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