THIS MEETING IS NOW CALLED TO ORDER AND I MOVE WE ADJOURN_PART TWO

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

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

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

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

Penelope: “What’s ABL?”

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

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

#######

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

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

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

##AUDIO TAPE/MEETING/CABINET ROOM/13MAR20/1145 EST##

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White: “Ah, it’s Paula, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO ENDS…

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

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

(Voiceover announcer…)

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

Love and tape recorders,

Cap’n John

THIS MEETING IS NOW CALLED TO ORDER AND I MOVE WE ADJOURN

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

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

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

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

“Ah, guys, we’re on live…”

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

WE INTERRUPT TODAY’S EPISODE OF MISTER ROGERS’ NEIGHBORHOOD, “Mr. Rogers Meets A Three-Legged Burmese Hooker”, FOR THIS !!SPECIAL REPORT!!…

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

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

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

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

##AUDIO TAPE/MEETING/CABINET ROOM/13MAR20/1145AM EST##

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melonoma Trump, FLOTUS: “He hates you.”

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

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

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

Melo: “You heard it from your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART ONE ENDS…

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

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

Love and Dos Equis,

Cap’n John

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

I GET LETTERS_VOL IV

After all the years of training, the studying and privations, the seemingly endless, agonizing drills, the time had finally come.

He stared at me with his steely gray eyes, and then spoke in a voice that was hard with intent.

“You have your orders, soldier…this isn’t a drill,” he said, as he handed me a wrench.

“No, sir,” I responded, “it’s a 56mm left-handed kroysening wrench, sir.”

“You know what to do, Lieutenant,” he said, as he raised his right hand to his forehead in salute. “Dismissed.”

I snapped to attention and returned his salute, then spun on my heel to leave. As I got to the door, I turned back to him.

“Sir, excuse me, but I think you look wonderful in that cerise bikini.”

Back in November of last year, motivated by a remark made by an uber-sweetie person named Katrina, who is my boss at the Publix grocery store where I work as a part-time Front Service Clerk, after she had read some of my posts on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, I explored the idea that I might have a “for-real” author lurking about inside my cranium, searching for a story idea and struggling to break free of the restraints of writing “humor”; sadly, I came to the conclusion then, and certainly the above supports that conclusion, that I’m incapable of being serious for more than a few moments at a time, rendering it difficult to write anything of any substance.

It’s not that I’m unhappy with writing humor…shit, I think I’m hysterical; I go back and read old posts of mine and laugh like a crazed loon. Besides, I seem to be fairly good at it…hey, would a media guru like Anuj Agarwal (who?) of the RSS and website ranking service Feedspot.com have named WATRUK to their TOP 100 HUMOR BLOGS ON THE INTERNET if I wasn’t the second coming of Dave Barry, whose blog by the way is also on the list? (Okay, I had to bribe AA for the ranking…I gave him a bajillion dollars and lifetime free beer to get added.) (Okay, that’s a lie, I didn’t give him a bajillion dollars, but I did promise him the beer.) (Okay, I didn’t promise him any beer, I just submitted the WATRUK blog for their perusal, they perused and the rest is geography. Though I did beg and cry like a sissy-mary to be included.)

Damn good thing I don’t suffer from the agony of false humility, isn’t it?

I enjoy writing, something I came to in the “sunset” of my life…I enjoy sex too, but being in the “sunset” of my life, writing is a helluva lot easier to come by these days. Besides, when it comes to women, I’m like a dog chasing a car…if I caught one, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

I used to be compelled, back in my youth, to do really mean things to my pet guinea pig, Alphonse, with a Dremel tool, but I finally outgrew that and now find my day-to-day compulsion to be writing. I seem to get all fuzzy and twitchy when I’m not putting words on paper (okay, words on a computer screen).

****SPECIAL BULLETIN****

Sorry to break into the narrative here, but something occurred to me earlier that I just have to get off my chest…you guys heard about this lunatic Joey Chestnut, the guy who won the Famous Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest last Thursday on the 4th? Yeah, this nimrod ate 71 HOT DOGS (WITH BUNS) IN ONE SITTING to win this year’s contest.

SEVENTY ONE HOT DOGS (WITH BUNS).

****CONTENT WARNING****

(I’m about to say something gross.)

So here’s what I was pondering after I read about Mr. Glutton of the Century Chestnut…can you imagine the dump that guy must have to take the next day? EEEEEEEYEWWWWW. “Children, can you say plunger?”

Sorry.

****WE RETURN YOU NOW TO YOUR REGULAR PROGRAMMED BLOG POST****

Besides the HIGHLY PRESTIGIOUS Feedspot ranking (HIGHLY PRESTIGIOUS!) for the WATRUK blog, I also recently received a PM from a really nice lady I know down in the Lone Star State (every time the phrase “Lone Star” comes up on my radar I think about the movie Spaceballs by Mel Brooks…Google it so you understand and save me the explanation if you would) who besides being a published poet is a big fan of the WATURK blog, who said to me, “You are as funny as Dave Barry but with the wonderful dark chaos of the Marx Brothers.”

I sent her five bucks. (Seriously, what a nice thing for her to say.)

Speaking of writing (Holy John Steinbeck, Batman, that’s one of my smoothest segues ever), I’m getting a lot of feedback in the form of letters, emails, texts, carrier pigeon messages, etc., pissing and moaning, err, excuse me, commenting on a couple of columns I posted recently…mostly from whiners.

I thought to share them with you.

“Dear Cap’n Krissongs:

                This letter is in response to the remarks in your post of 6/20, wherein you viciously malign our starting quarterback, Jameis Winston; although I agree with most of what you said, as the new head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, I felt I should offer some feedback. It’s true that, sadly, Jameis has been “diagnosed with ‘Dumbfuck disease’” and that the “long-term expectations that he will ever amount to a cup of warm spit are pretty much nil”…well, now that I think about it, given the above, I guess I don’t have any response after all. You’re right, Jameis is pretty much useless. Never mind.

                                Bruce Ariens, Head Coach

                                Tampa Bay Buccaneers”

“Dear Cap’n John:

                As planetary spokesperson for Zatox (“The Best Little Planet In The Galaxy”), I have been directed by planetary officials to issue to Earth our most sincere apology for the return of Earthling Dennis Rodman to you after we abducted him many years ago; in retrospect, we now realize that, in the interest of improved relations between worlds here in the Galaxy and the elimination of an eyesore, rather than return him to you, we should have stuffed the ugly cross-dressing freak into the air-lock and shipped his butt off into the deepest reaches of outer space. We goofed…sorry about that. If you want, we can return Amelia Earhart as compensation; she’s a real sweetie and a helluva’ pilot and we’d miss her, but we figure we owe you one. Let us know, please.

                                Regards,

                                Wq56HH[rt] YYYY<>95hj, Planetary Spokesperson

                                Planet Zatox”

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                As head of the 556-person legal team that represents President Donald Trump, I have been directed by His Eminence to inform you that He is aware of the malicious and unwarranted comments you wrote on your blog recently re the attendance and general make-up of the events and participants at the gala “Celebration of America” here in Washington on July 4th, but rather than address these in His usual manner by tweeting something that is either inane or a bare-faced lie, excuse me, by tweeting a contradiction, in an effort at conciliation with the “Fake News Press”, of which He considers you a member, His Worship has decided to speak with you directly and asks that you make yourself available on Wednesday, 7/17, for a personal phone call. His Eminence will speak with you at 1:00pm EST, just after His normal lunch of several Big Macs, three pounds of fries and a chocolate shake.

                                Sincerely,

                                Rudy Giuliani, Head Lackey

                                The White House”

“Dear Cap’n Krissongs:

                My name is I. Dontknow Howe, of the law firm Dewey Cheatem and Howe and I represent Mr. Boris Badenov and Ms. Natasha Fatale; I have been asked by my clients to contact you and to advise you that, should you continue your libelous and defamatory remarks re my clients having been in contact with President Donald Trump’s campaign manager Brad Parscale to offer their assistance in the re-election of the President in your blog post of 7/4, they will be forced to pursue whatever legal remedies are available to them. Despite the fact that Mr. Badenov and Ms. Fatale are cartoon characters, they are offended by the alleged connection to the Trump campaign and feel that their “brand” has been damaged by this connection. While it is true that both Badenov and Fatale were spies/agents for an undisclosed Eastern Bloc Commie country during the Cold War, and worked vigorously for the downfall of “moose and squirrel”, they believe that any dealings with someone as unscrupulous, dishonest and altogether “stoopid” as President Trump is an awful reflection on their limited character…they may be sleezy, but they’re saints compared to Mr. Trump.

                Thank you for your cooperation in advance.

                 I. Dontknow Howe, Attorney

                 Dewey Cheatem and Howe”

Well, I can’t wait to hear what President “Twetty Bird” has to say to me on the 17th…probably not anything I want to hear, but then, that pretty much is the case every time he opens his yap to speak.

And you know what, I feel bad about Boris and Natasha…I always liked them when they were on with Rocky and Bullwinkle; back in those days, cartoon characters were cute, clever and funny. The cartoon characters in Washington these days? Not so much.

Love and the Postal Service,

Cap’n John

ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE FIRST_PART TWO

(INFOMERCIAL BREAK)

According to a number of the science-type folks who study planets and galaxies and stars and gelignites and stalagmites and such, some reevaluation was necessary here recently about the size of the Milky Way (the galaxy, not the candy bar) and just where exactly our Sun and solar system are located therein…apparently there was some confusion amongst the astronomers, the astrophysicists, the astrologists, the numerologists, a couple of the NASA dudes and the members of the Universal Rocket Atomics and Nautical Uvular Society (URANUS) as to whether the MW is 170,000 light-years or upwards of 200,000 light-years in diameter, as is now thought by many…if the second figure is accurate, by doing absolutely nothing, our Sun has moved closer to the center of the Galaxy, thereby increasing our rating as a solar system on the Corona® Star-o-meter Board and virtually guaranteeing Ol’ Sol and Company a spot in the New Chevy Vega® InterGalactic Games® on Planet Zatox next summer.

OMG, I got so excited writing that I think I peed myself a little.

To provide a little perspective as to just how long it would take to traverse 200,000 light-years using, say, a dog-sled and Chihuahuas…remember the last time you had to go in person to the DMV to renew your driver’s license and how long you had to wait in line (your “take-a-number” slip says #4,352,655 and the meter thingie on the wall says “Now serving…#7”)…yeah, about that long.

As I explained in my post of 4/15/18 (CONTACT, AS IN SPACE, NOT PAPER), a “light-year” is calculated thusly: 186,000 miles per second (the speed of light) times 60 seconds in a minute times 60 minutes in an hour times 24 hours in a day times 365 days (prox) in a year, or 186,000 x 60 x 60 x 24 x 365=5,865,696,000,000 (that’s FIVE TRILLION, 865 BILLION, 696 MILLION MILES).

In one light year. Now multiply that by either 170,000 l-ys or 200,000 l-ys, and you get a shitload. (Considering the mind-boggling size of the numbers involved in planetary physics, members of URANUS have been debating giving their organization’s seal-of-approval to making “shitload” an official scientific term.)

Think about how far this is the next time you’re circling the mall parking lot for the 4th time, looking for a spot closer to the door because you’re too lazy to park out in Aisle P.

(The above informational spot was paid for by the Universal Rocket Atomics and Nautical Uvular Society (URANUS)…blame them. The Editors.)

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, using those terms broadly…I’m Cap’n John Krissongs, your host and modulator…Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding…

In our post here on the WATRUK blog last week (ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE FIRST), our cracked WATRUK Investigative Team’s editors and writers presented Part One of the secretly obtained audio transcript of the summit meeting between Supreme Leader, Marshall of the State and Chief Notary Public Kim “Rocket Man” Jong Un of North Korea and the President of the United States, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump; you will recall that the meeting between the two rotund leaders was held in complete privacy, due to the surprising fact that SLMSCNP Kim in fact speaks English, enabling the men to meet alone, sans any interpreters or aides for either in the room.

(EXCERPTS, PART TWO)

When we left off last week, PTB (President “Tweety Bird”) had just taken a long look around the ceremonial conference room where the summit was taking place, after sharing some very mellow weed with his BFF SLMSCNP Kim, and queried Kim as to whether or not there were McDonalds’ restaurants there in Hanoi. “I would kill for a half-dozen Big Macs”, said the now-considered obese American President.

Kim, turning red in the face while holding in a huge toke, was unable to respond at that moment.

“You guys got Micky D’s there in North Podunk, don’t you?” the well-baked Trump rudely continued. “Whatta’ they have, like McPossum burgers or Moo Goo Guy McRib?”

The hefty Korean leader let out the smoke, coughing a little, and glanced at Trump with a disgusted look. “Man, you are so lost…(he begins speaking in a grandiose tone)…North Korea, under my benevolent leadership, is growing into a major economic power in the Asian market, and as such, my country has all the modern conveniences, like McDonalds and iPhones, (getting back to his normal squeaky voice), ‘course, we call them “EyePhones” ‘cause that’s about what you have to give up to buy one. Hey, they’re all peasants, what the fuck do they need a smartphone for anyway, huh?” He giggled to himself evilly and took another hit off his collapsible bong. “And we’ve got the Internet and Starbucks and microwave ovens and VHS tapes and Pepsi Cola and “rap” music and all kinds of good shit like that.”

Then Kim, with one eye closed against the smoke leaking up from his mouth, stopped for a moment and frowned at PTB, who sat just staring blankly at the NoKo leader, and said, “You’re a real racist asshole, Donnie, you know that?”

“No I’m not”, His Largeness managed to quickly retort. “Hey, I came all the way here to ‘Nam just for this meeting, just for you, right smack in the middle of fuckin’ RiceLand, and believe me, I sure as hell didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, that’s the second time you tried to avoid going to Vietnam, isn’t it? Couldn’t use “bone-spurs” as an excuse this time, could you?” Kim tucked his hands up under his armpits and “flapped” them, laughing and making “BOCK-ba-BOCK” noises at the same time.

“Hey, fuck you, Rocket Man, whatta’ you know? Big deal, “Supreme Leader” of some shithole piss-ant country somewhere in CommieLand, shit, I got more money, more golf courses and more slaves than you’ll ever have.” Trump began to rattle on incoherently, talking about kilotons and throw-weights and no collusion and nanoseconds and building a wall and plutonium dumps and Super-Sizing your order and on and on, getting louder by the moment, until he began shouting at Kim that America would “turn North Dakota into a parking lot” if Kim wasn’t careful.

The door to the conference room suddenly burst open and a crowd of Secret Service agents and Presidential aides, led by the President’s personal physician, Dr. Basil Leaves, a practicing psychiatrist, rushed into the room, grabbed the by now babbling Trump and hustled him out, down the hall and out of the building, into a waiting limo, which then drove off.

SLMSCNP Kim was very upset when his advisors entered and approached him. “Shit”, he said, “I didn’t even get a chance to ask Donnie how many bajillion dollars in foreign aid the U.S. would give me if I stopped building nukes.”

The tape ends there.

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

At this time, it is unknown whether SLMSCNP Kim and President Trump will meet again in the future to discuss the various issues that face the two countries.

In news from the business world, McDonalds Corp. announced today that the giant hamburger chain will be expanding its operations in the Asian market, and intends to build dozens more of their restaurants throughout China, North Korea, South Korea, Nepal, East and West Tibet, Japan, Lower Botswana, Siam, Burma and at any intersection in Asia where a Starbucks and/or a Wendys/Pizza Hut/Burger King and/or a Walmart is already located.

For all of us here at Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding, we wish you,

Love and asteroids (that’s what they call hemorrhoids on Planet Zatox),

Cap’n John

ENGLISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE FIRST

(INFOMERCIAL BREAK)

I really dislike hearing people yacking about the various programs of vitamin supplements and diet schemes and exercise regimens and the benefits of grazing in a field of timothy grass like a Holstein cow or purging your system with refined gelignite every lunar period (“quack nostrums”, as the great author Robert Heinlein once put it) or whatever “live longer” fad is “trending” these days. This includes all the health-food experts and/or the vegetarian goofs and/or the vegan nuts with their fitness magazines and their workout videos and their “up at o’dark thirty to run 56.89 kilometers every morning” and indeed the entire “Live Healthy” movement with their insistent and continuous implications, insinuations and hell, just coming right out and saying it, that if you follow their particular program, their advice, their ideas, their recommendations and bow in the face of their guru-like awesomeness, that YEARS AND YEARS will be added onto YOUR LIFE.

Guaranteed. (See fine print below, sucker.)

Yeah, thanks a lot, you asshats. Oh sure, I see it now, I take the bait and live a healthy active life, eat properly, exercise, avoid caffeine, nicotine, red meat and wanton women and I get my reward down the road.

WAY down the road…WAY WAY down the road.

When? When I’m old, and probably totally deaf by that time, considering the great running start I already have on hearing-challengedness, confined to sitting hunched over in a shabby, rusting wheelchair, my legs covered with a threadbare blanket, drooling all over myself, incontinent and just generally old-age icky. And I’ll probably have halitosis and sclerosis of the blowhole by then too.

Thank you so, so much. Big…effin’…deal.

Hey, Live Healthy Nazis, here’s an idea…ready? Take your “extra years” and drive them straight northbound into the Southbound Poop Shoot Tunnel…now, if you geniuses could have given me those “years” back when I was in my Twenties, when I still had my hair, still had my hearing, hadn’t taken on the shape of a pear and could be counted on to raise a pretty good boner more often than every several millennia, I would be mucho impressed. Mucho.

But you didn’t, did you? Shitbags.

(The preceding advertisement was paid for by the DriveItNorthbound PAC, and as such absolutely represents the views and opinions of the writers/editors of the WATRUK blog.)

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and I assume that covers most of you, I’m Cap’n John Krissongs and you’re not. (Thank you Chevy Chase.) Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding…

It was learned earlier today by the award-winning WATRUK Investigative Team, in a shocking follow-up to the recently failed summit meeting between Supreme Leader, Marshall of the State and Chief Notary Public of whatever Commie name the North Koreans are using for their God-forsaken country these days, Kim “Rocket Man” Jong Un and His Eminence, the World Supreme Commander, Master of, er, sorry, the President of the United States, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, that despite all reports to the contrary, SLMSCNP Kim does in fact speak English…that’s right, radiator fans, the Big Un was able to let Dealin’ Donnie know that they could speak directly, mano y mano, without the good offices of any interpreters, advisors, assistants or any other governmental lackeys or certified butt-lickers.

“Rocket Man” cover by Iron Horse

The source of this incredible news, who chose to remain anonymous so as to ensure that President “Tweety Bird” doesn’t have the guy’s nuts removed, said SLMSCNP Kim slipped a note to President Trump when they shook hands (see photo left). Our source was also able to provide the WATRUK Investigative Team with a secretly recorded audio transcript of the conversation between the two super ego-freaks, pardon me, leaders, just prior to the breakdown of talks, in which it became quite clear that SLMSCNP Kim not only speaks English, but can also do the Hokey-Pokey, and that Pres Trump couldn’t find his butt with two hands, a flashlight and a road map.

The following are excerpts from this transcript, as edited by the WATRUK Investigative Team editors…the Eds have taken the bold step of using an exact transcription, which includes all profanities, inanities and bold-face lies spoken by the two men.

(EXCERPTS)

(After greeting each other with the obligatory handshake and phony foreign-diplomat smiles, the two leaders stood silently until all their staffs had exited the room and they were alone.)

“Yo, Donnie,” cried SLMSCNP Kim as he turned to share with his BFF the also nowadays obligatory half-handshake with the right hand, half-right shoulder embrace with the left hand that manly men share with other manly men when meeting/greeting each other.

“Shrfio[rhwwnl”, replied PTB, his response muffled by the fact that Kim had his hand on the back of Trump’s head, pushing PTB’s face into his shoulder and garbling the message better than Trump himself usually does.

Art of the “Man Hug”

“Wassup, “Hung”? exclaimed the American Pres, when he was finally released from the throes of international “bro”therly love. “How you doin’, man?”

“I am totally chillin’, dude, totally. Welcome to Hanoi, Donnie…too bad we can’t sneak in a little side-trip up to Hong Kong, that place rocks. There’s a shortage of men in the Kong and all you have to do to get a broad there is grab’em by the pussy.” Kim looked at Trump with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah”, says PTB, “I’ve done that. Works great, just don’t say anything about it out loud or the press there in North Dakota will crucify you.”

“That’s North Korea, shitwad. Anyway, Donnie, think…what press?”

“Oh, yeah, forgot that…how the fuck did you get rid of that bullshit 1st Amendment, free speech crap, huh? Man, I wish I could get the Department of Commerce or the C.I.A. to overturn that shit.”

“You?” says Kim, poking the rotund American President in his ample gut, “You couldn’t turnover an apple with Betty Crocker’s help. Shit, your Congress won’t even give you money to build a crummy wall. If you had any cajones, you’d order your generals to march into the Capital one day with a division of troops and take the money you need. You’re a pussy.”

“Yeah? Well, if you’re such hot stuff, how come you live in a shithole country like North Dakota? Nothin’ there but hills and swamps and nuclear weapons facilities.” Trump smirked at the idea.

“Hey, Nimrod, it’s North KOREA…not Dakota, you flamer.”

“Korea, Dakota, what’s the diff? Shitholes. Hey, did you bring any smoke?” Trump asked his Korean counterpart excitedly.

SLMSNCP Kim’s brow furrowed. “I thought it was your turn to bring some.” When he saw Trump’s jaw drop, he burst into laughter at the sight of the crestfallen President.

“Ha, you flamer, got you.” Kim reached into his Chairman Mao jacket and pulled out a baggie of pot. “Hey, no shit, this stuff is some righteous weed, buddy. I got it from a guy I know, supplies Putin with his shit.”

Trump broke into a huge smile. “Let’s get fucked up and call Putin,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

Kim laughed as he packed some of the primo buds into his collapsible bong. “That’s a great idea. That fucker still owes me a hundred thousand bucks from our last poker game.” He handed a lighter and the little glass pipe to Trump, who took it, sparked it up and inhaled a ginormous hit of Commie Russian cannabis. Holding in his breath and the smoke, he handed the pipe and lighter back to Kim.

Kim smiled to himself as he fired up the bowl again, taking in a good-sized lungful of pot, just as PTB was explosively exhaling what he had been holding in. “Dollars?” said Trump, in between coughs, “you guys play for dollars? You don’t even play for rubies or gerbils, or you know, whatta’ you guys call your money there in North West, uh, you know, wongs or wangs or some shit? You couldn’t even play for your national currencies? That’s cold.”

“It’s the won, dipstick”, Kim said as he also exhaled a roomful of used pot smoke. He and PTB handed the pipe back and forth a couple more times.

“Anyway,” he continued, “you know what the exchange rate won to dollars is? Are you kidding me? No way I’m playing for that shit. And take rubles from Putin, are you nuts? They’d probably be counterfeit, that crook.”

“Yeah, good point. Whoa, I am seriously baked. That’s good shit, man, wow.” Trump looked around the conference room one way and then back again the other, encompassing the entire room. “I wonder if they have a McDonald’s here in Hanoi? I would kill for a half a dozen Big Macs.”

(RETURN TO REGULAR NEWS PROGRAMMING)

This was only part one of the WATRUK Investigative Team’s exclusive story on this shocking development that apparently led to the recent collapse of the summit between North Korea and America. The rest of the transcript will be included in next week’s post right here on the WATRUK blog.

For all of us here at Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding, we wish you,

Love and a long life,

Cap’n John

(FADE TO BLACK)

CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?

I think I may have figured out why President Donald “Tweet” Trump has such a problem with aliens…he’s confused. (And here you just thought he was an asshole.) Yeah, I have a feeling that whenever someone mentions “aliens” he immediately gets this image of creatures from “deep space” (see above), and freaks.

Can’t you just picture it? (Do the “wavy lines” thing that Wayne and Garth did in Wayne’s World here)…

(From inside the Executive Residence of the White House, with the First Family sitting around the dinner table, eating Big Macs and watching Jerry Springer while they dine)

                POTUS (frowning with concern): “My God, Melanoma, they’re coming for us with their “suck rays” as we speak, to vacuum the brains right from our heads…we just can’t let any more of them into the country.” 

                FLOTUS (wiping special sauce from her chin): “But Mr. Wonderful, you shouldn’t be concerned, you don’t have a thing to worry about. They can’t take what you don’t have.” (Note to script supervisor…that’s “FLOTUS”, not “flatus”…easy mistake to make in this instance.)           

                POTUS: “But Mel, I’m worried about all the suckers, excuse me, voters in the “blue” states that voted for Crooked Hillary…shit, there’s no one in Washington or in the “red” states that has a thing to worry about either. I’m just afraid of what might happen if these monsters land and try to overthrow the government…I still have ObamaCare to fuck up and those huge tax breaks for all my rich buddies to get through Congress. I don’t have time to deal with an alien invasion. Shit, I may have to nuke them when I get done with that fat fuck over there in North Dakota.”

                FDOTUS Tonka (raising her hand to be acknowledged): “But your Eminence, don’t you mean “North Korea”?”

                POTUS (waving his hand dismissively and talking with a mouthful of two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun): “Whatever…my degree from Wharton was in Econ, not geography.”

And on and on and on…

Were this to actually take place, you could make book that President Tweety Bird would welcome aliens from outer space, given that so much of his support is from persons of the far right, ultra-conservative Christian persuasion.

Why is that, you ask? Well, according to the Reverend Dr. Bruce H. Downing, who is the pastor of Northminster Presbyterian Church in Endwell NY, in his 1968 book, “The Bible and Flying Saucers” (I couldn’t have made that up if I had tried), Jesus Christ was an “extraterrestrial sent to Earth to rid the world of sin and wickedness”; you know that PTB, in an effort to further mollify his support base would, much like Gabriel, trumpet this all over Twitterdom, once he realized that these were “aliens”, not “aliens”.

Of course, I could be mistaken (not likely, I admit, but possible) but my theory explains a lot, wouldn’t you agree?

By now most of you know that I am not a big believer in segues, so I’ll just plow ahead, oblivious to proper literary form and good taste… 

Did I mention that I’m seeing the Next Generation Ballet’s production of P. I. Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker at the Straz Center down in Tampa next week? No? What a doofus I am. Yes, it’s true, an enormous yearning for culture overcame me a few weeks ago and I got tickets for myself and a friend… (the first time I read about the Straz Center here in Tampa, I misunderstood the word and thought it said “spaz” and I remember thinking to myself, well, that’s pretty rude).

I understand that the Straz is hosting a “Star Trek” compendium next summer…the play will feature Matt Damon, reprising the Captain James Tiberius Kirk character, with the other parts still to be cast; should be a blockbuster. (The big hit, not the defunct movie-rental place.) 

Did you know that Herod Antipas, the son of Herod the Great, the tetrarch of Galilee, built a beautiful city on the Sea of Galilee and named it Tiberias, after the Roman Emperor Tiberius? (I hope he was a better tetrarch than he was speller.) True, at least according to WikiPedia. And that Tiberias is mentioned in the Bible (Excretions 45:89), hopefully making this entire post come full circle.

President Trump has sworn to his faithful minions that no aliens will ever set foot in Tiberias either…he plans to deal with them just as soon as he has a handle on this Russian thing.

Love and rayguns,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I had this one left over and wanted to use it…

Mel and Don, at the gala White House Costume Party last fall…okay, I made that one up. 

I FORGOT TO ASK IF THEY HAVE A WENDYS

I am stunned.

Yesterday I learned something so disturbing, so unbelievable, so down right Un-
American that for a few moments after I read about this on the ‘Net, I was stunned.

Montpelier, the capital of Vermont, and in fact the smallest state capital in the country, with a population of 7,855 per the 2010 census, 54% of which are women, much to the pleasure of the local men, and home to the New England Culinary Institute and Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream…

…does not have either a McDonalds or a Burger King within the city limits. (I know a woman who, while pregnant with twins, craved ice cream so much that she and her husband named their newly born twin sons Benjamin and Jerald…damn good thing it wasn’t Haagen-Dazs I suppose.)

This is shocking, to say the least (something I rarely do.)

It occurs to me that this situation is so anti-everything we believe in as Americans that, certainly, some measures must be undertaken to address this calamity. It is unconscionable that the good citizens of this fine, upstanding New England town are required to drive 7-1/2 miles to nearby Barre to get their Big Mac or Whopper fix. 

I think an all-out write-in campaign and media blitz must be launched to convince the corporate hoodoos from both the McDonalds and Burger King chains to look into this matter and take immediate action to alleviate this gross injustice. I urge all of you to please contact someone in Vermont (although the population of Vermont is just over 600,000 people, so it’s possible you won’t know a soul up there) and light a fire under them to get this travesty rectified.

Otherwise, people of the Green Mountain State, you can have no expectations of a visit from President Donald “Tweet ” Trump, given his affection for Big Macs, if you do not.

And I’m sure that Montpelierians (no way I could say that word three times in a row with a couple of adult beverages under my belt) will be as devastated as I would be by this possible snub from the Pres.

Speaking of orgasm allergy (as you can probably tell, I think segues are vastly over-rated), I recently, during one of my several-times daily perusal of MSN.com for my news fix, came across an article that told the story (plight) of a man I’ll call Mr. O, who suffered from…wait for it…orgasm allergy. 

Whoa.

It seems that Mr. O is a 50-year-old married man, and has suffered from this allergy since the age of 19. Every time he ejaculates, Mr. O “experiences fever, weakness, exhaustion, loss of initiative, headaches, disordered speech, irritability, forgetfulness and frightening dreams, not to mention swollen lips and throat.” Yeah, not to mention. (Needless to say, puberty was the only time sex was any fun for this poor guy.) Further symptoms include loss of a day’s pay, halitosis, hemorrhoids, taxation without representation, voting Republican and rampant mopery. (Oh, the picture above? I couldn’t come up with “art” to depict orgasm allergy, so I decided to throw in a photo of a woman riding an ostrich. Hey, I’m not perfect, okay?)

The article goes on to state that, “The symptoms are so severe that he and his wife plan intercourse for Fridays so he will have two days to recover before returning to work on Monday.” (Then it gets serious.) “HE ALSO SUFFERS FROM PREMATURE EJACULATION, SO THE PROBLEM IS NO PICNIC FOR MS. O EITHER.” (Emphasis was mine.)

Okay, I’m back up at my desk after falling on the floor laughing, although I’m sure there is nothing humorous about this matter to Mr. and Ms. O.

Shit, and I thought I had problems.

Interestingly, Mr. and Ms. O live in Montpelier VT, and there has been speculation by the various doctors there that have treated Mr. O that the lack of good ol’ American fast-food hamburgers could be a causative factor in his case.

So come on, Vermontians, let’s get cracking and get Mr. O the fat-laden, empty calorie burgers that will help him get on the road to recovery.

Because man does not live on ice cream alone.

Love and two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,

Cap’n John