MISSILE ANUSES

Now before I get started here, let me just say this…anyone who laughs at what they’re about to read will a) hurt my feelings, b) reveal him/herself to be an insensitive asshat, which I’m sure NONE of my loyal readers are and c) receive a visit from several large, ‘roided-out muscular men with poor attitudes and gonads the size of BBs, who will remove you from your home, take you out in the country where it’s quiet and repeatedly whack your peenie with a short length of 5/8” garden hose.

Back in the Jurassic Park days when I was a kid, when we weren’t chasing dinosaurs or learning to walk upright, we played board games, especially on those rainy days when outdoor activities were cancelled due to weather. Monopoly (or as my mother referred to it, “Monotony”) was a big fave, as was Life. The Big Three was rounded out by my personal favorite, Clue.

I was excellent at Clue…still am.

Yes, I did. I recently purchased the digital version of the game to play on my desktop computer, and have been playing frequently ever since. Okay, compared to Grand Theft Auto or Fortnite or one of those other violent, gun-laden, blow-up everything in the world grotesqueries that seem so popular these days with the Neanderthal crowd, Clue is quiet and boring. It requires you, and ah, the horror of it all, to think, to reason, to deduce. (Recent polls show that Clue is not well-liked by supporters of our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump.)

Besides, I like “murder mysteries”; I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, several Agatha Christies’, the Maltese Falcon as well as the Thin Man series by Dashiell Hammett, everything that Stephen King has written on the subject, in between ghosts, vampires and rabid dogs, a bunch of John MacDonald’s “Travis McGee” books and more.

Now I admit that the game is really nothing more than a remake of the old kid’s card game Go Fish…you roll, you move, you “suggest” and you try to get the other players to have to remove an article of clothing. Ah, okay, sorry, wrong game. No, you try to compel the other players to reveal their cards, by skillful bluffs and feints, while trying to reveal at little as possible about your cards and eventually figure out the “murder” was committed by Captain Ketchup with the chain-saw in the outhouse.

So to speak.

The one thing I’ve never been able to understand is why the creators of the game didn’t have the players use the names of independent investigators, detectives or “private eyes”, rather than the characters in the “plot”…I mean, come on, Mrs. Peacock goes into the Conservatory and immediately declares that, yep, the murder was done in this room using the Knife by, that’s right, it was me, Mrs. Peacock, yes sir, I did it, I was there when the crime was committed so I should know, I’m the one, lock me up.

Stoopid.

They could have done it like Neil Simon did in his outstanding movie Murder By Death…if you’re not familiar with the flick, a mysterious millionaire, Lionel Twain, played by author Truman Capote, who proved with his performance that as an actor he’d make a fine mailman, invites all of the world’s greatest detectives to his mansion to solve a “murder that will take place at midnight”. Milo Perrier (Hercule Poirot), Sam Diamond (Sam Spade), Dick and Dora Charleston (Nick and Nora Charles of the Thin Man series) and Sidney Wang (Charlie Chan, played hysterically by Peter Sellers), are among the “experts” who are summoned. The detectives could have moved from room to room, made their “suggestions” and then eventually caught the person responsible. (They didn’t in the movie, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Yes, that’s correct, I’m Ms. Scarlett and I bumped off Mr. Boddy (the dead millionaire guy) in the Kitchen with the Lead Pipe. Of course, I could have used one of those sharp butcher knives hanging on the rack on the wall above his head, but that would have been too easy…better to drag a conspicuous piece of plumbing throughout the mansion on my way to the killing.

It’s still a fun game, and I’m good at it, which of course certainly helps the enjoyment factor.

Moving along, I found this last week in an article about avoiding being bitten by an alligator here in the Gunshine State; I managed to misplace the link, but I wrote down the quote I wanted to use, so all isn’t lost. To wit:

“To avoid being bitten by an alligator, experts advise staying out of bodies of water.”

And thank you, Mr. Obvious Man…really, that’s your expert “advice”, stay out of the water, in a state where any body of water more than 3” deep could have a 12 foot ‘gator in it, hiding behind a couple of pebbles, pissed off that he hasn’t eaten a nice, soft, juicy homo sapien for a couple of weeks? Yeah, I feel MUCH safer now for sure.

And once again moving along, I saw a photo on FaceBook the other day of two female friends, who were hugging each other and laughing at the camera in that goofy way we all seem to take on these days whenever we or someone we know aims a cellphone camera at us, posted on the one lady’s time line. And by sheer coincidence, both of these ladies, and I don’t want to be indelicate or come across as a male chauvinist pig snot-wad here, are well-endowed. The pic shows them cheek to cheek and mammary gland to mammary gland, and although there is nothing sexual or “suggestive’ about the photo, it’s hard not to see the obvious physicality of the subjects.

And that got me to thinking about what a pain in the ass a really big set of breasts must be to women who possess same…how to do ladies keep from running into things with them all the time? Aren’t they constantly in the way? I mean, if I’m a big-breasted women, I’d be inclined to sling them over my shoulder when I was trying to do something that caused my boobs to droop down in the way. Lying on your back reading a book has to be an adventure…if you rest the book on your stomach you can’t see it, and if you put it on the other side, closer to your face, it’s too near to be able to make out the words on the page. The House of Representatives has been considering a bill to make it illegal for a women to have breasts larger than a “C” cup, but His Eminence, President “Tweety Bird”, has been quoted as saying that he will veto any legislation that reaches his desk that limits breast size for women. “Based on my experience with women such as Stormy Daniels and Karen McDougal, I believe that large-breasted women are a benefit to America, and I say more power to them. And unlike the Media, in this case “fake” is okay. NO COLLUSION, SEND’EM BACK!”

According to comedian Jeff Foxworthy, if you think 401(k) is your mother-in-law’s bra size, you might be a redneck.

And moving along yet once again, I had occasion to visit my new PCP doctor a few weeks ago (I left my former doctor when the thieves in his billing department decided that arguing over a crummy $50 bill, which I could prove I paid and they refused to acknowledge, was more important than maintaining good patient relationships…greedy cocksuckers), to become acquainted and to make sure I’m not dying of sclerosis of the blowhole or some malady equally distasteful. In the process of being poked and prodded, tested and checked and learning that I’m shrinking vertically and growing horizontally, my new lady doctor asked me if I had ever had a colonoscopy, which I have not, nor, as I informed her, was I intending to do so. Ever. Sorry, but (pardon the pun) to my way of thinking, that orifice is meant to be outbound only…”inbound” traffic does not have clearance to land on this runway.

Since I voiced my reluctance (refusal) to subject myself to this ignominy, Dr. M stated that the “insurance carrier” (when did these assholes start running the world?) would most likely require proof that I am not afflicted with colon cancer, polyps, tumors, stalagmites, termites or the above mentioned sclerosis, and told me that she would provide me with a “collection” kit that would enable me to test myself for “human hemoglobin from lower gastrointestinal bleeding”.

Yeah, except that, once you get to reading the fine print on the test instructions, it’s a “poopie test”…you get a card, a brush, a return envelope and 25 pages of gibberish, all of which allows you check your own stool, sans the doctor, the operating room, the “flexible tube placed through the rectum into the colon”, etc.

Sorry, Doc, but this one is a non-starter for me as well, just like the colonoscopy…I’ll take my chances, and screw the “insurance carrier”.

A buddy of mine had to take one of these “poopie tests” once, right around Christmas, and being a clever individual with an unusual sense of humor, he wrote “Happy Holidays!” on the sample card, complete with sample, that he returned to the lab.

Sometimes I don’t think these doctors and insurance people have a Clue…

Love and miscellaneous,

Cap’n John

Post Script…”PCP” above means Primary Care Physician; it does not mean that my new doctor takes mind-altering drugs, although if I had to deal with “insurance carriers” all day long, I might consider it.

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE)_VERSION 5.0

Step into the WayBack machine for a moment if you would, and set the dial for 1977, the year my daughter, Bronwyn the Flatulent (you didn’t know we were royalty, did you?) was born.

(Full disclosure: Bronwyn is not her real name…the name has been changed to protect the bewildered.)

I always enjoyed being a “hands-on” Dad…the dressing, the bathing, the hair-fixing, the diaper changing (although that would fall well to the bottom of the list of my fave baby activities, believe me), the shoe tying, the cruel and vicious beatings using weapons of brass construction, the playing on the floor together, I really loved it all; she was a good baby with a sunny disposition and a sweet little laugh.

(Phone rings in the background)

Excuse me…lemme’ get rid, sorry, see who this is…

“Cap’n John…”

“Hey, Tammie, wassup?”

“I’m sorry, it’s what?”

“Oh, okay, I guess I got that one wrong. Thanks for the heads-up.”

That was my First Mate, Tammie Wetzel; she monitors/spell-checks my posts in real time and tries to keep me from stepping on my johnson too often. Apparently, that’s “mass destruction”. Thank you, Tammie.

Anyway, I recall one warm spring afternoon when B the F was just a few months old and I was giving her a bath in the kitchen sink: I really hated it when my ex- gave her a bath…she wanted to get in with Bronny and it always made a helluva mess in the kitchen.

So there we were, the sink full of water, soap suds and a small naked baby; I was responsible for the bathing and rinsing, and Her Royal Babyness was responsible for the splashing, giggling and the soaking of Daddy’s shirt, an activity she approached with great diligence.

After a period of minimum bathing and maximum laughing and splashing, by both parties, it was time to end all the frivolity and get on to more serious matters such as cleaning up the mess we’d made in the kitchen and doing disgusting things to our cat with a salad fork.

I reached down and pulled the plug to drain the water and then picked up Her Babyness under both her armpits, holding her up facing me, getting ready to put her down on the towel I had stretched out on the counter next to the sink. As I held her up, eyeball to eyeball with me, I started making faces at her, which usually got her laughing and silly, which it did this time as well.

For a moment anyway, until she stopped, screwed her face up and proceeded to poop, one of those soft, yellowish baby poops that come from the consumption of nothing but strained marmets and apple/turnipsauce, all over herself, the sink, the counter, most of the kitchen, a good part of our backyard and the street out in front of the house.

Finished, she resumed laughing; she was, however, the only one in the kitchen who saw the humor in this.

A classic case of wash, rinse and repeat.

I told her mother later that evening that I was convinced the child would not see her 1st birthday, and if by some miracle she did, that I was further convinced she would have a solitary life as an adult.

It seems that a number of my loyal readers also lead solitary lives these days, by no choice of their own apparently, and they occasionally send me letters and emails and texts and telegraph messages, asking for my advice on how to meet that “special someone”.

Like I would have a clue.

Anyway, I thought I would share a few of these pathetic, err, sad tales of woe with the rest of you…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a mid-30ish hetero male and I make my living as a freelance fortune cookie writer; I’m fairly good-looking, have all my teeth and am the proud owner of all the albums ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company. Problem is, I can’t get a decent (or indecent for that matter) women to go out with me, no matter what I do. I’ve tried online dating sites, church groups, singles bars, tree-prunings, makes no difference, nothing works. I need some new ideas on how to meet “a sweet thing”.

                                               Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, My Love Life Is Crummy”

Dear Crummy:

                According to the State of Florida Wildlife Commission, there is only 1 chance in 3.2 million of being seriously injured during an unprovoked alligator attack; however, if you deliberately provoke one of those big fuckers, the ‘gator will be happy to assist you with your weight loss program.

“Dear CJK:

                Where does a smart, funny, attractive, 40-years old and totally hot professional dumpster diver find a great guy who would make a great partner? The only eligible guy I’ve met lately was some mope who wrote fortune cookies for a living and had all the albums ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company. I need some help here, Cap’n.

                                                   Diver Down”

Dear Diver:

                Well, for one thing you could stop hanging out in Chinese restaurants, and if the rank aroma wafting off the envelope and letter you sent is any indication, you may want to rethink the “dumpster diving” work as well; either that or provide any men you meet with personalized gas masks. As characterized by the late, great Richard Pryor, “She had ohDER!”

“Krissongs Cap’n John:

                This is your final notice before we begin proceedings…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I apologize for the carrier pigeon, but I’ve had a lot of problems with emails over the last few years. I’m a short, dumpy married woman in my early 70s and I’m planning to leave my philandering husband soon since he can’t keep it in his pants; I’m sick and tired of Mr. “I Didn’t Have Sex With That Sheep” and all his crap. Bad enough I had to suffer the ignominy of being beaten by a misogynous asshole who once said he grabbed women by their pussies, although he never tried to grab mine, thank heaven. (Sorry, I got off the subject there.) Anyway, I’m getting ready to start all over and I’m wondering if you can help me find a new mate, either romantic or running; any suggestions? (FYI, I’m straight…ignore all that crap about “crooked”, okay?)

                                                 I Thought Monica Was My Friend”

Dear Friend:

                Repeat these words…klaatu barada nikto. Now go away, please.

Well, that’s all I have the time for today, boys and girls; I hope you’ll all consider me when you have problems with your love life. Because my advice on “matters of romance” is about as good as the advice I give people about treating a common cold…try Jack Daniels, applied liberally; it won’t cure the cold, but you won’t care.

And in the immortal words of yours truly…

“Living alone means never being able to leave one ice cube in the tray so the next person has to fill it.”

Love and marital aids,

Cap’n John