(Editor’s note: For the first time in the 3+ year history of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, today’s post will be written by a guest author, Walter Theodore “Teddy” Bear. Mr. Bear, who, despite his nickname of “Teddy”, prefers to be called by his first name Walter, recently became the roommate and companion of our regular contributor, Cap’n John Krissongs, and has penned this column at the request of the editors.)

Hi, my name is Walter…

A lot of people like to call me and my cousins “Teddy” but I like Walter much better; I don’t want anyone to confuse me with America’s 26th President, Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt, especially since I resemble the famed “Rough Rider” of San Juan Hill fame so much. (I don’t mind looking like T.R.; he was a great man and one of our best Presidents ever, but I’m sure glad I don’t look like that awful Donald Trump guy…he’s disgusting.)

For some time I lived with my Mom Robin and Dad Paul and my Brother Alex, who are all really, really nice people and who were always very, very good to me, and also with the other member of my first family, that horrible Ashleigh girl; she’d make me sit in her room for hours while she practiced on some noisy, loud apparatus that she held up to her mouth that had a big hook thing that she slid in and out of its tubular body over and over again while it made these awful honking sounds like she was strangling a Canadian goose, and when I’d cover my ears she’d stop torturing the poor thing and start doing mean things to me with a weed whacker, just because I wouldn’t listen…it was terrible.

One day Mom Robin asked me if I would like to go and live with her good friend Cap’n John; she said he was a nice man who was kinda’ lonely since he lived all by himself and that she thought it would cheer him up if I went and was his roommate. I didn’t want to at first, ‘cause Mom Robin had read some of Cap’n John’s articles from the Internet thing to me, and he sounded pretty strange, but Mom convinced me that he was a very nice man, even though he sounded like a perverted llama defiler in his “posts”, and since she said I could come back and visit her and Dad Paul and my brother Alex and that horrible Ashleigh girl any time I wanted, and since she said she’d give me a 100 bucks if I went, I said okay.

So about a month ago, Mom Robin took me to meet Cap’n John. At first I was scared, ‘cause he looked like a perverted llama defiler, just like he sounded, but he hugged me and said he would really like it if I came and lived at his house with him, and since Mom Robin already gave me the C-note before we left her house, I went with the Cap’n and became his roommate.

And boy, has it been interesting ever since.

Cap’n John and I do all sorts of fun things together since I moved in with him…we read books in his library and watch sports and music videos on the computer thing on his desk (and boy, does Cap’n John say some awful, bad words when he’s watching this football team called the Tampa Bay Buccaneers when they’re playing their football games…he says they suck big) and we cook food in his kitchen and eat our meals at his dining room table except for when we eat at his desk so he can watch sports and swear at his computer monitor thing some more. We laugh at stuff we read on that Facebook thing and I help when he fixes stuff at his workbench (last week we fixed Cap’n John’s glasses after he dropped them and they broke…he was having a hard time fixing them. And I wondered if people really do that to their mothers?) And there are some things that we do that Cap’n John says I can’t talk about, ‘cause he says that people wouldn’t understand and might think he was a perverted llama defiler. So I can’t tell you about those things. I just wish he wouldn’t make me wear those funny clothes and those high-heel shoe things. But it’s okay. (Cap’n John says I have a cute butt.)

Uh-oh, something weird is happening…


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

-Dateline Washington D. C.

“President Trump Issues Executive Order Naming Himself To New Position”

In another stunning and completely unprecedented move today, soon-to-be-former President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump issued an Executive Order naming himself to a new post that he’s calling the “Supreme MoneyGuy”, to be effective immediately. The new position, according to the President, is established with the issuance of the order, and among other details, orders the Internal Revenue Service to begin collecting one half of the take-home pay of all Americans and to have these funds deposited in an account to be called the “Supreme MoneyGuy’s Action Fund”. President Trump went on to say that the fund will be used to fight his never-ending legal battles over the recent Presidential election as well as provide money for the lavish lifestyle to which he says he and his wife Melanoma and children, daughter Tonka, sons Airhead and Tweety Bird Junior, are more than entitled, given that they’re already famous rich people who don’t give a shit about anyone else. When asked by RUKME White House Correspondent Penny Stocks if he thought that the executive order would stand up in court, given the recent total failure of his forty plus lawsuits over his enormous electoral loss to President-elect Joe Biden which have made him the laughing stock of the known world, Mr. Trump gave her the finger and then fall to the floor and began stamping his heels and screaming obscenities in a tantrum.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

Cap’n John took some photos of me around his apartment to kinda’ show you all the fun things we do together…

Here I am helping Cap’n John write one of his articles for the WATRUK blog…he says I’m a pretty good muse but he wishes I looked more like the Muse Serendipity in the movie Dogma, ‘cause Salma Hyeck played her, and that she’s so hot it should be illegal. I don’t know about that, but being a muse isn’t very hard work…all I do is sit here and look goofy, like most of the Republicans in Congress, or so Cap’n John says.

Sitting at the dining room table drinking our favorite wine, Chateau Les Seins 1996, while discussing politics…Cap’n John says that President Trump is a mendacious, narcissistic, reprehensible, misogynistic bag of putrid yak spleens and that he should be run out of Washington on a rail and then hung up by his balls with #3 piano wire. I don’t know, I think they should use #4 myself.

Sometimes we sit on the balcony and watch the world go by and talk about the weather…to paraphrase Mark Twain, we talk about the weather, but we never do anything about it. And then the nasty old lady from down the block comes by with her repulsive little Dachshund who barks at EVERYTHING and is as ugly as he is obnoxious, so we throw rocks from the flower pots at them and laugh like hyenas when we hit the little shit. (Cap’n John hates that dog.)

One of our favorite things to do every night before we fall asleep is to read a book for a half an hour or so…Cap’n John says it’s the best sleep-inducer he’s ever found, other than cannabis, which he says is also good for lots of other things as well, but he won’t tell me what they are. I’ve never used cannabis, ‘cause it’s illegal and Cap’n John says that the right-wing Christian redneck assholes in Florida will probably never legalize it, even when everyone else in the country realizes that marijuana isn’t anywhere nearly as addictive as alcohol or cigarettes, which are legal. Cap’n John also says that a lot of people in Florida couldn’t find their butt with both hands and a map, but I don’t about that. I know I don’t have any trouble finding my butt.

I was sooo embarrassed when Cap’n John took this pic…it was later in the evening after we had some of his famous (infamous) beef empanadas with jalapenos and frijoles and my stomach wasn’t feeling so hot…right after he took this picture, I farted so hard I fell off the seat and almost drowned in the toilet. What a nightmare.

So there you are, that’s how I came to live with Cap’n John Krissongs and some of the things that he and I do every day, now that we’re roommates. Even though he’s kinda’ strange and talks to himself a lot, I really like him and I like my new home too. We laugh a lot and make fun of President Trump and I’m really glad to be here.

And it could be worse, I could still be living with that horrible Ashleigh girl…she has a poster of Donald Trump in her closet where no one can see it and worships him all the time, that is when she’s not strangling that sliding apparatus thing that honks like a ruptured mallard. Cap’n John thinks she’s a cutie, but I’m not so sure. Anyway, thanks for listening to my story.

The above comments do not represent the views of the editors, except where they refer to President Trump as an asshole, with which we thoroughly agree.

Love and stuffed animals,

Cap’n John (and Walter)

Post Script…TG: just teasing, sweetie; I think you’re adorable and love you a mile.



Trump voters:

During a speaker phone call made on Wednesday, 11/25, to Pennsylvania Republican lawmakers, who were gathered to hear attorney Rudy Giuliani address them about alleged voting fraud in their state, former President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump said that “this election was rigged” and that “we won by a landslide”.

Here we are, nearly four weeks since the America people voted, and your man is still claiming fraud.

“Hair Dye” Rudy has been saying it, former Trump lawyer and “Kraken Releaser” Sidney Powell has been saying it, attorney Jenna “I Love To See My Name In The Headlines” Ellis has claimed it, a number of Trump Administration officials have been saying it and the more than 30 lawsuits that have been filed with various state and federal courts in the “battle ground” states by the Trump campaign/supporters have claimed it as well.

In fact, to refresh your memories, here’s what Donald and Rudy and Sidney and Jenna and a bunch of other folks have been saying and claiming in lawsuits since the election, in no particular order…

~ That there was “massive” voter fraud in the State of Georgia, and that voting software manufacturer Dominion Voting Systems and several Georgia officials were “paid to be part” of the conspiracy.

~ That “dead people” voted for President-elect Joe Biden in Georgia and Nevada. (This is a charge that surfaces with virtually every national election; indeed, up in Northern Illinois, where I’m from, Cook County is famous for its “cemetery constituency”.)

~ That there were “no observers” from the Republican Party watching the PA voting count in several counties. (When the attorney representing the Trump campaign admitted there was a “non-zero number of people observing the count” in the room, presiding Judge Paul S. Diamond responded acerbically, “I’m sorry, then what’s your problem?”)

~ That late ballots were illegally counted, also in Pennsylvania, and that the extended mail-in ballot deadline was “unconstitutional” and shouldn’t have been allowed.

~ That various elections officials in several states were bought off. (Another ancient claim…see “cemetery constituencies” above.)

~ That in Nevada automated signature matching systems were somehow flawed and their usage shouldn’t be allowed.

~ That Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg is a roving asshole and that five Wisconsin cities illegally accepted grants from Zuck earmarked to improve election systems. (The Wisconsin Supreme Court agreed that Mr. Like Button is indeed an roving asshole but tossed the suit anyway.)

~ That mail-in voters in PA were “wrongly” allowed to “cure” ballots with errors, but only votes made for President-elect Joe Biden.

~ That even after the State of Michigan had certified the state’s vote count, a suit brought by Michigan Republicans asked that the results be reversed, because President-elect Joe Biden is a “llama-faced ass bandit”. (Okay, I made that one up. Not the lawsuit, the quote. Sorry.)

~ That “Sharpies” were used to complete mail-in ballots in Arizona, resulting in invalidated ballots and an overvote for President-elect Joe Biden.

And on and on and on and on and on. And on.

According to a national poll by CNBC/Change Research, 73% of you folks that voted for Donald Trump thought that he was actually the winner of the election. And that over three-quarters of you don’t think that your guy should EVER concede the election.


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

-Dateline Washington D.C.

“Trump Says 2013 Papal Election Was ‘Rigged’, That He Is Really Pope”

In a stunning announcement made during a brief and contentious White House press conference today, soon-to-be-former President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump said that the Papal Enclave that was convened in 2013 and elected archbishop of Buenos Aires Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio to be Pope was “rigged”. Mr. Trump said that in fact, his name had been written on the majority of ballots and he had actually been elected Pope, but the election was overturned by Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone, who was the camerlengo (that’s Italian for “sheep bladders”) at the time, when it was learned that Trump is not only not a Roman Catholic, but also considers himself to be God. When asked by RUKME White House Correspondent Joan O’Arc what religious affiliation he claimed, Mr. Trump said that he and First Lady Melanoma had recently converted to become members of the Roving Spastic Church, a sect that was founded back in February of this year by humor blogger and Internet sensation Cap’n John Krissongs, and that he is considering, post-inauguration, of attending seminar to study to become a rabbit. When further asked by Ms. O’Arc if he meant “rabbi”, Mr. Trump gave her the finger and stormed from the podium.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your previously scheduled open letter.

Speaking of letters, this seems like a good time to answer the thousands (hundreds…well, dozens…okay, a couple) of inquiries I’ve received recently from my loyal readers seeking advice on how to seduce, err, excuse me, to find a lifelong companion and support system to enrich their lonely lives.

“Der Capn:

                im a lawn mantanance guy for larrys lawns and bushes her in macon gorja and im prod to say that I voted for doneld trump three times and it just burns my grits to see how the libtards stoll the lection frum mr trump this year. i need me a wuman to have arund the place, ya know, to cook and clean and maybe make some little trump votrs with. ive got most of my teth, tak a bath oncst a wek reglar, ben all the way to forth grad twice and got ma own 79 chevy pickup, pad for. Any idees wher i can find an ol redneck gal that likes possum meat, that ol ruch limbow guy and gone to tracter puls on satrdy nites?

                Rufus cornhole cts that mens sertifid trump suprtr”

Dear “Rufus”:

                There have been rumors on various social media platforms that Melonoma Trump might be leaving Donald once he is no longer President; you might want to contact her. I’m sure she would be thrilled to hear from you and, hey, let’s face it, her taste in men is questionable.

“Cap’n John:

               I’m a Trump-voting, gun-toting, Bible-thumping, God-fearing Christian woman in my late 50s who lost her husband six months ago to the Covid, and I’m back in the market for another. The doctors lied and said it was the Covid, but we know that’s a hoax because Mr. Trump said so. I’m looking for an older guy, like him to be a church-goer and maybe an NRA member too, a man who likes country music and FOX News. And none of that sex stuff either, that’s disgusting. Where can I find a guy like that, Mr. Cap’n?

                Lonely Lulu Belle from Lubbock”

Dear “Lulu”:

                You’re a lulu all right…geez. Have you tried hanging around the Shit-Kickers R’ Us there in Lubbock? Maybe you’ll catch the eye of some West Texas dirt farmer on his way through town going to the feed store on his tractor. Yee-haw.

“Dear CJK:

                I never thought I would find myself righting to some left-wing liberul blog guy for help finding a woman, but after three devorces, I’m getting depesrut. Im in my 30s and work at Dennys here in kissmee Florda, and I’m a proud member of Mickey’s Militia and the Holy Moly Pentecustel church, I got my own ar15 and i thnk Donald trump was sent by God to be Presdent. I need me a woman who likes fishing, hunting and gong to swap meets. I hate you for all the bad thngs you said about mr. Trump, but maybe you ken help me. You can reach me car of bobby Joe hatfield, twilleys Trialer park 234 mainst kissime fl. Thanks.”

Dear Bobby Joe:

                I suspect that if you spent some time at the local Walmart, browsing in the Woman’s section, that you might find the girl of your dreams. Or there’s an online dating service that you might try… Just a thought.

“Cap’n John:

                I’m not looking for “lovelorn advice” but I do have a question…what kind of sick, twisted person would use one of those cute, wrinkly-skinned little doggies to mark a ballot with? That’s just awful; is it any wonder why people who voted for Donald Trump were upset by this? It’s sick, absolutely sick. Wait, a friend just walked in and she’s reading what I wrote…OH, the PEN…never mind.

               Roseanne Roseannadanna”

Shit, I got interrupted by that News Flash and I forgot to finish my “open letter”…so, Trump folks, to quote President-elect Joe Biden, “here’s the thing”…





And the Spastics (my church) don’t have Cardinals either, with their silly red robes and their goofy-looking hats; our guys wear brown and orange vestments and we call them “Robins”.

DeeTeeBeeTee should fit right in…with any luck, pretty soon he’ll be a “jailbird”.

Love and ballot boxes,

Cap’n John


A couple of weeks ago one of my Facebook buds, a very nice man who shares a huge love of music with me, posted a video to my page, something we do back and forth with some frequency; it was Bonnie Raitt’s rendition of the old Del Shannon song Runaway. Just so happens that I was a big fan of the original, which was released in 1961, and I had heard Bonnie’s version previously and liked it very much…both are excellent examples of the rock n’ roll/pop genre.

If you’re not familiar with the tune, there’s a short bridge in the middle of the chorus where the music stops flowing and goes into a choppy, syncopated rhythm and Del/Bonnie goes, “…and I wonder, I why why why why wonder…” and then whoever was singing goes on to lament why the subject of the song, the Little Runaway, ran away. (In his version, Del Shannon did this phrase in a Frankie Vallie-type falsetto…since I’m pretty sure women don’t have a falsetto range to their voices, Bonnie didn’t. Shannon also had a big hit that same year with a song called Hats Off To Larry, in which he taunts the girl who left him and broke his heart when she gets dumped by Larry, the guy she left DS for, in a ha-ha-fuck-you-serves-you-right-you-two-timing-twat kind of rant…to my knowledge, Bonnie has never covered that song, since she would have to either be a lesbian or change the name to Mary to make the lyrics work.)

Anyway, Del and Bonnie aren’t the only ones who wonder; there are a whole shitload of things that I wonder about and have for years…for example:

~ Where does the electricity go when you pull the plug out of the wall…I mean, how come some doesn’t leak out and make a puddle on the floor below the socket? Is there a internal stopper thingie that keeps it in? Or is there a suction device inside the fuse box that shlurps it back in so it doesn’t rush out and zap your ass as you walk past? (When I was about five, I was “helping” my dad repair a faulty plug on one of the lamps in our living room…the old man cut off the bad one, leaving it, with about three inches of cord including exposed wire still attached, on the floor, which I then picked up and, unbeknownst to him, proceeded to walk over and stick in another socket there in the room. Needless to say, I have had a healthy respect for electricity ever since.)

~ Who the hell thinks up all these weird-ass drug names? My doctor put me on a blood pressure medicine last year (mild case) called Lisinopril (works great, gives me the poops sometimes). What the hell is “Lisinopril”? Was the guy who invented it named Lisino? How does the pharmaceutical industry think up this goofy shit? The clinical name for Viagra is “Sildenafil”; what the hell is that? Why can’t they just call it “boner medicine”? Prozac is “Fluoxetine” which sounds like some kind of antique musical instrument, you know, like “he was the ruler of Lower Zimbabwe in the 1500s, and in addition to being Lord High Poohba, he also raised albino Peruvian alpacas and played the fluoxetine”.

~ And speaking of musical instruments, what the hell was the guy who invented the trombone thinking of? What’s this with the huge slider thingie going in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out like it’s having some kind of weird brass sex with itself? Was the slider thing really necessary? I mean, trumpets are straightforward and decent and don’t have one, and tubas work just fine with a shitload of tubing (hence the name I suspect) without any of that disgusting in and out pumping nonsense. Geez already.

~ Why does the guy have to kneel in front of the woman to propose getting married? Why can’t the woman take the knee once in a while? I mean, I don’t have a problem personally with the “man being subjugated to the woman” thing; shit, let’s face it, women are WAY smarter than men, much more attractive, a lot less hairy and smell considerably better, so yeah, guys probably should “assume the position” right off the bat. And why do women always cry when they’re asked like they’ve just been given a million dollars and a free life-time supply of “C” cell batteries for their vibrators? Next time I get married (BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA, SURE) she’s going to kneel down and ask me. (Yeah, right, this from the guy who always had the last word with his ex-…actually last two…”yes, dear”.)


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

-Dateline Washington D. C.

“President Trump, Loser of Election, Invokes 28th Amendment, Sues Everyone”

In one more of his frequent departures from reality, losing President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today announced that he was invoking the 28th Amendment, which he claims allows him to bring suit against any American who didn’t vote for him in the election that he lost on November 3rd of this year, all 78 million of them, to seek redress for giving him a reputation of losing. Unfortunately for the loser of the Presidential election, there are currently only 27 Amendments to the Constitution. Mr. Trump, the losing candidate, went on to say that the Amendment, which apparently exists only in his mind, enables him to “correct this very bad thing that happened, very wrong, that I lo…that I came in second to Sleepy Joe Biden, which was very bad and these suits will fix this very bad thing so I’m the winner as everyone knows I am”. When asked by White House Correspondent Art Deco if this wasn’t just one more lost cause, much like all the other lawsuits that the President and the Republican Party have brought and lost, President Trump appeared to lose his temper, gave Mr. Deco the finger, lost his balance briefly as he stormed off the podium, where he turned the wrong way to leave the room, as if he were momentarily lost.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

~ For the longest time when I was younger, I wondered if Armadillo TX was the home of the eponymous animal, given the name…made sense to me. It was only a few years ago that I became aware that the city in Texas actually spells its name “Amarillo”, thoroughly destroying that idea. I was briefly devastated.

~ And who the hell exactly is in charge of naming things, anyway? Who comes up with words like “armadillo” or “zither” or “giraffe” or “dildo” or “rutabaga” or whatever? What ever happened to simple words like “goat” or “post”? Why couldn’t a “gazebo” just be a “shlarn”? It’s a lot simpler, and I think things are complicated enough in our world today without a bunch of snooty-sounding words like “integer” and “paradigm”, “nihilism” or “belsnickler”.

~ You have to wonder what genius came up with the idea for “non-alcoholic” beer…really? Really? Doesn’t that rather defeat the purpose of the whole thing? Yeah, I suppose there are some people who occasionally drink beer just for the flavor, but anybody who says that they drink beer JUST for the taste is a lying sack of rancid llama spleens. If flavor was the only reason people drank beer, the breweries of the world would have been out of business centuries ago.

~ Why, why did the guy who invented tennis back in the 11th century over in France put the friggin’ net smack across the middle of the court, where it’s right in the way? Are you kidding me? Shit, put the net around the outside to keep the balls in, yeah, that makes sense, but across the center, what is that? Tennis would be a much better game if they eliminated the net and just smacked the ball back and forth at each other. Maybe they could award points for how many times you could hit the opposing player. (Tennis would be a much better sport if they eliminated that obnoxious Serena Williams too.)

~ And you have to wonder if Nature was taking a nap after an extended lunch break when it decided to put the nose on a human being’s face directly above the mouth? Talk about a design flaw. Oh good, just where I want a runny, phlegmy, snotty, gross, disgusting orifice, directly on top of the organ people use for tasting and eating. Yuck. Right in the middle of people’s foreheads would have been a much better location for my money. And as long as I’m on the subject of “design flaws on humans”, who was the genius who gave men nipples? Great, faucets with no plumbing. (Thank you to the comedian Gallagher for that one.)


Talk about wonder…if that doesn’t make you shake your head in confusion, nothing will.

Oh, you guys heard the rumors? DTBT is going to star in a TV series, once he’s pried out of the White House; it’s going to be a remake of the 1960s sci-fi series, Lost In Space.

Hey, once a loser…

Love and questions,

Cap’n John



“Scientists”, a much reviled group these days, if you’re a supporter of our FORMER President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, tell us that the genus homo sapiens has forty-six (46) chromosomes in their genetic makeup. (A poll was taken some time back of people who supported DTBT…they were asked how they would react if they learned that they had a child that was a homo sapien; by an overwhelming majority, they responded that these children would be rejected by the family as evil sinners and cast down into the fiery pit of Perdition.) These same scientists also tell us that the common russet potato has forty-eight (48) chromosomes, two more than humans. The state of Idaho is the leading grower of russet potatoes in America; the state of Idaho also has 4 Electoral College votes, all of which were cast for DTBT in the election that just took place last week.


There’s a correlation there, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, in no particular order, for even I’m not that anal retentive, here are some observations on the 2020 Presidential election…


~ Now that I have that out of my system, I’ll move on. On Election Day last Tuesday, 11/3, I happened to finish the book I had been reading, Harvesting Llama Spleens for Fun and Profit by Al Legations, and was in need of something new to peruse. (I MUST have a book working at all times; I don’t do two or three simultaneously, as some voracious readers do, since my powers of concentration rival those of a 6-year old sometimes, but always, ALWAYS there’s one going. I read for hours every day, and if I could figure a way to read while I sleep, I’d do it. My ex- was also a reader…she used to read during sex.)

In recognition of the election that was then spinning out in front of my eyes on television, my local newspaper, the Tampa Bay Times, and on the ‘Net, I decided to go back and, once again as I have on several occasions previously, re-read the outstanding and Pulitzer Prize-winning series of books by author/journalist/historian Theodore H. White, The Making of the President…; Mr. White wrote five of these amazing accounts, starting in 1960 and continuing through 1972; he skipped 1976 and resumed in 1980 (the titles all end with the year being covered, thus TMOTP 1960, TMOTP 1964, et. al.) The reason he skipped ’76 was to write what I think was his best book ever, Breach of Faith: the Fall of Richard Nixon, which did not allude to the autumn season in any manner.

I was only on the second page of the introduction for the first book, TMOTP 1960, an account of the amazing contest between John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon, a campaign which included the very first live, in-person television debate between two Presidential candidates, when I was struck in the head by a meteor, pardon me, by Mr. White’s comment, speaking of the “politicians of America”, that they were men “whom I have found over the long years to be the pleasantest, shrewdest and generally the most honorable of companions.” (This was written in 1959, a decidedly different time in America.) Ted White passed on back in 1986, so he never had the joy of watching ol’ DeeTeeBeeTee and his antics during the first Presidential debate of the 2020 campaign, back in late September of this year; had he the same experience with Mr. Class and Decorum that his fellow American citizens had that night, I suspect he wouldn’t have been as lavish with his praise of politicians.

~ I will NEVER, EVER trust a poll again. Period. Landslide, gimme’ a fucking break.

~ Hats off to all the dedicated, seemingly tireless people who manned our polls and counting rooms during this election season; what an incredible and brave job these folks did. Thank you, thank you.

~ Upon hearing that FOX News had declared Arizona for Joe Biden, and then called the election, along with AP and other news outlets, for Joe Biden, saying that it was over, kaput, he’s done, stick a fork in him, and then having to listen to the various GOP heavyweights who began sounding the death knell for the Trump Campaign, I’m sure Donny was thinking (as I was), boy, like rats deserting a sinking ship, they couldn’t bail out fast enough…they were scrambling and stumbling all over each to see who could get off the Trumptanic first. Feel that cold water around your feet, Mr. President? Hope you brought a life preserver. Hey, we got what we wanted from you, a ton of business/environmental oversight reversed, a huge tax-cut for “the 1%” and a conservative SCOTUS who will most likely, speaking of sinking, oversee the dismantling of Roe v. Wade and Obamacare in the near future. Buh bye, Loser.




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

-Dateline Washington D.C.

“Trump Again Declares Himself Winner, Named SCOTU”

In yet another astounding press release, this one issued from the men’s room of the Narcissist Lounge at the famed Mar-a-Lago Club in Palm Beach FL, home of FORMER President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, DTBT said that, “Although I won the election by more than 200 gazillion votes, even though every state, all 63 of them, counted millions of fraudulent votes, votes that were against me and were fraudulent, which was a terrible bad no-no thing for our country, and even though I could be President for life if I wanted, because of the great, great way I handled the Covid thing, despite that Fauci guy, and the great, tremendous economy we had, and even though my lawyers are going to file 25 bajillion lawsuits soon to force all 78 states to not count all those fraudulent votes they counted for the corrupt Joe Spiedon and Emmy Lou Harris ticket, even though I am the greatest President in the history of Freedonia, sorry, America, I’ve decided I’m not going to be President any more. I received a message from the Universal Council of Galaxies this morning and I learned that I have been crowned Supreme Commander of the Universe, effective immediately, and I will be leaving for the Planet Zatox to begin my reign as SCOTU just as soon as Melanoma gets us packed. I really hate to leave Russia, excuse me, America at this time, since I’m so wonderful and I know that the country could really use my wonderfulness right now, but, oh well, it is what it is. I am great, aren’t I?” When asked by RUKME Senior White House Correspondent Annie Getyourgun if the Universal Council of Galaxies understood what a douchebag they were getting, Mr. Trump gave her the finger and abruptly left the podium.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

~ Gotta’ wonder what all the “Trumpers” out there are going to do, now that their hero has been defeated…one thing for sure, if they would leave the country and move elsewhere, the collective IQ of America would rise precipitously.

~ Tell you what, if I was President-Elect Joe and Dr. Jill Biden (doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?), the first thing I would do is have the White House maintenance staff fumigate and disinfect the entire mansion…they might want to bring in that little, tiny woman from the Poltergeist movie and have her bless the place as well. Just a thought.

~ I was watching CNN the other night when DeeTeeBeeTee made his now infamous proclamation that, despite all evidence to the contrary and the almost 75 MILLION VOTES cast for Biden/Harris, that, hey, fuck you, I won and every one in America that didn’t vote for me is a lying, cheating, fraudulent pusbag. When he was through “slobbering a bibful” as a buddy of mine from Texas used to say, they switched back to the commentator panel led by Anderson Cooper, which included “Frothy” Rick Santorum, who, when it was his turn to speak, said that, “Well, I know Donald Trump loves America”, which a) is a crock of rancid llama parts, because Donald Trump only loves Donald Trump and b) caused me to LOL, as the saying goes. Give “Frothy” credit, considering what a mewling whiny sack of rancid llama parts he usually is, it took some guts for him to then go ahead and skewer Trump for his remarks. (You guys hear about the elderly lady, who responded to her son’s text message that his wife’s mother had just passed away, by saying, “Oh, I’m so, so sorry. LOL.” The son was horrified and immediately replied, Mom, how can you laugh at this? To which she said back, laugh, I didn’t laugh, it’s not funny it’s awful. Son says back, but you said LOL, Laugh Out Loud. There’s a pause of a few minutes before the lady’s response came back to her son…oh, she says, I thought that meant Lots Of Love.)

(Reader will insert rim-shot here.)

~ Every time some pundit or reporter or commentator said “mail ballots” during the election, I’d get this mental image of “male ballots” and wonder, hey, where the hell are all the “female ballots”? I mean, come on, where’s the equality?

~ Someone in the Democratic Party needs to stuff Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and “The Squad” and all the rest of the FAR left goofs in Congress into the cargo hold of the rocket ship that’s taking Donald Trump to Zatox and send them off-planet as well; they damn near sank Joe and Kamala by making all Dems sound like rabid Socialists (Communists) to the “moderate center right” voters in the country with their 500 ZAGILLION TRILLION DOLLAR Green (as in the color of money) New Deal and all the other left-wing, “progressive” craziness. Geez already.

~ I’m gonna’ miss Donny…who the hell am I going to pick on from now on?


Love and recounts,

Cap’n John


In late August of 1962, the year I was 11, singer Bobby “Boris” Pickett, an aspiring actor and lead singer for a vocal group called “The Cordials”, recorded and released a tune called The Monster Mash ; it came out on Garpax records and was a variation on the “Mashed Potato” dance craze that was sweeping America at the time. The song went on to be one of the most-played Halloween tunes in history, which I think says a lot about popular culture in this country.

1962 was also the year that Old Man Adams scared the living shit out of my buddy Dan Haley and I on Halloween. (FYI, “Dan Haley” is a pseudonym…the names have been changed to confuse the illiterate.)

Some background…

Halloween is a contraction of the more formal name “All Hallows Eve”, a reference to the fact that it’s the day before November 1st, which is the feast of All Saints Day in the Roman Catholic liturgy, a time of remembrance of all those who have gone before us, i.e., dead folks. Given its connection to the “dearly departed”, a number of traditions have sprung up over the years, traditions that were linked to ghouls, ghosts, witches, dumbfucks and Republicans. (Oh, sorry, I guess those last two were redundant.)

Celebrations included such activities as the carving of “jack o’ lanterns”, which interestingly were originally made from turnips rather than pumpkins (the story of “Stingy Jack” comes from Ireland and is way too long to get into here) and “belsnickeling”, a German-American tradition where neighborhood children would dress in costumes and go from house to house, asking the residents to guess who they were. If the adults were unable to identify the masked little ones, then the kids would go and attempt to find colored eggs and chocolate bunnies with the ears bitten off that had been hidden all around the yard of the home…wait, that’s Easter, sorry. (No, I did not make up the word “belsnickeling”.)

There was also the playing of pranks, good-natured mischief in olden days, morphing to such activities as dumping people’s carved pumpkins from their front porches, “tee-peeing” peoples yards and trees and the old stand-by, “soaping” the windows on people’s houses. Of course, as a kid, I never engaged in any of these childish stunts. (Pinocchio nose, Pinocchio nose.)

Which leads me to Old Man Adams and my friend Dan…

My parents moved us to a brand-new subdivision out on what was then the far west side of Turdtown IL (remember the “names have been changed” thingie above…yeah.) It took me several weeks to find where they had moved, but I eventually did, and we settled into our brand new home in an area that was a bastion of middle-class families with obnoxious kids. Just about every house in the development, built right smack dab in the middle of what was once a huge corn-field, had a working Dad, a stay-at-home Mom and 2.3 children of various genders.

Block after block, street after street, house after house, we all had a Chevy in every pot and two chickens in every driveway, or whatever the hell it was that Herbert Hoover said.

All except Mr. and Mrs. Adams.

In the midst of all this “working class hero” shtick, surrounded by kids and baseballs and plastic pools and bicycles, napalm, hopscotch markings on the sidewalks, copper mines and basketball hoops on the garages, there sat the home of Old Man Adams and his wife, right on the corner just two houses down from ours. They were in their late 50s, reclusive, childless and unfriendly and frankly, they hated kids. (Living in that neighborhood and not liking children was like living on an island in the middle of the ocean and hating water.)

Adult nor child dare touch the precious grass of their lawn with a foot, you never knocked on their door to sell school raffle tickets or magazine subscriptions and under no circumstances could you run up in their yard and retrieve an errant ball. If a ball went into Old Man Adams’ yard, he came out and confiscated it, and then one of the parents had to go and ask him for it. (I thought Dan’s dad, a big burly Irish guy who drove a truck, was going to level Adams one time when he went up to the front door to ask for Dan’s baseball when it had gotten past me and rolled onto the Elysian Fields.) And the house was always dark on All Hallows Eve. He was roundly disliked by the adults and hated by the kids.

So Danny and I decided that Mr. Adams was going to get a surprise visit from us on Halloween night.

The Adams house faced Camford Street, my street, and their garage sat behind the house, around the corner so to speak, facing Fairway Drive, and there was a space of yard between the garage and the next house, so you could walk along the side of the garage, turn behind it and approach the back of their house, which Dan and I, both equipped with candle stubs, were in the process of doing that night, under the cover of darkness. (FYI, “soaping “ a window was no big deal…it came right off with a good soaking from a garden hose; candle wax required a WHOLE lot more work to remove.)

Crouched over and tip-toeing, trying not to giggle, with me in the lead, we crept along the side of the garage. I had just turned to Dan to shush him once more, and as I came around the corner of the garage, head down, I ran smack into Mr. Adams in the dark; he had apparently been hiding behind the house, anticipating such a prank from the hated neighbor kids.

I let out a terrified scream, turned and began to run, yelling for Dan to do the same; we didn’t stop running for about fifty-eight blocks. Old Man Adams had scared the living shit out both of us.

So since the “shit” was out (you’ll see where I’m going with this in a moment), we got even several evenings later.

After dark that night, Dan and I went back behind his garage and, sorry for the indelicacy, literally crapped in a paper shopping bag. We took said bag, which was decidedly odoriferous, snuck up to the Adams’ front stoop, put the bag down and set it on fire, then rang the doorbell and ran like hell down a few houses and hid in some bushes where we could see the Adams’ front door. And sure enough, the outside light came on and there was Old Man Adams, who opens the door, sees the conflagration, steps out, looks around, stamps on the fiery bag angrily with his foot and then, lifting his shoe up where he could see it, realizes what he has just stepped in.

To paraphrase what the great comedian Richard Pryor once said about retribution, we wasn’t mad no more either.

Given all the mystery and strange tradition surrounding the Halloween holiday, every year I receive a number of letters, emails, texts, etc., asking questions about this most scary of nights. I thought I would share a few of the more inane, excuse me, interesting of these with you, my loyal readers.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                Is it true that “name-brand” bar soaps like Dove and Irish Spring work much better for “cleaning” windows (wink, wink) than the more inferior “store brands”, such as Publix’ “Scrubba Dubba” or the Walmart brand “Soap”? Asking for a friend.

                I Only Do Windows Once A Year Wendy”

Dear “Wendy”:

                That’s absolutely true, and here’s a tip…you can enhance the cleaning power of these products by writing “Fuck you, Adams” in large letters on each window with a Big Dipper Pure Beeswax candle before applying the soap.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                My husband was carving festive Jack o’ Lanterns last year for our children when he had an unfortunate accident with his Husqvarna 36-volt chain saw and is now called “Stubby” by our friends. Can you suggest a fun (and safe) Halloween activity that we can share with our kids that doesn’t require sharp implements?

                Lefty’s Wife Laura”

Dear “Laura”:

                Well, you could thrill the kiddies and create all kinds of new and interesting decorative motifs in your home by playing the delightful game “Bobbing For Hand Grenades”, or possibly settle down in front of the big-screen with the little ones and a big bowl of popcorn to watch the video “Slasher John From Peoria: Buckets of Blood Part III”.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                We were wondering if there is any truth to the rumor that you can reanimate a dead body, assuming you’ve removed it from its grave within 24 hours of burial, using a combination of ZEP Wax Stripper, a tampon, two horned scullies, an artichoke and a 12-volt DieHard® battery?

                Dr. Frank and Igor”

Dear “Frank and Ernest (sorry, Igor)”:

               Yes, that combo will work, but only if the ingredients have been blessed by a priest of the Roving Spastic Church (a small fee is involved) and is done on a cloud-covered night with a full moon intermittently moving in and out from behind the clouds; there should be a giant rabid wolf howling in the far-off background as well. You might also want add a sprig of hemlock for flavor.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’ve been invited to a Halloween costume party and I’m having some trouble deciding on “who to be”…I thought about going as President Trump, but I didn’t want to use six pounds of orange makeup and an IQ reducer. Then I thought about dressing as a moron, but I didn’t want to use six pounds of orange makeup and an IQ reducer. I could probably put together a pretty decent “Wicked Witch of the East” costume but I’m concerned about falling houses. Any ideas for me?

                Costume-Challenged Connie From Cleveland”

Dear “Connie”:

                Did you know that besides being the armpit of North America, Cleveland is also the home of Chef Boyardee, the canned spaghetti king? And that Cleveland celebrates “Dyngus Day” on the Monday after Easter, which includes the crowning of “Ms. Dyngus”, every year?

Okay, by show of hands, how many of you thought “belsnickeling” was something dirty and disgusting? (And were looking forward to trying it, first chance?)

Love and black cats,

Cap’n John


When I was living up in Northern Illinois, home of Chicago style hot dogs (no ketchup!), the original McDonalds and O’Hare International Airport (the “Irish rabbit”, as a friend of mine used to say), I had a neighbor who was an avid hunter/fisherman…he was also a bit of a horse’s ass as well, but that has no bearing on this story. His name was Hunter. (Okay, “Fisher” would have been funny too, but who the hell names their kid “Fisher”? That’s almost as bad as those people on that ‘50s sit-com that named their kid “Beaver”.)

Hunter the hunter had all the equipment…the shotguns, the camo outfits, the gun safe, the vibrating larchmont, the fly rods, the piston rods, the special lures, the deer urine (don’t ask), a horned scully and a three valve tuba.

The one thing he didn’t have was a good hunting dog.

Oh he and his wife had a dog; actually, it was her dog. A Chihuahua…his name was Chico. Any time someone rang their doorbell, Chico the Chihuahua would go into hysterics, begin barking frantically, heroically, then after a few minutes he’d turn and run across the room, lift his leg and pee on their sofa.

The only thing that kept Hunter the hunter from strangling Chico the Chihuahua was the fact that he knew his wife would make him sleep on the couch if he did, thus ending his access to his conjugal rights and forcing him to endure the smell of dog urine all night.

So Hunter the hunter decided, with his wife’s reluctant blessing, that he was going to get himself a hunting dog, a blue-ribbon retriever to accompany him on his forays into the wilderness in search of game.

He got the name of a breeder from a friend and called the guy to make an appointment to drive out to the man’s farm to see what he had. The Breeder Guy told him over the phone that he, BG, had all kinds of hunting dogs, in all different price ranges. Hunter said he would be out the next morning.

Next day he heads out to the Breeder Guy’s place, and the guy indeed had quite a number of four-legged hunters. He had Labradors, Goldens, Chesapeakes, pointers, you name it, if it dove in the water and retrieved a dead animal after you shot it, he had it.

He even had Jesus Retrievers.

What the hell is a Jesus Retriever? asked Hunter the hunter, when BG mentioned the name. Never heard of it.

Oh, says BG, rare breed. Excellent dogs, very smart, learn how to “hunt” quickly, they can be taught to point, retrieve, row the boat, recite poetry, and most amazing, they never get wet when they retrieve…they run across the top of the water.

Bullshit, says H the h.

Tell you what, says BG, I have a one-year old bitch here (Hunter says, yeah, I have one of those at home who’s 35) who is already trained…she knows hand signals, she’s smart as a whip, beautiful coat, she’s housebroken and speaks three languages. Lemme’ show you.

So he showed Hunter the Jesus Retriever bitch, and she was everything BG had said. Hunter loved her.

You write me a check says BG, post-date it 30 days, take her out next weekend (the first weekend of duck season) and if she doesn’t do what I’ve told you, you bring her back. If she does, call me and I’ll cash that check next month.

Hunter the hunter thought, shit, why not? So he did. (He named her Mary.)

So Hunter took Mary out duck-hunting the next weekend, and she was amazing, and yes, she ran right across the top of the water when she retrieved.

Now H the h had a buddy, a co-worker that was one of those “anything you have I have something better” types…if you had a fast car, he had one faster. If you had a great gun, his was better. If you could play The Minute Waltz in 59 seconds, he could play it in 57, and if you had an enormous “schawnzsthuka”, his was bigger.

Great guy.

Now Hunter the hunter is thinking he’s finally going to shut his buddy up once and for all…when he sees Mary the Jesus Retriever, he’s gonna’ flip.

So on Monday at work, Hunter mentions to the buddy that he has this new dog, amazing animal, and that Buddy has to see it. You’ve never seen a dog like this…best dog ever. Buddy says his Lab is the best and H the h says, no way, mine’s better.

They make plans to go out the following weekend so Buddy can see Mary work.

And they did…and she did. Right across the top of the water when Hunter brought down a duck.

Buddy doesn’t say a word, but a moment later, there goes another mallard, and Buddy turns, brings it down and, sure enough, there goes Mary the Jesus Retriever right across the water; the only thing that got wet were her paws and her stomach, just a little, from the splashing.

Whatta’ think of her, says Hunter the hunter, getting ready to gloat when Buddy had to eat crow for a change.

Buddy looks Hunter right in the eye and says, can’t swim, huh?

(Reader will insert rim-shot here.)


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

-Dateline Washington D. C.

*Trump IQ Tests Show Interesting Results*

In an exclusive story from the Washington Post today, in a response to an earlier inquiry from the newspaper, Ms. Laurel Enhardy, one of President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump’s teachers at the prestigious New York Military Academy, where he attended school from the 6th through the 8th grades, was quoted as saying that, in results from a Stanford-Binet Intelligence Test, the President had an IQ level “that approximated room temperature”. When asked to elaborate, Ms. Enhardy said, “Donald Trump exhibited the IQ of a doorknob. We had to send another boy with him any time he went to the restroom to help so he wouldn’t catch his johnson in his zipper. He was dumber than a California Republican.” When asked by RUKME White House correspondent Warren Peace for a comment on the story, Press Secretary K. Lee McNinny responded, “President Trump has proven by his handling of the Covid-19 pandemic to be a ‘stable genius’, and Joe Biden is going to raise taxes on all American workers over the age of eight and will remove all wheat items from grocery stores.” When it was pointed out to Ms. McNinny that the minimum working age in almost every state is 16, she abruptly left the podium after giving Mr. Peace the finger.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

Let’s talk about anthropomorphism…

The classic definition of the word is “the attribution of human characteristics or behavior to an animal or an object”, or in simpler terms, electing a moron like Donald Trump to the Presidency of the United States, thinking he was qualified for the position. Such “characteristics or behavior” might be further illustrated by what happened recently at the Lincolnshire Wildlife Park in Friskney England when five African gray parrots had to be removed from the 200 bird population of the main outdoor aviary because they wouldn’t stop “swearing” at visitors.

Apparently the little fuckers, err, excuse me, the birds were encouraging each other to use “naughty language” and were telling guests to “fuck off”, “blow me” and “go to America and vote Republican” as well as using other terms of profanity. Zoo keepers said the air around the aviary was “blue” with the language and although visitors didn’t seem offended by what they were hearing from the birds, in an effort not to “ruffle any feathers” among the children that are frequent guests, the five offending (offensive) birds, Billy, Eric, Tyson, Jade and Elsie were moved to a different shelter.

After a brief obscenity trial was held in a local court, a verdict of guilty was reached and the birds were then taken out and hung. When asked if they had any last words before sentence was carried out, Tyson, who was the most vocal of the group, cried out, “Give me liberty or fucking give me death, you assholes.” He refused a blindfold and then smoked his last cigarette, just prior to his death.

It has become increasingly clear recently from news reports and stories that there seems to be a concentrated effort being made by members of the animal kingdom to “take over” the human world for nefarious gain, with reports of grinning dogs, and elephants that play jump-rope, skateboarding chimps and shoplifting gulls.

As the Head Pope of the Roving Spastic Church, I want to assure my followers and potential converts to our faith that we, as a Church with a pizza-based dogma, refute and oppose anthropomorphism in all forms, and will continue to resist this insidious attempt by the animal kingdom to subvert and slowly take control of human minds by their actions and deeds.

Do not take this threat lightly…today it’s swearing parrots trying to corrupt citizens with their vulgarities and profanities, tomorrow it will be humans who have been taken over by these furry and feathered fiends, to do the bidding of these bestial interlopers while more of us are being compromised by their animal propaganda and lies.

I stand fore-square against animal rule and domination, and I will continue to urge and to lead my people to resist all attempts to be brainwashed. (Except for being a sucker for puppies…I like puppies.)

Spastics! Believe in your Church! Trust your Faith! Stand tall against the oppressors! Fight the aggression from the animal kingdom!

And please, for god’s sake, let’s not return a guy with the intellectual capacity of a domestic cow to the White House.

Because that’s the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard.

Hell, Mary the Jesus Retriever is smarter than that.

Love and pet stores,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: Dedicated to my buddy Angel, whose last day is today…I’m gonna’ miss you a ton, sweetie. And hang in there, guys, this is gonna’ be a long one.)

Back in late 2017, after much deliberation and some encouragement from several friends, whose loyalty is above reproach but whose taste might be sorely questioned, not for being my friend, although I suppose that could be the basis for some close examination by the “Are You REALLY Friends With That Person?” police, but for the suggestion they gave me, which was to launch a blog site of my own, with the principal author/editor of said site to be…me.

Apparently some of the various things I had written and posted on Facebook led them to believe that I had some meager talent for humor and making people laugh, so, in lieu of sitting around and pulling the wings off of flies or otherwise abusing small animals with a hand-held propane torch, I decided that, yes, I would become a “humor blogger”. Thus began the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding website/blog.

And the rest, as they say, is Geography.

“I’ll take The World’s All-Time Biggest Idiots for $500, Alex.”

I won’t say that it hasn’t been a lot of work, because it has…a typical post (three a month these days) takes me somewhere between 12 and 15 hours to compose, which includes the writing, the gathering of the “optics” (you may have noticed that I really like old black and white photos), installing various links to articles and videos and a (large) number of edits, going over (and over) what I’ve written until I feel it portrays accurately what I’m trying to say.

Yes, I really do have a notion going in of what I want to say…it isn’t all by the seat of my pants, which is good, because I typically write in the nude, sans any pants that would have any kind of a seat. (Okay, I made that up, but I do wear my special “writer’s matching bra and panty set” when I’m working, in a tasteful cerise color. And yes, it’s a thong.)

So after I set-up the site, I created an FB page for both the Cap’n and the blog. And by the way, Facebook apparently does not recognize a birth date in the 21st century, so when I entered 10/1/2017 as my natal day on the at that time brand new page for “the Cap’n”, FB changed it to 1917, thus announcing to my friends and followers on the first of October that I was a 103 years old…oh good, I don’t already feel old enough, Zuckerberg and his crew of merry assholes had to make me feel ancient. Thanks, guys.

October 1st, 2020 marks the 3rd anniversary of the WATRUK blog, and in celebration of that momentous occasion (?), I have gone back over the past year and gleaned some tidbits from the posts I have written, a “Greatest Hits” if you will, and with your kind attention (or without, ‘cause it’s too late to turn back now), I will share them with you, my loyal readers.

Donations will be cheerfully accepted.


(Where I’m talking about a long-winded, single-sentence paragraph that I opened with)

”By show of hands, how many of you think that the opening paragraph was convoluted, too long, imprecise and utterly brilliant?”

(Talking about an Internet headline I’d seen)

“’Do You Know Your State Fish?’, and I thought to myself, no, not personally, I know him when I see him, waved to him out in the yard a couple of times but no, I never actually met him.”

(Another Internet headline)

“’Premature ejaculation…the brain inside your penis’, and I thought to myself, there being no one else here at the time, shit, that treacherous little (excuse me, amazingly large) bastard has gotten me into enough trouble over the years I’ve been aware of his existence, and NOW you tell me the damned thing has a brain of its own as well? Boy, there’s some good news. Besides, that’s as crazy as thinking that the people of America could ever get together and elect a guy like Donald Trump as President.”

(My review of a high-school band concert I had attended)

“If you take a 200-piece (that’s correct, sports fans, TWO ZERO ZERO) marching high-school band, composed primarily of musicians playing brass instruments, brass as in loud, shiny, heavy and loud, and place its members, complete with said instruments, all around the outer perimeter and up on the stage of what appeared to be about a 1200-seat auditorium, i.e. moderate size, and then have them play the school fight song at full march volume, to then describe the resultant sound as “loud” does not even begin to do the ensuing cacophony justice. Several elderly people fainted, a small girl, sitting directly in front of the tuba section, was injured when she was blown off her chair on the opening chord and a lady who had been crippled from birth suddenly rose up from her wheelchair and walked again.”


“Three observations about watching reruns of old football games on YouTube…1) at the commercial breaks, assuming whoever posted the video took the time to remove the ads, when the announcer says, “we’ll be back in a moment”, they really ARE back in a moment; 2) despite how it sounds, it really is nice to know who’s going to win, especially when the winner is YOUR TEAM; and 3) the 1985 Chicago Bears were the best team to ever play in the NFL…best defense most certainly, and probably GOAT for the entire squad as well. I invite dissenters to dissent.

Yeah, Go Bears! Or should that be past tense, since it was 35 years ago? Went Bears?”


(Talking about leaning against a wall when you urinate)

“You just kinda’, you know, let your left shoulder slump against the wall, and once aim is adjusted, to avoid the dreaded “hit the rim instead of the water and splash urine all over your leg” mistake, you let both arms hang limp at your sides and just lean there and enjoy the pee.”

(This one is self-explanatory)

”And as long as we’re on the general subject, please allow me an editorial comment here, if you would…ladies, I cannot for the life of me understand why you carp at men for not putting the seat down when they’re done peeing. Okay, yes, common courtesy would certainly dictate the return of the seat/lid to the down position, but sadly not all men are graduates of the Miss Manners School For Delicacy and Decorum. But really? Really? You guys aren’t smart enough to check behind you first before you park your butt on the crapper…I mean, it’s kinda’ like backing your car into your garage without first checking to see if the door is open. D’uh.”

(A letter I received)

”’From Sister Kitty Hawk of Makesme IL…

          ‘I represent the National Unified Network of Sisters (NUNS) and I have been asked by my sister sisters to advise you of our strenuous objection and opposition to your formation of a new religion, the Roving Spastic Church. We are deeply insulted by your obvious allusion to the Roman Catholic Church, and are further offended by the disparaging remarks you made regarding the various methods used by the REAL Church, the Catholics, to extort, er, excuse me, raise funds from our members to support our work. You are a vile, despicable, repulsive, sickening, disgusting, gross, opinionated fucktard and we hope you burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, or that you’re subjected to four more years of listening to Donald Trump, which would be approximately the same thing.’”


(My version of the Ten Commandments)

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

#1- No side gods…one is enough

#2- Don’t screw over Mom and Dad

#3- Church on Sunday, heathens

#4- No golden calves (see #1)

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

#6- No killing

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

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

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

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

(About the Church deciding that eating meat on Friday was no longer a sin)

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

~From AS I WAS SAYING… (7/19/20):

(Talking about old sayings)

“’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.’”


(A letter I received from Jay Silverheels, who played Tonto in the old The Lone Ranger TV series, looking for advice, and my response)

“’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.”


(A News Flash that hit in the midst of the blog post)

“-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…”

~From IS THAT YOUR PET, PEEVES? (8/31/20):

(On the proper use and frequent misuse of commas)

“’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.)”

“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.’”

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


(Talking about advice columnists and twin sisters Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren, whose nicknames were “Eppie and “Popo”)

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’?)”

I hope all my loyal readers (all a couple of you) have had as much fun reading the silly things I post on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog as I have had posting them here, because the past three years, despite Donald Trump being President, have been a lot of fun.

Thank you, thank you.

(I have matching sets in black, a dusty rose and ivory as well.)

Love and anniversaries,

Cap’n John


(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