ceiling, exhaust, circulating or radiator. I’m also a bit of a history buff, and find the origins of sports to be quite interesting.

(And just for the sake of saying it, “interesting” has to be one of the most boring, mundane and uninteresting words in the English language, much like “yarn” or “Congress”.)

Anyway, as a PSA for all my loyal readers (all several of you), I thought I would take a moment today and discuss the origins and inventors of the various major sports. (The creators of the board game “Clue” were going to name one of the suspects “Major Sports”, but upon further deflection, decided on “Colonel Mustard” instead, who of course not only outranked the Major but did it in the Conservatory with the Revolver.)

Since I’m an enormous baseball fan, I thought I would start with America’s Pastime. (Actually, I’m pretty sure America’s Pastime is sex, but back in 1916, boring, mundane and uninteresting Congress passed the Make Baseball America’s Official Pastime Since Sex Is Dirty, Messy and Disgusting and Makes Americans Sound Like Pervs Act, a bill that was introduced in the House by Congressman Twono Trump, a distant relative of our current President and alleged serial woman abuser, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump. The legislation passed both houses by overwhelming votes.)

(Phone rings in the background)

Excuse me…

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate.”

“I said what?”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed. I’ll correct that right away. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

That was my First Mate Taffie Wetzel; she monitors my posts in real-time to assist me and to keep me from stepping on my crank too often. Apparently, the word I wanted above was “reflection”. (She’s a snot.)

Baseball was allegedly invented by a man named Abner Doubleday, WAY back in the late 1800s, and as the myth goes, this was done in the small upstate New York town of Cooperstown, which back in those days was about as for off the beaten path as you could get. Recently however, historical documents have come to light challenging Doubleday’s claim to fame, and in fact suggest that rules for and the general organization of the game were written by a man named Daniel “Doc” Adams back in 1857, and that the L.A. Dodgers immediately tanked that season and blew the World Series by being swept by the Effingham Mudbutts, 4 games to 0. And what I meant by saying that I’m “an enormous baseball fan” back there in Paragraph 5 was that I really enjoy baseball a lot…I didn’t mean that I’m enormous, I mean, I’m a little overweight but, well shit, never mind.

We know for sure, since it happened more recently, that American football, or “gridiron” football for the way that the batter, which is also a term used in baseball, is poured on the “iron” and then baked into pancakes with treads, thus greatly improving the player’s traction on the field, was invented back in the late 1800s by a Yale undergrad named Walter Camp. Mr. Camp had a brother named Caleb “Training” Camp who, in 1920, went on to become the head coach of the Rockdale Snorkels in the then newly formed National Football League, who immediately trounced the L.A. Dodgers in Super Bowl –LLLXXXIII, 85-0. The League was formed in just-as-far-off-the-beaten-path-as-Cooperstown-NY Canton OH, which besides being the home of the NFL Hall Of Fame, was also the home of our 25th President, William McKinley, who as far as anyone knows was not a serial abuser of women like some guys in the White House, as well as the site of the National First Ladies’ Library, another one of those ambiguous phrases like “an enormous baseball fan” that could mean it was the first library for ladies or was the First Lady’s Library, since McKinley was a married man, therefore having a First Lady, who could have had a library, I suppose.

(Phone rings in background)

Shit…excuse me again.

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate Wetzel…”

“I’m sorry, I said what?”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel, I’ll correct that right away. Thank you.”

Apparently I confused “waffle iron” with “gridiron” in the last paragraph…it’s called a gridiron because of the lines on the field. (You know that word that rhymes with “witch”? Yeah.)

Another Major Sport that is followed by many people here in America, as well as around the globe, is basketball, which was created by a guy named James Naismith back in 1891, using peach baskets and a “soccer-type” ball. Naismith was a physical education instructor and peach farmer, as well as being the founder of the basketball program at the University of Kansas, who annihilated the L.A. Dodgers in the Final Four Championship in 1911 by a score of 119-23. The game evolved from a collegiate sport to a professional one with the formation of the National Basketball Association in 1936, which only seventeen people in America had ever heard of prior to 1984, when the Chicago Bulls drafted a guy named Michael Jordan from the University of North Carolina, and the rest, as they say, is geography. (Jordan went on the become the Greatest Player Of All Time, won a bajillion titles, scored several gazillion points , won the MVP trophy 47 times and had a shoe named after him…anybody ever hear of Air LeBron? Yeah, I didn’t think so.)

Then there’s hockey, which was invented back in 1917 by a bunch of prize fighters from Canada, who had very few teeth, no brains, said “yah, hey dere” a lot and decided that staging prize fights while ice-skating simultaneously would be interesting (there’s that word again), proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that all Canadians are dweebs.

Another “sport”, using the term loosely, that has gotten a great deal of attention in this country in recent years is soccer, which is not to be confused with the word “succor”, which means “any game that has the players run back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on a huge field for over an hour without anything happening is boring and stoopid”. No one knows when soccer was invented because no one with an IQ above that of a doorknob gives a crap. At least hockey is “interesting”.

(Phone rings in the background)

Shit…excuse me again.

“Cap’n John…”

“What is it, First Mate?”

“Thank you.” (I really don’t like that woman.)

According to my extremely irritating First Mate, the word “succor” actually means “to give assistance in time of need or distress; to help, aid or relieve.” Consider me corrected.

Modern tennis has evolved from a game called “paume”, which is French for “snot-wad”, and was played as far back as the 12th century BCE by cavemen using peach baskets and “soccer-type” balls on a covered indoor court, into the fast-paced, tirade-laced game it has become today. Sadly, the inventors of “tennis” didn’t have the good sense to put the freakin’ net AROUND the court rather than across the middle where’s its smack in the way…stoopid. “Real tennis” or royal tennis was much loved by kings and nobles, who would begin games by yelling the word “tenez”, which is Swahili for “You people REALLY elected Donald Trump President? Really?”. Today’s version of tennis is referred to as “lawn tennis”, since it is now played on a grass or clay court outdoors by players in skimpy outfits with crappy attitudes. (The players have crappy attitudes, not the outfits.)

(Phone rings in the background)

I’m going to kill her…

“Cap’n John…”

“YES, First Mate, what is it now?”

“Fine, I’ll correct those errors right away. But Ms. Wetzel, if you interrupt me again, I’ll have you thrown in the brig, drawn and halved and then force you to watch Major League Soccer (boy, THERE’S an oxymoron for you) for the next 48 hours non-stop.”

According to Ms. Know-It-All, the word “paume” means “palm” in French, since tennis was originally played bare-handed without rackets, plus it wasn’t played with “peach baskets and a soccer-type ball”, and the word “tenez” is French for “play”.

(Phone rings in the background)

“WHAT?!?”

“Fine.”

Excuse me, its “drawn and quartered”, not “drawn and halved”.

I’m gonna’ go watch the Dodgers…they’re playing a Little League team from the San Fernando Valley, which is the home of former Dodger great Fernando Valenzuela. They might be able to beat these guys…but don’t count on it.

Love and jockstraps,

Cap’n John

Post Script…(phone rings in the background several times…answering machine voice says to leave a message)…”Cap’n John, this is First Mate Wetzel again. Fernando Valenzuela was from Mexico, sir.”

SPORTS REPORTING, AND OTHER SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITIES

I am a huge baseball/sports fan, like many in my family.

I was thinking of my Uncle Ed recently, on the 75th anniversary of D-Day; although he fought in the Pacific, he and my Dad, who was in the ETO, and so many other incredibly courageous men and women went overseas to fight Fascism, and I admired both of them greatly.

My uncle was a character, an optometrist, a sports fan and a fabulous story-teller, not in that order.

Ed grew up in a little town in Southern Indiana back in the Depression, and had the usual cast of characters most of us have as friends growing up. The following story involves two of them, Benjamin Turley, known to all as Benny, and the local bully, Roger Askholt.

According to UE, as he told the story one afternoon on the front porch of their home in Seymour IN to my cousins Eddie and Jimmy and myself (we were 12, 10 and 9 respectively), nobody liked Roger; everyone called him Asshole (behind his back) a) because of his last name and b) because he apparently was a rather large one.

Even though Roger routinely beat the snot out of Benny, the beatee followed the beater around like a small puppy dog. Their friendship was of mutual isolation; nobody liked Roger, and Benny was a nervous, highly excitable nerd-sickle who stuttered when he talked and picked his nose when he didn’t.

One hot summer day, the boys decided to go fishing; they gathered up their poles, a couple of sammichs each, some worms (in case the sammichs weren’t enough) and headed for their fave fishing hole, about a three mile walk out from town.

The boys arrived at the spot, baited their hooks, threw them in the water and sat down to wait.

“I suh-sure hope we ca-catch su-sumpin’, Roger,” Benny stuttered. Benny never, ever called his friend by the nickname all the other boys used.

“Shut up, Benny,” said Roger, a/k/a Asshole.

After a while they ate their sammichs, and after another while, Roger had to take an enormous dump. Telling Benny to watch his pole, Roger ambled off behind some bushes at the edge of the pond, dropped trou and let fly.

Now there’s only a few poisonous snakes indigenous to Southern Indiana, the copperhead being one; it’s only found in the southern part of the state, and then rarely, but that fateful day, Roger managed to stumble onto one. Just as he was finishing his business, the only copperhead snake in a 10 mile radius found him, decided he looked likely and proceeded to bite him.

Right on the scrotum.

Now the bite of a copperhead is painful yet seldom fatal, unless left untreated for a long period of time. Of course, the boys didn’t know this.

Roger let out a humongous yell, fell to his side (away from his recent excretory effort, fortunately), cupped his balls with his hands and started writhing wildly. Benny ran into the weeds to his friend, who screamed that he had been “bit by a rattler”, which was highly improbable, given their non-existence in Indiana.

Benny began to run about wildly, waving his arms and shaking his head, not knowing how to help his friend. Roger screamed again, this time telling Benny to run into town to fetch Doc Soames. Since Benny had no better plan, he immediately set off at a run. Now Benny was a nerd, a stutterer and a nose-picker, but he was also the school track and field guy; he could run like the wind.

He ran the three miles back to town, directly to the office of the only doctor in the county, that of old Dr. Soames. As he rushed into the waiting room, he was astonished to find it empty; no nurse, no waiting patients, no one. He frantically rang the bell on the reception desk, and after a few moments, Doc Soames’ nurse charged out the back room and informed Benny, who managed to stammer out the emergency, failing to mention where Roger had been bitten, that Doc was in the back delivering a baby and would not be able to come to help for some time.

She told Benny to wait, disappeared through the door, came back a moment later and informed Benny that “Doc says to clean the bite and then suck the venom out, otherwise he might die”, then turned abruptly and disappeared again into the delivery room. (She apparently thought the boys were goofin’ on her.)

Benny stood for a minute, digesting what he had been told. He then proceeded to run back to where he left Roger, worrying all the way about how he was going to perform the necessary procedure on his bullying friend. He fretted and stewed, shaking his head as he ran, and couldn’t think of any way he could avoid the inevitable.

When he finally got back to his friend, he found Roger still writhing in pain on the ground.

“Where’s Doc Soames? What did he say?” screamed Roger.

And poor Benny, overexcited, overloaded and overwhelmed by it all, screamed back, “He says you’re gonna’ duh-die, Asshole.”

My loyal readers (all a couple of you) will recall that the WATRUK blog launched the RUKME News Service recently (that’s RUKME, pronounced as one word…think Scooby Do). We are now happy to announce the…

                         

                               ***TOTALLY NEW RUKME SPORTS LINE***

 …with all the latest from the world of sporting events.

Full coverage will begin in a few weeks, but here’s some headlines of recent events to give you a taste of what’s to come…

~Dateline Boston MA February 2060:

                “NE Patriots Quarterback Tom Brady Announces Retirement After 59 Seasons In The NFL!”

After 59 regular seasons, umpty-gazillion Super Bowls, several dozen MVP awards for both regular season and the Super Bowl play, enough mileage from passing yards to make it to the Moon and having outlived six coaches, Patriots venerable and ancient quarterback Tom Brady has FINALLY announced his retirement, effective immediately. The 83-year old QB told RUKME correspondent Laurel Enhardy, “I really felt I could play another season or two, but Giselle has been after me to spend more time with our grandkids, so after much thought and discussion with my family and also my gerontologist, Dr. R. U. Serious, I’ve decided to hang up my cleats and call it a career.” As a result of his extended stay in the NFL plus his endorsements and other financial dealings, Brady’s net worth now exceeds that of Canada and Lower Botswana combined.

~Dateline Tampa Bay FL:

“Tampa Bay Buccaneers Quarterback Jameis Winston Diagnosed With Career-Ending “Dumbfuck Disease”!”

Spokesman for the inept and completely useless Tampa Bay QB announced today that Winston, 25, which is his age and IQ as well, has been diagnosed with the crippling “Dumbfuck Disease”, which at this time has no known cure or treatment. Although Winston will continue to play, his long-term expectations and hope by fans and the TB organization that he will ever amount to a cup of warm spit are pretty much nil. Winston also confirmed his participation in this year’s Ty-D-Bol Toilet Bowl game, which is where his career has been headed all along, and then went out and threw another interception.

~Dateline Melbourne Australia:

                “Cricket Squad Named Pres Fave and Gets New Sponsor In Same Day!”

                The Victorian Bushrangers Cricket Squad of the Australian Cricket League, whose mascot is Jiminy, was named as the fave team of world-class ass-wad and long-time cricket fan Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today, and just as soon as the American President made his announcement, the team chose as its newest sponsor Dulcolax Suppositories, naming them their Official Suppository. The General Manger of the VBCS, Justin Tyme, said the twin announcements were merely coincidental, but team insiders who were not authorized to speak said the Bushrangers reached out to Dulcolax the minute they heard of Trump’s endorsement. Players on the team were said to be gagging on their wickets.

~Dateline Las Vegas NV:

                “Rodman Claims Alien Abduction, Aliens Say No!”

               Dennis Rodman, former NBA player, cross-dresser, 5-time NBA Champion and major league dweeb, speaking to RUKME correspondent Bud Light today, claimed that he was abducted by aliens from the planet Zatox when he was a child, and then escaped back to Earth via one of the subsequent return flights of the marauding space creatures. When reached for comment, planetary spokesman Wq56HH{rt} YYYY<>95hj refuted Rodman’s claim and said that the Zatoxians had in fact abducted him, but had returned him immediately when they saw how he looked. “Sure,” said YYYY<>95hj, who is also known as Rupert, “we’re green, have two noses with six nostrils each, a cerise-colored eyeball and three-pronged genitalia hanging from the back of our heads, but we’re beautiful compared to that goofy-looking freak. He was scaring the baby fangor beasts, for crissake.”

~Dateline Los Angeles CA:

                “!!!DODGERS WIN THE WORLD SERIES!!!”

                Not.

Well, according to the word-counter thingie down in the bottom of my computer screen, it’s half-past June and I need to get going. Stay tuned to this channel for more sports updates as I make them up.

Love and hockey pucks,

Cap’n John

SPAM SPAM AND SPAM_AGAIN

I’ve never been much of a TV person.

I never watched Seinfeld…I didn’t like Jerry Seinfeld as a stand-up comedian (he wasn’t funny), and I saw just enough of the show from outtakes, commercials, etc. to think that both Jason Alexander and Michael Richards were roving assholes, although what’s-her-name, Julia King Louie Dreyfuss is a cutie. Never watched Big Bang Theory when it was on, have no idea what it was about, never once saw Everybody Loves Raymond and I’ve never seen Game of Thrones. I did occasionally watch Friends back in its heyday; I think Jennifer Aniston is breathtakingly gorgeous and always thought Joey (Matt LeBlanc) was hysterical. (Case in point…Joey explaining a “moo point”.

If it weren’t for a handful of movies on TCM every month, and of course sports (I come from a family of baseball players/fans, as well as following NFL football, college basketball, college softball and tiddlywinks), I wouldn’t even bother to own a TV set, especially with all the streaming online these days. (You guys remember Peter Paul and the Apostles’ big hit We Can Make A Shoe Smell and A Tiddly Wink, So Why Can’t We Eat Meat On Fridays? PP and A went on to become Peter Paul and Larry, and had another huge hit with Puff the Magic Llama.)

But I did watch a bunch of television back when I was a kid; TV and I were born around the same time and grew up together. That’s where the comparison ends however; at least I matured into a semi-decent human being, where television has become every bit of that “vast wasteland” Newton Minow once said it was.

Back then there were Westerns by the carload (Gunsmoke, Rawhide, Bonanza), lots of comedies (Car 54, Father Knows Best, Dick Van Dyke) and even the news guys were cool in those days (Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley, Severeid).

And a ton of kid’s shows, especially if you grew up in the Chicago-land area, as I did. There were Bozo’s Circus, Kukla, Fran and Ollie, The Mickey Mouse Club from out in California, and my fave, Garfield Goose and Friend.

Yes, “friend”, singular; the friend was the host and only human on the show, a man named Frazier Thomas, who created the show and the puppets, which all the characters were, back in 1950. GG wore a crown…he was “King of the United States”. Thomas wore a uniform, to denote his position as GG’s “Prime Minister”. There was Romberg Rabbit, Macintosh Mouse, Chris Goose, GG’s nephew, so named for being hatched on Christmas and a thoroughly laconic bloodhound named Beauregard Burnside III, in a completely esoteric reference to two Union generals from the Civil War.

GG was a hand puppet, so only his mouth moved, although the puppeteer, a lady named Lee Ann Prineus, had several hand movements that managed to give GG “facial expressions”, as it were. They showed cartoons like Space Angel and Clutch Cargo, had all kinds of silly scenarios where GG and Thomas and the other characters interacted, and in general it was a pretty good show. (Clutch Cargo had a companion, a young boy named Spinner, who was his “ward”, and a dog named Paddlefoot plus an apparently serious psilocybin problem that only surfaced when he named things, like his ward and his dog. Spinner and Paddlefoot? Really?)

I got to thinking about G. Goose et al. just last week while reading about President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump’s triumphant visit to England and the various events he and FLOTUS Melanoma were involved in with the Royals, who apparently are originally from Kansas City. Our rotund Pres did everything he could to live up to his delusion of himself as King Donald the First and seemed to come off as the buffoon he mostly is in the process. Sorry, Your Eminence, but you might think of yourself as KD #1, but you weren’t the first king of the US; that was Garfield. And isn’t it an interesting comparison, PTB and an egocentric, self-absorbed and self-delusional hand puppet from a TV show?

I’ve often wondered what exactly the “Royal Family” does, besides sit around and be royal and get mentioned in a bajillion headlines for being, well, royal. Almost as useless as our President, at least they aren’t actively offensive.

Speaking of things British (holy segue, Batman), I’ve been receiving a plethora of junk emails recently (“spam” messages, and immediately there comes to mind the British comedy show Month Python’s skit “Spam, Spam and Spam”…talk about esoteric) that I thought I would share with you, once again as I did several weeks ago, just in case you aren’t getting enough of these yourselves.

~From FungusAmongUs Inc., Creator of “FungAway”:

                “Are you afflicted with toe fungus? Do your toes look like they belong to the space creature in a sci-fi movie? Are your feet so ugly that they remind people of something they saw at the local zoo? Do you have excess vaginal mucus or accidental bowel leakage? Well, we can’t cure those last two things, but FungusAmongUs Inc., maker of BaldyLocks Hair For Men tonic, has a NEW product that will restore the youthful beauty of your toes and makes a dandy wax-stripper for your kitchen floors as well! If your feet look like they belong to something that climbs trees, then you need FungAway® Fungus and Floor Wax Remover! Guaranteed 100% effective against most types of common toe funguses and everyday floor polishes! FungAway® is safe, non-addicting and sold with a money-back guarantee! Try FungAway today, and get those kitchen and bathroom floors sparkling again!”

~From Dr. Sabana Zongo:

                “I am Dr. Sabana Zongo I Have a Business Proposal of $5.3 million For You. I am aware of the unsafe nature of the window internet, and was compelled to use this medium due to the natural of this project. I have access to every vital information that can be good safe to transfer this huge amount of money, which may culminate into the banana investment of the said funds into your company or any lucrative venture deposit of your country. If you will like to consist me as a partner then indicate your patio interest, after which we shall both discuss the modalities and the sharing percentage. Upon receipt of your reply on your expression of Interest, I will give you full details on how the business will be executed. I am open for special negotiation. Thanks for your anticipated conflagration. Note you might receive this message in your inbox or spam or junk folder, depends on your web host or ruler server network mostly. Regards, Dr. Sabana Zongo.”

~From BigPrizeForYou:

                “You never responded about your winning of US$ 1,450.000.00 in Free GOOGLE/MICROSOFT/MOBILE AWARD PRIZE, with +ref: no SA712R to redeem it, email us on: GOOGLE.MICROSOFT@bigmir.net, with ref: no [SA712R] or contact your [OVERSEAS CLAIMS AGENT]. Please find the attached. Do not reply back to this senders email address, it is sent via computer virtual assistance for response will not be read by Human but computer Therefore you must contact the fiduciary agents by phone and email address provided in the attached tomorrow twice.”

~From BloodSuck Visa:

                “Poor credit or no credit? Is your FICO score lower than Donald Trump’s IQ? Turned down more times than a thermostat? WE APPROVE EVERYONE! That’s right, Third World Bank and Tire Center approves 100% of applicants that have 1) a pulse, 2) fewer than eight jobs in the past two months and 3) no murder convictions in the last 10 years! Call or text us at 1-800-DEDBEAT today to apply!”

~From Mr. Robertson Wangeryuts, Senior Cannoli Representative, IMF:

                “Attention Beneficiary: This is to intimate you of a very important information which will be of a great help to redeem you from all the difficulties you have been experiencing in getting your long overdue payment, due to excessive demand for money from you by both corrupt Bank
officials and slutty Courier Companies after which your fund remain unpaid to you by pliers. I am Mr. Robertson Wangeryuts, Senior Cannoli Representative gyrate with the IMF (International Monetary Fund) and I have totally received these reports of your uneasy treatment for getting your funds deposited to great access and I have been chosen to put a stop to this by Mr. Donald Trump giving me permission floral. All NGOs, Government agencys, tire centers and BINGO was his name-o have been instructed to BACK OFF and no more contact you rightly again. Please do not respond to these fertile creatures ever. I Mr. Robertson Wangeryuts, Senior Cannoli Representative mantis is only for your direct contact and fiduciary payment acceptance. Send me your phone number, hat size, bank account number, password, first born child, Social Obscurity number and Publisher’s Clearing House lozenge size to Mr. Robertson Wangeryuts, Senior Cannoli Representative for imposition finally this day weekly.”

And from Mr. P.T. Barnum, who once said that there’s a sucker born every minute, and they typically vote Republican, comes this timeless observance:

“Advertising is to the genuine article what manure is to land…it largely increases the product.”

Love and hyperbole,

Cap’n John

Post Script: And per comedian Jeff Foxworthy, if your bra size is 44Long, you’re probably a redneck, and a Trump supporter. Okay, I paraphrased that a bit.

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE) _VOL 9

I was perusing the news online recently and came across the above picture; it was the lead-in to a story on how to tell if chicken had become too old to prepare safely. When I read the tag-line, I thought to myself, I don’t know, the son-of-a-bitch looks dead to me, but then maybe I’m missing something.

I didn’t read the article.

The ancient philosopher Testiclees was known to often tell the following story as an illustration of his assertion that sex is at best a messy business, but despite the mess, it is still better than having an expired chicken, considering burial costs, writing an obituary, dealing with grief-stricken roosters, what stuffing is best to use on the deceased, etc.

It seems that there was a shy young shepherd living in a small town up in the hills, not far from where Testiclees had his home. The young man was diligent in his work, neat in his habits, respectful of his elders and, to his great dismay, still a virgin. (Sounds like the story of my life.)

His fellow shepherds and his friends all encouraged him to avail himself of some nubile young ewe from his flock, at the very least, until such time as he was able to meet and bed a person of the human female persuasion, but he resisted this, thinking that, well gee, sheep had feelings too, and he was loathe to give offense, even to an even-toed ungulate. (Hey, that’s what WikiPedia says they are, what do I know?)

One night, sitting in a lively tavern in the capital city where he had traveled with his friends for the express purpose of rampant tomfoolery, after many tankards of ale and much cajoling from his drunken buddies (back in those days people often cajoled), he was convinced to take the ram by the horns and visit the local house of ill repute, which was just down the street from the tavern. Embarrassed but determined, he eventually left the tavern and walked down the street, accompanied by his posse, who were falling all over themselves with laughter and an excess of spirits. After a short walk they came to the “house” where he resolutely knocked on the door. It was opened by an older woman, much made-up and dressed in a shimmering gown, who invited him in.

After bidding his buddies goodbye, he hesitantly entered; the madam took his hand, sat the young man down in the parlor and proceeded to explain that, given the sophistication of the capital city, hers was a “high-class” establishment, and that she prided herself on giving her customers many options to satisfy their carnal desires. She went on to say that each of her girls had a certain “specialty”, and that he was free to choose which specialty he liked best. There was one young lady who did the missionary position only, another that provided release by using only her mouth, still another that went “around the world” (that one cost extra), yet another who allowed entry via the “back-door”, one that would hang from the chandelier and yodel and finally one whose specialty was the “69” position.

Bewildered by all the strange descriptions but still determined to forge ahead, he stammered out that he had heard from his friends about that last one, and thought that would be acceptable. The madam named a price, which he paid in the coin of the realm, then led him back to a room in the rear of the house. Opening the door, she introduced the young man to a lovely long-haired and very naked young women, who said her name was Hermione. The madam left them, and at the direction of his date and with much embarrassment on his part, he got undressed and laid on his back on the bed. To his surprise, the young woman straddled him, facing away, laid down and proceeded to get down to business. With some further directions from the girl, he began to get the hang of the activity and things proceeded along.

After a while however, having consumed a large supper of beans, cabbage and beer earlier, the young woman was given to gas. In deference to her partner, she held it in for some time, but finally nature willed out, and she let go, right in the boy’s face. When she heard no protest from him, she shrugged and got back to work.

Except that it happened again, just a few minutes later. Again, hearing no comment, Hermione stopped what she was doing, turned her head slightly and said to the young man, are you all right back there?

To which he replied in a muffled voice, yes ma’am, this is very, very pleasant, but I’m not sure I can stand 67 more.

I continue to receive letters, emails, texts, telegrams and secret decoder-ring messages from many of my loyal readers (all couple of you), asking for advice on their love lives, dating, relationships, etc. I thought I would share a few of the more pathetic, err, sorry, interesting of these with the rest of you.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a hetero male, nearly 20 and employed in the animal husbandry field, specifically, I’m a tender of sheep, of the even-toed ungulate type, unlike the kind who follow our President. I’m also still, well, how can I put this delicately, possessed of my virginity, and I’m hoping you can help me with some advice about how to find and get in the pants of, ah, excuse me, find a nice girl with a mathematical background. I’m very inexperienced but willing to try anything, as long as beer and cabbage aren’t involved. Do ewe have any ideas where I can find the girl of my dreams? I’m counting…on you, Cap’n John.

                Baa Baa Black Sheep.”

Dear Sheep:

                Sorry, not really, but in the meantime, I would advise that you ignore Leviticus 18:23. I also understand that L.L. Bean is having a sale on fleece-lined knickers.

“Dear CJK:

                I’m an unmarried young woman in her early 20s, living in New Jersey and looking for love, though apparently in all the wrong places. I’ve tried the bar scene, on-line dating clubs, barn-raisings and even tried dating a guy that my friend fixed me up with; he was a shepherd, and not the German kind, although he did seem to like his animals. That went nowhere. How can a nice girl from Jersey find a mature man who wants to settle down, raise a flock of kids and then maybe someday go around the world with me? Can you help me, Cap’n?

                One Position Patty”

Dear Patty:

                As long as I’m in a Biblical mood, I believe you’ll find the answer to your problem in Fallopians, chapter 69, verse 67. Or was that Excretions, 20:16? Tell you what, check them both out.

Dear Cap’n John Krissongs:

                You’re my last resort, Cap’n…there’s just nowhere else to turn. I’m a divorced woman in my late 40s and a turret lathe operator at a local machine shop and pizza parlor. I’ve been searching all my life for the right guy; I thought I had my man back when I married my ex-husband, but he was a sheep farmer and after several years of marriage, he ran off with a German shepherd. (She was from a little town near Wiesbaden.) Now I’m alone and would sure like to have a decent guy to keep my feet warm at night. Sure, I could try fleece-lined slippers, but that’s a sorry substitute for the real thing. Any ideas there, Cap’n John?

                Lonely Lil From Libertyville”

Dear Lil:

                Did you know that Oregon State University’s mascot is a beaver? Could be worse I suppose…the nickname/mascot for the University of California Irvine teams is the Anteaters.

“John Cap’n Krissongs:

                After repeated attempts to collect this debt, you leave us no other option but…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear CJK:

                I’ve never written to a media god like yourself for advice about my love life before; I hope you can help me with your awesome intelligence and insight. (Oh, gag me with a shepherd’s crook.) I’m a single gal rapidly approaching 30 and still by myself; other than a few short relationships with men who only wanted to be with me for my money (I inherited $56 bajillion and a large ranch from my parents, who were wealthy cattle raisers), I’ve never even come close to walking down the aisle with someone. How can I find a man who is honest, decent-looking, has all his own teeth and doesn’t care about my money? Or is there such a person? Am I destined to lead a life of punching dogies and branding steers all by myself? Help me to lasso the man of my dreams, Cap’n John.

                Back At The Ranch Betty”

Dear Betty:

                Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Well, that’s all the time I have today for advice for the lovelorn, or any other type for that matter. Did you guys know that llamas are really just tall sheep? Yeah, honest, I wouldn’t make something like that up. (Yeah I would.)

Love and wooly mittens,

Cap’n John

NORTH, SOUTH AND OPINION_VOL II

(Editor’s note: this week’s column is dedicated to one of the nicest ladies in the Lone Star state…sweet as Blue Belle ice cream and pretty as a yellow Texas rose. Too bad she’s originally from Wisconsin and still a Packers fan. Thinking of you, Ms. Marycharles. 

Fishing, May, tad, North, South, bean, barber, utility, negative, positive and opinion.

I’ll explain that in a moment.

So here I am on a Monday morning with nothing in particular to do…my choices for activities include reviewing my health care coverage (yeah, good luck with that; I’m pretty sure they write that shit in Sanskrit, ‘cause that’s what it looks like to me when I read it), doing mean, sick things to the cat with a soldering iron (I’m just kidding; I don’t have a cat, but my pet gerbil better watch his little butt), learning to play the spoons or watching “Mole Men Against the Son of Hercules” (seen it).

Or getting an early start of this week’s post for the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog…a novel concept indeed. (For those of you who haven’t noticed, my breathtaking prose gets posted every Thursday…okay, sometimes on Friday when I run into an advanced case of writerius blockosis.)

Being the Captain and Master of the worthy vessel the R U Kidding is mostly reactionary…shit happens and I react to it, sometimes appropriately, sometimes not. (You remember when I tossed my First Mate Taffie Wetzel’s butt in the drink when she pulled that dumb April Fools Day joke on me last year? Yeah, that might have been a bit much.)

But being the CapMas of a sea-going barge like the Kidding can be a real power-trip as well…there’s just no end to the amount of shit I can get into with that much latitude. (Speaking of latitude, did you guys know that the exact center of the United States is located just outside Lebanon KS at 39° 50’ North/98° 35’ West?) And as long as we’re talking about “power-trips”, I bet President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump thinks that the exact center of the universe is located in his bedroom at the White House.

But that’s just my opinion, based on my impression of His Eminence, which under the First Amendment of our Constitution, I’m entitled to have and voice, should I so choose.

“Opinion” is in that list up at the beginning…types of “poles”. (Yeah, I know, it’s “polls”…I’m calling artistic license here, using the term very broadly. If I had said anything about the people living in the country located smack dab between Germany and Russia, I would have had to capitalize the word, and that would have REALLY screwed things up. Talk about being between a rock and a bunch of Commie snot-wads.)

Betcha’ PTB would love to call in the Secret Service guys and tell them to “nuke that asshole Cap’n John” for having an opinion with which he doesn’t agree…the First Amendment must be a large thorn in his side, if his reaction to Nancy Pelosi’s recent goading is any indication.

The first known example of an opinion pole, er, sorry, poll was a local count done by the Harrisburg Pennsylvanian newspaper back in 1824, showing Andrew Jackson leading John Quincy Adams in their race for the Presidency (Jackson was ahead 335 votes to 169 for Adams…since Jackson won, oooh, shades of Nostradamus, everyone in America now thinks that opinion polls are infallible.)

It’s gotten to the point where even YouTube won’t let you see the video you picked until you tell them which underarm deodorant you prefer…geez.

So I thought, and yes, I do that periodically, that it was time to come up with my own opinion poll, since the last one I did was ALL the way back in March of last year. (NORTH, SOUTH AND OPINION)

So here goes…most of these items are extremely thought-provoking, so make your choices carefully, otherwise you won’t get to see your video Attack of the 50 Foot Turnip.

#1) The “real” winner of this year’s Kentucky Derby, which was held in Lebanon KS for a change, was…

[]     a) Maximum Security;

[]     b) some other horse who had one of those little midget rider guys up-top;

[]     c) Sea Biscuit;

[]     d) all the people that bet big bucks on Country House, who paid $45 bajillion to win.

#2) If you were on the jury for the bribery trial of actor and arrogant snot-wad Lori Laughlin and her husband, would you vote to…

       []      a) convict and sentence them to life in a Siberian gulag;

       []      b) convict and then whack their peenies repeatedly with a piece of ½” garden hose;

       []      c) convict and force them to move to Lebanon KS and live with the peasants for the rest of their lives;

       []      d) shoot them.

#3) Mark Zuckerberg, owner of Facebook, Instagram and YouTube, as well as being Mr. Tremendous, is a…

       []      a) unprincipled asshole;

       []      b) serious unprincipled asshole;

       []      c) blight on humanity;

       []      d) all of the above twice.

#4) Golf would be a much more interesting game if it were a contact sport.

       []      a) True

       []      b) False

       []      c) Golf is an incredibly stupid game that wastes good land that could be used for cemeteries and horse-race tracks.

       []      d) Wouldn’t it be nice if Tiger Woods would go away and not come back?

#5) If you had your “druthers”, you would have…

       []      a) the front bumper of a ’57 Edsel Pacer;

       []      b) the hind-quarters of a Peruvian llama;

       []      c) the hind-quarters of a Siberian llama;

       []      d) 358 dollars in buffalo-head nickels.

#6) The primary difference between the Peruvian llama and the Siberian llama is…

       []      a) the Siberian llama has three testicles and comes with Independent Rear Suspension;

       []      b) the Peruvian llama has never won the Kentucky Derby;

       []      c) the Siberian llama is the favorite pet of almost-as-big-an-asshole-as-Donald-Trump Russian “President” Vladimir Putin;

       []      d) “dictator” in Russian is spelled p-r-e-s-i-d-e-n-t.

#7) How would you rate the job performance of Nancy Pelosi’s BFF President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump?

       []      a) two thumbs up…not;

       []      b) I agree with arrogant snot-wad actor Jon Voight who says Trump “is the greatest President since Herbert Hoover”;

       []      c) on a scale of 1 to 10, -5463;

       []      d) a Peruvian llama.

#8) If you could have any of the following, would you choose…

       []      a) a ’57 Edsel Pacer;

       []      b) the IQ of a doorknob, like Lori Laughlin’s daughter;

       []      c) two tickets to Paradise;

       []      d) 358 dollars in buffalo-head nickels.

#9) Which is the better rock n’ roll song lyric?

       []      a) “When she moved it was a dance” from The Treasure (Take 1) by Stephen Stills;

       []      b) “In this place, filled with empty space” from In This Place by Robin Trower;

       []      c) “Hopeless romance, here we go again” from New Kid In Town by the Eagles;

       []      d) “Choices were made to be made, and all of our dreams are dreamt to be lost” by some obscure guy you never heard of;

#10) Which of the following words appear on the label of Peter Pan Creamy Peanut Butter…

       []      a) “contains peanuts”;

       []      b) “contains nuclear waste”;

       []      c) “remove the 56mm framitz before inserting the red Lincoln log”;

       []      d) “may contain one or more of the following: peanuts, peanuts, peanuts, Peruvian llama parts”.

#11) Please answer as many of the following as pertain to you, so that we might have a better idea of who our respondents are. I am…

       []      a) Male

       []      b) Female

       []      c) Not sure, but will look

       []      d) a right-wing Republican snot-wad actor

       []      e) taller than most jockeys by several feet

       []      f) the owner of 358 dollars in buffalo-head nickels

       []      g) a resident of Lebanon KS

       []      h) an unemployed Edsel mechanic

       []      i) tired of answering opinion poll questions

Oh, and magnetic.

Love and surveys,

Cap’n John

NOW WHERE DID I PARK MY DUMBO?

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

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

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

A NEW SLANT TO THE NEWS.

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

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

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

~From President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~From Stephen King, author and liberal activist:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~From Mr. Benjamin Franklin, First American:

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

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

“Cap’n John:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Thanks.

                Rose Garden”

Love and gavels,

Cap’n John

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

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

ALL THE NEWS, SOME OF THE TIME, OCCASIONALLY

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

Reefer Madness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m not advocating here, merely reporting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could see this coming, right?

~Dateline Bangor ME:

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

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

~Dateline Philadelphia PA:

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

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

~Dateline Cowflop IA:

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

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

~Dateline Tampa Florida:

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

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

Good thing Glazer doesn’t own the Denver Broncos.

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

Love and headlines,

Cap’n John

SPAM SPAM AND SPAM

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

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

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

That’s right, ceiling fans, love bugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I am truly blessed.

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

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

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

                Sincerely, Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws, President,

                Fourth Nigerian Bank of Nairobi Switzerland”

~From DHL:

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

~From Big Dicks R’ Us:

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

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

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

~From Svetlana Titslova:

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

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

Love and love bugs,

Cap’n John

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

I GET LETTERS_VOL. III

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

Baphomet.

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

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

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

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

You’re welcome.

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

Please insert the requisite rim-shot here.

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

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

Yogi could play.

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

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

“Never answer an anonymous letter.”

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

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

Good luck stopping me now.

“Dear Scumbag Capen John:

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

                                Beanie N. Cecil, Presadent, Arkansaw Chapter,

                                Nashunal Union of Trump Supporterrs”

“T0: Cap’n John Krissongs

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

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

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

                                Sincerely,

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

“Mr. Cap’n John Krissongs:

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

                                Warren Peace, MLS”

“Cap’n John:

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

                                Lacy Underwear, Punxsutawny PA

“Hey Cap’n John”

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

                                Cliff Hanger, Mammary Falls NY”

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

Love and postage stamps,

Cap’n John

TWINS SEPARATED AT BIRTH??? YOU DECIDE.

OF BRASSIERES AND BIBLE STORIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s right, exhaust fans, brassieres.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus was indeed cool.

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

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

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

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

Love and birthday cakes,

Cap’n John