WE NOW RESUME OUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING, EVEN IF YOU’D RATHER WE DIDN’T

(Editor’s note…my last two posts here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog were so serious in nature, so dark, so foreboding, so chilling, so perverse, so, oh, sorry, that I decided to write a SPECIAL EDITION post that is actually humorous (I hope), in keeping with our comedy tradition. Oh, and this one is for Sarah K, the pixie girl.)

I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, and by no choice of my own on either account I might add, and when I was a kid (back in the Jurassic Era, but before the Park), I attended a Catholic parochial school in my neighborhood, Our Lady of Perpetual Motion, where I learned, interspersed with studying things like Arithmetic, English, Geography, Psychiatry, Phrenology and Medieval Sewing, that certain activities and actions perpetrated by humans are sinful.

Oh yes, Holy Mother Church had a real laundry list of sins back in those days, in the late 50’s and early 60’s.

Like all good organized religions, the Catholics are “people of the Book”, so we used the Ten Commandments that are found in the Bible in the Book of Excretions, err, sorry, Book of Genesis, as our template for “what constitutes sin”. (Actually, it was my experience that “sin” was whatever the nuns said it was, including such peccadillos as nose-picking, late assignments, pulling the hair of the girl that sat in front of you and calling your 7th grade teacher “Leadbelly” behind her back. Yeah, I almost got busted for that one…her name was Sister Mary Agnes of the Holy Ruler (her favorite weapon) and she was, at once, fat…and ugly. Sorry, but she was. Hands down she became a nun because she realized that her chances of finding a halfway decent guy with that face and build were pretty slim. She drags me out into the hall and says, what do you know about Leadbelly, and I looked at her with these wide, innocent eyes and said, nothing Stir, why? She said never mind and gave me a shot upside my head, just for good measure, and then sent me back inside.)

Okay, so here’s the Big Ten, paraphrased:

#1- No side gods…one is enough

#2- Don’t screw over Mom and Dad

#3- Church on Sunday, heathens

#4- No golden calves (see #1)

#5- No swearing using god’s name…say “shit” instead

#6- No killing

#7- No funny business with Mrs. WhatsHerFace next door

#8- No stealing…if it ain’t yours, leave it alone

#9- No lying (even if you are, especially if you are, the President of the United States)

#10- Don’t be looking greedily at Mrs. WhatsHerFace or her new BMW

Beyond the above, which we heard about frequently (daily), there were three other really heavy hitters for the nuns…”having impure thoughts”, “touching yourself impurely” and “eating meat on Fridays”. Pre-age 12 or so, the two “impures” were no big deal; by the time I was in 7th grade, however, pretty much all I did was have impure thoughts and then touch myself impurely. Hell, by the time I was 13, all I had to do was have a slight breeze blow past me and I got a hard-on; nowadays I can’t wake up my johnson with a trombone and a hand grenade.

These things were MORTAL sins, not to be confused with lesser transgressions, known as venial sins, we learned from the sin arbiters, but the worst of all, we were told repeatedly, was EATING MEAT ON FRIDAYS. (Actually, the “impures” were way worse, but the nuns always got all mystical and vague when referring to them, due I’m sure to lack of practical experience on their part.)

For some reason the nuns at OLOPM had a real thing for meat-eating on the last working day of the week. AND WE WERE TO REMEMBER THAT A) IT WAS A BLACK, BLACK *MORTAL SIN* AND B) IF YOU DIED WITH THIS SIN UNCONFESSED ON YOUR SOUL, YOU WOULD GO STRAIGHT TO HELL, WITH NO DETOURS TO MIAMI OR ROCK ISLAND. (Of course, we drove Father Heftybags, the pastor, nuts with our hypothetical questions during his weekly visit to our classroom to teach that day’s “Religion” class. “So Father,” says Steve Taylor, one of the “slower” (moron) kids in the class, “if I start to eat a baloney and marshmallow sandwich at 11:56 on Thursday night, and the barometric pressure is 30.59 and I’m using a left-handed framitz wrench, if I don’t finish my sandwich until after midnight, which is then Friday in the Northern Hemisphere, is that a sin?”)

Be gone, Satan, get thee behind me.

Then it happened.

Back in 1995, Pope John Paul George and Ringo quietly decreed that, whoa, it was now all right to eat meat on Fridays, unless you didn’t have any of your own and had to steal some from Mrs. WhatsHerFace next door, which was a violation of both #8 and #10 (above), although by the new Papal decree at least you were okay on the Friday meat-eating sin.

Wait, are you kidding me?

Boy, I gotta’ tell you, if I’m some poor SOB languishing in the fires of Hades, parched and in despair, begging for just a drop of cool water but still having impure thoughts and I suddenly found out that I had been railroaded like this by the Church, I’d be some pretty pissed off. All I did was stop off at Mickey D’s for a Big Mac on the way home from work, totally forgetting it was Friday, I get home, eat my burger and then I have a major coronary event, bite the big one, stop in front of St. Peter on the way through, who tells me, hey, special sauce lettuce cheese, buddy, you’re on your way to Perdition, have a nice trip, say hi to Lucy Fur for me when you see her.

And now all those Earthbound jerks still walking around up there can eat porterhouse steaks, lamb chops, burgers, the firm, up-turned young breasts of chickens, llama spleens, pork roast, gizzards, filets and carburetors on Fridays and it’s okay? Friday meat-eating is no longer a MORTAL sin? And I’m still stuck down here with Hitler, that roving asshole Jeffery Epstein, my ex-mother-in-law and Richard Nixon? What the hell is that all about?

And worst, there’s no recourse, no higher Court of Appeals to hear your case, you’re hosed, happy fiery eternity, loser.

To say that I would not be a 100% completely satisfied customer under these circumstances would be the understatement of the millennia.

So the Catholics gave us no/no, wait, it’s okay on Friday meat-eating, the Mormons have “magic underwear” and an Italian patron saint, Martin Luther was probably certifiable and the Amish are still stuck back in the 1800’s and organized religion is surprised it has a credibility problem? Really? The same organized religion that had the Spanish Inquisition back in the 1500’s, flame-broiled “witches” in Massachusetts during the infamous trials of 1692 and has a rank of pedophile priests that have been giving “special dispensations” to young altar boys since who knows when, that organized religion?

You have to figure that Satan is probably not happy with no longer getting new inmates from the ranks of the Friday Meat-Eaters Society, all the while he’s laughing like crazy at the poor assholes already in his custody on a First Degree Friday Hamburger conviction.

If you’re one of those assholes, that sucks, even worse than having Donald Trump as President, although not much.

I miss being a Catholic, about the way I’d miss root-canal surgery or having my car repossessed.

BREAKING NEWS!! THIS JUST IN FROM OUR NEWS DESK…

Dateline Rome…Pope Francis today announced that, due to frustration, depression and anxiety over the Covid-19 pandemic, all of the Ten Commandments have been temporarily suspended until further notice, and then further declared Donald Trump to be the Anti-Christ.

Francis also reaffirmed that eating meat on Fridays is still not a sin, but that being a Republican is.

Love and holy water,

Cap’n John

Post Script…speaking of the pandemic, I saw this headline on a news website the other day…

“How States Rank in Coronavirus Cases”

And I thought to myself, since no one else was there at the time, can I get a further clarification of the word “rank”? What was the criteria, best looking? Largest? Loudest? Best smelling? Most disgusting? What?

Hey, I just wanted to know, it might be important someday, all right?

Post Post Script…more Covid-19. So a bunch of cities got “flyovers” recently from various precision flying squadrons like the U. S. Navy Blue Angels, who fly the F/A-18, or the U. S. Air Force Thunderbirds, flying the F-16C, as recognition for all the folks out there on the front lines busting their butts and risking their lives during the pandemic…nice gesture.

So what did the Tampa area get as recognition from our good President and his Armed Forces for its “essential workers”? MacDill AFB, our local military base, gave us a flyover by a single KC-135 StratoTANKER.

A flying gas station.

Gee, guys, thanks, what a thrill…I think I might have wet myself a little.

 

A LETTER TO COVID-19, BUT FIRST, YOU CAN TUNE A GUITAR BUT YOU CAN’T TUNA FISH

(Editor’s note: The following letter was posted by Cap’n John Krissongs on his Facebook page back on May 7th; the editors felt that the message and style were of the same high quality of writing for which the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog has become renowned throughout the blogosphere and decided to make it a permanent part of the WATRUK experience.)

But before we get to the letter…

Now I want to clear up a few things about seafood…first and foremost, eating creatures from our rivers, lakes and oceans is, well, how can I say it best, ah, gross? Yeah, gross works fine. No, I’ll pass, sorry, I’m okay without most seafood.

I’m no vegan/vegetarian goofball advocating for the rights of animals or deploring the slaughter of innocent wombats or whatever, although for my money, if you mistreat an animal, you oughtta’ be hung up by your balls. No, I’m okay with oink-oink piggies and moo-cows and the firm, supple and up-turned young breasts of chickens, but no, not most seafood. Hey, I have a couple of pieces of catfish in the freezer as we speak, purchased in a nice container from the store, and I’m all for an occasional piece of blackened orange roughy from one of those seafood places that sit right on the shore and serve whatever they can hook off the back porch with a rod and reel, drag it in, smack it on the head a good one before they toss it in a big, black cast-iron skillet. That’s all fine, but for the most part generally, eating seafood is, as I said…gross.

Okay, you want examples?

I’m reading again (for the umpteenth time) the excellent novel Straight Man by world-class author Richard Russo; in it there’s a scene in a bar where two of the minor characters are eating oysters, her for the first time with instructions from him. Let it slide down your throat, he tells her, after a three minute dissertation on the proper preparation of the oyster sauce. Down they go, slurped up by the dozen by these two drunken oyster-slurpers in between copious amounts of beer.

Eeeeyeew…yeah, sure, I’m going to let something that looks the result of a sea lion sneeze slide down my throat. Sea lion expectoration. (After seven years of college with a Bachelors in Social Distancing, I refuse to write the phrase “sea lion boogers”.) You don’t even chew the damn things, you just swallow…bleah.

Or crab legs…oh, like I’m really going to eat the legs from an animal that looks suspiciously like something that should live on a web. No, no fucking way, no. We sell fresh crab legs from the Seafood Department of the Publix grocery where I work part-time, and every time I bag up a bunch, all I can think is, those were carrying a large spider-like creature down the beach sideways just last week. Creeps me the fuck out. And yeah okay, ground beef was “on the hoof” once upon a time as well, but there’s a BIG visceral difference between a pound of ground chuck in a celluloid package and a plastic bag of what looks like the hacked-off legs of an arachnoid that has been eating nuclear waste.

And lobsters? Really? You want me to have as my dinner an animal that was alive and ambulatory until right before you tossed his innocent little butt into a POT OF BOILING WATER, YOU SADISTIC FUCK?!? Are you kidding me? I mean, couldn’t you at least give them a quick one to the noggin with a meat tenderizing mallet and knock’em cold first? Geez.

Or eels…there are no words descriptive enough, at least not in my vocabulary, to even begin to do justice to the grossosity of an eel. (Yes, grossosity…look it up.)

I am literally getting goose-bumps sitting here writing this…creepy, slimy disgusting damn things.

I’m thinking pizza.

Okay, time for the letter.

                                                             ######

An open letter to Covid-19:

Let me state here at the outset that, sir or madam, I don’t like you. (If you’re male, you’re a jerk, and if you’re female, you’re still a jerk.)

No, Mr./Ms. Covid, I don’t like you at all; you’re vile and you’re deadly and you’re creepy and your mother dresses you funny. You snuck into all of our lives a few months ago and things have pretty much sucked ever since you showed up. You’re making folks sick, you’re killing all kinds of innocent people, you kicked the economy in the nuts so hard that all it can do now is sit in the corner and make little mewling noises, you’re making those of us who you haven’t infected a little (a lot) nuts, you’re causing ALL kinds of angry arguments and debates over shit that, prior to your arrival, we wouldn’t have given a second thought to. (Wearing a mask in public? Only if it was Halloween or I was robbing a bank.) You’ve got some of the people in charge so paranoid that they’re telling everyone to stay home and remain in their bathrooms, cowering in fear while they spray disinfectant over their morning bagel, and then some other leader types saying, hey, fuck it, it’s time for full tilt boogey, the cure is worse than the problem, let’s go get a burger.

For me, and I suspect this is pretty much universal for most folks, I’m scared because I don’t know who to believe, I’m stressed out from the worry (am I going to die without getting laid at least once more?), I’m frustrated, I’m kind of dopey looking (okay, that one isn’t your fault) I’m confused about how to stay safe and I want my life back like it was before you came up on everyone’s radar.

And damn soon, thank you.

There’s been much speculation over the years among humans as to whether or not there’s intelligent life on other planets (there’s been some debate from time to time as to whether there’s any on our planet); if there are others out there, couldn’t you have landed somewhere else in the Galaxy and bothered them, like the Planet Zatox maybe? I mean, shit, I hate to wish any ill on the Zatoxians, but you know, hey, that’s their lookout.

I’m pretty sure I could get everyone on Earth to kick in five bucks (or rubles or francs or pilasters or douche-bags, you know, the German thing) and give the proceeds to you just so you would go away. Hell, I’ll kick in ten if you’ll take President Trump with you when you go. (You don’t have to make him sick, just drag his big butt out the door with you as you vacate the premises.)

It’s been so long since I shook someone’s hand that I’m not sure I remember how. (Yeah, I suppose it’s like sex, you know, a bike-riding thing. I hope anyhow.) And hugs? Not on your coronavirus, you prick, not these days.

You’ve made me angry, and I hate that; you’ve made me experience stress, and I hate that as well. You’ve made me afraid, and I REALLY hate that. Tell the truth, you’re not scoring a lot of points with me at all right now.

So, tell you what, Mr./Ms. Covid, do us all a favor and make like Apple stock and split, okay? Pack your bags, say your goodbyes and get on down the road. ‘Cause I’ve got several friends out there that owe me lunch and I’m getting tired of baloney and Clorox sandwiches. And I’d sell my kid sister to a band of itinerate nomads to be able to go to Walmart once again and make fun of all the rednecks. (Okay, I don’t have a kid sister, but you know what I mean.)

Go away, Mr./Ms. Covid, please…oh, if I make it $20 would take Mitch McConnell with you too?

Love and tartar sauce,

Cap’n John

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

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

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

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

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

Penelope: “What’s ABL?”

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

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

#######

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White: “Ah, it’s Paula, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART TWO ENDS…

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

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

(Voiceover announcer…)

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

Love and tape recorders,

Cap’n John

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, guys, we’re on live…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melonoma Trump, FLOTUS: “He hates you.”

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

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

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

Melo: “You heard it from your father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART ONE ENDS…

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

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

Love and Dos Equis,

Cap’n John

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

SHARING THE CAP’N, ONE SCHNAUZER AT A TIME

(Editor’s note: to my buddy Angel…thank you, thank you.)

Mary, much to the surprise of her family and friends, to say nothing of her doctor and the medical profession in general, had a little lamb. The surprise of her delivery of the small creature was further compounded by the fact that she had been expecting an alpaca.

However, the song doesn’t work near as well as “Mary had a little alpaca, little alpaca, little alpaca”; in wanting to give Sarah Josepha Hale, the lady who wrote the poem on which the song was based, a workable rhyming scheme, Ma Nature provided Mary with a lamb instead.

The father of the lamb has never been determined and conjecture on the subject at this juncture would be pointless and inappropriate, given that the song was written in 1830, putting the issue WAY past the statute of limitations for filing a paternity suit.

Now that I have that out of the way, I would like get on with this week’s post.

In addition to my duties and responsibilities as the Captain and Master of the good ship Lollipop, er, excuse me, the good ship the R U Kidding, I am also employed by the Publix Supermarkets chain of grocery stores as a part-time Front Service Clerk, which as I have said on a number of occasions is a ten dollar title for a three dollar job; a much more accurate (and earthy) description of my job is “bagger”. As such, I have from time to time browbeaten a number of my fellow “Associates” (more corporate jargon) into reading the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and periodically, mostly to shut me up I suspect, they have done so. And periodically, they have provided me with feedback on what a spectacular, top-notch job I’m doing as a “humor blogger”. None of them has ever told me, geez, you really suck as a writer; whether their lack of criticism is from politeness or reticence I have no clue, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

This past Saturday, in a short break between customers, my good friend and fellow co-worker, an extra-special lady named Angel who reads “the Cap’n” from time to time, exclaimed to me rather breathlessly that she had really enjoyed reading my post from back on 2/20 and that “the ending made me laugh right out loud”. Of course, having been raised properly, I immediately thanked her and then offered her ten bucks, which she declined, saying that $5 would be plenty. (Actually, she said that a buck three eighty-five would be sufficient, but I didn’t want either of us to appear cheap.)

After we gotten the negotiations out of the way, I told her how much I appreciated her kind words and that she had, inadvertently, stumbled onto the very reason why I write the WATRUK blog, that is, to give my readers a few minutes of what I hope is a humorous tale each week that causes them to forget the world and its tribulations for a brief time and just have a good laugh; that I had succeeded in doing this for Angel was, for me, a major achievement. We got busy again right about that time and I didn’t have the chance to follow-up with her and ask her to do something for me, something that I am now going to ask all of you.

In fact, I’m going to beg, although not down on one knee…this isn’t a proposal of matrimony.

Please, please, please, if you enjoy “the Cap’n”, if the stories and reports and all the rampant frivolity you see here on the WATRUK website gives you a moment of laughter or makes you think in a different way about some subject I’ve written about, please, please, share your good fortune with the people you know or who you think would benefit from a good dose of “Cap’nisms”.

Please share with your family, your friends, your co-workers, your workout partner, the members of your church, your yoga class, your therapist, your gynecologist (if I had to stare at ladies’ you-know-whats all day long I know I’d sure as hell need a good laugh now and again), your buddies down at your fave bar, your ex-mother-in-law, who hopefully isn’t as surly as mine was, your neighbors, anyone you feel might think, hey, this Cap’n John guy is pretty funny, in a convoluted and occasionally disgusting way.

I so desperately want the WATRUK blog to succeed, not for any monetary gain that I might realize, although that would be nice, but because I truly believe in what I’m doing here; in a world fraught with wars, killings, strife, Donald Trump, hunger, pollution, Donald Trump, disease, slavery, hatred, Donald Trump, racism, the Houston Astros, horrors unimaginable and human fuckery of every stripe and kind, if I can provide a few moments of humor, of good cheer, a brief respite from their day-to-day worries for my loyal readers, I have seen my duty and doed it.

Please, please share the good news of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog and Cap’n John.

Please, please, please.

You can follow “the Cap’n” on Facebook, on Twitter and on Instagram; I post a new column every Thursday, and announce it that same day on all of the above.

My friend Angel is a positive, upbeat person who loves to laugh, does so easily and is a joy to be around, so to thank her again for her support and kind words, later that same day I told her the following story…

I ran into my downstairs neighbor out walking her dog one day several weeks ago, here at the Torpid Whales Senior Living Complex, and she mentioned to me that Mitzi, her dog, seemed to having some trouble recently with her hearing and that she had an appointment to take her to the vet the next day. I wished her luck and asked her to let me know how it went.

Several days later I ran into them again, and asked my neighbor what the vet had told her about Mitzi. Oh, she said, you won’t believe what happened.

She went on to tell me that when she explained the problem to her vet, the man opined that it looked like Mitzi just had too much hair in her ears and that it was an easy thing to cure. He took a bottle of Nair out from under a cabinet, put a little on a Q-tip and applied it to Mitzi’s ears, let it set a few minutes and then cleaned it out. Mitzi immediately responded in a way that indicated that, sure enough, she could hear a great deal better. The vet told my neighbor to do this for the dog every few weeks and that she should be fine.

So my friend tells me that, on the way home from the vet’s office, she stopped at a local pharmacy. She approached one of the clerks and asked the lady where she could find Nair, and the lady directed her to the correct aisle. When she got to the front counter with her purchase, the same clerk asked her if she was familiar with the product, and when my neighbor said, no, not really, the helpful lady told her that, if she was going to use the product on her legs that she wouldn’t need to, and shouldn’t, shave for at least 4-5 days afterwards. Oh no, my friend said, I’m not going to use it on my legs. Before she could say anything further, the clerk said, oh well, if you’re going to use it on your underarms, same thing, no shaving for several days. Oh no, said my neighbor, I’m going to use it on my Schnauzer.

Oh, said the pharmacy lady, then you’ll need to stay off your bike for at least a week.

(Insert rim-shot here.)

Remember, if you don’t share “the Cap’n” with all the people you know, you’re depriving them of hearing about my neighbor and her Schnauzer, among other things.

You guys are the best…thank you, thank you.

Love and little lambs,

Cap’n John

THE HEAD POPE AND THE ATTACK OF THE KILLER BEES

There are hazards to –eing a humor –logger, such as writer’s el-ow, terminal smarminess or as my mother was wont to say, having diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the ideas, a malady from which I suspect I sometimes suffer.

_ut this is the first time I have ever encountered my current dilemma…I’ve lost one of the keys from my computer key-oard.

You guess which one yet?

-aloney, -alloon, -akery, -alance, -astard (sorry, didn’t mean to get President Trump involved in this mess), -anana, -a-ysit, -asket-all, -alloon, -itch etc.

Yeah.

Actually, the key still works…b,b,b,b,b,b,b,b,b,b. It’s just that the cover has come off and I have to rather deli-erately push down the little thingie that sits underneath the cover to get a “b”.

(I was going to make a bad joke about our FLOTUS, Melanoma Trump, after the last word in that series…glad I didn’t. No sense getting down to the level on which her husband typically operates.)

But I digest…

In last week’s post I hinted briefly at something I have been working on for, lemme’ see, at least 15 or 20 minutes now, and maybe it’s time I mentioned this new project to y’all to get some reaction from my loyal readers, all a couple of you.

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate.”

“I’m sorry, what was it? Yes, I see. Thank you.”

That was my First Mate Taffie Wetzel, who in addition to being my XO (that’s “executive officer” not “hugs and kisses”), also monitors my posts for the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog as I’m writing them to keep me from committing spelling errors, punctuation screw-ups, telling vicious lies or making potentially libelous/slanderous statements…Ms. Wetzel tells me that the word I wanted above was “digress”.

Sorry.

Anyway, despite the enormity of my current level of responsibilities, not the least of which is being the Captain and Master of the sea-going vessel the R U Kidding, and all duties attendant thereto, I have decided to launch a new religion.

Lemme’ run that one by you again, just for effect.

I’m going to start my own religion.

Hey, L. Ron Hubble, the man after whom the recent successful space telescope program was named, did it and look where it got him. According to the local newspaper, the Tampa Bay Times, the Scientologists own the vast majority of the real estate here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, significant property across the rest of the United States, a McDonalds in Hoboken NJ and another in Sheboygen WI, all of the banks in Switzerland and in fact are becoming so powerful worldwide that they’re preparing to invade Belize as we speak.

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel…”

“Oh, I see…I’ll take care of that right away. Thank you.”

That was my XO again…she tells me the name of the founder of Scientology was L. Ron HUBBARD, not HUBBLE.

Pardon me.

Okay, so the Hubble Space Telescope wasn’t named after Mr. Dianetics after all…big deal. Most of the ideas for his “religion” sure as hell seemed to come from somewhere out in deep space.

Don’t believe me?

According to WikiPedia, my go-to source for information, Scientologists pray to the “god” Xenu, who is described thusly: “Xenu, also called Xemu, was, according to Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy (the same position Donald Trump now holds) who brought billions of his people to Earth (then known as “Teegeeack”) in a DC-8-like spacecraft 75 million years ago, stacked them around volcanoes, and killed them with hydrogen bombs.” Other than the “Donald Trump” comment, all of the above is a direct quote from the article.

Oh yeah, and you guys think I’m nuts.

Anyway, I figure if ol’ L. Ron can gin up a phony religion and make gazillions in the process, I should be able to so as well. Case in point, another WikiPedia article I found says that the cost of the therapy, called “auditing” by the Hubbardites, that a Scientology member is required to go through is approximately $800/hour and that a typical session is 2-1/2 hours in length, and apparently these sessions occur with some frequency. All printed and video materials necessary for this “therapy” are available only through, surprise, Scientology.

Boy, how do I get on this gravy train?

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel…”

“It’s called sarcasm, First Mate…I’m aware that Donald Trump is not “the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy”. Thank you.”

That was Ms. Wetzel again…she pointed out to me that Donald Trump is merely the President of the United States, despite what he apparently believes to the contrary.

A substantial increase in the revenues enjoyed by la casa de Cap’n wouldn’t be looked upon unfavorably by management…I had a friend who used to say he was so broke he couldn’t afford to pay attention.

I resemble that remark.

Trust me, I’m not exactly causing the people at the IRS (speaking of audits) any concern with reference to the copious amounts of money I make as the Editor-In-Chief of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog…after 2-1/2 years of being a “humor blogger”, I have yet to make my first dollar. Or centavo for that matter. Factor in what it costs to maintain the WATRUK website, and I’m underwater, a scary position for a sea captain.

So effective today, I am hereby declaring myself to be the Head Pope of the newest scam, excuse me, religion on the planet, the Roving Spastic Church, with my followers to be known as “Spastics”.

It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Over the next few months as I get my new Church organized, I will be looking for candidates for such positions, in no particular order, as Bishop, acolyte, bud light, deacon, pastor, dungeon guard, St. Louis Cardinal, none, priest, epistles and heretics. (A link to an employment application for the RSC will follow soon.)

Like any well-run (i.e., profitable) Church, we will employ a number of the “old reliable” methods for raising $$$, such as bingo, selling indulgences, taking up collections at Sunday services, tithing, the sale of Papal Blessings, given exclusively by yours truly, exorcisms and bake sales, all duly sanctioned by the RSC. (Sound familiar?)

In addition to the tried and true methods above, the Spastics will also introduce new ways to extort, er, sorry, to induce members to contribute to the coffers of the Church, such as our own brand of “auditing” called “fleecing”, which will be a progression of steps in which all members will be forced, excuse me, urged to participate, each step having a higher price tag than the previous one, as they move along the “Road To Xanadu“, as the RSC brand of Utopia will be known. We will also market an entire line of clothing, which will be the only clothing that members will be allowed, pardon me, that members will be encouraged to wear at all times, much like the “magic underwear” that the goofs from the Mormon Church have to wear under their street clothes. (Unlike the Church of the Latter Day Saints, however, Spastics won’t be allowed more than one wife/husband per member without a special “permit” from the Church, available from your local Bishop, online at www.worshipmecretins.com or on Amazon for the discount price of $99.99.)

All of the above, indeed everything concerned with the Roving Spastic Church will be predicated on our “book”, which will of course be authored by, gee what a surprise, yours truly, and will be called “Diabolics: The Highway To The Higher Heights Of Capnism” and will retail for $99.99 (available in Church bookstores, online at www.worshipmecretins.com or on Amazon).

Rest assured that any worship ceremonies in the RSC will most certainly include the use of cannabis, patterned after the example of many Native American tribes that used peyote or some other hallucinogenic drug or the Roman Catholics who use wine in their ceremonies. (You can obtain a Medical Marijuana Card here in FL for various physical maladies, so I’m wondering if you can get one for a “religious exemption” as well.)

RSC headquarters will eventually be in Rome, Alabama, mostly because under no circumstances am I moving all the way back north to Rome Indiana and freezing my butt off every winter. Or what I might do is, after I make several bajillion dollars, I’ll go down to Clearwater FL and run the Scientology pussies out of town and buy up all their property and their headquarters and rename the area Roam, so as to avoid any copyright beefs with those asshats over there in Italy.

The Roving Spastic Church, cradle of Capnism.

Buy “Diabolics: The Highway To The Higher Heights Of Capnism” today…free delivery with Amazon Prime.

Donald Trump isn’t Dictator of the Galactic Confederacy, is he?

Love and Bibles,

Cap’n John

Post Script:

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“YES, Ms. Wetzel…”

“Yes, First Mate, I understand the difference between “epistles” and “apostles”…I was making a joke, okay? Has the poop deck been swabbed, the mizzen masted and all the hatches battened down yet, First Mate?”

“Thank you.”

She’s not so smart…she totally missed the word “none” I used instead of “nun” in that same sentence.

(Phone begins ringing in background…)

THE CAP’N JOHN WINTER VACATION TOUR

(Editor’s note: My first post since returning from my winter hiatus is dedicated to mi amiga Robin; it is my honor and privilege to say that she is my friend. She has an impish sense of humor, a mega-watt smile and she’s a major sweetie to boot. This one’s for you, buddy…and thanks.)

Now I don’t want anyone to think that my “winter vacation” these past few months was boring or uneventful, nor would I want any of you to think that I’m old, boring or shaped funny (the word “pear” comes to mind), so I thought, in an effort to ensure that none of you have the perception that the above boring, old, uneventful and/or funny-shaped shit was indeed the case, that I would chronicle a number of events, comments, headlines, and other humorous-type stuff of which I became aware during the time I’ve been away from the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and that these things would prove unequivocally that I’m e) none of the above.

You missed me, right?

(By show of hands, how many of you think that the opening paragraph (above) was convoluted, too long, imprecise and utterly brilliant?)

Let’s continue…

~Headline seen on an Internet news site during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                “Do You Know Your State Fish?”, and I thought to myself, no, not personally, I know him when I see him, waved to him out in the yard a couple of times but no, I never actually met him. (FYI, the state fish of Florida is NOT the narwhale but in fact the largemouth bass, which, considering some of the politicians that the voters of this state have sent to Tallahassee/Washington to represent us in the almost five years I’ve been living down here, is wildly apropos.)

~Headline to an email I received in my Junk Mail folder during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                “Premature ejaculation…the brain inside your penis”, and I thought to myself, there being no one else here at the time, shit, that treacherous little (excuse me, amazingly large) bastard has gotten me into enough trouble over the years I’ve been aware of his existence, and NOW you tell me the damned thing has a brain of its own as well? Boy, there’s some good news. Besides, that’s as crazy as thinking that the people of America could ever get together and elect a guy like Donald Trump as President.

                 Oh. That’s right, I forgot.

                 Shit.

~Things I learned at the high-school band concert I attended recently, while I was on the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                -a 32-piece clarinet ensemble produces a surprisingly drool rendition of the beautiful Christmas tune ”Carol of the Bells”. (I remember thinking to myself the first time I heard the name of that song, hey, I’m pretty sure I know her sister Sophie.)

               -Six vibraphones? SIX? Really? And I bet those big honkers are tough to march with too.

                -Major thumbs up to the little girl, who could not possibly have been more than a freshman, therefore making me old enough to be her ancestor, who was tooting for all she was worth on a trombone longer than she was tall, during a rendition of the always popular Christmas tune “Carol of the Bells”.

                -As an added bonus, there were a number of versions of the haunting Christmas tune “Carol of the Bells” performed by ensembles of varying instrumental makeup.

                -If you take a 200-piece (that’s correct, sports fans, TWO ZERO ZERO) marching high-school band, composed of primarily musicians playing brass instruments, brass as in loud, shiny, heavy and loud, and place its members, complete with said instruments, all around the outer perimeter and up on the stage of what appeared to be about a 1200-seat auditorium, i.e. moderate size, and then have them play the school fight song, which by the way is the enchanting Christmas tune “Carol of the Bells”, at full march volume, to then describe the sound as “loud” does not even begin to do the ensuing cacophony justice. Several elderly people fainted, a small girl, sitting directly in front of the tuba section, was injured when she was blown off her chair on the opening chord and a lady who had been crippled from birth suddenly rose up from her wheelchair and walked again.

                -After 43 renditions of the classic Christmas tune “Carol of the Bells” that evening, I found it necessary to enter counseling at the Hillary Clinton Memorial Home for the Chronically Bewildered.

                -The kids were beautiful, and they were awesome.

~Headline seen on an Internet news site during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

               “Kanye, Joel Osteen Talking About Touring”, and I thought to myself, perfect, the I’m With Stupid Tour…give them both a tee-shirt and tell them to go for it.

~Headline/ad for a “clickbait” site seen online during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                “Use A Pool Noodle In Your Bedroom”, and I thought well, great, we put the pool up in the attic to keep the llamas out of it, so what good is a noodle in the bedroom going to do me? (Wouldn’t “A Noodle In the Bedroom” make a great chapter heading for one of those smarmy self-help books, you know, like “How I Learned To Love Myself and How It Was Illegal In Several States”, or some such thing.

~A new song I was working on during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                Tentatively entitled “I Really Like Your Breasts But I Still Won’t Lend You Five Bucks”, I think the album could go, as Larry the Cable Guy once said, aluminum.

~Subject line on an email I received in my Junk Mail folder during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                “Repulsive nail fungus?”, and I thought to myself, after I yelled “HEY” really loud to get my own attention, no thanks, I already have shingles, flat feet, a deviant septum, flatulence and male pattern baldness so, no, I’ll pass.

(Phone rings in background)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Ms. Wetzel…”

“I see. Well, thank you for bringing that to my attention.”

That was Taffie Wetzel, my First Mate; she monitors everything I write here on the WATRUK blog in real time for accuracy, correct spelling, punctuation, rampant mopery and whatever; she tells me that the word I wanted in the above paragraph is “deviated”.

Sorry.

~Great quote I saw someplace online from John Madden, NFL Hall of Fame player, coach, analyst and a genuinely funny and decent man, during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                “Don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon.” And I remember I thought, as much as I respect and admire Coach Madden, I have no idea what the fuck that means.

                But it sounded good.

~Christmas presents that I thought (wished) I would receive this year but didn’t during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                -a 2020 Chevy C8 Corvette (Yeah, okay, I know they aren’t in production yet, but you guys could have ordered one for me and then sent me the acknowledgement…that way at least I would know it’s coming. I mean, geez.)

                -news that Senator Mitch McConnell, the Senate Majority Leader, renounced his American citizenship, resigned from Congress and moved to Lower Slobovia.

                -a lifetime subscription to “Dental Hygiene & You”…very disappointing.

                -a Monkees surfboard.

                -a Partridge Family in a pear tree, two catcher’s gloves, three French horns, four calling cards, ***FIVE GOLDEN RINGS***, six fleece crocheting, seven maids a-swimming, eight swans a-dancing, nine ladies leaping, ten lords a-milking, eleven pipers griping or twelve drummers all playing “Wipeout” simultaneously on their stomachs.

~Headlines on various news organs, both digital and print, depicting the Washington Nationals as the winners of the 2019 World Series, seen during the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour…

                “NATS WIN SERIES!”, and all I could think was Who? Really? The Nationals? You mean the completely and utterly inept and incompetent L.A. Dodgers, after winning a franchise record 106 games during the regular season, couldn’t figure out how to beat the Nats in the post-season? Or the Astros couldn’t have cheated just a little more to maybe to pull this out in the Series? The Nationals? Are you kidding me?

                I mean, isn’t there already enough craziness coming out of Washington these days?

As you can obviously see, it’s been an interesting couple of months since back in October of last year when I announced my sabbatical (I’ve always wanted to have enough of whatever it is you have to have to be able to take a “sabbatical”.) And I hope I’ve given you reason enough to believe that the Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour was anything but boring and/or uneventful…in fact, it was, as life often is, mundane and routine, with occasional patches of joy and/or pleasure.

I have a neighbor downstairs who irritates me from time to time, and I’m wondering if there’s any way I could get all 200 members of the J.W. Mitchell High School Debating Iguanas Marching Band into my apartment to perform their rendition of the beautiful Christmas tune “Carol of the Bells” at about 120 dB (a 747 taking off right over your head will generate about 105 decibels of sound) at around 3:00am some morning soon.

So much for that boring and uneventful shit, huh?

Love and French horns,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Yes, I know there are such things as portable vibraphones used for marching bands. Geez, even I’m not that dumb.

Post Post Script…Admit it, you were singing “The 12 Days of Christmas” to yourself to whole time you were reading that paragraph, weren’t you?

ALL OF THE NEWS, SOME OF THE TIME, OCCASIONALLY_PART TWO

Now I wouldn’t want anyone to get the idea from the things I’m about to say or for that matter the numerous comments I’ve made in previous posts that I don’t like President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump…besides being a liar, a racist, a misogynist and an asshole, I’m sure he’s a pretty good guy in his own way; apparently his father Fred “We Found Him Under A Rock In the Backyard One Morning, Honest” Trump liked him well enough to leave his misbegotten offspring about a bajillion dollars, making it unnecessary for PTB to ever actually do anything in his life, his claims and bragging about his “deal-making” prowess and business super-acumen notwithstanding.

No, despite his obvious shortcomings, mentioned above, and the fact that he is without a doubt one of the most despicable, loathsome, completely-lacking-in-integrity-and-class human beings ever to steal oxygen from the rest of us decent folks, 62,984,825 people voted for him in the 2016 Presidential election, and they all seem to think he is, according to his assessment of their support for him, the Second Coming of the Messiah, assuming you’re not Jewish and don’t accept as fact the First Coming.

Maybe I need to reevaluate my thinking about His Eminence; maybe I’ve been judging Him too harshly. (Yeah, and maybe, to quote Wayne Campbell in the movie Wayne’s World, monkeys will fly out of my butt.)

Apparently his lackeys at FOX News have recently begun to seriously reevaluate their thinking about His Supreme Commander of the Worldness, and seemed to have reached the conclusion, like so many of us who aren’t blinded by his rhetoric and bullshit that, gee, maybe Mr. Wonderful isn’t so Wonderful after all.

Like the chicken and the egg enigma, it’s hard to tell who decided not to like who first; His Eminence has been carping about the FOX people for some time now, and just yesterday, after some recent treasonous rumblings from Mr. Trump’s State News Agency, several FOX commentators sprouted a backbone, grew a set of balls and told PTB, hey, shitwad, we don’t work for you , all indications to the contrary notwithstanding.

Will miracles never cease?

Like a petulant child having been told he can’t have any more ice cream, Second Coming stamped his foot, screamed in rage and called the FOX people some bad names (he remarked in a tweet that Donna Brazile, Juan Williams and Shep Smith were “hopeless and clueless”, being an expert on those subjects), to which FOXers Guy Benson and Brit Hume responded “Eff you, Your Eminence”, in a more appropriate manner, of course, although that was what it amounted to. (And a big shout-out and thank you to Jack Dorsey, Noah Glass, Biz Stone and Evan Williams, the creators of Twitter, for providing Mr. Trump with a platform for his constant and ongoing vileness and stupidity with their invention.)

The most telling thing I got from His Supremeness’s tweet was his comment that he needs to “start looking for a new News Outlet”, which I thought was at once a terrible alliteration and an excellent opportunity for the news reporting arm of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, RUKME.

R U Kidding Media Events…RUKME. (Pronounced as one word…think Scooby Doo.)

Boy, I thought to myself, being a male, I should step into this void and offer the services of the world’s newest news agency to His Wonderfulness, as a substitute for the fawning toadies at FOX. Hell, how hard can it be to defy all objectivity, slant your reporting, lie to your viewers, insult their intelligence and in general bow down at the altar of Lord Trump? (“Newest news”? Shit, sometimes I’m as bad as that moron in the White House.)

So I thought I would take the opportunity with today’s post and well, you know, audition for President Petulant, hoping that the crisp tone of the reporting, the high quality content, the on-the-spot timeliness of the stories and the fact that I can lie just as well as anybody would be a “YUGE” incentive to Mr. Wonderful to adopt RUKME as his BFF in the liar’s poker game of Network News.

Your Worship, please consider the following when you cast about for a replacement for your buddies at FOX…

~Dateline Stump Jump KY:

                “Senator Has Surgery, Expected To Be Out of Senate 6-8 weeks”

Doctors at Our Lady of Perpetual Motion hospital here announced today that Senate Majority Leader Mitch “Turtle Boy” McConnell had brain surgery at their facility yesterday; due to atrophy from a complete lack of use, Mr. McConnell’s brain was removed in a two-hour procedure, which Dr. S.O. Teric, the surgeon who performed the operation, said was a complete success and should result in no discernable change in McConnell’s performance of his duties as President Trump’s chief apologist and favorite fuck-puppet. He went on to say that Mr. McConnell was expected to make a full recovery and return to Congress in about 6-8 weeks, during which time he would not be missed by anyone. When asked by RUKME correspondent Terry Cloth if doctors experienced any problems during the procedure, Dr. Teric commented that other than not being able to find anything to remove at first, the operation went well.

~Dateline East Jesus NC:

                “Llama Gives Birth To Three-Headed ‘llamette’ On Local Farm”

Local farmer and Donald Trump supporter Peter Pants told RUKME reporter Polly Ethelene that a pet llama named Melania recently gave birth to a three-headed offspring on his farm, the site of a Presidential visit from The Messiah, Donald Trump, which took place eleven months ago in July of 2018, during a campaign trip to the area by the President. When asked by Ms. Ethelene about the normal gestation period of a llama, Mr. Pants replied that it was 11 months. Pants’ wife, Fancy, commented that President Trump was their idol, and that his visit and extensive tour of their farm, including time spent in seclusion in their barn with the livestock, which Mr. Trump said was an opportunity for him to “commune with nature to get a better feel for the plight of the great American farmer”, was the high point of their lives. No name has been given the new arrival as yet, but both Pants and his wife were said to be leaning towards “Junior”.

~Dateline Wanker MA:

                “Experiments Reveal Dramatic Drop In Canine IQ”

Scientists at the prestigious Stephen Hawking Institute of Technology announced here today that experiments performed recently on canines, in which the animals were forced to listen to hours of continuous broadcasts of FOX News commentators Juan Williams, Donna Brazile and Shep Smith for a period of several months resulted in a measureable and marked decrease in the dog’s Intelligence Quotient scores, and that it was felt by the researchers that the dog’s qualifications to run for Congress were greatly enhanced by the experiments. Dr. Phil Herup, the Director of SHIT, was quoted as saying, “We think we have finally found a way to enable “man’s best friend” to assist Americans in the governance of our great country” and assured RUKME reporter Laurel Enhardy, when questioned about any harm that might have been done to the animals, that “no dog was hurt during the procedures, as far as we know”. One of the animals that was part of the research, a bitch named Ivanka, pictured here with Dr. Herup, was said to have dropped from her normal canine IQ range of 125 down to a score of 12, or about the level of a typical Republican Congressperson. GOP Congressional leaders from the state of Massachusetts are said to be considering running Ivanka in the next year’s race in the 589th Congressional District, currently represented by Democrat Art Supplies.

~Dateline Clearwater FL:

                “Florida Man Arrested With Trump-Shaped Ecstasy Pills”

The Pinellas County Sheriff and Clearwater Police Departments announced today that a local man, Brendan Dolan-King, was caught with a number of Trump-shaped Ecstasy pills in his home  and was charged with possession of a controlled substance, possession of a ghastly sense of humor and general mopery. According to Sheriff’s Department spokesperson Coral Reef, the strangely shaped pills were labeled “Great Again” and that they were extremely ugly. Dolan-King is to be arraigned on Tuesday.

Okay, Pres, there’s our audition to become your “fave” news agency…I can’t imagine that you’ll find any other network more qualified, more concise in their reporting and more willing to become your go-to agency to bleet and blatt about how wonderful you are and how lucky America is to have you as our President.

Besides, I’m pretty sure CNN, MSNBC, the Washington Post and the New York Times aren’t going to be lining up for the job…they have better taste and better sense.

On second thought, I think I’ll join them…never mind.

Love and Pulitzers,

Cap’n John

Post Script…as you can see from the link, the last item was in fact true…god, I love living in Florida. Despite the hurricanes.

I’M NOT BEING CHASED, BUT I AM RUNNING (THE WOODSTOCK EDITION)

As lyricist Robert Hunter said in the Grateful Dead hit Truckin’, what a long, strange trip it’s been.

Today (August 15, 2019) marks the 50th anniversary of the Aquarian Music Festival, more commonly known to the world as Woodstock, which started on this date and continued for three days in the up-state New York town of Bethel, which is 43 miles southwest of the eponymous city, which certainly in my mind would beg the question, “why the hell wasn’t it called ‘Bethel’, rather than ‘Woodstock’”? Sounds to me like Bethel NY was the victim of “selective marketing”, to coin a phrase.

I’ll skip reiterating all the sociological significance of the festival; it’s been done a bajillion times already, by writers/sociologists much more astute and experienced in that field than I will ever be. Suffice to say, as far as I’m concerned, Woodstock was the end and culmination of the 60s and the so-called “hippie movement”. Despite the struggles over Vietnam, women’s rights, civil rights, societal values, the 1968 Democratic Convention fiasco and the whole “love, dope and hippie beads” thing, there was still an innocence, a naiveté if you will that wasn’t completely negated until nine months later at Kent State University…it started in Chicago during that hot summer of ’68, but it became real in Ohio on May 4th, 1970.

I can never remember if the plural of “data” is “data” or vice-versa, one being pronounced “dayta” and the other “daata”, but whatever it is, I don’t have any on the number of people today who say they attended the festival, but I suspect the count has to be in the gajillions…as you can see from the photo below, claims notwithstanding, there were a shitload of attendees. My friend Ron was there, as you can further see from the photo (I circled him, down in the right-hand corner). I wasn’t there, not having been invited. (WikiPedia says there were “more than 400,000” in attendance, but doesn’t offer any evidence to support that number.) There being no way to verify the validity of someone saying today, hell yeah, I was there, we’ll never know, and let’s face it, according to my parent’s generation, all hippies/long-haired kids were liars, perverts and drug-abusers (right on two out of three) anyway.

I was living in Southern California at the time of the festival, an 18-year old, long-haired soon-to-be college student. I don’t remember hearing about the concert prior but reading about what took place afterwards. I wouldn’t have attended even had I known in advance about it, being too busy preparing for school, working, avoiding the draft and trying to screw everything in a short skirt in those days, with little success in the latter.

At just barely eighteen that summer and not having paid my dues, I was on the very outer limits of the so-called “Baby Boomer” generation, a group of people nowadays epitomized by guys like Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, who look like parodies of themselves and who apparently don’t have the good sense and decency to “go gentle into that good night”, as the poet Dylan Thomas once said. (And speaking of Dylan, there’s another guy who these days looks like he could use the services of a good embalmer.)

Babies were born, two people died (one of an overdose of happiness and another run over by a tractor), legends were made (see Richie Havens, Santana and Jimi Hendrix), cows mingled with concert-goers, drugs were consumed in mass quantities, Country Joe taught us how to spell, the promoters “took a bit of a bath” as reported from onstage by MC and production coordinator John Morris and in general a peaceful chaos reigned supreme.

(One of the best stories to come out of the concert…the band Iron Butterfly was scheduled to perform, got stranded at LaGuardia airport and couldn’t find a way into Bethel, due to the ungodly traffic tie-ups the concert produced on local highways. Their agent contacted Michael Lang, one of the organizers of the event, and with an excess of attitude, demanded a helicopter as a conveyance into and out of the site for the band. Lang, up to his cojones in other problems at that moment, told Morris to respond with a “thanks, no thanks.” Here’s the telegram that Morris sent the agent in response:

                “F or reasons I can’t go into

                 U ntil you are here

                 C larifying your situation

                 K nowing you are having problems

                 Y ou will have to find

                 O ther transportation

                 U nless you plan not to come”

Morris is my kind of guy.

What a long, strange trip it’s been indeed.

Fast forward to the 21st century and current events, and it’s becomes time for me to, once again, remind all of you that, like the 247 disparate individuals from the Democratic Party, your Cap’n (that would be me) is running for President in 2020 as the Hearty Party candidate…that’s right, exhaust fans, my name is Cap’n John and I ain’t kidding. (That’s my campaign slogan…catchy, huh?)

I thought I would take a moment and reiterate some of my positions on the various issues, give you the “planks” of my platform, as it were. So I’ll dive right in, having no idea how deep the pool is.

GLOBAL WARMING

                I don’t know about the rest of the globe, but it’s been hotter than Habanero pepper here in Central Florida recently, with several days just last week having a “heat index” of, depending on which usually inaccurate weather reporting service you choose, between 108 and 110°, coupled with completely unseasonable rain EVERY FUCKIN’ DAY THIS SUMMER, which I have to believe is somehow connected to the extreme heat. When I am elected President, I will ask Congress to enact legislation that will require sending Federal troops to the homes of “climate deniers”, have said troops take the said deniers out into the country where it’s quiet and then whack their peenies with a meat tenderizing mallet repeatedly.

LEGALIZATION OF MARIJUANA

As your President, I will send a bill to Congress making cannabis legal in 47 states, other than Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania; since the asshats in those states supported Donald Trump and put him in the White House in 2016, screw’em. And piss on Mitch McConnell too as long as I’m at it.

THE ECONOMY

                After I am elected the 46th President of this great country, having been remade so by my predecessor Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump (at least in his mind), I will immediately lift all the incredibly stoopid tariffs imposed by PTB on imported Chinese products, causing the Chinese to respond in kind, which will allow the farmers, consumers and the stock market to get back to normalcy, which means the famers will be able to make a profit from their efforts, consumers will quit taking it in the shorts and the market will return to some semblance of sanity. And you needn’t worry about Mr. Trump, post-Presidency…he won’t starve, always having Daddy’s money to fall back on, as he has done all his life.

SOCCER BAN

                  That’s right, circulating fans, as soon as I am elected President, I will immediately impose a ban on the playing of soccer, in any form at any level, in this country. It’s a stoopid, boring game that has no place in modern American sports. Let them play it in countries that don’t have Major League Baseball, REAL football, the NBA, women’s college fast-pitch softball and tiddlywinks. (Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth for AN HOUR AND A HALF. Geez.)

TIDDLYWINKS DAY

                Speaking of tiddlywinks, as President, I will issue a proclamation declaring February 23rd as National Tiddlywink Day, with all the attendant celebrations and general tomfoolery thereto. Why 2/23? Besides being my birthday, which should be reason enough, it’s also the day, in 1997, that “scientists” announced the first successful cloning of an animal, a lamb named Dolly, making her the Dolly Lamba.

LEGALIZATION OF MARIJUANA

                As your President, wait, I already did this one, didn’t I? Shit.

As the election draws nearer over the next 12 months or so, I will be expounding further on other pertinent issues that face our nation; you can be assured that my positions on these matters will be as cogent and relevant as the ones above.

At this early stage in the electoral process, I believe you could best characterize my candidacy by quoting Joseph Heller, from his brilliant anti-war novel Catch-22:

“He was a self-made man who owed his lack of success to nobody.”

Yes.

“Gimme an F…”

Love and “The Star Spangled Banner”,

Cap’n John

Post Script…the pic above? One of the bands that didn’t play at Woodstock.

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY, AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE_VOL X

(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to a young man for whom I have a truckload of respect and admiration, my soon to be “ex-boss” at the Publix grocery store where I work part-time, Brian K. He’s leaving us, to move onward and upward, and will be sorely missed. Good luck, buddy, and remember, you can call me any time you need help or advice.

The philosopher and novelist George Santayana has been quoted as saying that “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”, which at once sounds both quite sage and the best explanation for people falling prey to multiple marriages. 

According to Karl Marx, patron saint of the Communist movement and brother to Groucho, Harpo and Chico, “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce”, words we will remember on Wednesday, November 4th, 2020 should this country lose its collective mind and reelect Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump for another four years as President. You will also recall that Obi-Wan Kenobi urged Luke Skywalker to use it.

And as Rodney Dangerfield once said, a comment I have often quoted, “I’m so old, when I was in school we didn’t even HAVE history.”

So history will be the theme of today’s post; I considered writing about “llama intestines” as a theme, but in deference to the delicate sensibilities of my loyal readers (all several of you), I decided against that idea. I’m sure some of you, sensibilities notwithstanding, will be disappointed.

You know who you are.

On this date in history:

~In 1974, then President Richard M. Nixon, facing almost certain impeachment for his role in the Watergate break-in fiasco, announced that he was resigning from office effective immediately. Had it been prohibited by our Constitution, Mr. Nixon could easily have been impeached for being arrogant and inept, an ugly combination in any human being, as we’re seeing with the current resident of the White House. As it was, the charges against him were Obstruction of Justice, Contempt of Congress, Failure to Reduce Speed, Being a Republican and General Mopery, who did it in the Conservatory with the Revolver. (Sorry, that was Colonel Mustard…I get those two confused sometimes. I did write about the board game Clue last week, if you’re interested.) Here’s hoping someone at the White House mentions this bit of history to Mr. Trump, and that he then has a sudden and quite unexpected 180° change of heart and follows Mr. Nixon’s example. As comedian Judy Tenuta often says, “Hey, it could happen.”

~In 1879, in the Mexican state of Morelos, Emiliano Zapata was born. He was renowned for a) being a key figure in the peasant revolution of 1910 against the land-owning hacendados in Morelos, b) having an awesome ‘stache and c) since “zapata” in Spanish means “shoe”, being the first revolutionary leader in the world to be named for footwear.

~In 1846, in an attempt to prohibit the expansion of slavery to the new territories in the West, the Wilmot Proviso was proposed in Congress, and in the debate that followed, much to our chagrin today, the Republican Party was born. Several current historians have suggested that we go back, exhume the various Congressional leaders of that time, give each of them a good smack on the side of the head and then rebury them. And here’s some food for thought…the same Republican Party that gave us Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower has now graced us with Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell, which if we were to use a food analogy for the genealogy of the GOP, could be considered “chocolate-covered dog turds”.

~In 1588, the English armada, led by Commodore Lionel Ritchie, in one of those interminable wars that they seemed to fight incessantly over there in Europe in those days, defeated the Spanish fleet in a decisive battle off the northern coast of France. (And as a nod to Mr. Ritchie, the town I live in here in Central Florida, New Port Richey, is named for his brother, who was at one time a prominent local proctologist.)

~And in 1096, a Slabovian peasant named Elwood Pudlooper decided, after much soul searching and contemplation, that he would follow Knight and Lord of the local fief Sir Sean of Connery on a crusade to liberate the Holy Lands from the heathens of SPECTRE, at least according to novelist and accidental historian Sir Ian Fleming. (Geez, is there anyone over there in the UK that they HAVEN’T made a Knight? Sir Elton John, are you kidding me?)

And in the history of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, I have received and continue to receive many letters, emails, texts, telegrams and carrier pigeon messages from my loyal readers seeking advice about their love lives, or the obvious lack thereof. I thought, for your edification, that I would share with you some of the more pathetic, err, excuse me, of the more heart-rending of these missives.

Of course, asking me for advice on affaires de coeur is rather like asking your dog to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity. Or as comedian Larry the Cable Guy once put it, “It’s like wiping before you poop, it don’t make no sense.”

Yes.

“Cap’n John:

                I am an author of political manifestos, single and in my early 30’s, and although I believe that “religion is the opium of the people”, I am having no luck finding a suitable female partner with whom to share everything I have, my work and life. I thought that I might eventually meet my “special someone” at a political rally or a Bund meeting, for I am a very “social” person, but I have had no luck. My partner Friedrich even offered to fix me up with his sister Helga, but the Engels are a strict German family and wouldn’t allow it. I’m lonely in my “worker’s paradise”. Can you help me, Cap’n John?

                                Groucho’s Younger Bother Karl”

Dear Brother:

                Yawohl, you Marxist asshat, have you tried living in a commune? Maybe if there’s a group of women from which you can choose your luck might be better. Just don’t try to impress any of them with your money.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m female, 22 years old and a student at a local college, working part-time at a grocery store as a cashier to pay for my education. Lately I find myself VERY attracted to one of my co-workers, a young man in his late 20’s who is quite handsome, very nice and, according to several of his buddies, hung like a stud horse. We’ve spoken on many occasions, had some good conversations and he seems interested in me, but it also seems like something is holding him back. So here’s my question: didn’t it creep you out to the max when Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia were in a serious lip-lock in The Empire Strikes Out On A 3-2 Slider and then we learn they’re brother and sister in the Return of the Jed Clampetts?

                                Megan the Merciless, Ruler of the Galaxy”

Dear Ruler:

                Hey, being “hung like a stud horse” is all well and good, but does your potential suitor know that there was an apartment house in my neighborhood out in L.A. that was named “Los Huevos”, which in Spanish means “The Eggs”? What the hell kind of a name is that for a building? Next thing you know, some guy named after footwear will being charging around leading revolutions.

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                You continue to ignore our repeated attempts to collect this debt…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear CJK:

                I just can’t believe that, according to scientists, the Moon moves away from the Earth at a rate of 1.48 inches annually, or at about the same rate that a person’s fingernails grow. If this is true, and I really don’t think it is, ‘cause who the hell has a tape measure that long, then how come I can’t find a good-looking woman to walk down the aisle with? I’m in my late 20’s, told that I’m good-looking by my friends, who are notorious liars, have all my own hair and teeth, and pardon my bragging, hung like a stud horse, so I can’t understand this total failure with women. There’s this one girl at work that looks interesting, but she recently told me that she has three nipples and is a Republican as well, and that sure brought things to a grinding halt. How can I take her home to my Mom, who plays linebacker for the Packers and hates Republicans? How about some help here, Cap’n?

                                Terry the Trojan Horse”

Dear Horse:

                Have you tried using a 56mm left-handed kroysening wrench?

Well, gang, I see by the old word-counter down in the lower left of my computer screen that it’s half-past August and time to move on to bigger and better things. And remember the famous words of George Orwell in his incomparable book Brave New World, quoting Henry Ford, who once said that “History is bunk beds.”

At least I think that’s what he said.

Love and geography,

Cap’n John

Post Script…and how about that segue this week, “And in the history of the Welcome Aboard yada, yada, yada”…pretty slick, huh?

Post Post Script…that thing about the Moon moving away from the Earth at the same rate as the growth of a person’s fingernails is true…check it out.