A YOUNG MAN AND THE SEA-THE SAGA OF LEAK POHLUPS, BABY SAILOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go Nads!!

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

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

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

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

“Leak Pohlups, Cap’n.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“45 knots? Are you sure, BE?”

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

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

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”

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

“Sir, it’s bigger than a humpback.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Narrator’s voice cuts in here.)

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

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

Love and tuna casserole,

Cap’n John

IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?_CONTINUED

The French philosopher and satirist Voltaire once said that “It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong.”

Just some food for thought.

I haven’t had the chance to finish telling you guys about that call I got recently from President Tweety Bird; you’re not going to believe this, but the whole thing was so completely out of this world, and when you hear the rest of the story, you’ll understand how spot-on that phrase is to describe the things I heard, that, well, you’re not going to believe this.

Boy, the guy even has me repeating myself, I was so freaked.

(Oh, and just so we’re clear about this, Voltaire was not the name that General Motors used for its 60’s era experimental electric car…although it could have been.)

If you don’t recall the first portion of our conversation back on 4/12/18, follow the link below (see below, below) so you’re up to speed.

“IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I”M SPEAKING?”

I try to be as candid, blunt even, as I can be when I’m speaking to world leaders, something that happens about as often as the Chicago Bears win the Super Bowl, an even once for them and me, so when PTB called that day from clear out of the blue, another very prescient phrase for the following story, I didn’t hold back…you’re calling ME for help delivering your message?

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

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

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

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

“I can’t believe that an intelligent, good-looking, resourceful hunk of sex appeal like yourself doesn’t get what I’m trying to do for our country with my programs,” he went on. (Okay, maybe I embellished his description of me just a bit…call it artistic license.)

“Tell you what, Blogger Boy, I’m gonna’ let you in on something here that’s gonna’ knock you out, something I’m gonna’ reveal to the entire world when the time is right, and when I do it’ll be so amazing, but you’re gonna’ get a sneak preview right now, and if you repeat any of what I’m gonna’ tell you, I’ll nuke that shitty little town of yours there in Flouride or whatever the hell you call that sorry excuse for a, for a, shit, hang on.” I heard him calling to someone there in the Oval Office. “Hey, Kelly, what the hell do you call that place where they have a governor and you have to carry so many of them to get elected President?”

There was a muted answer from the background which I couldn’t quite hear, and then he continued.

“Yeah, right, state, I’ll nuke that shitty excuse for a state you live in, douche-bag, even though I whipped Crooked Hillary’s butt there during the election.”

DOUCHE-BAG? DOUCHE-BAG? The worst President in the history of the Republic is calling ME a douche-bag? Before I could express my indignation at the insult, he hurried on.

“I was reading some of that fake news BS you come up with in that blog of yours last night, and I saw that column you wrote where you mentioned Dr. Browning, a wonderful man, and how he explained about Jesus being an alien and how he came to Earth to get rid of sin and save us all. Hang on a minute.”

While PTB covered up the phone and spoke to someone off-line again about who knows what, I took the opportunity to regroup…Dr. Browning, who the hell is Dr. Browning?

Then it dawned on me…I remembered my post from back in December (“CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?”) about how our Pres was having problems with understanding the difference between “aliens”, as in people who come here from other countries, and aliens, people(?) who come here from other planets. Dr. Bruce Browning, a Presbyterian minister from upstate New York, had written a book back in ’68 called “The Bible and Flying Saucers”, and no, I didn’t make that up, and in it he claimed that Jesus was an ”extraterrestrial sent to Earth to rid the world of sin and wickedness”.

I heard Pres say something about “I don’t care, I’m telling him,” to whoever he was talking to on the other end, just as he came back on the line.

“Listen, Blogger Breath, here’s the deal, Browning was absolutely correct, Jesus was an extraterrestrial, and it just so happens that, believe it or not, so am I. Surprised, aren’t you? That’s right, I was sent here from the planet SuperEgo to follow up for Jesus.”

There was a dramatic pause.

“Very soon, Cap’n John, very soon I will announce to the world that they don’t have to worry anymore, BECAUSE I AM THE SECOND COMING. I WILL SAVE THE WORLD, AND IT WILL BE SO GREAT THAT PEOPLE WILL KNEEL DOWN AND WORSHIP ME…”

He stopped suddenly in mid-sentence, and I could hear what sounded like a struggle there in the OO. “Get your hands off me…”

And the line went dead.

Not ten seconds went by and the phone rang again, same Caller ID as before: “His Eminence, 202-456-1111”.

The White House calling back.

“Uh, Cap’n John, uh, this is Dr. Basil Leaves, I’m President Trump’s personal psychi, excuse me, physician, and um, well, he was suddenly taken ill and couldn’t finish his conversation with you. The President said to tell you that he’s very sorry and that if it’s all right with you, he’ll call you back sometime in the next few days and pick up where he left off just now. I hope you understand. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sedate, sorry, take care of Mr. Trump.”

And the line went dead for a second time.

Oh yeah, Doctor, I understand perfectly…I mean, it isn’t like we haven’t had hints of this coming, pardon the pun, all along.

Per M. Voltaire again…

“If God didn’t exist, it would be necessary for man to invent Him.”

While I would challenge the first part of that sentence, I’m totally onboard with the rest.

Love and megalomania,

Cap’n John

 

IT’S AMAZING ALL THE THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW AS A PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE

Okay, so what the hell is “fricasseed duck”, anyway? Yeah, I could Google it and find out, but I wanted to see if you guys knew. Is it mandatory for certain types of ducks? Do the ducks mind? Is it a “kinky” thing for them? Are they still located in Anaheim? Could you fricassee a spatula? Enquiring minds want to know, believe me. (Remember that ad campaign from a few years ago for the National Enquirer…could you fricassee an Enquirer reader?)

Just curious.

That’s all well and good, but it isn’t the topic of today’s post, nor is the fact that I’m sitting here in my underwear at 2:53 a.m. writing this…that’s “a.m.” as in “it am really fricasseeing early in the morning and I should be asleep rather than sitting here asking my readers about fricasseed spatulas, thank you”.

Digression, thy name is Cap’n John.

Ever since I announced my candidacy for President in the 2020 election, I have had to undertake all sorts of grown-up activities, such as establishing a political party (voters, say hello to the new “Hearty Party”), creating a PAC for extorting funds, excuse me, soliciting funds from donors, selecting a running mate and setting up a campaign apparatus (almost as good a word as fricassee) with a campaign manager to be in charge and make all kinds of big-person decisions, like where to direct our campaign efforts, where to spend the money we take in, how best to “get the vote out”, whether we should collude with the Burmese and other “getting elected” issues.

Shit, the most important decision I ever had to make previous to declaring was what color underwear I should put on in the morning. (I have a nice pair of “cerise” that I really like, but I only wear them at home…I’m scared that if I wear them when I’m going someplace that I’ll have the proverbial car-wreck and the ER people will see them and laugh their asses off. You should Google “cerise”…it’s really pretty.)

So as a major pain in the ass, excuse me, major Presidential candidate, I have “departments” in my organization that are responsible for certain aspects of the campaign, such as fund-raising, demographics, voter turn-out, fricasseeing, etc., and they report to me periodically, through my “camman”, and I’ve decided to share some of their reports with you, mostly because I feel like it.

So there.

Plunging right in…

~From the Good Thing The Car Didn’t Have Wings Or The Guy Would Have Wound Up In Cleveland Department comes a report of a man who, while driving at a high rate of speed, which had to be roughly that of light I would think, hit a median, got the car airborne and crashed into a SECOND FLOOR DENTIST’S OFFICE. Of course, I’m sure if it had been a real-estate office this wouldn’t have happened.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/autos/news/somehow-this-guy-crashed-into-the-2nd-floor-of-a-building/ar-AAuGOw5?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout

~From the It’s A Contraction Of The Word “Ugly” Department comes this news that the company that makes Uggs boots has added a new item…thigh-high Uggs. That’s right, exhaust fans, you can now get the nasty, totally hideous footwear in a “super-size” that goes all the way up to near your private area. It’s hard to imagine ever being that cold, or that fashion ignorant.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/whats-hot/why-yes-thigh-high-uggs-are-a-thing-that-exists/ar-AAuPKGd?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout

~From the Apparently Moving To Florida Wasn’t An Option Department, scientists  (why does that word always sound slightly accusatory to me when I use it) now tell us that evidence has been found (a human jawbone) in a cave in Northern Israel indicating that homo sapiens moved out of Africa approximately 180,000 years ago, or about 60,000 years earlier than they previously thought. (Why can’t these “science guys” ever get it right the first time?) However, no ticket stubs or travel brochures were found in the cave, so the method of transportation or what alternative destinations were considered is still unknown.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/ancient-jaw-bone-found-in-israel-shows-modern-humans-left-africa-180000-years-ago/ar-AAvcSHn?li=BBnba9K&ocid=mailsignout

~From the We Were Bored And Couldn’t Think Of Anything Else To Do Department comes this report that a woman, who used the online name Alexandra58, came home from a shopping trip to find that her “boyfriend and mother-in-law” (her words…and I certainly hope that’s two different people) had decided to shave her baby’s head, thinking it would make the child’s hair grow in “better”; there was no comment from the baby, but the mother was contacted by the ad agency representing Uggs boots about using the child as a model.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/whats-hot/%E2%80%9Cmy-mother-in-law-shaved-my-baby-girl%E2%80%99s-head-while-i-was-out-shopping/ar-AAvaVyo?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout

~From the Best Idea To Ever Come From A Politician Department was this report on the town of Dorset MN, where they determine a town mayor every two years by drawing names of residents out of a hat, telling us that three-year old Robert Tufts was recently “elected”. His governing style? “Being nice and no poopy talk”. Are you listening, President Tweety Bird?

https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/smart-living/40-facts-so-funny-they%E2%80%99re-hard-to-believe/ss-AAuUncN?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout#image=10

~From the So Is His Middle Name “Cookie”? Department I learned that the Sesame Street character Cookie Monster actually has a first name…wait for it…it’s Sid. This was announced by the SS people to dispel rumors that the blue-haired, cookie-grubbing animal’s first name was actually Arnold.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/smart-living/40-facts-so-funny-they%E2%80%99re-hard-to-believe/ss-AAuUncN?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout#image=11

~From the So I Assume They Think “STD” Is An Oil Additive Department comes the report that a study done back in 2015 revealed that 11% of Americans think that the term “HTML” is actually an acronym for some kind of horrible disease. The study further found that these same 11% couldn’t find their butts with a flashlight, a map and two hands.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/smart-living/40-facts-so-funny-they%E2%80%99re-hard-to-believe/ss-AAuUncN?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout#image=16

And finally (thank the gods)…

From the I Have An Ex-Girlfriend That Does That Same Thing Department, I was told that lobsters have a bladder on both sides of their heads (who doesn’t?) and communicate and express emotions by urinating on each other, giving a whole new meaning to the term “pissed off” (or pissed on, as the case may be).

https://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/smart-living/40-facts-so-funny-they%E2%80%99re-hard-to-believe/ss-AAuUncN?li=BBnb7Kz&ocid=mailsignout#image=33

I will leave you all with this quote from Ian Malcolm, the mathematician from author Michael Crichton’s books Jurassic Park and The Lost World…”The characteristic human trait is not awareness but conformity, and the characteristic result is religious warfare. Other animals fight for territory or food; but uniquely in the animal kingdom, human beings fight for their ‘beliefs’. The reason is that beliefs guide behavior”. 

I believe it’s time for me to quit…I have to go fricassee a duck.

Love and department stores,

Cap’n John

Post Script…wouldn’t “Pool Noodle” be a great name for a rock band?

FLORIDUH…WE’RE #1! (ADDENDUM, LIKE AS IN PART TWO)

SHIT.

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT.

SHIT.

I had no more than posted my earlier piece today (see “FLORIDUH…WE’RE #1!” below), when I ran into this little bit of news about another fellow Floridian.

And the real irony here is not only the fact that this young man is from neighboring Port Richey, which of course isn’t near as cool as NEW Port Richey, being, well, not New (well, d’uh) but additionally that the winning ticket was sold at a 7-11 (oh, thank heaven) literally about a mile down the road north of where I live, right across the street from the Publix where I grocery shop every week.

20-years old and he now has TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY TWO MILLION DOLLARS (before taxes, which under the Trump Administration means he’ll have enough for a Big Mac, fries and a shake after he pays up).

My congratulations to Shane Missler…and I hope you get cooties.

http://abc7.com/society/florida-man-20-claims-$451m-mega-millions-jackpot/2935272/

Of course, I shouldn’t bitch…I’ve never bought a Lottery ticket in my entire life, which I’m told reduces the odds of winning greatly.

SHIT.

Love and Mega-Millions,

Cap’n John

Post Script…well, at least I still have the pic of the lady riding the ostrich.

FLORIDUH…WE’RE #1!

Since announcing my candidacy for President in 2020 two days ago (campaign slogan…”My Name Is Cap’n John And I Ain’t Kidding”), I have been virtually non-stop doing candidate-type activities…you know, forming a political party, which entails getting the chips and dip, the liquid refreshments, the invites sent out, etc., as well as creating a PAC (when I said the other day in my announcement post, see “LET’S THROW A POLITICAL PARTY!” 1/10/18, that I thought “PAC” was the Burmese word for “crook”, I was mistaken…it’s actually the Attic Greek word for “lying thieves”; I just wanted to clarify that), raising money, determining what the “planks” will be for my new party’s platform, soliciting donations, writing speeches, raising money, kissing babies, seeking donors and raising money.

Not in that order, of course.

So I thought I would take a short break from all this political frivolity and discuss just how fucking weird things are here in Florida. (Another great segue, from the master of same.)

I moved here to the Sunshine State, where the state motto is (true) “In God We Trust” (I understand the guy who thought this up is now working at an ad agency writing commercial jingles for Edsel automobiles) back in August of 2015; my thought was to immerse myself in the atmosphere of Florida by coming in the absolute hottest, most humid month of the year, you know, just to get a feel for the “real” FL.

What I have found, to date, is that Florida is a) stormy, b) possessed of the most varied collection of wildlife you can imagine, which includes about a bajillion little brown anoles lizards and bugs the size of a Hummer that fly, c) hot and humid, d) the home of some of the weirdest people in captivity, e) very humid, f) colorful and g) extremely humid. Again, not necessarily in that order.

Those are the high points.

This whole “weird Florida” thing started a few weeks ago when I saw an article in the Tampa Bay Times (motto: All The News Sometimes) about iguanas showing up in people’s toilets. (See link below under the heading “What, Are You Kidding Me?”) 

Rather than rehash the article here, I’ll let you guys check it out yourselves…besides, what the hell else can you say about people finding large, herbivorous lizards that are NOT indigenous to this area doing the backstroke in their commodes? Go ahead, I’ll wait while you think about that…all done?

So here we go, mateys, a compendium, which not a place you live in, of stories from the annals of “Things To Do In Florida When You’re Totally Baked”…or whatever.

“HOW DO SO MANY IGUANAS GET IN FLORIDA TOILET BOWLS?”

       …yeah, Governor Scott, just exactly how the hell does that happen?

http://www.tampabay.com/news/environment/wildlife/How-do-so-many-iguanas-get-in-Florida-toilet-bowls-_163266036

”FLORIDA WOMAN ON HORSEBACK CHARGED WITH DUI”

       …and I absolutely, positively guarantee you she was doing 45 MPH in the far left-hand lane when she was pulled over.

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/weird-news/florida-woman-horseback-charged-dui-n817231

“WOMAN HOPES HER 4.48-INCH TONGUE LICKS HER INTO RECORD BOOKS”

       …this young woman can eat an ice cream cone from the other side of the table.

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/gerkery-bracho-blequett-longest-tongue_us_57c5b35ce4b09cd22d92c88b?utm_hp_ref=weird-florida

“WOMAN ALLEGEDLY HAD SEX WITH DOGS, PONDERED BIGGER CANINE” 

       …this does give a whole new meaning to the term “doggy-style”.

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/woman-had-sex-with-dogs-pondered-bigger-canine-police-say_us_56f4056de4b02c402f66a280?utm_hp_ref=weird-florida

“POLICE: FLORIDA WOMAN ATTACKS FARTING HUSBAND”

       …isn’t it sad when flatulence breaks up a happy relationship?

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/florida-woman-dawn-meikle-attacks-husband-for-farting-in-bed-police-say_us_567990d4e4b0b958f6582c2a?utm_hp_ref=weird-florida

“WOMAN CALLS COPS TO GRIPE ABOUT POT DEALER”

       …hey, getting a short bag isn’t funny, okay?

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/florida-woman-calls-police-to-gripe-about-pot-dealer_us_560bfd53e4b0dd85030a08f5?utm_hp_ref=weird-florida

“FLORIDA MAN ARRESTED FOR ALLEGEDLY MASTURBATING AT BURGER KING”

       …you guys remember the old BK ad campaign that sang “It takes two hands to handle a Whopper”? (Reminds me of the story I read years ago about vandalism done to a local Mickey D’s… police found a brick that had been thrown through the front window of the restaurant with a note attached: ”You deserve a break today.”)

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/florida-man-arrested-for-masturbating-at-burger-king_us_55ef2690e4b093be51bc5f50?utm_hp_ref=weird-florida

“PORN STAR KAYLA KUPCAKES FLASHES JUDGE IN FLORIDA COURTROOM”

       …KK was arrested when found hanging around a local Burger King. (Okay, I made that part up.) 

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/porn-star-kayla-kupcakes-flashes-judge-in-florida-courtroom_us_55d73db3e4b04ae49702dd54?utm_hp_ref=weird-florida

AND FINALLY…THE TAMPA BAY BUCCANEERS

       …thank you.

Love and electro-shock therapy,

Cap’n John

Post script…and even more finally, a woman riding an ostrich.

 

GOD OF WIND

As you can see from the above, I put up my Christmas tree last night, what with it being the holiday season and all. Yes, it’s a very small tree, but hey, we’re talking quality here, not quantity. (I remember telling a young lady that once, in much different circumstances…she persisted in referring to me as “Shorty”.)

(The bitch.)

Anyway, I did my annual five minute’s worth of tree-decorating, hung my two stockings (one for me and one for the Harley Dog (below), who sadly is no longer with us; I still put his stocking up though, just because…it’s my house, and I don’t need a better reason), all the while playing the requisite Christmas music on my stereo (“The Nutcracker”, one of my all-time faves), and drinking eggnog fortified with Baileys. (Actually, it was more like Baileys with a splash of eggnog.) 

Of course, I only heard the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” and “Waltz of the Flowers” and oh well, all done…and FYI, I hate eggnog, I really just had the Baileys.

So, to give all of you an opportunity to get me something I really would like to have for Christmas, and not wanting any of you to have to fret over what to buy me, I have a suggestion for you guys…

…I would REALLY REALLY REALLY like to have a Pagani Huayra (see below). It’s named after the Andean God of Wind, Huayra-tata, which translates into English as “Holy shit, look at that bad oscar”. (Okay, it’s a loose translation.) 

Sporting a V12, twin-turbo Mercedes-AMG engine that develops just over 700 horsepower, it has a top end of about 230 MPH and the 0-60 time is 2.8 seconds. It uses a 7-speed gearbox and has a curb weight of just under 3000 pounds. Base price is €850,000, or $1.15 million, which means it would take me about three weeks to make enough at my part-time gig at Publix Supermarkets, where as you know from my previous posts I’m employed as a “Front Service Clerk” (a $200 name for a 27 dollar job, as I’ve said before) to buy one.

Or you guys could all pitch in…(subtlety, thy name is Cap’n John).

So there you are, mateys…if you’d like to bring some serious Christmas joy into Cap’n John’s world, here’s your chance.

Or you could get me the same thing you got for me last year and just wrap it differently.

And speaking of geography (don’t ask), I just found out today that despite my belief to the contrary, Brazil is NOT located just north of Atlanta. (Like I said, don’t ask.) 

Hey, who knew?

At top speed, I could drive from New Port Richey, where I live in Florida, to Atlanta in just under two hours in a Huayra.

Hint, hint.

Love and fuel injection,

Cap’n John

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS (AND WITH THE BLACK FRIDAY DISCOUNT, THAT MAKES IT 799)

(Just an FYI, but your Cap’n is wearing this exact tee-shirt, as he’s writing this post…and per the Cap’n, it is his fervent hope that you never lose your wiener.)

By now, if you’ve been following my blog, the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding, you may have noticed that I have a real love of old black and white photos, so much so that I enjoy posting ones that I find on-line with an explanation for each, in case the reader is from the Planet Altair-4 (see my previous post, (“THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS JUST ISSUED AN ‘EVERYTHING” ALERT FOR FLORIDA” 11/24/17) and doesn’t understand the context. Admittedly, some of my “captions” may skew the meaning a bit, but hey, is this a great country or what? (Thankfully, since the citizens of the U.S. decided to make Donald Trump our President last year, America is great again. Or so we’re told…)

Anyway, if you’re from another planet, and don’t get what these pics are all about, oh well, sucks to be you. 

Yes, race fans, that is a Chevrolet Corvair nitro-burning funny car (remember the Corvair?). No, I have never seen one before, yes, Ralph Nader would probably be appalled and yes, I was taller in several of my previous incarnations. Better looking too.

Good luck taking a “selfie” with that rig…

Two aliens from the Planet Zatox, disguised as young boys back in the ’50s, moving one of their “birthing pods” to a safer location…good thing, too, because Farmer Jones was starting to get suspicious about what he thought were missing watermelons.

“Shit, how’s my hoo-hoo? I thought you said to wear my tutu…geez.”

The “ladies” at the Grand Ol’ Opry sure like their new “Horesy Strap-ons”…they give a whole new dimension to the term “going bareback”. Brought to you by the maker of Strap-On Tools…”A girl’s best friend”.

Upon learning that becoming airborne for minutes at a time could potentially cure his constipation, Dr. Henrik Spritzkuchen invented the “Flying Squirrel” snowsuit, using the latest in hi-tech materials. Sadly for the people viewing the testing of Dr. Spritzkuchen’s invention (shown above), it was a resounding success.

Now I have no idea where this photo was taken, but even as dumb as I am I can see that it wasn’t in Antarctica, so where the hell did the penguins come from? I mean, those sure as hell aren’t llamas following that guy with the bucket. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

I’ll bet you President Trump would be furious to see this picture…imagine, two soldiers, kissing, right there in broad daylight. Terrible. I just hope to hell they aren’t transgender.

VR from the ’50s?

The candidates for “Virgin Sacrifice Day”, arriving at the palace to be inspected by the King, who will then choose one of the lucky ladies to be this month’s offering to the gods.

Sort of like being on the White House staff these days.

You couldn’t beat the ’50s for giant home appliances and gadgets, worn by nice-looking women with great legs.

A girl and her dog…his two ears put together weigh more than she does.

So little time, so many photos…time to quit.

I’ll leave you with something that a very smart man once told me…

“If at first you don’t succeed, try a bigger hammer.”

Love and zoom lenses,

Cap’n John

“THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS JUST ISSUED AN ‘EVERYTHING’ ALERT FOR FLORIDA”

Apparently not wanting Pasco County and/or New Port Richey to forget her, Mother Nature decided that Hurricane Irma, back in September, wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass for this area, as well as the rest of Florida, but that maybe we should have a good ol’ Midwestern vintage tornado strike, and on Thanksgiving Day to boot, to remind us that she’s still here and still has the same ill-tempered attitude we’ve come to know and love (yeah, right) as Floridians.

You don’t like the weather here in Florida? No problem; wait ten minutes and it will change. (That’s an old Illinois joke, but very applicable here in the, dare I say it, Sunshine State.)

A tornado. We had a fucking tornado on Thanksgiving in NPR, about two miles north of where I live, as a matter of fact. Shit, it isn’t even tornado season in the Midwest, the home of the circular storm…it was like living in Missouri and having an earthquake. (Actually, Missouri DOES have earthquakes, and as far as I’m concerned, they richly deserve them.)

A tornado. In Florida. In late November. I’m going to get my affairs in order, get my will updated and will not be starting any long-term projects, ‘cause if that isn’t a sign of the impending apocalypse, my name isn’t Amelia Earhart.

I was catching up with a friend yesterday on the phone, and he was asking me about my experiences during Irmageddon, and as we were talking I realized that, in my lifetime, I have lived through a) a hurricane, b) a fair number of tornadoes, c) several earthquakes (including one that was about a 6.0 on the Richter, which scared the shit outta’ me), d) the annual Southern California brush fires, one of which, back in 2013, made it to about 5 miles from where I lived in Sherman Oaks, e) a really bad hailstorm back in the ‘80s, which was so fierce that is actually damaged my car, f) the four worst winters in the history of the Chicago area and g) being a Dodgers fan. (So far.)

Sorry, Ms. Nature, but you can take your shitty weather and jam it. (Reminds me of those old Parkay margarine commercials, where the actress playing MN says, after being faked out by Parkay, making her think it was real butter, that it isn’t nice to fool Mother Nature…every time she got fooled, she’d toss a lightning bolt down on some unsuspecting deer or brown bear, scorching the living shit outta’ the poor thing; these days she’s using Florida as a punching bag.)

FYI, this is the sign you see on all the roads entering FL, right behind the “Welcome to the Sunshine State” billboards.

Speaking of really excellent science fiction movies (yeah, I know, we weren’t, but I didn’t have a good segue here, so I said, screw it, damn the tornadoes and full speed ahead), TCM showed “Forbidden Planet” the other night, and even though I’ve seen this movie roughly seven gazillion times, I watched it and, as with every time I’ve seen it, loved it. 

“Planet” (which was loosely based on William Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”, a play about storms that WS wrote after living in Florida for several years) was the first “big budget” sci-fi flick, coming in at just under $2 million, which was serious money back in 1956, when the movie was released. It was groundbreaking for its time, and influenced such artists as Rod Serling, Gene Roddenberry (the creator of “Star Trek”), George Lucas and many others.

For me, the most memorable sequence in the movie is the discovery of what is behind the mysterious evil force that killed all the original settlors on Altair-4, the planet on which the movie takes place, and is now, with the arrival of a search/rescue ship from Earth, menacing the crew-members of the ship, killing several and generally scaring the crap out of everyone else. Without rehashing the entire plot, the entities that are stalking the ship are a creation of the mind of Dr. Morbius, the lone survivor of the original settlors ship and the reluctant host of the Earth-based rescuers… called (I love this) “monsters from the id”. (According to WikiPedia, the id is “the set of uncoordinated instinctual trends” existing in each person’s mind…thank you, Sigmund.) Basically, Dr. Morbius was creating, from his “id”, the monsters that were attacking the new arrivals. (Long story how this happened, but take my word for it, okay? And here’s how the Id Monster looked in the movie.)

And Anne Francis, who played Morbius’ daughter, Altaira, was way, totally hot in this movie…as Wayne and Garth once commented, if she were a President, she would have been Baberaham Lincoln. Racy shit for 1956. (Here’s Robby the Robot, Morbius’ servant (right) trying to look up Alta’s dress, the perv.) 

TCM is showing “The Dirty Dozen” tonight…another great flick, with no monsters of any type that I can recall (Robert Ryan plays an asshole, but I wouldn’t say he was a monster).

I’m going to watch it, assuming we don’t have a flood, a plague of locusts or a complete reversal of all matter in the universe, moving outward at the speed of smell from a point 2456.395 parsnips WNW from Altair-4, which is located in the lower left oblique quadrant of the Snickers solar system. (Three Musketeers? Payday? I know it’s a candy bar.)

Of course, if another channel was showing “Twister”, I’d probably watch that…Helen Hunt is just as hot as Anne Francis, as far as I’m concerned.

Love and barometers,

Cap’n John