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

Hi, my name is Walter…

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

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

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

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

And boy, has it been interesting ever since.

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

Uh-oh, something weird is happening…


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

-Dateline Washington D. C.

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

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

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and stuffed animals,

Cap’n John (and Walter)

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


(Editor’s note: today’s column is dedicated to several of my most loyal fans, Ms. Robin, Ms. Marycharles, Ms. Gaylene and Ms. Barb…you girls are truly awesome. Thank you so, so much. And please ignore the pic above, which has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with you ladies. Obviously.)

One of the features that I like best and enjoy most in the 800 square foot one-bedroom “flat” (people have apartments, writers have flats) I live in here in the Torpid Whales 55+ Senior Living Complex, located conveniently on the Gulf Coast of FL and so named for the number of the resident elderly sunbathers/swimmers seen lolling all over the chaise lounges at any one of our several pools every day, is the short dividing wall in my bathroom. (See diagram below.)

Besides discretely, but only partially, hiding the toilet from overt view when someone enters “the bath”, the wall serves another much more subtle yet essential function in the life of your Cap’n (that would be me).

Having finally and reluctantly given into some of the vagaries of “aging”, all the while clawing and scratching and fighting for every moment of my squandered youth, I acknowledge that, all my resistance notwithstanding, I cannot stand tall and unbowed before the unrelenting betrayal of time. Thusly, I have reached the point in my life where, during the course of the night, EVERY EFFIN’ NIGHT, WITHOUT FAIL, THE BIG THREE SIX FIVE BABY, EVERY STINKIN’, EFFIN’ NIGHT, EVERY DAMN ONE, I have to get up to pee. Frequent nocturnal urination is the scourge of the elderly. (“Frequent Nocturnal Urination” would be a great name for a rock band.)

I have succumbed to the monster age and lay bloodied and defeated at its evil feet. (Poetic, huh?)

I have spoken to other “seniors” about this phenomena, had many open, candid discussions with folks my age, hoping someone, somewhere could enlighten me on how to avoid the dreaded nightly pee break, to no avail. It seems like, for the majority of the people I’ve spoken to, once you hit 60, your “sleep through the night like a baby” days are now in your rear-view mirror, never to be seen again.


No, excuse me, pee. (As an expletive, the word “pee” leaves a great deal to be desired.)

You will note from the drawing that I have painstakingly created, especially and exclusively for the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog (right), that the afore-mentioned short dividing wall is located directly to the left of the toilet, assuming the person is standing and facing said toilet, which if said person were male and urinating would be the preferred position, and quite close.

Close enough to lean on when you’re standing there in the middle of the night, typically smack between 1:00am and 2:00am, half-to-three-quarters of the way asleep, peeing.

Leaning brings a whole new dimension to male urination. (I tried to think what advantage a woman would realize by leaning on a nearby wall while emptying her bladder and couldn’t come up with one, although I am always open to suggestions from my readers.) This isn’t the old “hold your johnson in your left hand while you put your right hand on the wall above your head and lean forward” lean, no, this is something much more supportive, more relaxing. That hand over the head kind of leaning is fine, believe me, and although I’ve never been a big proponent of the position, it is effective.

No, wall-leaning while peeing is resting, it’s a near-total body relaxation, it’s killing two llamas with one hand-grenade, it’s tidings of comfort and joy, all in the mere act of…leaning.

And peeing. Simultaneously.

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

I swear this has become one of the more sublime pleasures of my life of late.

And I don’t waste it…no, no. I never lean during the day, when I’m awake and alert and have no need for support, for leaning. No, it’s only in the dead hours of the night, well past the witching hour of midnight and with time moving inexorably towards another dawn in the eastern sky, only then do I avail myself to the secret luxury of leaning on a wall and urinating. (Insert large sigh of satisfaction here.)

As the Angel Bartleby said to the Archangel Loki in Kevin Smith’s hilarious movie Dogma, “You really are a simple creature.”

Yes, I are.

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


Regular readers of the WATRUK blog, and thank you very, very much if you are, are already painfully aware of my difficulties with segues; for my newer followers, suffice to say that I use segues about as well as old people fornicate. (I’m sensing a theme here.) No, my typical approach to the changing of the subject is to just forge ahead, unconcerned with and in no way restrained by the use of proper syntax, as I’m about to do now.

I have received a number of remarks and comments, some very positive, some curious, some supportive, some profane, dirty, disgusting, revolting (sorry), and some questioning my motives, all in response to my announcement in last week’s post that I was launching a new religion, to be known as the Roving Spastic Church, with the members to be called Spastics.

The Roving Spastic Church, home of “Capnism”.

And so…

~From Penny Stocks of Lower Podunk MN…

                “OMFG, Cap’n, I was laughing so hard when you said your new church was going to be called the “Roving Spastic Church” that I wet myself a little and then had the most intense orgasm I’ve had in 20 years. Are you married? (Asking for a friend.)”

~From Robin S of Trinity FL…

                “Oh Cap’n John, you’re so wonderful! And brilliant! Your post was sensational! I laughed so hard when I read it I couldn’t even go to work. I had to call in and tell them I wouldn’t be there because I had over-laughed…I almost got fired for “unprovoked hilarity” but everything’s okay now. Did I tell you you’re really wonderful?”

~From Rusty Nail of Butte ID…

                “I really like your idea to launch a new religion…what was it P.T. Barnum once said about suckers? Oh yeah, that there’s one born every minute. Nice job, Cap’n.”

~From Gaylene M (the Queen of Las Vegas) of Las Vegas NV…

“I hereby submit my application for any of the positions of either “dungeon guard”, “heretic” or “Head Barkeep”; am licensed, can provide own uniform, Bible and torture devices. Have vast experience in all aspects of dungeon management, including rack-stretching and flogging, and am adept at extracting confessions. Non-smoker, references available upon request.”

~From Marshall Arts of Plunkbottom OH…

                “You are a sick, degenerate, filthy, disgusting, evil, low-class, repulsive, disgusting, gross, sick, perverted, degenerate, twisted, evil, gross and repulsive human being and your mother dresses you funny. How dare you proclaim yourself to be “Head Pope” of your vile, disgusting, evil, sinful, blasphemous, sickening, evil, wretched, disgusting excuse for a “church”. You are putrid, sickening, repulsive, gross, perverted, despicable and occasionally pretentious and I hope you become infested with crotch lice.”

~From Sister Kitty Hawk of Makesme IL…

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

~From Mary Charles of Net Worth TX…

                “You are the funniest writer of humor to ever put fingers to keyboard…. That Dave Barry guy can’t carry your jock, believe me, and you’re light years better than that Andy Leibowitz or Hershowitz or whatever his name is. I can’t wait to join the RSC and become a Spastic!”

~From Canadian Barb of South Saskahootski BC…

                “You are my hero. Unfortunately, I agree with Mr. Marshall Arts of Plunkbottom OH (above); your mother does dress you funny.”

So the overall score, based on the above and the many other messages I received, seems to be Beverly Hills 90210 and Cap’n John 3.

But I forge ahead, undeterred. Besides, we all know how much our dear President likes the “religious right” people…maybe I can arrange an audience with him (pardon the pun) in my position as the Head Pope of the Roving Spastic Church, and then convince him to undergo an exorcism; maybe I could drive out the evil spirit that has taken over this man. (Not.)

But I know this…after four years of this jerk, if Donald Trump fell on the floor in front of me and burst into flames, I wouldn’t take out my johnson and pee on him.

At least not without a wall to lean on.

Love and golden showers,

Cap’n John