Today’s post will be educational in theme…we will be learning about a well-known hymn and sheep. In that order.

Bringing In The Sheaves (click here to be spiritually uplifted) is a well-known Protestant Christian hymn; the lyrics were written by a man named Knowles Shaw back in 1874, who used as his inspiration Psalm 126:6 from the Christian Bible, which speaks of sowing and reaping and tilling the soil and tractors and natural fertilizers. (Did you know that the average horse, one who is married, owns and lives in a home in the suburbs, has 2.3 children and commutes to his job on the farm, produces roughly 50 pounds of manure every day? Back in the “horse-drawn” era, if you wanted to make someone aware of how pervasive something was, you’d say it was “everywhere, like horseshit.” Now I understand what that means.) Though Shaw wrote his own tune for his lyrics, the song is nowadays played using the music written by George Minor, although it is in a major key (L)….well, it sounds like “L”. (An old musicians joke, told by old musicians.)

I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, and you can blame both those conditions on my parents, so I was never exposed to Mr. Shaw’s uplifting music in our church, Our Lady of the Blessed Fundament, but I did manage to hear the song a number of times as a child, and I always thought the lyrics said “sheeps” not “sheaves”…in those days, I had no clue what a “sheave” was. For the longest time I had no idea what a “sacerdotal” was either, although a peek at my Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language, not to be confused with English, tells me that the word has something to do with natural fertilizers, tractors and beer consumption. (I remember one of my grade-school classmates had the same confusion with this tune, although he thought the word was “sheiks”.)

(Click here to see how not to mount a waverunner)

Now that I have been edified as to the meaning of the words “sheaves” and “sacerdotal”, the lyrics to Mr. Shaw’s bucolic hymn make a whole lot more sense…the confusion I experienced was partly caused by the fact that the plural of “sheep” is not “sheeps” but “sacerdotal”.

I’ll get back to the “sheeps” in a moment.

So there I was one evening last week, sitting at my desk in my cabin aboard the worthy vessel the R U Kidding, staring at my computer screen and scrolling through the YouTube home page in search of an interesting video to help fill my sad, lonely senior citizen hours, when I stumbled (didn’t fall) onto a collection of old clips from the television series America’s Funniest (Home) Videos, or AFV, to which it was commonly referred. Although I have never been a wholesale consumer of TV, I used to watch AFV frequently in its heyday, back in the 90’s. (I understand it’s still on in places like Moosejaw, Saskatchewan and Lower Uvula AK.) I liked the show because a) despite the moronic level of the much of the humor, many of the clips were genuinely funny and b) it reminded me that if there was ever a Most Stupid Person On The Planet Award given out by some group or another, I wouldn’t be the recipient. I mean, shit, how many times do you have to see clips of guys using a 4-foot rope to hold a piñata in place for a kid using a 5-foot stick get smacked in the nuts before you realize it’s a dumb Idea? Or wondering what possessed some Einstein to think that he could ride a skateboard along the top of a concrete wall and then drop six feet down off the wall onto a steel sidewalk railing and not have said railing wind up forcefully embedding itself deeply into his crotch?


(Click here to see Christmas trees enjoying a prone position)

(FYI, although the producer of the show, Vin Di Bona, and its long-time host, Tom “I’m A Pathetic Weasel” Bergeron, were men, the show seems to have been written with a decidedly feminist tone, given how many videos they featured that showed men doing abysmally stupid things and then getting seriously whacked in the cojones…over and over and over again.)

It was a source of no small amazement for me to watch one person tape another person’s calamity, like the clip of a large women stepping off of a dock into a boat that hasn’t been tied securely to said dock, and then see her slowly become spread eagled over the water as the boat recedes from its berth and deposits her in the drink…instead of rushing over to help, the person behind the camera just kept rolling, and typically laughing hysterically.

One thing for certain…you would know, rather quickly, who your REAL friends were after one of these episodes.

It was also noteworthy, although not that surprising, that a significant number of the people starring in and then sending in their videos to AFV were, well, how do I put this appropriately, umm, rednecks.

(Click here to learn about using “P” when you park)

Full-blown, dyed-in-the-wool Trailerus Trashsarious of the genus “Redneck”. As Gene Wilder’s character The Waco Kid said to Sheriff Bart, so beautifully played by Cleavon Little in the movie Blazing Saddles, “…real salt of the earth types…you know, morons.”

So I sat and binge-watched Tiny Tom and his band of misbegotten amateur video stars and the more I watched, the more I came to the realization that, even though most of the footage came from shows over 20 years old, these were MAGA people.

That’s right, exhaust fans, these were most certainly would-be supporters of/voters for our current President.

Although this was two decades before the rise and triumph of his Eminence, the Supreme Commander of the World, His Largeness Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, the people in these clips were the spiritual forerunners of the group of American voters who elevated PTB to the Presidency back in 2016.

November 8, 2016…a day that will live in infamy. (And thank you, FDR.)

(Click here to see a beekeeper speak too soon)

I’m sure, given the proliferation of political polls, political scientists, “spin doctors”, campaign advisors and such that someone, somewhere, has done a profile of the “typical Trump voter”. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it, but I’ll bet you a box of Publix’ incredible Apple Fritters that I can replicate that profile here, keeping in mind the operative word being “typical”…one size does not fit all, but a helluva’ lot of MAGAists wear a Size 44 Long dummy suit.

Predominantly white male, or white female attached to said white males, low(er) class or at best middle class, middle-school or high-school education max, NRA member or sympathizer, a serial llama defiler, far-right Republican and vehemently opposed to climate change theories, women’s rights, Hillary “Lock Her Up” Clinton, the liberal media and any asshole that doesn’t agree with their point of view.

Among others.

So what does all this have to do with a Christian Protestant hymn written back in the late 19th century or for that matter, reruns of the TV show AFV?


Donald The Shepherd and his flock.

My point is that although The Donald is a 21st century man today (if Trump stopped using Twitter, a decidedly 21st century phenomena, the company would have to layoff half its employees), the roots of his support and eventual election to an office he is no more qualified to hold than the woman on the tape who puts 90 candles on her Dad’s birthday cake, lights them all and then wonders why the resulting conflagration almost burnt down her house, go way back…we’ve had scores of misguided mopes in this country for as long as I can remember, and that goes back many, many years.

(Click here to see a man playing leapfrog with a parking meter)

Many. (Don’t believe me? How about the inventors of Lawn Darts, who thought this would be a great kid’s toy, or the women who called 911 to complain that the bag of pot she had just purchased was not a full ounce?)

Take us to the Promised Land, oh Fearless Leader, we are sorely in need, for we are besought by liberals who, GASP, want to CHANGE things, who resist the idea of a return to the 1950s, where the man of the house was the de facto ruler, his wife was barefoot, pregnant and confined to the kitchen and his children were to be seen and not heard.

Where there was none of this gay marriage nonsense, no LBGTQ crap, no women’s liberation, no people of color having or being allowed to voice opinions, where the U.S. of A. was the foremost country on the planet, thank you, and we seriously got after the Commie, pinko snotbags that threatened our country’s peace and tranquility.

You don’t qualify for MENSA if you believe that you can set-up a home-made wooden ramp onto the back of your pickup truck using several old pieces of plywood and then, without flipping over backwards, drive your 600 pound ATV up said ramp and into the bed of the truck.

Dream on, genius.

These are PTB’s people, the ones who don’t/can’t think, the ones who are terrified of any change in their docile, everything-in-it’s-place world, and he plays to them, like an actor to a full house of paying customers.

Baaa. Baaaa.

(Click here to see one of the effects of excess beer)

Love and wool sweaters,

Cap’n John



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.)


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.


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.


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



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.)


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.


(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.”


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



One of the things about St. Valentine’s Day that has always disturbed me most is the fact that the Roman Catholic Church actually recognizes THREE different “St. Valentines”, and all of them died martyrs…this seems to imply that there is some correlation between being in love, expressing your devotion to your amour with flowers, cards and candy and then dying an untimely, unpleasant death.

The “original” St. Valentine (I’ll call him Val1) was, supposedly, a priest back in ancient Rome in the 3rd century, who was imprisoned by Emperor Claudius II, who outlawed marriage because he felt young, unmarried soldiers made better warriors if they had no wife and children, which strikes me as dubious reasoning at best. Val1 was so outraged by this decree by Claudius that, in defiance of the Emperor, he continued to marry young couples in secret, which of course The Emp finally got wind of and ordered Val1 arrested, imprisoned and put to death. (Can you imagine if our current resident of the White House, President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, had that kind of power? There would be dead Democrats all over the steps leading up to the Capital.)

Anyway, legend has it that Val1, while awaiting his execution in prison, was visited regularly by the daughter of his jailer, and they quickly fell in love, or at least in a pretty decent case of lust, and since he was incarcerated, he began writing long, gushy, disgusting love letters to the girl, and signed them “from your Valentine”, making them the first Hallmark greeting cards ever sent.

(FYI, had Claudius been Emperor of say, Botswana, he would have been Claudius the Second…however, since the Romans were the inventors of “Roman numerals”, as well as the roman a clef, a style of novel about real people with a fictional overlay, he became “Claudius II”.)

(Actually, the roman a clef was invented by the French, but I figured they were already getting enough recognition as the creators of “French fries”, so I decided that was enough, and gave it to the Romans, who were not better lovers than the French necessarily, but did build better aqueducts.) (Click here for Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung”)

I couldn’t find much info on Val2 and Val3, other than Val2 being renowned as the first person to ever sell chocolate candies in boxes, using little paper cells to imprison each individual candy therein.

Apparently the only thing that Val3 was ever known for was sustained flatulence.

(Did you guys hear the one about the really shy young man who walked into a bar on Val Day, spotted a beautiful young woman alone in a corner and then spent the next half hour working up the courage to go over and speak to her. He finally did, asking her if she would like to dance. She immediately became indignant and exclaimed in a loud voice that everyone in a three block radius heard, how dare you ask me to sleep with you tonight. Being thoroughly embarrassed, the young man turned and slunk away. About 10 minutes later, the young woman walked over to the guy and apologized, saying that she was a psychology student and that she was studying how people reacted in embarrassing situations. Being shy doesn’t necessarily mean stupid, because the young man quickly replied, in an equally loud voice, what do you mean, 200 dollars?)

So in keeping with the theme of “love and greeting cards”, I thought it might be time to open some of those numerous letters, texts, secret decoder-ring messages, emails and smoke signals that I receive every week, asking for advice/help with some person’s love-life, or the lack thereof, and give out some of the famed Cap’n John advice to the love-starved and lonely.

Of course, asking me for advice on love and relationships is like asking an Eskimo about conditions on the island of Fiji, but hey, why not?

“Dear CJK:

                I’m an early-30s lady, attractive (so I’m told by my mother), unmarried and lonely, but try as I might, I just don’t seem to be able to “hook-up” with an eligible man with whom I can share my life, have a family and raise kumquats. I’ve already tried all the traditional ways of meeting someone; I’ve done online dating, I’ve attended church functions for singles, I’ve gone to barn-raisings, I tried the bar scene for a while (okay, maybe going to gay bars wasn’t such a hot idea, but my girlfriends tell me that gay men make great friends, so I thought, well, never mind what I thought), and nothing. I’ve even shown up at Republican political rallies. What can I do, Cap’n John, to find that one special guy?

                                                Lonely In Louisville”

Dear Lonely:

                Oh no, no way, lady, there’s no way I’m giving advice to a Republican from KY, home of the premier asshat in the country (after the President), Mitch McConnell…you’re on your own, toots.

“Cap’n John:

                My friends convinced me to write to you, thinking you might be able to help me. I’m a hetero male in my late 20s, and still single. I’ve dated a bunch of women over the past few years, but none of these relationships have blossomed. I’m afraid that my hobby (raising piranha in my back-yard pool) turns off some ladies, and yeah, there was that one unfortunate accident a few years ago with my then girlfriend, but I apologized many times afterwards and then paid for her new prosthetic arm; I mean, it WAS an accident. Anyway, I’m wondering if you might have any ideas for me? (Oh, FYI, I import my piranha from Botswana.)

                                                Nine-fingered Fred”

Dear Fred:

                Is it true that a school of piranha can strip a full grown Republican down to bare bones in under 30 seconds? Is that the world record?

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’ve been married to a beautiful lady for over 10 years now, and we’re really in love. We have a fine home in the suburbs, 2.3 wonderful children and a pet gerbil named Ignatias. We are both professional people (I’m a proctologist and my wife is a golf-ball diver at a local driving range) and we have a good life. Recently however, a snake has crept into our Paradise…my wife says she’s bored with our sex life and wants me to wear a scuba diver outfit from now on when we make love. Problem is, I get seasick very easily (I throw up watching old reruns of Baywatch) and I’d just rather continue wearing our Louis the XIV and Marie Antoinette costumes in bed. This disagreement is beginning to affect our marriage; any thoughts on a compromise we can both live with?

                                                Dr. Bob, the Butthole Doc”

Dear Bob:

                I’ve always wondered what would make a person getting an MD degree choose dealing with rectums as their specialty…and speaking of assholes, YES, the Dodgers FINALLY got rid of that oxygen thief Yasiel Puig over the off-season by trading him to the Cincinnati Reds for a box of balls, two used jockstraps and a player to be named later; L.A. got the best of that deal.

“Kind Sir:

                I am Mr. Dweezil Ptrumnlewhytdwski Director of Finance for Bank of Botswana, telling you of great good fortune you have everyday twice. Our bank for pianos and deposits…

Okay, never mind that one…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a professional golf-ball diver and a mother of 2.3 kids who is married to a great guy that I have a wonderful life with; I’m not really unhappy with Bob, but lately our sex life, after more than 10 years of marriage, is getting a little stagnant. I’ve suggested a couple of things that we could do to “spice things up” in bed, but my husband isn’t interested. He says that anal sex is enough for him and refuses to try anything else. I don’t mind the “strap-on” so much but what about my needs? I mean, geez, it would be nice to make love just once when I’m facing him. Any ideas on how I can loosen this guy up, other than with KY jelly?

                                                Back Door Barbie”

Dear Barbie:

                Try getting an industrial sized spatula and flipping him over.

That’s about all the letters/emails, etc. I have time for today, for which I’m sure we’re all thankful.

Oh, and FYI, Publix, where I work when I’m not being the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, has a BOGO on Hallmark greeting cards/gift wrap going on right now…just in time for the holiday. Saw one the other day with this little bit of doggerel inside…

                “Roses are red, and lawyers have torts,

                You’d be a great Valentine, except for the warts.”

Love and Cupid (rhymes with “stupid”),

Cap’n John


I was reading a thread on Facebook sometime back, although with today’s 24/7 Internet/media onslaught of our senses, it could have been yesterday around 3:30 for that matter, about the deterioration of good grammar/spelling/syntax in the world today…the various commenters were bemoaning how bad it’s gotten on social media, as well as in newspapers, advertising, day-to-day communications between people in their homes, in the workplace, in schools, in houses of ill-repute and mortuaries; if the consensus of opinion in the post was accurate, there are currently no more than 568 people in America who use proper grammar, correct spelling and the appropriate sized socket wrench for removing sparkplugs (which by the way would be either a 5/8” or 13/16” with an extension, unless the car came with the optional kanoonten valve booster for the inlet framitz, then the correct size would be 89mm).

The underlying theme of the thread was one we’ve all heard often in the past: the general “dumbing down” of America. Although I can offer no statistical evidence or empirical research to support this claim, I agree with the folks on the FB thread…it sure seems like Americans, when it comes to their ability to express themselves, either verbally or in writing, can’t find their butts with both hands and a map.

The incidents of no punctuation, abysmal spelling (I had a friend who always spelled it “frend”…always), poor or no use of paragraphs, 24-second violations, an utter lack of understanding/using the rules of proper syntax, run-on sentences, no capital letters and having 12 men on the field are rife in our culture today…you can hear it from folks when they speak and read it in their writing.

It’s ugly.

I, on the other hand, having absorbed all my grammar and punctuation rules by being on the receiving end of a ruler wielded by various and sundry of the Sisters of Corporal Punishment at Our Lady of Perpetual Motion grade school, to this day, MANY years later, still in fear, make sure I capitalize, use good grammar and punctuate properly at all times.

And yes, I have an anus the size of a BB. (Several years after I graduated from OLPM, the good Sisters of CP were replaced by a new order, the Sisters of the Blessed Fundament.)

Given this instructional background of proper English usage, I rarely hear complaints from my readers, all several of you, about my language or my manner of expression; however, I do get letters, emails, texts, telegrams, smoke-signals and notes in bottles (hey, I live a mile and a half from the Gulf of Mexico, okay?), praising or taking me to task for something I’ve said here on the WATRUK blog. And since I had virtually nothing else to do this morning (I was going to re-jet a couple of four-barrel carburetors for a buddy, but he called to tell me he wouldn’t need them until next week, so I decided to wait), I thought I would share a few of the more pathetic, err, sorry, interesting comments I’ve received from my fans recently.

Batten down the hatches, maties, there’s rough seas ahead.

“I’m a God-fearing Christian women that who been a proud member of the Nashinel Rifle Asociashun for over 200 years now, and I voted for Messiah Donald Trump for Supreme Ruler of the Planet, and I sure don’t cotton to sum of the things you’ve been sayin bout the Messiah on that flog or whatever ya call it of yours lately. You said that Our Master was crazy (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED_VER 4.0), talking about how his pursonal doctor was one of them head-shrinker guys, like he was nuts or sumthin. It ain’t funny to be speakin bout His Holynis like that, it don’t show no respect. Yur gonna burn in hell, Cap’n Shitbrain, and all yur famly and the rest of you liberel media shits.”

                                                           Tess Tickles, Deadhorse AK (as in 47)

“Cap’n John, I wrote to you previously (THE USPS…ON THE JOB, LIKE IT OR NOT) to complain about your poor treatment of the great state of Idaho (home of the one and only Grown in Idaho© potato) on your Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, apparently to no effect. Only a disgusting, gross, despicable, degenerate, ugly, rotten, disgusting, repulsive, gross, degenerate low-life weiner-head like you would continue to mash, err, sorry, trash the Potato State, as you did in your post of 1/21 (THINGS YOU NEEDED TO KNOW THAT YOU DIDN’T KNOW YOU NEEDED TO KNOW), and I for one, as a loyal Idahoian, am getting damn sick and tired of being baked, excuse me, raked over the coals by repulsive, disgusting, degenerate, low-life cheeseballs like you. It’s an au graten, dammit, rotten thing to do and you’re a degenerate, gross, sickening, perverted slimewad and your mother dresses you funny.”

                                                             Jack Cheese, Santa ID

“As the President of the National Organization To Assist Lollipop Leaguers (NOTALL), I have been asked by our numerous members to address your seeming lack of regard for those of us who are considered to be “vertically challenged”. You have made several disrespectful comments about “midgets”, including a joke of seriously dubious taste in your post of 1/17 (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED_VER 4.0), and by so doing have shown utter contempt for the VC. My six brothers and I will be considering a campaign of boycotts and economic sanctions against you and the WATRUK blog should these demeaning remarks of yours continue. You are sick, disgusting, repulsive, gross, hideous, dirty and disgusting.

                                                              Dr. Forest (Doc) Fire, Pres, NOTALL

“Krissongs, John Cap’n: you’ve been pre-approved for up to $150 gazillion to be used to purchase a…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“My name is I. Dontknow Howe, of the law firm Dewey Cheatem and Howe, and this letter is to inform you that our clients, the Funk and Webster Dictionary and Pizza Parlor Co., Inc. absolutely refuse to pay the totally scandalous sum of one gazillion dollars ($1,000,0000,00,0000000,0,000,00000) for the usage rights to the word you allegedly claim to have “invented”, grandprogeny© (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE). Under no circumstances does F&W pay to use words in their publication, and I have been directed by my client to advise you to perform an unnatural act upon yourself with your demand. Have a nice day.”

                                                              I. Dontknow Howe, Atty At Law

“Any more I just can’t wait for Thursday to come around, knowing there’s going to be a new post on the WATRUK blog…I get so excited I just tingle. (Wait, I think I left my vibrator on…oops, yeah, there we go, that’s better.) I really liked how you talked about your “sardonic, mildly sarcastic voice” in your post of 1/3 (LEARNING MY LINES); I once had an acutely exasperated spleen, but never a sardonic, mildly sarcastic voice. That’s totally rad. And FYI, your writing makes me hot.”

                                                               Penny Stocks, Bald Knob VA

And on and on.

And since I don’t believe in segues, thinking them to be over-rated, I’ll just plow forward…one of the questions that I posed in my post of 1/10 (IS HIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE) that remains unanswered is “Who is John Galt?”…so here we go. Galt was a philosopher, inventor, engineer and track laborer for a railroad who decided to “stop the motor of the world”; he owned a large library of books, including an atlas, and he shrugged frequently.

How was my grammar?

Love and prepositions,

Cap’n John

Post Script…here’s a link to the excellent song by Simon and Garfunkel (no relation to Funk and Websters of which I am aware) A Simple Desultory Philippic…



(Editor’s Note: Today’s post is dedicated to my good friend and comrade Robin…the world was deprived of a fine, decent lady when she wasn’t born twins. I have no idea what her “politics” are, but she’s a sweetie, no matter for whom she votes.)

It’s been cool down here in the Sunshine State over the past few weeks, with the lows overnight getting down into the upper 30’s on a couple of occasions; okay, it’s not the Antarctic, but for FL, that’s brisk. And of course the “natives” are all freezing, and griping about the weather as if there has never been another time in the entire history of the planet that the southern peninsula off the east coast of North America has had temperatures in the 30’s. I saw one lady go striding through the Publix grocery store where I work part-time dressed in a heavy, insulated coat, boots, a scarf and…wait for it…earmuffs. At the time the temperature outside was in the mid-40’s.


It’s certainly been cool enough to necessitate a light jacket or a sweatshirt if you’re going out, but dressing like you’re about to race in the Iditarod is a bit ridiculous. (I wonder if she had her dogs and sled parked outside?)

But the need to dress a little warmer recently led me to a discovery that I just had to share with you guys.

I was getting ready to go run some errands the other day, and in line with the depiction above of the weather conditions, I grabbed my fave black hooded sweatshirt off the shelf as I headed for the door. Being in a bit of a hurry and therefore not paying attention, I didn’t realize I had the sweatshirt backwards as I was pulling it over my head. As I brought it down, the hood, rather than falling forward in a neat fold, instead came straight down on the top of my cabeza (that’s Burmese for “llama intestines”) and parked itself thereon, completely covering my face, which I’m sure was a vast improvement over the uncovered version, leaving the back of my head totally exposed to the elephants. While I wouldn’t recommend this arrangement for driving an automobile, it is good for one thing…not seeing all the BS and nonsense that’s going on currently in America.

(Sounds of a phone ringing in the background…)

Excuse me…

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate.”

“I wrote what? Oh, I didn’t notice that I had done that; thank you, Ms. Wetzel.”

That was my First Mate, Tammie Wetzel; she monitors my posts in real time for spelling/content and also tries to keep me from screwing up too badly…she tells me that word should be “ELEMENTS”.


Anyway, with the ongoing debate over the |WALL|, in addition to the stock market, global warming, President Trump, the shutdown, the Russia investigation, Trump, the Patriots’ 417th consecutive appearance in the Super Bowl, gun control, Trump, Congress, China and Russia, Trump, that roving asshole Mitch McConnell, the Iranians, the Saudis, the Burmese, Trump and his Insane Clown Posse of a Cabinet/advisors, all coming at us at the same time, all the time…boy, some days it just gets to be too much.

Pull the hood down over my eyes, men, I don’t want to see anymore.

But rather than be like an ostrich and bury my head in the hoodie, I have a better idea, one that I hope I can convince all of you, my loyal readers, to buy into…vote for me for President in 2020.

Yes, that’s right, circulating fans, the Cap’n is running for President…I will be the candidate for the Hearty Party in the next Presidential election.

You might recall that I originally announced my candidacy back in January of last year (LET’S THROW A POLITICAL PARTY!); at that time I also presented to the voters of America a number of positions that I hold with regards to the many issues that face our country today, including imitation, the economy, global warming, the 2nd Amendment and women’s rights, just to name a few.

(Phone begins to ring in the background…)

Shit…excuse me again.

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel.” (When the audio book of my blog comes out, you’ll be able to hear a bit of exasperation in my voice.)

“Oh, I see. All right, I’ll change that. Thank you, First Mate.”

That was First Mate Wetzel again, telling me that the word I wanted was “immigration”, not “imitation”.

I apologize for the confusion, my own in particular.

Anyway, I would like to take the time now (and good luck stopping me) to restate my views on various issues, and to give you all firm reasons to cast your vote for me, Cap’n John.


If you read my comments on this most exasperating of the issues that confront America today from my post last January (POLITICS CAMPAIGNS FOR $500, ALEX), you’ll note that I addressed the problem of “imitation”, which as far as I know isn’t a pressing dilemma for our country right now, but Mr. Trump’s goofy idea that we need a wall on our southern border to slow the influx of illegal immigrants, drug dealers, rapists, dumbfucks, international terrorists and who knows what other undesirables most certainly is. I agree with the need for a wall to be built, but I believe it should be built on our NORTHERN border rather than southern, to slow the influx of the “Canadian influence”; keep in mind, it was the Canadians that introduced hockey to the United States, and I for one do not intend to ever forgive them for doing that. Just what I want to see as “sports entertainment”, a bunch of stupid-looking Neanderthals with no front teeth squaring off with and wailing the shit out of each other, retaliation for some perceived slight that occurred while the teams were skating back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, allegedly playing hockey, and for the entire time the fighting continues, the fans are throwing dead fish, hats, cups of beer, snowblowers and eberts onto the ice. Oh yeah, that’s entertaining. Build the wall up North…the next crazy idea we’ll import from Canada is probably socialized medicine, and who wants to have quality medical care paid for by the government?


This one is simple…men are stoopid and women are, generally, always right. Anybody with an IQ above the level of room temperature knows that.


Another easy one…yes. And as your President, I’ll make it free for all citizens over the age of 65 (I’m 67).


As I said back in January (POLITICAL CAMPAIGNS FOR $500, ALEX), I firmly believe that all Americans should have the opportunity for a 2nd chance…if at first you don’t succeed, get a bigger hammer, I always say. So absolutely, if you screw up the first time at something, you certainly have the right to a 2nd Amendment. I cannot understand why this is an issue.


I am not in favor of euthanasia at the exclusion of kids in America…let the Asian countries look after their own children.


Given the status of the weather here in Florida recently, and considering that many of our residents are currently freezing their butts off down here, yeah, I’m in favor of global warming, and I think it had better come to the Sunshine State pretty damn fast, thank you.


When I’m elected President, I will immediately make several moves to further enhance the American economy; first, I will present to Congress legislation that will address a number of problems we have with commerce, including but not limited to the high price of marijuana, the rescinding of sheriffs for Chinese and other imported products (why we need law enforcement to monitor imports from overseas is beyond me), the procreation of municipal bond debentures, the acquisition of defrauded commodity ankles…

(Phone begins ringing again…)


“Cap’n John…”

“YES, First Mate Wetzel, what is it now?”

“It’s what?”

“Yes, I’ll see to that immediately, thank you.”

Ms. You Screwed Up Again Wetzel informs me that the word I wanted above was “tariffs” not “sheriffs”; geez, she can be such a snot sometimes.

I see from the word-counter at the bottom of my screen that I have reached a point of no return, which was a pretty good song by the rock group Kansas back in the late 70’s, and that I need to wrap this up.

More later.

And besides, why shouldn’t I run for Pres? I mean, what does Elizabeth Warren have that I don’t have, other than looks, brains, talent and a Native American tipi in her back yard?

Love and ballots,

Cap’n John

Post Script…FYI, an “ebert” (see above) is a small, furry mammal of the Saskatchewanis ebertis genus that has rather prominent, flat ears, enormous genitalia and is indigenous to Canada.

Post Post Script…Here’s the link to Kansas’ “The Point of Know Return”…enjoy.


“A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.” Edward Abbey

So there I was, meandering through our local Walmart, just looking around, in a semi-daze and not really paying attention (probably overwhelmed by the excess of incredible !RollBack! bargains all around me), when…bump…I ran into something.


I looked down and around the front of my cart, and, OMG, I had accidentally bumped into, pardon my lack of PC etiquette here, a midget. I immediately reached down to help the poor guy up…geez, I felt terrible…said I was really sorry and I asked him if he was okay.

Well, he says, I’m not happy.

Oh, I says back, so which one are you?

My inadvertent and vertically-challenged victim wasn’t the only one who wasn’t happy; I was by no means thrilled to be singled out as one of the sacrificial foot-soldiers for President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump’s wall-building war with Congress…no thanks, Pres. (See my post from 1/10/19 IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CHAPTER THREE for the sordid details.)

Yet there I was, the recipient of another call from His Eminence, telling me how he, with the input of his advisors, had decided that engaging various media/blogger persons in a “dialogue” would be a better way to tell in more detail his side of the Great Southern Wall debate, and the best way to sell the idea to what is becoming, outside of his fanatical base, an increasingly skeptical public.

Might work…might not. (I’m betting “not”…this wall idea stinks worse as the days go by and a significant portion of the Federal government remains shut-down as retaliation by Mr. Trump on Congress for not giving him what he wants. Not sure how he thinks he’s hurting Congress by shutting down government services to American citizens.)

So it was with no small amount of disgust and trepidation that I saw the caller ID…202-456-1111, the White House, and stopped dead in my tracks.

(Off camera announcer, in his best melodramatic game-show announcer voice…)

“Cap’n John Krissongs, here are your choices…a) you can choose to have a red-hot fireplace poker shoved into your right eye; b) or you can choose to become infested with crotch lice the size of Hummers; or c) you can take the call from the President and listen to what he has to say.”

Tough choice…can I have a few minutes to think it over?

Shit…I took the call.

After PTB and I got some very brief prelims out of the way, it was right to business…I asked the Pres to clue me in on why he was calling me, and received a three minute explanation that explained nothing.

“So, Pres, why me?” I asked again; what was he really after?

“Well, Cap’n John, let me give you the entire truth of the matter.” (And as he said this, I thought shit, PTB, you wouldn’t recognize “the truth” if it walked up and bit you on the ass. Whatever…I was in it now, and might as well listen attentively.)

“And what is that, Pres?” I asked.

“That this country needs a wall on our Southern border, between us and the Moccasins and the Humidorians, or whatever they call themselves. The flow of illegal drugs has increased by 250,000% in the last fifteen minutes alone, and is only going to get worse. Then there’s all the rapists and criminals that are moving north over the border into the United States, to say nothing of the international terrorists that are flowing into this country from down South as well. When we finally get my wall built, it will be so beautiful, and the people will love me…or else.”

He muttered that last phrase under his breath, so I didn’t realize what he had really said until later when I was mentally reviewing our conversation.

“But Pres, according to the U.S. Customs and Border Protection people, under your administration, in the first 11 months of 2018, well in excess of 90% of all heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine and fentanyl shipments that were seized were coming through legal crossing points. The FBI, Interpol and all the major Western intelligence agencies will tell you that “international terrorists” get to their destinations by flying, not walking in the midst of a human caravan, and it isn’t “rapists and criminals” whose children are being kept in detention centers, away from their families and subjected to who-knows-what horrors. And believe me, your wall won’t stop smuggling or illegal entry either. Hell, the Mexican authorities have found three tunnels used for smuggling into Arizona in the last month alone. You’re kidding yourself.”

“YOU WILL BOW TO ME, CRETIN, AND ACKNOWLEDGE MY AWESOMENESS, OR FEEL THE MIGHTY WHIP OF VENGEANCE…oh, sorry, got a little carried away there, I just get so frustrated listening to people like you repeat “fake news” like those statistics from the U.S. Customer and Border Collies people, or that garbage about terrorists flying, that’s absolute crap…if that were the case, what would keep them from taking over planes and flying them into build…never mind. Listen, this country is facing a serious threat from the flow of illegal aliens and drugs over our Southern border,” he repeated himself, “and the only thing that will stop the flow is a wall.”

“You never hear a thing anyone else says, do you?” I asked him.

“What? Did you say something?”

“Point, Cap’n John. Well, Pres, there’s another issue that you keep waltzing around…you want Congress to give you $5.7 billion, billion with a very large “B”, of the American taxpayer’s tax dollars to build your wall. But you repeatedly said during your campaign back in ’16 that you’d build the wall and Mexico would pay for it. Of course, then the President of Mexico told you to stick it, so now you want the American people to pick up the tab. I don’t think so, Your Arrogance.”

“All right, if you’re going to argue using facts, which is a really uncouth way to argue, then here’s a fact for you…remember when I told you that I was the Second Coming of the Alien Messiah, last time we spoke (see my post from 12/11/17 CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?)? Well, hear this, Mr. Smarty Pants With Your Facts Cap’n John, this Messiah isn’t coming back to a country overrun with little brown people with small brown fingers and toes, I’ve come back to be the leader of decent white Christian folks (beginning to yell) WHO WORK HARD, WANT TO RAISE THEIR FAMILIES IN THE SUBURBS, GO TO CHURCH ON SUNDAY AND HAVE DELUDED THEMSELVES INTO THINKING THAT MY SHIT DOESN’T…”

All of a sudden there was some commotion from behind PTB, like someone was trying to take the phone away from him, again. “No, don’t you touch me…lemme’ go, damn it…” I heard the phone hit the top of the desk, as the sounds of struggle there in the Oval Office continued. “TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME, I AM THE MESSIAH, YOU WILL OBEY…” PTB’s voice trailed off as I assume security people with ginormous biceps dragged him away.

Another voice came on the line…

“Uh, Cap’n John, uh, this is Dr. Leaves, we spoke back in April, the last time President Trump called you.” It was Basil Leaves, the President’s personal physician, who also happens to be a board-certified psychiatrist in the State of New York.

“Yes, Dr. Leaves, how is your patient?” I inquired.

“Uh, the President? He’s fine, just fine, but he was suddenly called away from your conversation to handle other serious matters of state. He said to tell you he was sorry and that he would be calling back soon.”

“Doctor, lemme’ ask you a question…have you ever wondered how many assholes there are in a dozen?” I hung up without waiting for an answer.

Oh goody, another potential call from President “Tweety Bird” in the future…I can hardly wait.

(Announcer’s voice from offstage…)

“…and the “Jeopardy” answer is…Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey, Sleazy, Bashful, Doc…sorry, SNEEZY.”

(Voice of Alex Trebek…)

“Cap’n John, you wagered (number appears on podium) $5.7 Billion…and your answer is ‘What are the names of some of the people being considered for Cabinet posts in Donald Trump’s administration?’” That answer is correct. You are this week’s loser, along with everyone else in America.”

Love and construction,

Cap’n John

Post Script…the “midget” joke was gleefully stolen from comedian Larry the Cable Guy…git r’ done.



(Please note: the following “opening” for this week’s post is being presented as a “probationary” piece, is in no way permanent, and as such is subject to recall and replacement at any time should the said “opening” fail to command the reader’s attention or bore the reader to tears. A determination will be made subsequent to the reading of the said “opening” as to its permanence in this post. All hail rock n’ roll. The Editor.)

And speaking of fertility, as many of you know, I am the proud father of a fine and beautiful daughter, Gunther, who has given our family two fine sons, my grandprogeny, as it were. (Zounds, I believe I just invented a word; Tammie, I know you’re there monitoring…please call Funk and Webster’s and tell them we intend to copyright the word “grandprogeny” and that we’ll sell them the rights of usage for a bajillion dollars, or rupees, or douchebags or whatever currency they prefer to use. Thanks.)

(Tammie Wetzel, my stalwart First Mate, monitors my posts as I’m writing them in real time for content/spelling, and most importantly to keep me from stepping on the ol’ crank too often; nice lady.)

Anyway, my two grandprogeny©, namely The Ballplayer and his kid brother, The Smaller Ballplayer, are of course the apples of their grandfather’s eye (which is a really dumb saying, by the way)…

(Over the intercom on the desk…)


Excuse me…

‘Yes, Ms. Wetzel.’


Tammie, being a sailor, is sometimes guilty of using “salty language”…she’s also sometimes guilty of being able to screw up a two house paper-route.

‘Ms. Wetzel, that was Funk and Webster’s, the dictionary company; Abercrombie and Fitch sells so-called “trendy clothing” and abuses their sales associates.’


‘First Mate?’


‘That’s Funk and Webster’s.’


‘Thank you, First Mate. And Ms. Wetzel?’


‘We need to work on your communication skills.’



Now, all of the above came about because I couldn’t come up with an opening for this week’s post…I was sitting here completely stumped when for some reason an article I saw (didn’t read) in this morning’s Tampa Bay Times about “fertility” (not mine, someone else’s) popped into my head, there being PLENTY of room in there for things to just “pop in”. Being in an advanced state of “stumplativity” (holy Scrabble, Batman, I think I just invented another great word. Tam…whoops, bad idea; I’ll call them myself when I finish here), I thought “why not”, pulled my keyboard/revolver out of its holster and like the outlaw “Billy the Squid”, I just let fly.

And that, dear readers, is what you get when you approach writing a blog post using the “Get Your Scatter Guns, Boys, The Camshaft Rollers Are Baking Iron Oranges Again” Method of Writing Fine Literature.

And speaking of “communication” (boy, that is the segue of the century for me), did I mention I got a call from the White House the other day? No? Did I mention having grandprogeny©? Oh, I did…sorry.

Anyway, yeah, I got another call from our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump; seems he had a few more things to tell me about since last we spoke (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED). And if you guys all pitch in and give me a hundred bucks, I’ll keep the story to myself…otherwise, here goes.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

Skip that.

My phone was ringing (without my permission, I might add) as I walked into my office that day; when I went to pick it up I noticed the caller ID…it said “202-456-1111”.

Oh shit, the White House again.

Geez, the last time I heard from the WH, PTB had to be subdued by large security personnel with ginormous biceps to get the phone away from him, and then his psychia, sorry, his “personal” physician, Dr. Basil Leaves, came on the line and told me that His Eminence had taken ill and that he (PTB, not the doctor) would call me back (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED).

Oh, lucky me. First time I’ve heard from him since then…I was hoping he had forgotten me.

“Cap’n John…”

“This is the White House calling…please hold for the Supreme Commander, His Royal Awesomeness, the Second Coming of the Alien Messiah, Donald Trump…”

Oh gag me with a holy sepulcher.

Then that voice, that high-pitched, odd voice came on the line…

“Cap’n John? Can I call you Cap’n John? This is SCHRASCAM Donald Trump…we spoke back in April of 2, TE (Trump Era)…how you doin’?” he asked breathily.

“Pres, we had this conversation previously…you call me ‘Cap’n’ and I’ll call you ‘Satan’, sorry, ‘Pres’ and we’ll get along fine. Not.” Was that rude, do you think?


“Pres, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Why are you calling me?”

“Well, Mr. Impatient Cap’n, I’ll just tell you why. I recently sat down with my advisors…”

“Which ones?” I quickly broke in with.

“Well, Mr. Rude Blogger, even though you interrupted me, I’ll go ahead and answer your question anyway. There was my son-in-law Wretched, err, I mean Jared and my daughter Tonka, my wife Melonoma, that guy Pompous or Pompeii or whatever the hell his name is, the SecState guy, the little dude that sweeps up the in East Wing at night, a couple of other Cabinet people who are always hangin’ around here and not doing anything, KellyAnne Conway Twitty and of course my new Chief of Staff, uh, uh, shit…(puts his hand over the phone, muffling his voice, and speaks to someone there with him)…hey, Secret Service guy, what’s the name of the new ChiefStaff? What is it? Mulvaney, right, got it…who the hell hired that Mick asshole? Okay, you’re dismissed…(comes back online)…and yeah, Mulberry, my new and improved ChiefStaff, and I decided, with their agreement, that we needed to make more people aware of the dangers of an unprotected Southern border and the need for a |WALL| between us and all those small, brown drug-dealers and rapists down there in Meckizo or Humdinger or whatever they call those Third World shitholes they live in, and that the best way to do that was with a series of “in-depth” interviews with select media and blogging personalities, such as yourself, which would be so amazing, to more deeply explore and allow me to better explain why the building of my |WALL| is so imperative.”

“So, Pres, like I said, now that you’ve bored me to tears with your three minute explanation that explained nothing, why me?”

What did PTB REALLY want with me? Why was he calling to grant an “exclusive interview” to an insignificant but devastatingly good-looking blogger such as myself? What was he up to? What was he trying to gain? How the hell did the Bears manage to blow that game last Sunday against the Eagles? Is there no justice in the world? And who is John Galt?

You guys come back here next week and I’ll give you all the answers to those questions, except the one about the Bears…that was inexplicable.

I forgot to ask the grandprogeny© if they watched the game last weekend…note to me: text the boys and find out.

Further note to me; don’t take any more calls from 202-456-1111.

Love and Gonadotropins (here, I’ll save you a Google, it’s a fertility drug),

Cap’n John


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?


So here I am on the day after Christmas 2018, all the frivolity and the hilarious madcap fun from the holiday now receding into and mixing with all the other memories of so many other thrill-packed Hallmark moments from over the years…for me, holidays are like visits to a proctologist; a pain in the ass but necessary. (I always felt the same way, back before I retired, about working for a living.)

I was perusing the headline news on the ‘Net a little while ago when I stumbled across one of those silly “click-bait” thingies about the movie It’s A Wonderful Life; you know the ones I’m talking about…they portray such topics as “50 Things You Should Know About Peroxide”, or “The 25 Early Signs Of Rampant Mopery” or “10 Ways To Earn Money With Dryer Lint”. This one was catchy…”A Bunch Of Things You Didn’t Know About Frank Capra’s It’s A Wonderful Life”. Or some such nonsense.

Typically I ignore these things because either a) I don’t give a lusty crap about the subject (“Are My Labia Too Big? 10 Ways To Tell”) or b) I’m too busy at that point to stop and read the article, or c) I’m having a bad karma day and I don’t want to take the chance of offending the Internet gods (don’t ask).

But since I do care about the subject matter in this instance, It’s A Wonderful Life being one of my all-time fave movies, as well as Jimmy Stewart being one of my all-time fave actors, I clicked on the link to edify myself about this cinematic classic. (I always thought that Donna Reed, Mrs. George Bailey in the movie, and Gloria Grahame, the actor who played “Violet”, were totally hot. Especially Vi.)

As usual when I read one of these things, I learned something. (Aristotle once postulated “horror vacui”, which is Burmese for “your labia are too big”, as a way of expressing…)

(In the background, a phone begins ringing.)

Hang on, lemme’ see who this is…

“Cap’n John…”

“Hi, Tammie, what’s up?”

“I’m sorry, it means what?”

“Yeah, that would make a lot more sense…”

“Okay, thanks for the heads-up.”

That was Tammie Wetzel, my First Mate here on the R U Kidding…she spell-checks/monitors my posts in real time to keep me from stepping on my johnson too badly; she says Aristotle’s “horror vacui” is actually Latin and really means “nature abhors a vacuum”; I’m not sure why Nature gives a shit one way or the other about a vacuum, but if Aristotle said it, then it’s good enough for me.

Anyway, I was saying that, since Nature apparently has a problem with a vacuum, which in physics is described as a “true empty space”, I’m not surprised that I constantly learn new things, given the plethora of space in between my ears. Nature fulfilling her primal urges or whatever.

I learned from the article on Wonderful Life that many people, probably supporters of President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, didn’t understand that the term “Buffalo gals”, from the song that George sang to Mary (Donna Reed’s character), referred to women from Buffalo NY, and as a popular vaudeville tune of the era was oftentimes edited to coincide with the town in which a show was playing, such as “Chicago gals” or “New York gals” or “Climax gals”, named after the town in Georgia. Apparently many people thought the “Buffalo gals” were akin to werewolves or other anthropomorphic creatures that shape-change at will, another characteristic of our President.

From deep, deep down in the well of my memory I recalled a cartoon from many years ago by one of my all-time fave cartoonists, Gary Larson, about “Buffalo gals” and of course had to go looking on the ‘Net for it. (See above, up there.)

Yes, I have dated women who resemble Ms. Buffalo.

Which of course brings me to the subject of today’s post…all the letters, emails, texts, telegrams, smoke-signals, secret decoder ring messages and carrier-pigeon notes that I receive, re my readers love-lives, or the obvious lack of “Buffalo Gals/Guys” or anything else remotely like “romance” in their squalid, pathetic existences.

I thought I would share a few with you, my loyal readers…

“Cap’n John:

I’m a fairly young Holstein Friesian steer living in Australia, and because of my immense size (6’4” at the shoulders, weighing well in excess of 3000 pounds) I have a hard time attracting hot bovine chicks; okay, that should be “calves” but I figure you’d get my meaning. I’ve heard about these “Buffalo gals” and knowing that buffalo are WAY bigger than domestic cattle, I thought, given all your weird, ahh, excuse me, extensive contacts in the field of animal husbandry that you might be able to connect me up with one of these beauties. I could really use your help, Cap’n…wait, what am I thinking, I’m a steer, I don’t have any balls, why would I need to hook-up with a Buffalo gal or a hot Hereford for that matter? Never mind.

                                                                Confused in Canberra”

Dear “Confused”:

                According to the magazine New Scientist, and I’m quoting here, “Breathing in Moon dust could kill you”. Now I don’t know about you guys, but despite the fact that I’m grateful for the heads-up, I’m actually not that afraid of inadvertently breathing in Moon dust; given that the Moon is approximately 235,000 miles from Earth, has no oxygen and no Uber service, the threat seems minimal. However, I understand that NASA has discussed establishing a colony of Buffalo gals on the Moon, but to date that plan is still in the talking stages.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I have had it! I have tried every way I can think of, every way suggested by those dopey articles that trumpet “100 Ways To Attract A Woman That Isn’t A Beast”, done all the due diligence, read all the self-help books and nothing, nada, zero, bupkis has come from all my efforts; I can’t seem to find a decent woman who desires a relationship with a nice-looking, intelligent, early 30’s hetero (mostly) male who happens to make his living as a shepherd. Bah! Enough with all this sheep dip; tell me what to do, Cap’n, where are all the awesome, sexy women hiding out?

                                                       The Abominable NoMan (see Genesis 46:34)”

Dear “Abominable”:

                Boy, I hope you’re not one of those “shepherds” that Leviticus warned us about in Chapter 18, Verse 23, KPV (King Of Pop version). That’s disgusting. (Little known factoid…Michael Jackson was a part-time shepherd.)

“Dear Cap’n:

                Did you hear the one about the lady who took her pet dog to the vet because he (the dog, not the vet) was having a hard time hearing? Yeah, the vet examined the dog, put some Nair on a Q-tip, swabbed the dog’s ears, which were full of dog hair (well, d’uh), let it set for a few minutes and then rubbed it out. The dog immediately began hearing small noises and other sounds he had missed before. The vet suggested the lady apply the Nair every few weeks, and she went on her way. She stopped at a pharmacy to get some Nair, couldn’t find it and eventually asked the druggist for help. He went and got her Nair, and asked her if she had ever used the product before. When she answered no, he proceeded to explain that if she used it on her legs, that she shouldn’t then shave them for three-four days after. When she said she wasn’t going to use the Nair on her lags, the pharmacist then said, well, if you’re using it on your underarms, same thing. No, she said, I’m going to use it on my Schnauzer. The Pharmacy guy looked at her, blinked and said, well, in that case, better stay off your bike for at least a week. Sorry, I’m a stand-up comedian in my late 30’s and my luck with women is a joke. Please help me, Cap’n, otherwise I’m afraid I’ll do something distasteful at the next CA (Celibates Anonymous) meeting.

                                                                                Standing Up and Alone”

Dear “Alone”:

                What was it Rodney Dangerfield said? “Now I know why some species eat their young.”

“Mr. Cap’n Krissongs John:

                This is your last notice; if this matter isn’t settled by close of business tomorrow…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Cap’n John:

                I’m a moderately attractive, but very sexy woman in my late 20’s who works at an animal hospital as a veterinary technician; I get along great with the puppies and the kitties and the hamsters and the gerbils and the llamas and the hyenas but I have absolutely no luck with men. There’s a guy in the office next to our clinic, a nice guy who brings his pet skink (no, I didn’t misspell “skunk”; Google it) in from time to time, who looks interesting. When he was in last week, I was holding a client’s dog on my lap, and when I asked Mr. Next Door Man if he wanted to pet my Schnauzer, he said that would be great, but not until I got that dog off my lap. Yes, I like to scratch my ears with my feet, but hey, that doesn’t make me a “barker”, does it? What can I do to get something going romantically with our neighbor?

                                                                                Puppy Patty”

Dear “Patty”:

                They covered that “sexual relations with your neighbor” thing in Leviticus 18:20…see also “Abominations For Fun And Profit”, by Dr. Beth LaHem (BuffaloGal Press, 2018).

Well, that’s all the time I have today to answer all your questions about abominations, uh, sorry, your love-lives.

Oh, and FYI, the cabdriver and the local cop in It’s A Wonderful Life were named Bert and Ernie.

By show of hands, how many of you think the Bert and Ernie characters from Sesame Street are gay? Or at least more interested in each other than any Buffalo Gal?

Love and Bedford Falls,

Cap’n John

Post Script…if all you guys send me $5 each, I promise to never quote from the Bible again. Cross my heart.

Post Post Script…thanks to comedian Bill Engvall for the joke about the Schnauzer.