I love the Internet.

I love all the information available online…me and Google are real buddies, and I’ve become close personal friends with WikiPedia and WikiDictionary as well. (Yes, I know it should be “Google and I”, but it sounded cooler my way.)

I always seem to be running into interesting little factoids when I’m perusing the headlines/news, and my education is growing by leaps and bounds. (Isn’t that a wonderful mental image?) So when I came across another of those “click-bait” thingies about “Greatest All-Time Movie Misquotes” or something like that, I was intrigued. I figured I could shove another few bits of random, unimportant info into my not-that-crowded-anyway brain, and clicked away. And off down the path to a higher enlightenment I went.

I’ll get to what I found in a moment but first a word from our sponsor…

I don’t know about you guys but I wouldn’t buy insurance (or anything else for that matter) from any company that uses that creepy-looking “Flo” character as their spokesperson. I’m sure Stephanie Courtney, the actress with two first names who portrays the over-lipsticked, 60’s bouffant hairdo-wearing Progressive Insurance lady is a very nice person, but her character just creeps me out completely. Almost as much as Macaulay Culkin or those repulsive Olson twins…those two look like the subjects of a PSA on the evils of drug addiction. (Of course, Mr. Totally Sophisticated has his auto coverage with the company that has a small, green reptile who speaks with an Aussie accent as their spokesanimal…yeah, I’m cool.)

(Announcer’s voice, with strong emphasis) “And now, from the deck of the R U Kidding, it’s the Cap’n John Comedy Hour, featuring our star, the Captain and Master of the Kidding, CAP’N JOHN KRISSONGS!” (Applause light comes on.)

Hey there, exhaust fans…here’s some of the examples of “movie misquotes” that I found recently…

~The line wasn’t “Mirror, mirror on the wall”…

                …it was “MAGIC mirror on the wall,”

~It wasn’t “Houston, we have a problem”…

                …it was “Houston, we are so fucked.”

~It wasn’t “If you build it, they will come”…

                …it was “If you build it, HE will come.”

~It wasn’t “You’re going to need a bigger boat”…

                …it was “You’re going to need a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon to kill that big-ass fish.”

~It wasn’t “Hello, Clarice”…

                …it was “GOOD EVENING, Clarice”. (And speaking of creepy.)

~It wasn’t “Nobody puts Baby in the corner”…

                …it was “Did your other daughter REALLY sing that stupid Hawaiian song onstage? Geez”.

~It wasn’t “Luke, I am your father”…

                …it was “NO, I am your father”.

~It wasn’t “Luke, I am your father”…

                …it was “Luke, I’m really your long lost sister’s neighbor’s mailman, as well as your second cousin on your father’s starboard side”.

~It wasn’t “Luke, I am your father”…

                …it was “Scotty, beam us up”. (Sorry, sometimes I get Star Wars/Trek confused.)

~It wasn’t “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn”…

                …it was “Frankly, MY DEAR, I don’t give a damn”.

We’ll have more Cap’n John and the Tale of the Three-Legged Burmese Hooker after these messages.

By show of hands, how many of you are as sick and tired of hearing about “the Royals” as I am? Geez already, Kate and Meghan and Goneril and Charles and William and Hortense and Camille and Liz and Oswald and Harry and Diana (the media still won’t leave that poor woman alone even though she’s been dead over twenty years) and Sarah (remember her?) and Phillip and Shaquille and shit, enough already. They’re not even AMERICAN royalty, they’re BRITISH for crissake, who cares? And even if they were American, THEY DON’T DO ANYTHING BUT MAKE HEADLINES FOR NOT DOING ANYTHING, WHO GIVES A SHIT? It’s like someone once said about that just-as-creepy-as-Flo Paris Hilton…”She’s famous for being famous.” Hey, if the people in the U.K. want to get all giddy and do the pee-pee dance over “the Queen”, more power to them…happy fish and chips or whatever.

We now return to Cap’n John Gets A Bikini Wax…

~It wasn’t “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too”…

                …it was “Kid, don’t screw with me, I got winged monkeys flying out of my butt”.

~It wasn’t “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore”…

                …it was “I’m AS mad as hell, and I’m not going to take THIS anymore”.

~It wasn’t “I’ll have what she’s having”…

                …it was “OMG, are you kidding me, that incredibly hot girl over there, beautifully faking an orgasm, is with that just-as-creepy-as-Flo-looking guy?” (I understand the actor that uttered that line was Billy Crystal’s mother in real life, just adding to BC’s basic creepiness quotient.)

And fade to black.

(Announcer’s voice, firm but sad) “Until next week, when the Cap’n rides the waves again…”)

Had enough? Yeah, me too…let’s talk about something else.

I’ve mentioned previously that, speaking of talking, I talk to myself, out loud, constantly, when I’m at home alone (BOY, THE WETTER YOU GET, THE OLDER IT WANTS). Whole conversations, back and forth. And I have this sardonic, mildly sarcastic “voice” that I answer myself with any time I’m being sardonic or mildly sarcastic.

Anyway, one evening last week I was working at my PC and listening to the Beach Boys Greatest Hits, specifically “L’il Deuce Coupe”, and at one point (WAY, WAY, WAY more than one…WAY, WAY more) I stopped what I was doing and started to sing along with the Boys. So we got to the part in the 2nd verse where it says, “…she’s ported and relieved and she’s stroked and bored…” and my sardonic, sarcastic voice kicked in before I could clap my hand over its mouth and said, “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind getting stroked and bored” and as soon as Mr. SarSar finished commenting, I mentally grimaced and thought, “OMG, was that disgusting or what? Geez.”

Okay, I have to stop now…I owe myself a 10% reduction in the number of words I write this week because my post last week (ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE)_VOL 6) was too long by about 33% (I try to keep my posts around 1200 words…I figure if I can’t bore you by then, I should quit) and last week’s was a whopping 1647. I was possessed by the ghost of Charles Dickens I guess. Anyway, I’m going to pay myself back over the next three weeks, 10% each week.

Hey, I would expect the same from you guys…it’s only fair.

Oh, and FYI (1), I got a call from 202-456-1111 the other day…more about that next week, in a slightly reduced (10%) post.

Love and Oscars, (It wasn’t “E.T. phone home”, it was…sorry.)

Cap’n John

Post Script…FYI (2), 202-456-1111 is the phone number for the White House, temporary (just not temporary enough) home of our current President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump. You will recall, I’ve had previous phone conversations with His Eminence, (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?) (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED) and I am breathless, breathless with excitement to tell you what happened when we spoke recently.

Talk about doing the pee-pee dance.

Post Post Script…Please please, do yourselves a favor and click on this link and then listen to Creedence doing It Came Out Of The Sky; I absolutely guarantee you will feel better about things. It Came Out Of The Sky is also the name of the forthcoming book from author Frank Lee Scarlett, which explores the origins and early life of our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump. Mr. Scarlett poses and attempts to answer such questions as, “Is PTB really the alien Second Coming of the Messiah (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING_CONTINUED) as he apparently believes?” as well as, “Why wasn’t a giant wall erected in outer space just outside the Earth’s atmosphere to keep these guys out?” and “Is there any way to trade him back to the aliens for a used synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon, a left-handed relief pitcher and a case Ex-Lax?”

WAY more.

You didn’t really think I was going to quit early, did you?


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


As many of you may recall, assuming that you’re approximately the same age as a redwood tree, back in 1952 Ernest Hemingway wrote the final full-length novel of his illustrious career, called The Old Man and the Sea, which told the story of an aging Cuban fisherman named Santiago and his epic battle to catch and bring ashore to Miami a giant marlin, and by so doing fulfill his dreams of bringing Major League Baseball to South Florida and to further allow Derek Jeter to make another bajillion dollars. (Interesting factoid…Ernest Hemingway had a little known older brother named Frank, who unlike his famous sibling, was never renowned for anything other than having heterochromia and excessive flatulence. The brothers Hemingway…Frank and Ernest.)

Today I’m going to regale you with another story, the saga of a young man and the sea…a VERY young man.

Shipmates, please allow me to introduce you to Leak Pohlups, Baby Sailor.

(Okay, by show of hands, how many of you immediately Googled “heterochromia” to see if it was an STD? That many?)

Leak’s father was a Polynesian sailor named Cantdoten, who left his native South Pacific home abruptly one day right after Leak was born, to avoid prosecution as a serial gerbil abuser; Cantdoten’s sudden departure forced Leak’s mother Lotte, whose maiden name was Lenya, to earn a living as a clam shucker, having no other marketable skills with which to support herself and her infant son, who by the way, was named after his mother’s uncle’s second brother’s other cousin.

Life was hard for Little Leak and Lotte, but there was much love and all the clams they could eat in their humble shack on the beach; Lotte shucked and Leak grew and finally, at the age of 23 months, seriously tired of clam chowder, clam stew, clam steaks and clam shishkabob, Leak decided it was time to leave the nest and seek his fortune in the cold, vast world. (If this were a TV script, there would be a commercial break here, probably for some erectile dysfunction cure or a new burger from Wendy’s…the Clam/Mint Jelly Triple Stack or some such.)

(FYI, the giant clam Tridacna Maxima is indigenous to French Polynesia, as are humpback whales and manta rays; however, despite evidence to the contrary, rays are not indigenous to Tampa Bay.)

A few weeks ago I was sitting at my desk in the Captain’s cabin of the R U Kidding, of which I am the Captain and Master, which is probably why they let me have the Captain’s cabin, reading the news on the Internet about how “the Nads”, the varsity baseball team from my alma mater (that’s Latin for “buffalo antlers”), the University of Lower Rockdale, was doing in the college World Series; if they win in the next round against the Scottsdale Community College Fighting Artichokes, they will advance to the semi-finals, to play the Banana Slugs of UC Santa Cruz. (I didn’t make up either of those names…honest.)

Go Nads!!

As I was reading, I heard a knock on the door of my cabin.

“Enter,” I called out to the knocker, and in walked my First Mate, Taffie Wetzel.

“Cap’n, the new deck-hand just came aboard,” she said.

“Is that the guy from Polynesia, uh, what’s his name again?”

“Leak Pohlups, Cap’n.”

“Yeah, Lake Patos.” (That’s in Brazil, I found out later.)

“No, sir, Leak Pohlups. Sir, he’s awfully young…”

“When you say ‘awfully young’, just how young are we talking here?” I asked.

“He just turned two, sir,” Ms. Wetzel replied.

“Well, that’s the legal drinking age in Burma, and he can own a handgun in Florida at that age, so I guess we can give him a try. If he doesn’t work out, we can always toss him overboard,” I said, winking at her. (Would the lookout yell “Baby overboard!” if that happened?)

“Yes sir,” she said, a little dubiously.

“Show him to the crew’s quarters, get him a crib, er, a bunk and then take him around and introduce him to the rest of the hands. Have Ms. Shepard show him how to shiver timbers and batten hatches later this afternoon after noon chow. And when you’re done, Ms. Wetzel, please go see the cook and make sure he has a good supply of Gerber’s on board.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Ms. Wetzel left my cabin shaking her head.

Later that day, the Kidding, with a crew of twenty, including myself, First Mate Wetzel, Second Mate Shepard and of course, Little Leak, set sail from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

We were 6 days out from port, on a course south/southeast and making a leisurely 10 knots, just after 8 bells, which onboard a boat is just past 4:00am, or the third Tuesday of last week about 35:16 in the morning in Florida, when I was awakened from an excellent dream involving myself, the Dallas Cowgirls, a backhoe, a zither and a 55-gallon drum of Orange Jello by a firm pounding on my cabin door.

I struggled to come to, threw the covers over myself to avoid embarrassment and called out to the pounder, “Yes, I’m awake, come in already.”

The ship’s Senior Sonarperson, Wally “Big Ears” Poindexter came rushing into the room, obviously all worked up over something.

“Cap’n John, I just spotted a YUGE mass moving our direction from really deep water, on a heading of 350 degrees, making 45 knots right towards us. It was less than 25,000 yards away and I don’t think it’s a sub, sir.” (That’s the boat, not the sandwich.)

“45 knots? Are you sure, BE?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve been tracking it for about 10 minutes now; it’s like that women you dated when we went ashore in Somoa…she’s big, fast and ugly.” Probably all the cookies, I remember thinking at the time, because she was quite horizontally challenged, like the north end of a south-bound water buffalo. But I didn’t need my Senior Sonardude reminding me of my, uh, indiscretions at 4 o’clock in the morning however…I had been in a bar that night and was seriously over-served.

“Never mind that, Sonarguy…keep your focus on the problem,” I said sharply.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

“If it’s not a sub, then it must be an organic (well, d’uh); how big is this thing?”

“Sir, it’s bigger than a humpback.”

“I said to forget that woman in Somoa, sailor…oh, you meant the megaptera. But 45 knots, there’s no whale I know of that can move that fast. Are you sure?”

“Yes sir, positive. Sir, I think it might be a giant squid.” (Low, ominous music began to play in the background, which was odd, considering we didn’t have a band onboard.)

“Okay, let me get dressed and I’ll be down there in a minute.”

“Aye aye, sir.” BE turned and left my cabin as I jumped, well okay, crawled out of my bunk.

A giant squid? Holy 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Batman, I’d never seen one before, despite all my many years aboard ship. But I knew Wally was right…they were big, fast and ugly, just like that woman…never mind.

Well, this isn’t good, I thought to myself as I struggled into my cerise-colored Spanx.

(Narrator’s voice cuts in here.)

“Will the giant Architeuthis attack the Kidding? Will the Cap’n and his crew survive this menace if it does? And what about Leak Pohlups, Baby Sailor? What will his fate be on this, his maiden voyage? And isn’t Architeuthis Latin for ‘buffalo antlers’?” (No, that was alma mater, you dipstick.)

Tune in next time when we learn what happens to our brave Cap’n, his ship and crew and of course, Baby Leak.

Love and tuna casserole,

Cap’n John


And boy, I gotta’ tell you, it’s gonna’ come just in the nick of time.

Back a few weeks ago, you may remember, I got an email from Bill (Isn’t It Amazing How Many Billions I’ve Made With My Shitty Products) Gates, telling me that, because I’m such a great blogger, all-around good guy and devilishly handsome to boot, he wanted to GIVE me $5,000,000…in American money no less. (“I HOPE HE DOESN’T START ANYTHING WITH BURMA EITHER”)

No strings, no gimmicks, just, here you go, Cap’n John, enjoy.

I didn’t take Microsoft Bill’s dough, however, because I think he’s a jerk and that his company and the products they make are huge ripoffs and I refuse to have anything to do with him. I may not be much, but I’ve got more integrity than Bill Gates ever thought of having…like Jesus, I may consort with sinners and debauched women, but I refuse to break bread with Pharisees. (Wow, that was esoteric as hell, wasn’t it?)

Don’t get me wrong, I could have used the money, or more to the point, my campaign could have. Yeah, the Cap’n John for President 2020 campaign is having some difficulty attracting donors and raising funds. To quote Mortimer Snerd, who would have thunk it? (I understand that Mr. Snerd is in line to replace Jeff (I’m Not A Racist Just A Roving Asshat) Sessions for Attorney General under our current President…he should fit right in with this administration.)

Let me clarify the above…the campaign is NOT having trouble attracting donors; we have many, many generous folks happily forking over, excuse me, donating a few dollars here and there, a couple of bucks, a fiver, but we haven’t been able to land those BIG BUCKS folks who drop large coin on political campaigns in the hope of a quid pro quo later on from the victorious candidate. (FYI, that’s Burmese for “insert the suppository gently”. Speaking of which, one day last week I looked into the bathroom mirror and noticed I had a suppository in my ear, and right then it dawned on me where my lost hearing aid had gotten to.)

I learned about this disturbing trend in our campaign financing yesterday, when I got a call from my Campaign Manager, Mack DeKnife; Mack was, to say the least, worried.

“Boss,” he said, “the money’s coming in, but in dribs and drabs…we got no big spenders throwing down the large bills.” (Mack has a colorful way of expressing himself, as you can see.) “The ‘Cap’n At The Wheel’ PAC is dead in the water right now,” he exclaimed, and that’s a term we sea Captains are familiar with and fear. “And I’m hopin’ you don’t have any ‘Stormy Daniels’ payments to make, ‘cause if you do, we’re in deep fecal matter, kid you not.”

“Well,’ I said, “we’re okay there, Mack, ‘cause 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. How much has the CATW PAC brought in so far?”

“Lemme see,” he said, as I hear him shuffling some papers. “To date, since we incarcerated back in January, we’ve brought in, ah, $126.38.” Not what you would call a king’s ransom. I sighed out loud.

“Yeah,” Mack continued, “we’ll never get time on CNN with that kinda’ dough…Fox maybe, ‘cause you know what kinda’ whores they are.”

But once again, an unexpected boon may save the day, and it came in the form of another unsolicited email from some rich guy, wanting to give me money for, well, just for being such a great person I guess.

“Hi,” it said, “My name is Charles Koch. A philanthropist, CEO and Chairman of the Charles Koch Foundation Charitable Foundation, one of the largest private foundations in the world.” Must be a pretty solid organization with that many foundations, I thought to myself, since no one else was there at the time. (Yes, I have used that line before…so sue me.)

It went on to say that Mr. Koch, who despite being a philanthropist, etc., apparently doesn’t understand the necessity to have both a subject and a verb in a declarative sentence, had decided to give $500,000 to “lucky individuals” and that I should consider myself “as the lucky individual selected to receive the above amount”. (Help me out here, mateys…is that pronounced “coke” or “cock”?)

So I called Mack back and gave him the good news. “Boy,” he said, “that’s a relief. We can sure use it. I was afraid for a while there that we were gonna’ have to do something drastic to get people to notice us.”

Now I like my camman a lot…he’s a great guy and a solid supporter of my candidacy, but he’s a little rough around the edges, if you know what I mean. His idea of “something drastic” could include gelignite, napalm or a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon.

“Jack, just exactly what do you mean, ‘something drastic’?”

“Well, boss, it’s like this story my old man tol’ me once when I was just a penknife…seems this here guy was walking down a country lane one day, you know, out for a stroll, and as he’s walking along he sees another guy up ahead, looks like some kind of farmer or something, and this here farmer, he’s standing in front of an ol’ mule who’s hitched to a plow and just sittin’ there, not moving, and the farmer guy is just jawing away at this mule, trying to get him to get up and get plowing. But the mule ain’t having none of it; he’s looking off in space like the farmer ain’t even in the same county as him.”

“So the guy walks over to the farmer and says, “Won’t budge, huh?”, which of course irritates the farmer guy even more. So he turns to the walking along guy and says, real sarcastic-like, no, I can’t get him to move; you got any bright ideas?

So the walking along guy says, yeah, I might, and he turns and sees an old piece of 2×4 laying in the weeds alongside the road. So he walks over and picks it up and then walks back and stops right in front of the mule, who’s still ignoring what’s going on between the two men.

“Are you gonna’ get up and plow?” says the guy with the 2×4, and the mule says fuck-you in mule and doesn’t move.

So the walking along guy hauls back and he cracks this mule, PayaaaM, smack in the kisser, and before the farmer guy could say a word, the ol’ mule shakes his head and then gets up and starts pulling the plow.

“See,” says the walking along guy, as the farmer grabs the reins of the plow passing by, “sometimes you just have to get their attention first.”

I told Mack that I had to go see about shivering some timbers and battening down some hatches and that we would have to continue this conversation later; I have no idea what exactly he has in mind to use as a “2×4”, but I sure hope it doesn’t have anything to do with that Michael Cohen guy.

Taking money from one of the Cock Brothers is bad enough.

Love and payoffs,

Cap’n John


A few years ago, on a warm, breezy early summer afternoon up in Northern Illinois where I was visiting at the time, on one of those rare and brief vacations I periodically take from my duties as the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, I was at my youngest grandson’s Little League baseball game, along with some family members and friends, and as we were standing around at the concession stand in between innings the subject of then President Obama somehow came up in the conversation.

Not a good topic of discussion with that group…sadly, many of my relatives are God-fearing, 2nd Amendment supporting, right-wing Christian Republicans whose disdain for Mr. Obama was deep and abiding. Much like the Dude from The Big Lebowski.

When I made a comment that was critical of the President, (as I recall, it was about his lack of a strong foreign policy), one of them turned to me and said, “Well, you voted for him”, in a tone of voice that implied that they equated a vote for Obama with having regular anal intercourse with a llama.

Now it just so happens that I hadn’t, (voted for the man that is…who I have anal sex with is my business) but they all consider me to be a far-left wing liberal, which I’m not, based on my avocation for sensible gun control laws and their belief that I’m a Devil-worshipping heathen due to my lack of attendance of any church, and as a group they all turned to me and gave me the ol’ stink eye, as if to say “llama defiler”.

They had just made, in their world, the absolute worst accusation they could make against a person (the vote, not the llama thing), and I stood before them, in their minds and eyes a condemned Cap’n.

So I quietly told them, although I was loathe to say for whom I had voted, since like the llama thing it wasn’t any of their business, that I hadn’t, and then further told them all to go and perform an unnatural act upon themselves with a trumpet and walked off to go back to my seat.

Barrack Obama is a fine and decent man, a man with whom I would be proud to sit down and hoist a few adult beverages, although I thought him to have been at best a mediocre President. But I have to tell you, to me, the accusation of having voted for him, true or not, pales in comparison to some citizen with a “Make America Great Again” bumper sticker on his/her car, right next to the Jesus fish.

President Tweety Bird is going to screw things up in a major fashion at the rate he’s stepping on his johnson recently, to put it mildly…the man is a blight on this country.

The phone rang here at my place yesterday, and since I wasn’t home at the time I didn’t answer it; later on, after I had returned it rang again, so since I was there this time I picked it up…the caller ID said “His Eminence, 202-456-1111”.

The White House.

“Is this Cap’n John Krissongs?” a women’s voice inquired.

“Well, that depends on who wants to know,” I replied, thinking this was a giant hoax, and that it was actually Visa calling, using some kind of new “masking” devise so you wouldn’t know who was really calling; I tried to remember if I had paid last month’s bill on time, or at all.

With no other response, the voice said, “Please hold for the President”, and the first thing that went through my mind was, why would that horse’s backside Mark Zuckerberg be calling me?

Wrong guy. (Zuckerberg just thinks he’s President.)

I heard someone pick up the phone on the other end, and in that goofy, high-pitched voice of his, holy Hail To The Chief, Batman, none other than PTB came on the line.

“Cap’n John, may I call you Cap’n John, this is President Trump, how are you today?” he said.

I was at once shocked and wanted to hurl at the sound of that voice, but I regrouped quickly and said, “Sure, if I can call you President Tweety Bird.”

“Well,” says PTB, “that’s a little rude, don’t you think? I am the President, after all.”

“Okay, out of respect for your office, how about if I call you Mister President Tweety Bird?”

“How about if we make it ‘Cap’n John’ and ‘Your Eminence’?” he replied, with a rather snotty tone in his voice. This is the Great Negotiator? I thought to myself.

“Here, let’s go with ‘Cap’n John’ and ‘Pres’; how’s that sound?” He grudgingly agreed, and away we went.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling you this afternoon,” said Pres, and I told him that was the understatement of the century, to say the least.

“Well, I wanted to reach out to a number of journalists and bloggers like yourself, people with a yuge number of readers who I hope will be unbiased and assist me in spreading my message of bullshit, sorry, of making America great again. As you probably know, I’m having some trouble with all the “fake news” media people like CNN and those lyin’ bastards at the Washington Post and the New York Times always misrepresenting what I’m saying and the things I’m trying to do as the Supreme High Commander of the World, excuse me, as President, and I was hoping you would help me out.”

Fat chance, Orange Boy, I thought to myself.

“Pres, I didn’t vote for you in ’16 and on top of that, I pretty much think you’re pond scum and a miserable excuse for a human being; I can’t imagine why you chose me to speak with about this.”

“You voted for Crooked Hillary?” he exclaimed indignantly. 

“No, Pres, I wrote my own name in for President on my ballot; I wanted the best person for the office, which is why I’m going to challenge you in ’20, assuming you’re still around then, which is looking more and more unlikely every day.”

Given how easy it is to distract PTB from whatever topic he’s supposed to be addressing once he feels insulted, which is most of the time, the conversation took a hard left turn here, sans the benefit of the appropriate turn-signal.

The Dodgers have started the ’18 baseball season at a blistering 4-7 pace, and so far look like they could contend for the NL West Division crown only if there’s some kind of Divine intervention, which would obviously have to come from the depths of Hades, given that I’m a devil-worshipping liberal to my relatives up in NoIL.

Oh, the rest of my conversation with President Tweety Bird? That’s continued until next time.

What, you guys never heard of a cliff-hanger?

Love and Presidential seals,

Cap’n John



It was the first of a new month and I was standing on the main deck of the R U Kidding, just aft of the mizzen-mast, talking to my 2nd Mate Gertruden Shepard about the newly begun baseball season, when her boss walked over to us with a silly grin on her face.

“Hey,” I said to my 1st Mate, Taffie Wetzel, with a nod and a smile.

“Happy April, fools,” she said. (You could tell she’d been waiting all day to try that line on someone.)

We all had a good laugh, and then I called a couple of my deck-hands, who had been busy swabbing the deck behind us, over to where we were standing.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Take Ms. Wetzel back to the stern, bind her up good and then put the plank in place…we’ll join you there in a bit.” TW turned to me with a look of astonishment on her face.

“Aye, Cap’n”.

They grabbed the 1st Mate, who was by now protesting loudly, and dragged her off aft.

When the boys had her trussed up good and tight, we walked back aft as well and with little to-do, made Ms. Wetzel walk the plank…sadly, she walked 11 feet on a 10 foot board, and in the drink she went. One of the hands up on the bow, not knowing what was going on, yelled “Woman overboard!” (Hey, I run a totally PC ship…none of that sexist iguanacrap on my boat.)

I only let her flounder for a few moments, then I had the hands tow her back in, just before a huge school of paranoid goldfish, masquerading as NRA members, moved in to attack her.

“Why did you DO that?!?” she sputtered, dripping wet, after they had her back onboard. “I thought you were going to let me drown!”

“Fooled you, didn’t I?”

Now that we have the frivolity out of the way I’d like to propagate a monumental sea-change here and, whoa, never thought you’d see this, did you, be serious for once, as unusual as that is.

April 1st marks the six-month anniversary of the launching of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and despite all of the nay-sayers and critics who exclaimed loudly that the Cap’n would sink and not swim, you and I and all the silliness that swirls around the Kidding are still going strong.

Okay, limping along vigorously then.

For the past six months I have been boring, excuse me, regaling you with stories of three-legged pigs, or about being a part-time Front Service Clerk for Publix, or with all my advice to the lovelorn columns (remember the three-breasted woman or the retired proctologist who lived in Whoopee Cushion FL) or my Cap’n John For Pres 2020 campaign, or Montpelierians, or my opinion poll, or my trip to the doctor to find out I’m growing a second head or the Antonin Scalia School of Holistic and Organic Legal Education (better known by its acronym ASSHOLE) or with any of the stories of all the other “interesting” things that I choose to expound on occasionally.

And through it all, you guys, my loyal and faithful readers, have suffered, er, sorry, endured.


So two things, mateys…one, I hope to hell that you guys have had 1/10 as much fun reading the Cap’n as I have had telling the stories; two, and here’s the big one, from my heart…thank you.

Thank you, 10Q, danke, gracias, domo arigato, feliz navidad, xie´xie´, e pluribus unum, spasibo, tierra del fuego, in whatever language you care to apply, I am very, very grateful to you all.

Like double-secret probation grateful.

You guys are awesome, I don’t care what Mitch McConnell says.

Hey, as long as we’re all here, how about a few “Cap’nisms”, wadda’ ya say?


                “…the First Amendment of our hallowed Constitution grants the nation’s citizens the right to pop-off with their opinions, any time they like, about anything they want to pop-off about. The Constitution was ratified in 1787 and Americans haven’t shut the fuck up since then.”


                “I know you Oswaldo, you’re not the kind of man who would let his laundry basket sit on the cowling of a P-51 Mustang that was painted orange and why was the persimmon?”


                “And FYI, “yo ho” is not how you say hi to a prostitute.”

                “Hey, it’s going to be under 30 degrees here in central FLORIDA overnight again, with a “freeze warning” having been issued by the county…you’re damn right I’m in favor of global warming. And it better happen pretty damn soon, ‘cause everybody down here is freezing their cojones off. What, are you kidding me?”


                “My wife of 25 years recently left me for a rodeo clown, who had a line of bullshit a mile long, a pimped-out Winnebago and his own barrel, and I’m thinking of celebrating by spending two weeks at some island resort, naked and drunk. Do you have a preference for vacation spots?”


                “I’m a retired proctologist living in a senior’s apartment complex in Whoopee Cushion Fl, and I’m having a problem attracting the “right” kind of women; so far, since I’ve lived here, the only woman I’ve been able to get a date with was an old-maid ex-turret lathe operator with three nipples and a pet iguana named Horace.”

                “The guy in the cubicle next to mine at work is a hunk, but he never says a word to me other than “hello” in the morning and “boiled llama parts” when he leaves at the end of the day.”

                “Well, you could march into his cubicle wearing nothing but an engineer’s cap and a big smile, carrying a left-handed monkey wrench, and announce that you’re there to tighten his lug nuts; that oughta’ get his attention.”


                “…a study done back in 2015 revealed that 11% of Americans think that the term “HTML” is actually an acronym for some kind of horrible disease. The report further stated that these same 11% couldn’t find their butts with a flashlight, a map and two hands.”


                “I’m sure Montpelierians (no way I could say that word three times in a row with a couple of adult beverages under my belt) are devastated at this news…I know I would be.”

~From “DID ANYONE CALL MISSING PERSONS?” 12/4/17 (on babies)

                “They’re generally cute, smell pretty good until they do something unspeakable in their diapers (something my ex- and I used to call a “special delivery” whenever my daughter left us one), sometimes noisy but mostly inoffensive, and although they add little to the Gross Domestic Product, they can be counted on to vote Democratic.”


                “-“Freshets Of Profanity” would be an awesome name for a rock band.

                “-do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around…order given by the Captain to the crew, or if he’s incapacitated, the Machinist Mate 3rd Class Cosign PiRSquared, to immediately after hearing the “Hokey-Pokey” horn, turn themselves around. That’s what it’s all about.”

~From “BOY, THE WETTER YOU GET, THE OLDER IT WANTS” 2/11/18 (on getting older)

                “…and it flashed into my mind that if I said something about needles being stuck to any of the kids at work, they wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the hell I was talking about.”

                “I gotta’ be careful farting that hard…at my age I’m liable to blow my spleen right out my asshole and shoot it across the room.”

~From “OH SURE, NOW YOU TELL ME” 2/3/18

                “From the wonderful Tony Bennett song, “I Left My Heart In San Francisco and My Spleen In Cleveland”.”


                “I once ate an entire box of Entemanns Cinnamon Raisin English muffins (with butter melted into them while they were hot, and with a big glass of cold milk…yes) right before I fell asleep and woke up alternately singing “God Save The Queen” and doing Freddie Mercury impersonations.”


                “No donation is too small, and as Bill Murray said in Ghostbusters, no fee is too big, so send in those dimes and quarters and $100 bills ASAP. And remember the immortal words of Will Rogers, who once opined that we should be happy we aren’t getting all the government we’re paying for.”


Hey, I haven’t had this much fun since the last time I had root-canal work, but I need to wind this up and get going…Ms. Wetzel just walked by the door to my cabin, where I’m working here at my desk, and when she saw me turned her head away and refused to speak to me.

I think it might be time for her to take another swim…this time I might let the NRA goldfish have her.

With all my heart, thanks you guys.

Love and anchors,

Cap’n John


Now let me say, at the outset of this post, that in no way am I looking for sympathy here, honest. But I thought that, given the loyalty and generous nature of the readers of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, I could unburden my soul here a little bit and you guys would understand.

It’s 8:00am on Christmas morning, in the year 2017 Common Era, and once again, I’m spending the holiday alone.

All by myself.

(I remember my mother’s fave taunt to me when I was feeling sorry for myself as a kid…she used to sing this to me…”Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna’ go eat worms…”. At one point, she irritated me enough with this bit of bullshit to consider going and getting some worms from our backyard and putting them in my mouth, hanging out so she could see them, just to bust her chops, but I decided it was too disgusting. She was an unpleasant old bag.) 

I’ve spent holidays alone previously, mostly after I left the Midwest, where the bulk of my family and friends still live, to travel to sunny Southern California back in 2000, so this is nothing new. I had a number of years when I was able to return for visits, and some years when I couldn’t/didn’t.

But this year, for some reason I’m having difficulty understanding, it’s bothering me that, shit, here I am again, all by myself.

(Speaking of remembering things marginally distasteful, how about that plaintive cry of a tune by Eric Carmen from back in the caveman times of 1975…)

I had a falling out with my very good friend of many years XXX (not his real name…d’uh) recently; he and I, since we both suffered from the absence of family for having relocated to Florida back in 2015, have for the past several years gotten together and had our small celebrations on Thanksgiving and on Christmas if we were both in town (usually with pizza and football…hey, no one can say I’m not a traditionalist), but not so this year; I have no idea if he’s even here in town at the moment. (And despite how monumentally pissed off I am at him right now, I hope he’s okay.)

I do know that he’s not coming to my place today, nor is anyone else. Not even Santa, the old fart.

So XXX is off the radar, and my family, such as it is (and under no circumstances am I getting into THAT disaster) is also MIA, much to my disgust. I’m working on making some new friends here in the Sunshine State, but friend-making for me has always been slow and cautious, so, woe is me, I have the “I’m All By Myself On Christmas Blues”.

I vacillate between sticking out my lower lip in feigned injury and quoting Ebenezer Scrooge—->

Now please, let’s not everyone get all drippy and treacly here; no one ever dies of “aloneness”; at least I don’t think you can. (By show of hands, how many of you think “treacly” is a really cool word? Okay, put your hands down now.) I mean, there are worse things that could happen, like having Donald Trump be elected President. Oh, that’s right, that actually happened, didn’t it?

Anyway, I sent a bunch of texts/emails out earlier this morning to various persons to whom I cared to express holiday good wishes, and I’ll hear back from them as the day progresses, and that’s fine, but it isn’t much of a substitute. However, I’m thinking that a large infusion of cash into the Cap’n John Krissongs bank account might alleviate the pain and misery. (To quote one of my fave comedians, Judy Tenuta, hey, it could happen.) 

So here’s my idea…any of you who feel so moved by my sad state of Christmas affairs can send a monetary stipend, hopefully in large denomination bills, to:

                The Let’s Make Cap’n John Feel Better This Christmas Fund

                P.O. Box 98765432-1/2

                Lionel, excuse me, New Port Richey FL 00001.365

Or possibly you could all get together and get me one of these as compensation for my agonizing “aloneness”…you can have it delivered to the above address; my buddy Rob at Goin’ Postal here in NPR (what a great name for a p.o. box store) will sign for it. 

I’m sure I could manage to bear up under this crushing depression if you guys did.

Love and eggnog,

Cap’n John

Post script…and please, I don’t mean to denigrate in any way the horrors of loneliness that people suffer from at this time of year, and if any of you are so burdened, tell you what…call me and we’ll make fun of Trump, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Congress, that ridiculous Steve Bannon guy, the L.A. Dodgers, that repulsive Tonka Trump or whatever her name is or whatever subject you think will give you some cheer…727-336-5654.

Believe me, been there, done that, and I care, ‘cause it sucks.

Post post script…just an FYI, but that’s a 2017 Ford GT40 above…not to be confused with the Ford Focus. Just wanted to make that clear for when you go shopping. (Insert “winky-face” here.)

You know, I feel better…think I’ll go have some Christmas pizza.



Free beer for everyone…

Considering the number of folks who are regular readers of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, that would amount to approximately a six-pack, making my investment rather minimal. As Otter said in Animal House, it was time for a futile and stupid gesture on my part.

It’s been several weeks since I’ve posted a series of photos/captions, and since I really enjoy these, along with the Facebook friends of an Facebook friend (hi, Angel and Emma, happy day to you), I figured it was time. And I’m dedicating today’s post to an old friend (well, she’s not THAT old); happy happy, Ms. LB…sorry I’ve been such a shitty friend lately, but the call of the sea has just been too strong.

So here we go, together, to have and to hold, from this day forward, in sickness and in…well, never mind that now.

“Okay, Andre got the bread, Francois, you go steal some butter, Jacques, you find some milk and I’ll go get some salami fingers, okay?”

Sadly, the accident caused that day’s mail to arrive late…even more sadly, to this day the USPS is still running behind. (And why is that cop hiding behind that tree?)

Truly, I believe this explains why some species eat their young. (Thank you, Rodney Dangerfield.)

I am absolutely certain that my mother would have loved to do this to me many, many times, despite the fact that I was a model child.

Oswald Pfefferdink and his mechanic, Clyde, just prior to taking their newest creation, the Hupmobile BuggyBeater, for it’s inaugural test drive. Tragically, the car, known in racing circles by it’s nickname the “Beater”, was rear-ended by a horse-drawn Conestoga wagon, causing it to lose the 55-gallon drum of fuel that rests behind the driver, which then rolled into an adjacent field, ignited and burned the field and Mortimer Pfarthing’s barn to the ground. Fortunately, no animals were harmed in the making of this automobile. (Mortimer was pretty pissed though.)

The Mad Magazine “Spys” have their horse repossessed, due to non-payment of the loan.

“…in other news from Washington, President Donald Trump was paid a visit today by an undisclosed number of family members and friends. The visitors, who arrived unannounced from the planet BiggMacc, are shown here landing in Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay; they then entered limousines and drove on to the Capital, where the Trumps entertained the group at a gala White House dinner, which featured salami fingers.”

Greta Van Foxtwaddle, shown here with her new chauffeur, Hans, preparing for his driving test; if successful, Hans will be the first non-native Austrian to be employed by the Foxtwaddle’s. Hans is from England, and is used to driving on the right side of the road.

“…if I do, I’m gonna’ get my chops busted, I know I am…they’ll cut off my MilkBones for sure.” Anyone who has, or has had a dog for a companion knows that canines have a mischievous side to their personalities.

Men who were hung like stud horses made excellent use of these pants…those of us who were less endowed, i.e. hung like stud chipmunks, not so much.

He sold his soul to rock n’ roll at an early age…party on, Wayne.

The ladies of the Cap’n John Krissongs Fan Club and Chowder Society, shown here waving goodbye to their hero as he leaves port on the Kidding…afterwards, they adjourned to the home of fan club President, Mabel Slumgarten, for a light lunch of salami fingers and various adult beverages.

I’ll leave you with this quote from President Richard M. Nixon…

“Things are more like today than they have ever been before.”

Love and auto-focus,

Cap’n John


Please note this, because it hasn’t happened, and will not happen often…I’m going to be serious for a moment.

(Cries of dismay erupt from the crowd, along with shouts of “No! No!”)

There will be some folks who read what I’m about to write with great skepticism, or maybe even a large grain of salt, but I am being very sincere, and I can assure you that, unlike our President, the lover of Big Macs, inflammatory and thoroughly stupid “tweets” and the grabbing of women’s genitalia, I am by no means self-delusional. 

At least no more so than most people.

As the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog gains in popularity, I have been the very humble recipient of recognition, praise and general good wishes from a number of my readers, who express their pleasure with the writing and the content. And believe me, I am flattered; I am by no means lacking in ego, although once again unlike Mr. Trump, I keep mine carefully in check.

And I receive these “accolades” with what I’ve come to realize is no small degree of wonder and surprise…because it’s completely unexpected.

It’s not that I feel that I am lacking in talent; although I am no Hemingway, or Faulkner, no Dickens or even Twain, I know I am capable of cogent thought and concise expression, and a certain facility for “humor” (such as it is).

Now comes the skepticism/grain of salt part…it’s just that I don’t write to receive praise; truly, as I said, I’m generally surprised when someone says, hey, that’s pretty good, nice job. 

I write to amuse myself…as I have also said often, here on the pages of the WATRUK blog, I’m my own biggest fan; I think I’m hysterical, but I always am taken aback when someone agrees with me. (And of course, the act of creation becomes compulsion…as Ron White, a very funny and irreverent man says in his stand-up routine, I have the right to remain silent, I just don’t have the ability.)

Are you kidding me? Someone else thinks my “stuff” is humorous? The mind boggles…mine does anyway.

So to my wonderful and thoughtful readers, who are so quick to dispense praise and recognition for this, my sometimes disjointed but always unpredictable attempt at entertaining you, at least for a brief moment in the course of your daily lives, thank you. Big, big thank you. Enormous thank you.

Double-secret probation thank you.

I’m really having a good time writing the WATRUK blog…and I’m really glad that you folks seem to like it as much as I like creating it. Some people might question your taste, but hey, joke’em of they can’t take a fuck, okay?

Now here’s a preview of the topics I will be exploring in upcoming posts, here on the WATRUK blog… 

~Orgasm allergy in men

~My vasectomy, and why I wouldn’t allow a class of (female) nursing students to watch the proceedings

~Seniors in Florida…up to our butt in wrinkles

~The inherent incongruities of sports, or why the hell is the net in tennis right in the middle of the court, smack in the way

~My devastating good looks, and other urban fables

Despite what I hear to the contrary from other people, I think you guys are okay.

Love and copyrights,

Cap’n John


(FYI, the above photo is from the collection “Baby As Art” by photographer Carrie Sandoval, and they are all exquisite…a tip of the hat to Ms. S.)

I like babies.

I was quite young when I was born, and recall little of the event, but I have it on good authority that I was, in fact, once a baby myself; that may explain why I like them as I do. They’re generally cute, smell pretty good until they do something unspeakable in their diapers (something my ex- and I used to call a “special delivery” whenever my daughter left us one), sometimes noisy but mostly inoffensive, and although they add little to the Gross Domestic Product, they can be counted on to vote Democratic.

We have babies coming into Publix Supermarkets, where I am employed as a “Front Service Clerk” (not sure who services the rear, and don’t want to know) all the time, generally with their mother or, in some instances, both Parental Units (rarely alone). I talk to all the babies with whom I come in contact; our conversations are typically not understood by either party, but we have fun nevertheless.

Getting a smile from a baby always makes my day, and I’m pretty good at making them smile. (If you’ve ever seen my picture, you’ll understand why that is.) I even got to feed one little guy, while Mom was paying the bill. (See my post (“BAGGING GROCERIES AND FEEDING BABIES: A MOMENT IN THE LIFE OF AN FSC” 10/13/17.)

The other day several of us were standing around talking, during a brief lull in the action at Store #420, where I work, and someone mentioned something about Ivanka Trump, whose picture graced the cover of some magazine on the rack by the checkout line, being born with “a sliver spoon up her wazoo”, which I would think had to be rather uncomfortable for both mother and child.

Now I don’t know if that’s true about Ms. Trump, but I do know, in my case, that I had no cutlery of any kind protruding from my cute little tushie when I was born…my mother would have mentioned it at some point.

My mother did tell me, and many others, this story (and on my mother’s grave, this is true)…

I was born at St. Mary’s Hospital in Hamilton Ohio, back just after the end of the Civil War, and, as was common in those days, spent the first few days of my new life at the hospital. Came the momentous day that Mr. and Mrs. Krissongs were to take their new-born son home, there never were two more proud parents than these. (They didn’t know me that well yet.)

As my mother relates the events, as they were entering the front door of our house, the phone was ringing (could have been A.G. Bell, looking for Watson, but it wasn’t), and since Dad was carrying me, Mom ran to answer the phone. 

A woman on the other end identified herself as Sister Mary Holywater, the head nun at St. Mary’s, where we had all just left, and asked to speak to Mrs. K; Mom says yo, and SMH proceeds to inform the Mother Unit that, oh shit, really sorry ma’am, but you and Mr. K left the hospital with the wrong baby. (Remember, this was in the Jurassic Period; wrist bracelet IDs and 21st century uber-security was WAY in the future.) Mom, being the occasional Einstein that she was, blurts out, oh no, we have our baby. SMH says, oh no, sorry, lady, wrong kid. 

About this time, according to my mother, I announced (at least they thought it was me), loudly I assume, that I was in immediate need of either food or a dry diaper, or both, so mother turned the phone over to my Dad, who proceeded to do the same two-step with SMH, finally arriving at the conclusion that, shit, something isn’t right here and we had better head back to the hospital and get this straightened out.

So back we go. The Family K arrives back at St. Mary’s, were ushered into SMH’s office, and I was brought forth from the nursery, oblivious to all the commotion over my whereabouts.

Yes, they had taken the wrong baby home. So the swap was made (Mom and Dad were reluctant to return the one they had) and we returned to Chez Krissongs, fortunately to no further ringing telephones. 

When a bunch of years had passed and I turned into the horrible child of the century (I really wasn’t, but I know I was the cause of many gray hairs for both of them), my parents swore that they wished that they had kept the other one…he was cuter and much less noisy, apparently.

He was also African-American.

Yes, I was the smartest one in my family, by a considerable margin.

Love and pacifiers,

Cap’n John