There’s an old saying we’ve all heard…“no good deed goes unpunished”…

These days, in this time of social upheaval, discontent and unrest, when folks are outraged and angry over such issues as the Covid-19 pandemic that is ravaging the world and our country, of the renewed awakening to systemic racism and the gross mistreatment of African Americans over the years in America, of the sickening and callous jailing of immigrants at our borders, of rancorous debate over the symbols and statuary of the Confederacy, of the demise of Strawberry Cheese Danish Pop Tarts (yes, they have been discontinued), I have come to a point where I pretty much don’t like anybody. Good deeds? Yeah, fuck you, I gave at the office.

But stories about good deeds are typically uplifting, so I have one to tell you. (FYI, I’m told that push-up bras are uplifting as well, although I have no personal experience with them, having never worn one…okay, there was that one time, but alcohol and illicit drugs were involved so that shouldn’t count.)

His name was Phil Harmonic, and he was by profession a door-to-door vibrator salesman and by avocation a nature photographer. As a young man, through being frugal with his earnings and lying on his 1040 tax form, Phil was able to save enough money to realize one of his most cherished dreams…a photography “safari” to the Serengeti in Africa. (“Serengeti” is derived from the Maasai language and means “push-up bra”.)

After months of planning, preparation and great anticipation, Phil finally arrived one momentous day on the African plains, where he met his guide, collected his equipment and together they embarked on their journey to record the beauty and mystery of that portion of “the plateau continent” and especially of the denizens that populate the area, the wildebeests, the cheetah, the cantaloupes, the various types of monkeys, the Chevrolet Impala, the majestic lions, the hyena, and of course, the noble African elephant.

It was truly a dream come true for him.

Phil and his guide were out early one morning, driving down a rutted dirt track deep in the African veldt when they spotted a lone bull elephant, standing some distance from the road, his left front foot lifted off the ground; they stopped their truck on the roadside, got out and carefully approached the monstrous animal, who would now and again place the obviously wounded foot down on the ground and immediately bring it up again; as they got closer, it seemed they could even see the pachyderm wince in pain as he did.

Our hero handed his camera to his guide, a local man named Fred (what? you were expecting Swintua or Mbetwee?) and began walking ever so slowly towards the elephant, barely listening to the warnings of the guide to be very, very careful. As humans always seem to do, he began to talk baby talk to the animal to calm the beast and make his friendly intentions known. Are you hurt, big guy? You okay? I won’t hurt you, just be calm, I just want to see what’s wrong with your foot, it’s okay, there you go, it’s all right, etc., etc. (African elephants, despite being unable to articulate speech, are known for their ability to understand gibberish.)

Phil was able to get close enough to the animal to see the problem…a large sliver of wood had become embedded in the elephant’s foot.  He began to stroke the mighty beast’s trunk, calming the animal he hoped, and then, so as not give the elephant any warning of what he was about to do, reached down slowly and then with a strong jerk, yanked the offending piece of wood from the animal’s foot.

The elephant started a bit, but then gingerly placed the wounded foot on the ground, testing it to determine the level of pain. When it realized the sliver had been removed, it turned its giant head and gave Phil what seemed to be a gentle caress with its trunk, a gesture of gratitude and appreciation for the good deed the man had just performed. As the elephant turned to leave, Phil noticed a scar on the left ear of the animal, a lightning shaped disfiguration right at the crease where the ear joins the head.

The elephant gave a small trumpet of thanks and swiftly, though limping, walked back into the jungle.

Many years later, Phil was visiting the local zoo, still taking photos of nature and its residents, when he came to the elephant enclosure. He was using a long “zoom” lens that day, and as he was focusing in closely on one large male, he noticed with a start that the animal had a lightning shaped scar on its left ear, and Phil was sure, in the most amazing of coincidences, that this was the very animal that he had once encountered on the African plain. The giant beast walked over more closely to where Phil was standing, and it seemed to the erstwhile photographer that, yes, this was “his” elephant.

With hardly a thought, Phil set down his Nikon, carefully climbed the fence that separated the enclosure from the people watching, managed to cross the protecting moat and approached the animal, using mostly the same silly, hopefully soothing gibberish he had used to calm the animal all those years before. The elephant watched impassively as Phil came closer and then, with a mighty roar, he turned to Phil and proceeded to stomp the living crap out of the salesman/photographer, ending his career as a purveyor of pleasure and a taker of photographs.

And the old saying about the punishment of good deeds was again proven to be true.


So isn’t it about time we reexamined some of these “old sayings” and gave them a more modern interpretation?

Sure, why not?

> “There’s no accounting for taste”:

                Well of course there isn’t; there’s accounting for such thing as expenditures, accounts receivable, accounts payable, expenses, inventory, scrotums, interest, dugouts and other such financial items, but taste, sorry, not really.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “There’s no understanding why anyone with an IQ higher than room temperature would vote for Donald Trump.”

> “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink”:

                Well of course you can’t; you can’t make the horse bathe or swim the 200 meter backstroke either for that matter.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “You can lead a horse to water, but it might prefer Swedish vodka for all you know”.

> “You can’t judge a book by its cover”:

                Well of course can’t; you can judge it by how many pages it has, or by the type of font the printer used (FYI, this is Calibri I’m using) or even by the copyright date, but not by the cover.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “You can lead a horse…”, no wait, that was the last one, sorry. “You can’t judge a book by its cover, but if it’s a “tell-all” piece by Dr. Mary Trump, most of what it says about her uncle being a lying, perverted, narcissistic, fucktard sociopath with delusions of grandeur is probably true.”

> “He was asleep at the wheel”:

                Well of course he was; he couldn’t be asleep under the hood in the engine compartment, unless he was a squirrel or a spark plug, or for that matter in the glove box, unless he was the size of a box of Kleenex tissues, which are currently on special at Publix, 2 for $3.99.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “He was being pursued by aliens from the planet Zatox at the time of the accident and was rendered unconscious by their anti-matter ray-guns.”

> “The early bird catches the worm”:

                Well of course it does; everyone knows that no self-respecting worm is outside any later than 5:30am, due to the fact that worms have extremely sensitive skin to the ultraviolet rays of the sun, and as yet have not discovered sunscreen with a sufficient PFS that will protect their little slimy, disgusting tubular bodies.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “The early bird may catch worms but later in the day will be reduced to eating baloney and Clorox sandwiches, unless it drives over to the local Publix and gets an Italian sub with Genoa salami, tavern ham, cappacola, a kanooten valve, provolone cheese, a raincoat, veggie toppings and your choice of either multi-grain, white, moldy or whole grain bread.”

> “You don’t miss your water until your well runs dry”:

                Well of course you don’t; you don’t miss your desk chair until you go to sit down one day and it’s not there and you wind up breaking your coccyx when you fall spang on your ass in front of the entire Marketing Department. (I was going to say “tailbone” but “coccyx” sounds vaguely dirty, like uvula or nipples.

                Wouldn’t it be better to say: “You don’t miss your water if you use a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon to shoot at it.”

Well, speaking of old sayings, “tempus fugit” (that’s Latin for “push-up bra”) and I can see by the word counter thingie down in the left-hand corner of my monitor that, indeed, tempus has fugited.

And remember…”Good friends never say goodbye, the simply say alpaca saliva.”

Love and undergarments,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Publix better cough up some cash for all the free advertising I’ve given them.


It was a cold, gray and gloomy early November morning, with gun-metal dark clouds scudding past overhead and just a hint of clammy dampness in the air, the kind that, as soon as you look out the window for your first glimpse of the just out of bed world, is immediately depressing, giving Rocky a sense the day was going to be a rough one. Ever have that feeling? Little things get out of whack quickly…you stub your toe on the leg of the bedframe as you walk past barefooted on your way to the kitchen for your coffee and pickled muskrat; you nick yourself shaving and the damn cut won’t stop bleeding, making you look like the survivor of a botched murder attempt; you’re halfway to your car when you remember you left your lunch sitting on your dining room table and you have to walk back to get it.

Little shit that makes you nuts and tells you, uh-oh, this is going to be “one of THOSE days”.

Traffic of course was worse than usual that morning; an accident up ahead, causing the morons to slow down to check for any dead bodies, hoping to see something bloody and gruesome to talk about when they got to work, and to put the cherry on top of the barbeque pork sundae, he had forgotten he needed to stop for gas, which of course would now make him late punching in.

Geez, he thought to himself, since there was no one else in the car with him at the time, how much worse can it get today?

The answer to that question, he should have known, would be forthcoming very soon.

And oh gee, what a surprise, guess who was standing by the timeclock when he walked in at 8:03am? Mr. Thehun, first name Attila, giving Rocky the “ol’ stink eye” while making a great show of looking at his watch pointedly at the same time.

“Late again, Roads,” he said with a sour tone in his voice and an equally sour look on his face. “That’s the third time in five years, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, Mr. Thehun, I forgot I had to stop to get gas,” Rocky replied, in what he hoped was a repentant manner.

“Well punch in and get to your bench. There’s a new batch of Thins that needs to be processed right away.”

“Yes, sir,” Rocky said. I’d like to shove your stinking carcass in the trash compactor and watch it reduce you to a small rectangular cube of asshole, he muttered under his breath.

Rocky worked for Church and Dwight, makers of Trojan condoms (“from Magnum to Ecstasy”), as a condom tester. If he could have tested them in person it would have been one thing, but he did it eight hours a day on a machine that looked like a stainless steel dildo at a work bench in a cavernous warehouse, which lowered the fun quotient down considerably.

When he got to his work station, his mood darkened even further; the overnight crew had left him 28 pallets of Ultra Thins (“40% thinner!”) to be gone through and checked randomly for tears, seams, fit, for any type of imperfection that might cause one of them to fail at the wrong moment and induce a dramatic increase in the birth rate.

One of his co-workers walked by just then, on his way to his bench. “Morning, Rocky. Attila climb up your ass again?”

“I hate that fucker.”

“So,” said Co-worker, “what did you think of the results last night?”

Rocky’s cable box had been on the fritz for several days and he hadn’t heard the news of the election the previous evening. “Shit, my cable is fried and I didn’t hear. How much did Hillary win by?”

Co-worker laughed. “Oh no, buddy boy, not Hillary…Donald. Trump won.”

“WHAT?!? That roving asshole won the election?”

“Yep, the pussy-grabbing reality show host pulled it out in the end and we have a new President. Sorry to be the one to tell you.” As Co-worker was talking, Rocky could hear his supervisor’s phone ringing in the Production office over in the corner.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Rocky pleaded with Co-worker. No, it can’t be, he thought. Meanwhile, the phone kept ringing in the office behind him and Rocky wondered why no one was answering. Ring…ring…ring…

And that’s when he snapped awake, bolting straight up in bed, his alarm clock screaming on the nightstand next to him. What a nightmare, he thought groggily, shaking his head…a condom tester? No wait, the nightmare wasn’t the job, it was Trump winning…now that’s scary, he thought, laughing uneasily to himself.

He sat down at the desk in his bedroom, logged onto the Internet, and clicked on CNN.

And that’s when he realized the nightmare was real…Donald Trump had indeed won. And while the network talking heads prattled on about the huge upset, all he could think was, Costa Rice…I’m moving to Costa Rica ASAP.

But what Rocky didn’t know was that the nightmare had actually just begun.


So lemme’ stop here and ask a question…when something “goes viral”, where the hell does it go?

(Great segue, huh?)

As one of the premier humor bloggers on the ‘Net and a legend in my own mind, hardly a day goes by when I don’t receive a passel, which is slightly less than a shitload, of letters, texts, emails, secret decoder ring messages and notes attached to a rock and thrown through my living room window, commenting in one manner or another about something I have written here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog. And from time to time, typically when I can’t think of anything else to write about, I like to share these messages with you, my loyal and extremely good-looking readers, all four of you.

And so, to proceed…

“Dear Captin shitface:

                Fuk you and all your libtard buddies, sayin all those awful things about His emmenance Presidint Trump on that desgustin blog you rite. all of you lyin sinners are Going strate to Hell for your blasfa, for the eval things you say, and good Rittance. I hopp you get a bad case of crotch lice, you asshole. Youll get yurs when Saintly Donald asends to Heaven and then returns in 3 days to smit the wikked.

                Makkin Amurica Grate Agin”

“Cap’n John:

                I’m so sick and fucking tired of being shamed by you liberal assholes for not wearing a mask when I go out in public. It’s ridiculous. Everyone with any good sense knows that this Corona thing is bullshit, it’s just a cold, and a plot started in China and now being used by the criminal left wing antifa BLT cancel movement to tear down President Trump and keep him from getting reelected and leading this country in the great manner that he has since back in ’16 when he beat that monkey Barrack Obama, excuse me, that bitch Hillary “Lock Her Up” Clinton. I hope you get crotch lice, you sickening asshole.

                The Unmasked Avenger”

“Dead Meat:

                Donald Trump has done more for 2nd Amendment rights than any President in the history of our great nation, and believe me, when he gets reelected in November, you and all your liberal pussy buddies are going to wish you had never opened your big mouths, because President Trump is going to issue hunting licenses to all armed, right-thinking persons in America to hunt you fuckers down and FINALLY stop you from tearing down our American values any further. I hope you get crotch lice while you’re waiting for one of us to show up at your door with an AR-15 to render Trump’s justice on you.

                Nothing Says Hate Like An Automatic Weapon”

“Dear Captain Butthole:

               The Grand Exalted Majestic Secret Nation of the Organic Pretentious Order of the Ku Klux Klan stands ready to assert the rights of all decent, law-abiding WHITE people in this country by ridding America of not only the Africans who don’t know their place, but all their disgusting, repulsive, perverted, sickening, gross, disgusting, retarded, perverted, gross liberal sympathizers like you who encourage the Colored race to revolt and wreak havoc in the streets of our cities and in our trailer parks, currency exchanges, laundromats, Walmarts, flea markets, tire stores, Cracker Barrels and everywhere else that decent WHITE people should reign supreme as well. I hope you’re infested with crotch lice, you left-wing asswipe.

                N.B. Forrester, Grand Wazoo of the Florida Chapter

                Knights of the Grand Exalted Majestic Secret Nation of the Pretentious                    Organic Order of the Ku Klux Klan”

“You Hell bound sinner:

                It is written in the Holey Bible, in the Book of Excretions, Chapter #2, Verse #2 that, “If the man with the discharge spits on anyone who is clean, they must wash their clothes and bathe with water, and they will be unclean till evening.” It further says in Dalmations Chapter 15, Verse 69 that, “Do not have sexual relations with your sister, either your father’s daughter or your mother’s daughter, whether she was born in the same home or elsewhere.” And again, in Crustaceans Chapter 23, Verse 45 that, “Take the finest flour and bake twelve loaves of bread, using two-tenths of an ephah for each loaf; arrange them in two stacks, six in each stack, on the table of pure gold.” Examining these passages, and others similar, it is completely clear that President Trump has been sent by God Almighty to rule and lead this troubled nation out of the den of sin and degradation into which it has been led. Those that choose to oppose him will feel his mighty wrath, be stricken with crotch lice and then be thrown into the fiery pit of Perdition.

                Jesus Was White, You Scumbag”

I’ll just bet President Trump is thrilled to have such loyal supporters.

Love and jammies,

Cap’n John

Post Script…all of the Bible quotes (above) are real…obviously I made up the Books, chapters and verses, but the words came right from various passages in the Old Testament.



“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and if we didn’t test so much we’d have fewer cases, according to that idiot in the White House)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, please, can everyone have a seat so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please take your seats…thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I need to share with all of you, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce again to the guy behind him)…”Geez, what a bunch of maroons…”

FYI, sotto voce is Latin for “marmot testicles”.

>From the I Guess The Next Step Is To TP All The Trees In Seoul Department…Earlier this week, Supreme Leader, Marshall of the State and Chief Notary Public of the People’s State of North Korea, Kim “Rocket Man” Jong Un, threatened to “pour leaflets of punishment” all over his South Korean neighbors, apparently in retaliation for their existing. SLMSCNP Kim was quoted as saying that, if the people of the Republic of Korea continued to irritate him merely by being, he would escalate the already high tensions between the two countries by directing the North Korean Army to begin shooting spitballs over their common border. ROK President Moon Jae-in angrily responded that if Kim persisted in his provocations that he would tell the teacher and have Kim taken to the Principal’s office to get his peenie whacked.

>From the Damned Good Thing There Isn’t A Minimum Height Requirement To Be A Guitar Player Department…Did you guys know that Paul Simon, one half of the singing duo of Simon and Bullwinkle (wait, weren’t they cartoon characters?), is only 5’3” tall? According to WikiPedia, my go-to source for information, not only is the diminutive Simon a gifted singer/songwriter but also an aspiring actor; the article on the Internet encyclopedia points out that Simon at one time intended to audition for a part as a Munchkin in the movie The Wizard of Oz, but was thwarted in his attempt to break onto the silver screen by the fact that the movie was made in 1939, while Simon wasn’t born until 1941. When asked about his desire to be a thespian, Simon said that at no time has he ever been bi-sexual, but that you can call him Al. (Well, WikiPedia doesn’t really say all that stuff…I made up the part about Bullwinkle.)

>From the I’m Surprised They Didn’t Call It Dueling Tubas For Crissake Department…Okay, someone please explain this to me like I’m a five year old…I have listened to dozens of versions of the song Dueling Banjos and I can only find one version where it was one banjo in conflict with another banjo, per the title of the tune. (I remember the first time I heard the title, I thought to myself, I wonder if they stand back to back, take ten paces and then turn and play.) I’ve seen banjos battling guitars, fiddles, mandolins, a zither, a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader and a Cuisinart, but no banjo y banjo. On this YouTube video about the origins of the song, at 5:56 there’s a thing between comedian Steve Martin, who is by the way a fabulous banjo player, and a young man who won first place in the Steve Martin Prize For Excellence in Banjo competition, and even then they only play the first few measures before Noam Pikelny, the guy who won the $50,000 prize, takes off on an unbelievable riff that has little to do with the actual tune. Even the original was played with a banjo and a mandolin. So why the hell did they call it Dueling BANJOS? Shit, the composer could have called it Song For A Marmot and it would have been just as descriptive. Geez…

>From the Now That’s A Special Kind Of Stoopid Department…A megachurch (what criteria exactly does a church have to meet to become MEGA?) in Phoenix AZ, the site of the next rally for President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, has declared that it has “solved the pandemic problem” in its auditorium due to the efforts of one of its members. Senior Pastor Luke Barnett and Operations Officer Brandon Zastrow have stated that the revolutionary air-purification system recently installed in the building removes “99.9% of the coronavirus and none of our bullshit” from the air, making it safe for all the Make America Great Again nut-cases to attend the rally. The church was apparently chosen for the gathering because it only seats 3,000 persons, which given the debacle at the BOK Arena in Tulsa OK last week, in which the President was only able to fill approximately 6,000 of the 19,000 seats in the venue with his rabid followers in his first political rally in months, would seem to make it much easier for our rather rotund, verbose President to fill. ***BREAKING NEWS***…this just in from our news room: the rally for President Trump at the Phoenix AZ Dream City MegaChurch may have to be postponed when it was learned today by church officials that the member who invented the miracle air filtration system, Bea L. Zebub, made a deal with the Devil to perfect her invention and has since left the church in disgrace. (FYI, I’m writing this on 6/23, the day of the scheduled event, so I apologize for all the weird tenses.) Anyway, here’s a Cap’n John quote you can write down and stick on your ‘fridge…”Faith is often times ignoring the obvious to embrace the absurd.” You’re welcome.

>From the I Bet It Was Due To Irreconcilable Differences Department…Florida just finished going through its annual “lovebug season”, where literally gazillions of the small, black and completely disgusting Piecia nearctica invade the Gunshine State, wearing outlandish costumes and swarming all over everything and generally making a fucking mess everywhere. The term “lovebug” stems from the fact the male and female of the species, apparently awash in post-coital bliss, stay stuck together end to end after mating, until the female has had enough and tosses his lazy ass out, telling him not to return until he has found a job and can remember to put the seat down. I mention this because just last week I saw a single bug, sans mate, on my screen door, and I thought to myself, because no one else ever listens to me, that the poor thing must have been the victim of a conniving partner and a sleazy divorce attorney. FYI, sans is Burmese for “marmot testicles”.

>From the I Guess Wilma and The Nimrods Was Already Taken Department…It is a rare time indeed that I am (mostly) speechless, but I have no comment on this YouTube video (see link below), other than to say that I love the dog as well as the banjo player’s nose ring. Spoon Lady and the Tater Boys. (Oh yeah, and you gotta’ love it when the “bass” player does that four-note “walking bass” run that takes the song into a new verse…it’s all the same note, instead of a progression of four ascending notes, but it still sounds pretty cool.)

>From the Was This Why My Mother Always Said To Make Sure I Was Wearing Clean Underwear? Department…I recently set up an Instagram account for myself and the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding website (@capnjohnk) so I could shamelessly and frequently self-promote the WATRUK blog and my deathless prose as well. Once I learned the ins and outs of posting, put up a few notices of new columns and checked out a few friends, I got to thinking that, and I know this would be a long shot, but that it was just possible, just barely, if you weren’t paying attention when you were creating a new entry, that you could, if you happened to have some naughty pics of yourself and your pet marmot on your phone, with you dressed in your favorite Little Red Riding Hood costume (complete with frilly panties), accidently use the wrong pic and, whoops, oh well, there it is for the amusement of all the world. Sure, you could delete it, but what if you didn’t realize you’d done it? Like living in a state that was carried by Donald Trump in the 2016 election isn’t embarrassing enough, right?

>From the I Bet Walter Kent Wishes He Would Have Thought Of This Department…I was talking to a friend (I have two) the other day about Christmas (don’t ask why we were discussing this in late June, we just were, okay?) and somehow we got on the subject of Christmas song lyrics, and I casually mentioned that it was my humble opinion that changing that line in I’ll Be Home For Christmas, written by the aforementioned Mr. Kent, from “presents under the tree” to “PEASANTS under the tree” would make the song a lot funnier. PHEASANTS works too, but it’s not as funny.

I want to thank you all for your being here today and for your attention…if there is no other business (geez, I hope not), I’ll adjourn the meeting.

Love and quorums,

Cap’n John


I’m anticipating an outcry of protest and indignation from all my Liberal readers (all several of you) by my next pronouncement…

I am a fan of Ayn Rand’s books.

(Ducks down under desk to avoid flying verbal and written brickbats of anger and outrage)

Lemme’ know when it’s safe to come back up…

FYI, a “brickbat” is defined as “a remark or comment that is highly critical and typically insulting”. (Sounds like my ex-wife.) For years I thought a brickbat was what the coach made me swing back when I played Little League baseball, ‘cause that’s what it felt like…most seasons, I was lucky if my batting average equaled my weight. I had an arm like a cannon, a glove like a vacuum cleaner and a bat like a fly swatter.

For those of you who are residents of LiberalLand, give me a moment to explain why I am a reader of the late Ms. Rand…she mostly wrote really big, fat books that took like a gazillion years to read, which for me meant that I could stay involved in one book for an extended period of time and not have to change subjects, figure out new plots or learn about any new characters that I might not like. (My copy of her 1943 novel The Fountainhead is 726 pages long and my “large mass-market” paperback version of Atlas Shrugged is well over a thousand.)

She obviously had a lot to say.

Okay, that wasn’t the real reason I was a fan of Alisa Zinovyevna Rosenbaum (her real name)…actually, I just liked what she had to say about self-reliance and egoism.

I freely admit that I’m not sophisticated enough politically to comprehend all her ideas about opposing collectivism and statism and favoring laissez-faire capitalism and non-stick cookware; she sometimes gets all esoteric and deep with her philosophy of Objectivism, the general idea of which I understood, the details of which went past me in a great gust of literary hot air.

Objectivism, her own personal philosophy of how to live a clean, moral and thoroughly boring life, is explained by WikiPedia as “the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity and reason as his only absolute”.

Let’s dissect that statement, shall we?

“Man as a heroic being”: yeah, I can see men as heroic…any husband who has ever had to answer the dreaded “does this dress make my butt look big?” question from his wife/partner without stepping all over his manhood is heroic in my book.

“…with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life…”: I know a shitload of people out there whose ONLY and EXPRESS purpose for living is the pursuit of their own happiness, so yeah, I get that. (See Donald Trump.)

“…with productive achievement as his noblest activity…”: now this concept I have some minor problems with…if “productive achievement” is at the top of the heap of noble activities, where does that put compassion, love, working for the betterment of humanity and trombone playing? Besides, if this is the criteria, then I personally know a boatload of my fellow Publix associates who are destined to live lives of utter failure, given the amount of time and effort they spend trying desperately not to do any more work than absolutely necessary. (We have an employee at the Publix grocery store where I work part-time who has made an art of the above; she wanders the parking lot playing around on her cellphone feverishly when she is supposed to be gathering shopping carts, she ducks into the ladies room with a frequency that is shameless doing what in there I couldn’t say, you see her going upstairs to the breakroom several times a day when she has no business being up there, or just wandering the store with a vapid look on her face when she’s supposed to be working, and the worst of it, she does these things right in front of the rest of us, like we’re too stupid to see and understand what she’s (not) doing. She wouldn’t know productivity if it walked up and kicked her in her big butt. I won’t mention her first name, but it rhymes with the state that has Annapolis as its capital.)

“…and reason as his only absolute.”: sorry, Alisa Zinovyevna, but we’re talking America here, right? Reason? Really? 62,984,828 people voted for Donald Trump in 2016…reason? You mean like common sense? You gotta’ be kidding me.

More on Ms. Rand and her books next week; now it’s time to use one of my copyrighted and famed “non-segue segues” and move right along to the real subject of today’s post…advise on dating in the time of coronavirus.

You see, I get letters and texts and emails and PMs on FB and smoke signals and secret decoder-ring messages from my readers (both Liberals and Conservatives, although the questions I get from Conservatives often seem to involve sheep, vibraphones and 55-gallon drums of Lime Jello), seeking advice on how best to navigate the swirling rapids of dating and relationships in this era of lockdowns, masks, social distancing and a disease that makes gonorrhea look like a hangnail.

And so, to proceed…

“Cap’n John:

                I’ve penned essays, articles, books and an occasional thank-you note but I’ve never written to a sea captain who puts out an “advice to the lovelorn” column before; I grew up in post-Revolution Russia, and the Commies didn’t believe in love. Sex, yes, but love? No, no way, too bourgeois. So I’m now living in America, land of the free (lunch) and home of the Atlanta Braves, and I am having no luck whatsoever finding a reasonable, heroic man with whom I can settle down and raise a family of Libertarians. I’ve tried dating services, hanging around at the local John Birch Society chapter meetings and I even thought about attending the “Singles Nights” at the local church, but I’m an atheist and I don’t think “believers” are objective. Can you give me any ideas on where I can find the Conservative of my dreams? I looked at the atlas, shrugged in frustration and decided to write to you…please help me, Cap’n John.

                I Sure Hope Fountainhead Is Some Kind of Unusual Oral Sex Involving Water”

Dear “Head”:

                I just hope you’re never as disappointed as I was when I streamed the movie Babes In Toyland on the Internet recently, thinking it was a, err, you know, a porno. Well, hey, given the title, what would you think? “Babes” in “Toy”land? WTF? If that’s not the definition of “false advertising” than I don’t know what…it’s an animated Disney movie, for the love of vibrators. Geez. (Insert winky-face here.)

“Dear Cap’n John Krissongs:

                I’m a single woman in my late 20s and an editor for a book publishing firm; I lead an active life, am better than average looking and have no visible warts. (Keyword…visible.) I’ve had some experience with relationships in the past, all unpleasant. I’m in the market, but the choices seem so poor; where are all the attractive, heroic studs that I read about in the “romance” novels I edit? Where the hell are the Caleb Burlys or the Justin Hairychesteds in real life? I’m tired of living in a fantasy world populated by men that are handsome, loving, considerate, moderately clean and a figment of someone’s else’s imagination. The author Ayn Rand once said that “A creative (wo)man is motivated by the desire to achieve, not by the desire to beat others”, and believe me, I don’t want to beat anybody, although if some studly dude out there wanted to give me a light spanking because I’d been “naughty”, that would be okay. Where do I find the man of my fantasies, Cap’n John?

                Ellie the Editor, Manstarved in Manhattan”

Dear “Ellie”:

                Two words, Ellie…”deuterium oxide”, also known as “heavy water”, which because it contains both a proton AND a neutron, makes it twice as heavy as regular water. I realize this information probably won’t help you find the “man of your fantasies”, but if you ever hook-up with a nuclear physicist, it’s a good starting point. (I assume when you mentioned “a light spanking” that it didn’t include a hairbrush or a cane, otherwise I would have to edit out that part of your letter, this being a family blog.)

“John Krissongs Cap’n:

                We are frankly puzzled as to why you refuse to honor this debt we’re trying to collect…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I have a friend named Justin Hairychested (not his real name, which is actually Al Catraz…oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that, sorry), anyway, my friend suggested that I write to you about a problem I’m having with finding and attracting women of the opposite sex…where the hell are they? I’ve had blind dates (one was a real nice girl, but the dog kept getting in the way) and I’ve done some Internet dating, I’ve been to all the “singles’ bars” in the area, I’ve even tried Singles’ Bronco Riding Night at the local rodeo, all to no avail. I’m a hetero male in my early 30s, have all my own hair and teeth and no physical deformities (that show), I’m financially okay and I believe in productive achievement as the defining point of my life, well, other than my weekly “coffee enema”, which lately has become the real focal point of my life, and I need some advice: how do I find Ms. Right, when all I keep running into is Ms. Take?

                Just Call Me Freddie Folgers”

Dear “Freddie”:

                You’re kind of a sick fuck, aren’t you?

Okay, according to the clock down in the corner of my computer monitor, it’s 162 words past my being done, since I typically try to keep my posts at or below 1500 words total…I’m allowing for attention span, both mine and my readers.

I sincerely hope that this open and frank discussion of problems that single folks face in today’s world has given you some meaningful insight into your own relationships.

Yeah, right.

Love and bookmarks,

Cap’n John

Post Script…1704. Geez, no wonder I’m tired…


(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 dedicated to 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 Amphibians, 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 activities 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/gal with that face and build were pretty slim. (Her chances were slim, her build…not so much.) 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, as 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 THE CAYMANS. (Of course, we drove the pastor, Father Heftybags, 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 sour cream 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 this major coronary event and bite the big one, hasta yo’ mama, senor, and next thing I know, there I am in front of St. Peter on the way through, who tells me, hey, special sauce lettuce cheese, you’re on your way to Perdition, have a nice trip, say hello 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, the guys from the 1919 Chicago Black Sox, 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 wear “magic underwear” and an have Italian angel as their patron saint, Martin Luther was probably certifiable and the Amish think they’re still living in pre-Civil War rural America and organized religion is surprised it has a credibility problem? Really? The same organized religion that gave us the Spanish Inquisition back in the 1500’s, flame-broiled “witches” in Massachusetts during the infamous Salem trials of 1692 and has a cadre of pedophile priests that have been giving “special dispensations” to young altar boys since who knows when, that the organized religion you’re talking about?

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.


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.

Tanker…a flying gas station.

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



(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


(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…


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…”


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


“…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.”


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.


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…)


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.


(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


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.


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”.


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 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 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…)