My mission today here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog is to quell a persistent rumor I continue to hear/see on various social media platforms and news organs that the state song of Florida is Iron Butterfly’s 1968 hit In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida; this is incorrect. In fact, the state song of Florida is Stephen Foster’s Old Folks At Home, written back in 1851, or as it’s known by the more common name, Way Down Upon The Swanee River. And no, I didn’t know that until just a few moments ago, nor did I know that 4-1/2 years ago when I moved to the Gunshine State, as we affectionately refer to it down here.

Even had I known that Swanee River was Florida’s state song it probably wouldn’t have prohibited me from moving here; as far as I’m concerned, the state song of any state is not critical information to be used in determining where someone cares to live. Climate, services, taxes, cost of living, percentage of good-looking women in the state population, housing, yes, those were factors I considered before I relocated to FL, but no, not the state song. Didn’t even come up on my radar.

Florida at least had the good taste to make an officially-sanctioned change to Mr. Foster’s decidedly racist lyrics to a more acceptable version prior to declaring Swanee the state song. (Foster didn’t even get the spelling correct, the big doofus…it’s S-u-w-a-n-n-e-e.)

So we have guns up the butt, a generally agreeable climate, senior citizens by the bucketful, a state song with rather dubious lyrics, Weeki Wachee, Mickey and the gang, “snowbirds” and now, proceeding right to “Ludicrous Speed” unimpeded, citizens of Florida have to be concerned with falling iguanas.

Yes, that’s correct, exhaust fans, if you’re living in/visiting Florida right now and you walk under a tree, you need to be careful not to get conked on the noggin by a falling comatose herbivorous lizard. (Wouldn’t Comatose Lizard be a great name for a rock band? Or how about Falling Iguanas?)

Apparently, iguanas being cold-blooded, when the temperature drops into the 30s/40s, which it has over the past few days down here, they become immobilized and drop like, well, an immobilized iguana. They’re not dead, they’re just…immobilized. (“Cold-stunned” was the way one guy down here put it, which I thought was a great turn of a phrase.) And FYI, iguanas are not indigenous to Florida; considering how damn ugly the things are, they appear to me to be recent escapees of the Planet Zatox.

Some enterprising Floridians have taken to marketing/selling iguana meat recently during this crisis, calling it “Chicken of the Trees”, which you have to admit is also pretty clever. While I admire the entrepreneurial spirit, I’ll pass…yuck.

So there I was, avoiding any falling lizards and dreaming about being on the “Swanee River”, when the letters, emails, text messages, telegrams, smoke signals and secret decoder ring communiques starting pouring in, in response to my last two posts here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog.

You want to gauge readership? Say something you know a lot of people will want to smack you upside the head for and you’ll hear from them, believe me. Especially in this day and age of the instant gratification of social media and the Internet.

Being the generous and wonderfully warm person that I am, I thought, as a public service, that I would share some of the more pathetic, weepy, er, excuse me, interesting notes and letters I received…no, no, don’t thank me; it’s just my way of helping y’all to reach the path of enlightenment.

“Cap’n John:

                Hey, Coach Madden here. Thanks for quoting me in your post last week; I love your blog. But you got the quote wrong, buddy; instead of, “Don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon”, it should have been, “If the oleander is twice to the left, then the persimmon will be not transparent”. Just thought you might want to get it straight for the record. Keep up the good work, my man; I think the Cap’n is almost as funny as the idea that Jamis Winston will lead the Tampa Bay Bucs to a Super Bowl.


                John Madden”

“Dear Cap’n Krissongs:

                In response to the remarks in your blog post of 1/9/20, Mr. Crane has asked me to clarify his position, in an attempt to help you and your readers better understand his recent actions. While it is true that Mr. Crane is an “unprincipled bucket of warm spit”, he vigorously denies that he had prior knowledge of the sign-stealing scheme that his team, the Houston Assholes, er, excuse me, Astros, were recently found guilty of employing during the 2017 and 2018 baseball seasons, after an extensive investigation by Major League Baseball. Although Mr. Crane is aware that by denying his involvement and thereby avoiding his responsibility in this matter that he is also confirming to the public that he is not only a total moron but a lying sack of fetid llama parts as well, nevertheless he insists, should you persist in your defamations and libelous accusations towards him, that he will be forced to bring suit against yourself and the WATRUK blog to address damages to his reputation, even though said reputation is now totally and completely in the toilet since it was learned what a no-class dirtbag he is. We hope that this letter will be sufficient in stopping your continued attacks on Mr. Crane, since it is not his desire to bring this matter into open court, knowing what a laughing stock it would make him.


                I.M. Pane, Attorney At Law

                Law Offices of Moore Pane Enagony LLC”

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                The kids asked me to let you know how much everyone in the band appreciated your recent great review of our concert (Prism 2019) and to show our gratitude, we would be happy to take you up on your idea to assemble all 200 members, complete with instruments, of the J. W. Mitchell High School Debating Iguanas Marching Band at your apartment some morning around 3:00am to serenade your idiot neighbor downstairs…we thought we could do our version of the state song of Florida, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Already looking forward to next year’s concert.

                Yours musically,

                Juan Atatime, Director”

“Mr. Cap’n John Krissongs:

                I represent Her Grace the Most Wonderful Ms. Lori Loughlin and I was directed by HGTMW Ms. Loughlin to assure you and your readers that the recent news report on RUKME that she had undergone ego-reduction surgery in the past is false and that HGTMW Ms. Loughlin emphatically denies the report. HGTMW Ms. Loughlin demands an immediate apology and a retraction from you. Also, HGTMW Ms. Loughlin will be available to all peasants for ring-kissing and other modes of worship every day next week from 10:00am to 2:00pm, by appointment only.

                Sue Perficial, Publicist for Her Grace The Most Wonderful Ms. Lori Loughlin”

“cppn Joohn guy:

                Snot true didnnt kidnap guy only wanted to be frend thought him cute tell man me sorry if hurt man ask man come back will not try to mate again honnest man was sexxy studmuffin love man

                tell man plese com back plese

                a b dominalsnowman

ps you funny guy make a b laugh much”

Please note: no iguanas were harmed during the writing of this column…

Love and Florida oranges,

Cap’n John

Post Script…yeah, okay, there was that one little guy that wanted me to tie him up and spank his little lizard butt, but I wasn’t having any of it; none of that preevert shit here on the WATRUK blog, no sir. I don’t need those PETA nutjobs or the ASPCA folks busting my chops for abusing a comatose herbivorous lizard.

Falling iguanas…boy, what the hell is next, low-flying alligators?


Post Post Script…another great quote from Coach Madden, back in 1985, talking about Chicago Bears free safety Gary Fencik, who played football at and graduated from Yale University and had an “All-American clean-cut youth” image: “Fencik played football at Yale…that’s like saying ‘clean dirt’.”

Post Cereal…coming next week, to a blog near you…THE RETURN OF THE CAP’N JOHN FOR PRESIDENT 2020 TOUR. Exciting, huh? I know I almost peed my pants just writing it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.




I am a huge baseball/sports fan, like many in my family.

I was thinking of my Uncle Ed recently, on the 75th anniversary of D-Day; although he fought in the Pacific, he and my Dad, who was in the ETO, and so many other incredibly courageous men and women went overseas to fight Fascism, and I admired both of them greatly.

My uncle was a character, an optometrist, a sports fan and a fabulous story-teller, not in that order.

Ed grew up in a little town in Southern Indiana back in the Depression, and had the usual cast of characters most of us have as friends growing up. The following story involves two of them, Benjamin Turley, known to all as Benny, and the local bully, Roger Askholt.

According to UE, as he told the story one afternoon on the front porch of their home in Seymour IN to my cousins Eddie and Jimmy and myself (we were 12, 10 and 9 respectively), nobody liked Roger; everyone called him Asshole (behind his back) a) because of his last name and b) because he apparently was a rather large one.

Even though Roger routinely beat the snot out of Benny, the beatee followed the beater around like a small puppy dog. Their friendship was of mutual isolation; nobody liked Roger, and Benny was a nervous, highly excitable nerd-sickle who stuttered when he talked and picked his nose when he didn’t.

One hot summer day, the boys decided to go fishing; they gathered up their poles, a couple of sammichs each, some worms (in case the sammichs weren’t enough) and headed for their fave fishing hole, about a three mile walk out from town.

The boys arrived at the spot, baited their hooks, threw them in the water and sat down to wait.

“I suh-sure hope we ca-catch su-sumpin’, Roger,” Benny stuttered. Benny never, ever called his friend by the nickname all the other boys used.

“Shut up, Benny,” said Roger, a/k/a Asshole.

After a while they ate their sammichs, and after another while, Roger had to take an enormous dump. Telling Benny to watch his pole, Roger ambled off behind some bushes at the edge of the pond, dropped trou and let fly.

Now there’s only a few poisonous snakes indigenous to Southern Indiana, the copperhead being one; it’s only found in the southern part of the state, and then rarely, but that fateful day, Roger managed to stumble onto one. Just as he was finishing his business, the only copperhead snake in a 10 mile radius found him, decided he looked likely and proceeded to bite him.

Right on the scrotum.

Now the bite of a copperhead is painful yet seldom fatal, unless left untreated for a long period of time. Of course, the boys didn’t know this.

Roger let out a humongous yell, fell to his side (away from his recent excretory effort, fortunately), cupped his balls with his hands and started writhing wildly. Benny ran into the weeds to his friend, who screamed that he had been “bit by a rattler”, which was highly improbable, given their non-existence in Indiana.

Benny began to run about wildly, waving his arms and shaking his head, not knowing how to help his friend. Roger screamed again, this time telling Benny to run into town to fetch Doc Soames. Since Benny had no better plan, he immediately set off at a run. Now Benny was a nerd, a stutterer and a nose-picker, but he was also the school track and field guy; he could run like the wind.

He ran the three miles back to town, directly to the office of the only doctor in the county, that of old Dr. Soames. As he rushed into the waiting room, he was astonished to find it empty; no nurse, no waiting patients, no one. He frantically rang the bell on the reception desk, and after a few moments, Doc Soames’ nurse charged out the back room and informed Benny, who managed to stammer out the emergency, failing to mention where Roger had been bitten, that Doc was in the back delivering a baby and would not be able to come to help for some time.

She told Benny to wait, disappeared through the door, came back a moment later and informed Benny that “Doc says to clean the bite and then suck the venom out, otherwise he might die”, then turned abruptly and disappeared again into the delivery room. (She apparently thought the boys were goofin’ on her.)

Benny stood for a minute, digesting what he had been told. He then proceeded to run back to where he left Roger, worrying all the way about how he was going to perform the necessary procedure on his bullying friend. He fretted and stewed, shaking his head as he ran, and couldn’t think of any way he could avoid the inevitable.

When he finally got back to his friend, he found Roger still writhing in pain on the ground.

“Where’s Doc Soames? What did he say?” screamed Roger.

And poor Benny, overexcited, overloaded and overwhelmed by it all, screamed back, “He says you’re gonna’ duh-die, Asshole.”

My loyal readers (all a couple of you) will recall that the WATRUK blog launched the RUKME News Service recently (that’s RUKME, pronounced as one word…think Scooby Do). We are now happy to announce the…


                               ***TOTALLY NEW RUKME SPORTS LINE***

 …with all the latest from the world of sporting events.

Full coverage will begin in a few weeks, but here’s some headlines of recent events to give you a taste of what’s to come…

~Dateline Boston MA February 2060:

                “NE Patriots Quarterback Tom Brady Announces Retirement After 59 Seasons In The NFL!”

After 59 regular seasons, umpty-gazillion Super Bowls, several dozen MVP awards for both regular season and the Super Bowl play, enough mileage from passing yards to make it to the Moon and having outlived six coaches, Patriots venerable and ancient quarterback Tom Brady has FINALLY announced his retirement, effective immediately. The 83-year old QB told RUKME correspondent Laurel Enhardy, “I really felt I could play another season or two, but Giselle has been after me to spend more time with our grandkids, so after much thought and discussion with my family and also my gerontologist, Dr. R. U. Serious, I’ve decided to hang up my cleats and call it a career.” As a result of his extended stay in the NFL plus his endorsements and other financial dealings, Brady’s net worth now exceeds that of Canada and Lower Botswana combined.

~Dateline Tampa Bay FL:

“Tampa Bay Buccaneers Quarterback Jameis Winston Diagnosed With Career-Ending “Dumbfuck Disease”!”

Spokesman for the inept and completely useless Tampa Bay QB announced today that Winston, 25, which is his age and IQ as well, has been diagnosed with the crippling “Dumbfuck Disease”, which at this time has no known cure or treatment. Although Winston will continue to play, his long-term expectations and hope by fans and the TB organization that he will ever amount to a cup of warm spit are pretty much nil. Winston also confirmed his participation in this year’s Ty-D-Bol Toilet Bowl game, which is where his career has been headed all along, and then went out and threw another interception.

~Dateline Melbourne Australia:

                “Cricket Squad Named Pres Fave and Gets New Sponsor In Same Day!”

                The Victorian Bushrangers Cricket Squad of the Australian Cricket League, whose mascot is Jiminy, was named as the fave team of world-class ass-wad and long-time cricket fan Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today, and just as soon as the American President made his announcement, the team chose as its newest sponsor Dulcolax Suppositories, naming them their Official Suppository. The General Manger of the VBCS, Justin Tyme, said the twin announcements were merely coincidental, but team insiders who were not authorized to speak said the Bushrangers reached out to Dulcolax the minute they heard of Trump’s endorsement. Players on the team were said to be gagging on their wickets.

~Dateline Las Vegas NV:

                “Rodman Claims Alien Abduction, Aliens Say No!”

               Dennis Rodman, former NBA player, cross-dresser, 5-time NBA Champion and major league dweeb, speaking to RUKME correspondent Bud Light today, claimed that he was abducted by aliens from the planet Zatox when he was a child, and then escaped back to Earth via one of the subsequent return flights of the marauding space creatures. When reached for comment, planetary spokesman Wq56HH{rt} YYYY<>95hj refuted Rodman’s claim and said that the Zatoxians had in fact abducted him, but had returned him immediately when they saw how he looked. “Sure,” said YYYY<>95hj, who is also known as Rupert, “we’re green, have two noses with six nostrils each, a cerise-colored eyeball and three-pronged genitalia hanging from the back of our heads, but we’re beautiful compared to that goofy-looking freak. He was scaring the baby fangor beasts, for crissake.”

~Dateline Los Angeles CA:

                “!!!DODGERS WIN THE WORLD SERIES!!!”


Well, according to the word-counter thingie down in the bottom of my computer screen, it’s half-past June and I need to get going. Stay tuned to this channel for more sports updates as I make them up.

Love and hockey pucks,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: this week’s post is dedicated to my buddy Jennifer, another of my co-workers at Publix, where she works in the bakery. Putting Jen in the bakery is a case of perfect “casting”, ‘cause she is a major sweetie. If I had a high-wattage smile like hers and know what I know, I’d be in trouble all the time. Happy apple fritters, buddy.)

The response from many of the loyal readers of the WATRUK blog (all several of them) to last week’s column on the launching of RUKME (ALL THE NEWS, SOME OF THE TIME, OCCASIONALLY), the brand-new “R U KIDDING MEDIA EVENTS” News Service and Laundromat has been overwhelming, to say the least. (Okay, maybe more like underwhelming.) Although I haven’t kept any figures, the feedback has been mostly positive, with one or two notable exceptions, which I’ll get to in a moment.

RUKME (pronounced as one word…think Scooby Do) was created with the express purpose of being an alternative to the CNNs, the APs and UPIs, the MSNBC and FOX News outlets, even the National Enquirer, to give a new “slant” to the news…and as soon as I wrote that, I immediately decided to make that phrase the slogan for the world’s latest news organization.


Like those clowns at all of the above, especially FOX News, don’t slant things enough already.

(You’d think I was getting paid to use the words “new” and “news” judging from the last couple of paragraphs, wouldn’t you? As a matter of fact, I am.)

So here’s what some of the Cap’n’s fans had to say about RUKME…

~From President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump:

                “So good to hear about a new reporting agency…hope you’re more fair then the FAKE NEWS Washington Post or New York Times. Even FOX News has gone over to the LOSERS side lately. NO COLLUSION, NO OBSTRUCTION, NO STRIPPERS.”

~From Jeff Bezos, Bajillionaire Owner of Amazon and the Washington Post:

                “Cap’n John, best of luck with your RUKME news service…I’m sure you’ll give the Post a run for its money. By the way, if you sign up for Amazon Prime right now for only $100,000 annually, you’ll receive, absolutely free, an autographed copy of my new book, How To Make A Million Without Using Daddy’s Money.

~From Pete Buttigieg, Mayor of South Bend IN and candidate for the 2020 Democratic Party Presidential Nomination:

                “Looking forward to hearing how RUKME reports the news…it has to be better than those douche-bags at FOX. By the way, I hope you get the pronunciation of my name right: its FAR-BLE-TOOTS. Best of luck.”

~From Mark Zuckerberg, owner of Facebook, Instagram and YouTube:

                “I hope RUKME isn’t going to report on the 27 million Facebook accounts created by Russian troll-farms that were active during the 2016 Presidential election; to date, we have deleted three of them, and are investigating another seven or eight. Facebook and Instagram are committed to keeping these kinds of organizations off of social media, to ensure blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada.”

~From Stephen King, author and liberal activist:

                “I categorially deny the allegations in your post of 5/17/19; I was NOT abducted by Langoliers, was not subjected to any sick, disgusting, gross, vile, perverted, repulsive, gross, deplorable or perverted sex acts by them (although I would have liked to have been) and I am most certainly not a “far-left liberal snot-wad”. If you persist in making these spurious and completely false allegations against me, I will be forced to take legal action, including both sanctions against the WATRUK blog and having your peenie whacked. Good luck with your new agency.”

~From I. Dontknow Howe, of the law firm Dewey, Cheatem and Howe:

                “I represent Mr. Malcolm Glazer, owner of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team, who you viciously maligned in your post of 5/17/19; this letter is to advise you that, should you continue your libelous remarks re Mr. Glazer’s incredibly shitty football team and organization, or make any further mention of his alleged support for the legalization of psilocybin and it’s use by his football team and its players, we will be forced to seek any and all legal remedies as may be available to us, as well as having your peenie whacked seriously. Have a nice day.”

~From Mr. Yogi Berra, former MLB player and Hall of Fame member:

                “When you come to a fork in the road, take it. Good luck with that new thing you’re doing.”

~From Lori Laughlin, actor and arrogant snot-wad:

                “I was going to ask you, as a favor from one media god to another, not to report on the allegations against myself and my husband involving bribing University of Southern California officials to guarantee our daughter’s admission to the school; it wasn’t our fault she was too stupid to get in on her own. However, considering how important I am, I decided not to. You may kiss my ring, peasant.”

~From Mr. Benjamin Franklin, First American:

                “Best of luck with your RUKME news agency, and remember, in wine there is wisdom, in beer there is freedom and in water there is bacteria.”

And finally this one from Ms. Rose Garden, which was the most curious of all the letters and messages I received; it seems like Ms. Garden thought, based on my breath-taking intelligence (high) and tremendous influence as a “media god” (zero), that I could be of some assistance with the myriad problems she has involving a number of laws here in the Gunshine State of which she has run afoul recently.

“Cap’n John:

                I hope you’ll report my story on your RUKME news service; I’m further hoping someone will read it and be able to help me.

                I’m a “neighbor” of yours, living near Pensacola FL, and I recently ran into a string of troubles that is truly unbelievable.

                I’m a single women, and a former employee of the Ringling Bros., Barnum and Bailey Circus, which as you probably know used to be located here in Florida and is now out of business. As a legacy and remembrance of my years with the circus, I was allowed to keep one of the elephants I trained, as well as a small hand-cart used for selling ice cream around the circus grounds.

                My troubles started on a recent Sunday, when as a treat to myself, I went sky-diving for the first time. I contacted a local sky-diving service, arranged for a flight, went aloft, did my jump, had the most exhilarating experience of my life and upon landing was detained by two officers of the Pensacola PD, who asked me if I was a married women. When I answered with much confusion that I was not, I was immediately arrested and charged with being an unmarried women parachuting on a Sunday. To say I was flabbergasted would be the second largest understatement of the century.

                I was jailed, posted bond, which took all the cash I had in my bank account, and after being found guilty at a trial the following month, was fined the entire amount of my bond.

                I was now penniless, so in an effort to raise money, I rode my elephant, Mitch, who I named after the biggest Dumbo in the Senate, into downtown Pensacola, with my ice cream cart in tow behind. I tied Mitch to a parking meter, but having no money, put nothing in it. I left him and took the cart to the business place of a friend, the owner of a Baskin-Robbins, who had promised to give me some ice cream to sell. When I returned to check on Mitch, I found that I had received a ticket that carried a $50 fine for parking an elephant without feeding the meter.

                I was so distraught I just started walking down the street, pushing my ice cream cart and leaving Mitch at the curb with the parking ticket dangling from his tusk. About a half-block down from where I left him, I came to a small cemetery, and needing to sit for a moment and gather my thoughts, I entered, found a bench and sat down to rest.

                I had only been sitting for a few minutes when a Pensacola police car drove up; two officers exited the car and walked over to me. They asked if the ice cream cart was mine, and when I told them yes, I was arrested again for selling ice cream in a cemetery.

                They took me to the police station, and when they were emptying my pockets, they asked if I had any money on me. When I told them that I did not, they informed me that it was against the law to have less than $10 in a person’s possession at all times, and I was further charged with pecuniary strangulation.

                By now it was getting late in the afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten all day, so one of the officers kindly got me a bean burrito, which I ate while I was sitting on a bench outside of night court, waiting to be arraigned.

                About a half hour went by and Cap’n John, I just couldn’t help it; I suddenly had the worst case of gas ever. I tried to keep it in, but no power on Earth was going to stop this explosion. I finally gave up, and out it all came, in a thunderous rush of methane. I had barely finished expelling when a Deputy of the court walked over, waving his arms around his head and face, and informed me that there would be another charge added to the list for which I was waiting to appear before the judge to answer…it seems that it’s illegal in Florida to fart in public after 6:00pm.

                I hope you can use your influence or in some way do something to help me, otherwise I won’t get out of jail until February 2023.


                Rose Garden”

Love and gavels,

Cap’n John

Post Script…all of the above laws are currently on the books here in Florida…as if the ‘gators, the Palmetto bugs, the hurricanes and the gun-toting Republicans weren’t bad enough.

Post Post Script…yes, Yogi and Ben are dead. So sue me.


A distinct hue and cry has gone up recently over my whereabouts (okay, it was only one of my loyal readers who sarcastically inquired as to whether or not Cap’n John was ever going to write another column again, but in some precincts, that constitutes a “hue and cry”), so I thought it about time that I spoke up and declared myself still among the living and accounted for. And no, contrary to rumors otherwise, I was not abducted by Halogen Creatures from the planet Zatox.

Just last week I was considering looking for property on Zatox though; according to scientists at some high-ranking but funny-smelling laboratory somewhere (I forgot where I read this), our Sun will eventually use up all its internal nuclear fuel and burn out, and I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure it’s gonna’ get a mite chilly here on planet Earth without the warming rays of the Sun beating down on us every day. So I thought a change of scenery (planetary) might be in order. Then I read further that the supply of the Sun’s internal nuclear fuel was expected to last another five billion years, so I figured I had a few billion years before I had to start worrying about moving off-planet. And doesn’t the phrase “internal nuclear fuel” just roll right off your tongue, sumptuously. Internal nuclear fuel. (I should get 10 bonus points in my Easy Writer’s Essay book for using the word “sumptuously”.) And it behooves us to remember that, according to comedian Steve Martin, a day without sunshine is…night.

Besides, it won’t make any difference anyway, if the guy at the University of Idaho (who the hell knew Idaho had universities?) is right about the Moon crashing into the Earth in about 65 million years (see link below, down there). I’m not sure, but I suspect that crashing into a chunk of rock weighing, excuse me, having a mass of, 7.35 x 10^22 kilograms is going to be seriously detrimental to Ma Earth and all living things thereon. (I’m not sure how much 7.35 x 10^22 kilograms is in pounds or tons or drachmas, but I believe it’s about equivalent to the weight of the new defensive lineman that the Tampa Bay Sucs just drafted…to quote my favorite daughter, he’s ginormous.)

So since I’ve been a little preoccupied with the future, and about where I’m going to be living after either a) the Moon becomes an iceberg to Earth’s Titanic, sinking us just like a concrete raft or b) there’s a helluva’ run on space heaters at the local Home Depot, the agile mind (yeah, right) that creates the rampant frivolity that typically is a trademark of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding website has been, well, preoccupied. Sorry.

(The flow of the narrative is interrupted here by cries from the audience…)

“Where’s Leak?”

“What’s going on with Leak?”

“What’s happening to Leak?”

“What happened to Leak!?!”


You have to take a leak? (Sorry. Again.)

Leak? Who’s this Leak guy? Oh, you mean Leak Pohlups, Baby Sailor, who we encountered in my last post back on 5/11/18 “A YOUNG MAN AND THE SEA-THE SAGA OF LEAK POHLUPS, BABY SAILOR”. Yeah, we need to talk about ol’ Leak, don’t we?

Now it so happens that I am a voracious reader…I read in the mornings before I go to work if there’s time; I read at all meals, the newspaper online during breakfast and a book propped up next to my plate at lunch and dinner, and EVERY night before I go to sleep for 30 to 60 minutes, minimum. I don’t watch TV other than occasional sporting events and a few movies every month on TCM. I have hobbies, but mostly…I read.

I have a library of about 1000 volumes, the majority of which I have read at least once, and truly, I have no problem re-visiting a book several times, perhaps many times. (I have a friend who didn’t understand that, until I asked him how many times he’d seen Star Wars: Episode IV-A New Hope.) There’s always a new idea, or a new slant that I get each time I read a particular book, something I didn’t see or understand previously. Plus I’ve run out of room for new ones, so I’m stuck.

So about three weeks ago I finished whatever tome I had been reading at the time and went looking for the next treasure. Look look look, look look look, up and down and across the rows of book-spines, hunting for something that catches my fancy.

You guys remember Peter Benchley? Yeah, the guy who wrote the novel Jaws. Benchley wrote that one plus at least two other novels that I thought were pretty good, both of which I have in “the library”…one was a very funny and yet sobering (pardon the pun) book called Rummies, all about a big-time New York book editor and his battle with alcohol addiction and his tale of the thirty days he spends in a fictitious re-hab center. The other is called Beast, and it’s sort of a Jaws knock-off, all about a monster Architeuthis, or giant squid, that terrorizes the island of Bermuda, much like the great white shark and the island of Amity in his more famous work. (The word “amity” is from the Burmese amitafriendinhooten and translates to “You’re going to need a bigger boat.” See below, right there.) 

It had been many years since I had read Beast, so I honestly didn’t remember how it went or how it ended, i.e., how “they” finally kill the giant squid…I’d even forgotten that it featured one. And I am completely comfortable in admitting that what I knew previously about giant squids you could put in a thimble and still have room to spare, other than I don’t want one in my pool.

Now I’m not squeamish to any great extent, but the more I read about Architeuthis and its giant eyeballs, the size of footballs, or its chitinous beak that hooks to a point and is used to rip and tear its prey, or the two yards-long testicles that are covered with suction cups that have a bony “hook” in the middle, to grasp its prey and draw it in, or its ink sac, whose spray is used to confuse a predator, of which there are few, or about the propulsion system that allows it to reach speeds of 75,000 MPH or even its giant size, estimated to be upwards of one hundred feet long and weighing in excess of 30 bajillion tons, yeah, the more I read about this animal…

…the more uncomfortable I got with the whole idea. And FYI, I had already written about Leak and the giant squid, Episode One, before I pulled down Benchley’s Beast…one of those rare times when something really was a coincidence. It was also much too late to start over.

(Phone rings in background)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, Tammie, what is it?” (It was Tammie Von Wetzel, my first mate, who monitors/spellchecks my posts in real time.)

“They’re called what?”

“And what did I call them?”

“Yeah, that’s no good…I’ll fix that right away. Thanks.” (I hate it when she does that.)

Excuse me, that word above was supposed to be “TENTACLES”…my error. (Shit.)

So where does that leave Leak Pohlups, Baby Sailor, who, along with the R U Kidding and its stalwart crew, including yours truly, was about to be menaced by a giant squid when last we saw them? Has cruel fate overcome our hero? Did the gargantuan beast attack and eat the ill-fated vessel and all aboard as a snack before bedtime? Are they royally screwed?

Well, the squid apparently decided that the Kidding wasn’t worth eating after all and veered off at the last minute and was last seen heading back into the murky depths, probably ending up in Cleveland. I shared an uneasy laugh with the crew about our close call and then returned to my quarters to bang out Toccata and Fugue in D Minor on my in-cabin pipe organ. And Leak? He jumped ship a few weeks after the squid incident, when we dropped anchor in the port of St. John’s in Antiqua, and was never heard from again…he was last seen leaving a dance club, arm in arm with an older woman (she was said to be almost five) as they headed for the Bay of Clams, carrying a bottle of rum and a bag of Cheetos.

Accordingly, this story is therefore prematurely terminated, due to the author’s unease with one of the secondary characters, who happens to be a humongous underwater creature that can rip your limbs off or swallow you whole, depending on his/her mood, stinks of ammonia (true), has about ten gazillion teeth, a poor attitude and doesn’t play well with others.

But besides all that, damn nice guy.

Can’t wait to work with him again.

Love and Jules Verne,

Cap’n John





All I have to do to qualify for the money is a) pretend to like that incredibly bad rug that he wears all the time, except in the shower, I hope (you’d think Melinda would take him aside and tell him the truth), b) say something good about Windows 10 on some social media platform and c) repeatedly poke his pet gerbil with a fork.

This is even better than those Nigerian bank guys contacting me all the time to tell me about how their client has passed on and didn’t have any next of kin and how they just can’t let the 56 bajillion dollars the guy left behind get moldy sitting in their bank and how they’ve chosen me over the other 7.3 billion people on the planet to receive this cash if I will split with them 50/50 and how they know there’s lots of scams out there on the ‘Net but that they are COMPLETELY legit and all I need to do is give them my address, phone number, Social Security number, shoe size, children’s names and my bank account number/password so they can make a direct deposit into the account and thank you very much, may I be blessed with the company of many large breasted women.

I’m not going to take Bill’s money however, ‘cause I’m pretty sure he’d want to hang with me then, and despite the fact that I admire all the donations that he and his wife Melinda make to the various charities, he’s a fucktard whose company makes crappy products that only work properly once in a blue moon and has a customer service department that doesn’t give an iguana’s butt about helping anyone with a problem with said crappy products; sorry, BG, but I’m particular about with whom I hang. (Yes, that is proper English, yes, the last few words of that sentence do sound awkward and no, I’m not changing them.)

Besides, I’d probably just blow it all on an expensive home, a fancy red Acura NSX, women with large breasts, a huge yacht, museum quality artwork, women with large breasts, a 1922 Honus Wagner baseball card, women with large breasts and season’s tickets to see the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, just so I could watch them embarrass themselves in person rather than on TV. On second thought, forget the Bucs tickets…if I had to choose between watching the Bucs and getting a sharp stick in the eye, I’d have to think about it for a moment.

In other bazillionaire news, I’m sure by now you’re aware that President Tweety Bird has declared a trade war on China by attaching all kinds of import tariffs on a number of their products coming into America. Like the folks on Wall Street, I find this news very disturbing, but honestly, I’d be a lot more upset if he had declared a trade war on Japan.

The Japanese export a whole shitpot full of products to the U.S. as well, stuff like electronic gear and cameras and Toyotas and Hondas and Sapporo beer (don’t you DARE put a tariff on Sapporo, you douche-bag) and tiny little bonsai trees and steel and Pokemon cards amongst others.

They would even like to start exporting more natural gas, but not to us, to their Southeast Asian neighbors…according to CNBC (C the link below), they have an excess and need to dump it someplace, which rather surprises me, frankly, because I would have thought that Mexico would be the country with excess natural gas, given what their food does to my GI tract, as opposed to the effect of Japanese food typically has on me.

I called the Japanese embassy here in Tampa the other day to get the lowdown on any possible trade war rumors, find out about the natural gas thing and see if they could swing me a discount on an NSX. I spoke to one of the attaches, a man named Sheezabad Mammajama, who was very cordial but not very helpful.

Mr. Mammajama and I shared some personal info, for the sake of the conversation…he told me despite his name that he was an American citizen, born in Mud Butt SD (oh, BUTTE, sorry) of Japanese immigrant parents, and that he had lived here all his life. He said he was “into” cooking and that Mexican food was his specialty, which might explain some of the above NG excess, and that he also enjoys jogging, baseball, women with large breasts, midget sumo wrestling and classic rock. (He told me Deep Purple’s “Made In Japan” was his favorite album…go figure.)

Sadly, however, he couldn’t provide any insight into whether America and Japan were headed for a trade war, that he couldn’t get me a discount on an NSX but that he would send me a case of Sapporo, to show his country’s good intentions towards their American friends.

I thanked Mr. Mammajama for his time and generosity, and then sent him the YouTube link to DP’s “My Woman From Tokyo”…I figured that was the least I could do to thank him for the beer.

I could have sent him some of that 5 mill I was going to get from Microsoft Bill, but since I decided not to take it, he’s gonna’ have to settle for the Deep Purple vid.

I understand that Bill Gates is an atheist, but I’ve heard that God does exist and lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Just ask him.

Love and Nikons,

Cap’n John



I talk to myself.

Yep, I do…all the time.

Around my apartment, where I live by myself, it’s really just thinking out loud, except that I begin, after a while, to give myself advice on things and then agree with the advice, like I asked a buddy for his opinion on some issue I was having and liked what he told me.

Every now and then I forget where I am and start chattering, usually under my breath (I’m not that crazy) to myself, to the strange looks of people around me; this is especially true at work, where I am a part-time Front Service Clerk (that’s corporate jargon for “bagger”) for Publix Supermarkets. Yeah, I’ll get to throwing stuff in plastic bags, tossing around those 12 packs of soda or the 24 packs of bottled water, keeping the eggs and the bread on the top, my mind completely elsewhere when suddenly, something I see causes me to make a sotto voce (that’s Latin for “weasels ripped my flesh”) remark to myself, and every now and again, one of the cashiers hears me.

They will turn to me, most often with a quizzical look, and basically ask, “what?”, to which I always reply, oh, I was just talking to myself.

No sense denying it, is there?

It’s another sign of “older”…not “getting old” although I am, but “ooollder”.

I’ll be 67 in a few weeks, and although that’s a fair good number of turns around the sun, I don’t think of myself as old. A bit of a reprobate, certainly, but no, not old…at least not yet.

But the signs of increasing age, and really, what other kind is there, decreasing, are all over me these days, and I want it stopped, immediately. Now even. ASAP.

~ITEM~ The other day I was trying to say something, talking to myself again, and I couldn’t get a word to come out…I kept doing the “ahh…ahh…ahh…” thing, as I attempted to remember a word that had popped into my mind just a moment earlier but was now gone for the ages. “Shit,” I said, “I sound like my needle is stuck” and it flashed into my mind that if I said something about needles being stuck to one of the kids at work, they wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the hell I was talking about.

~ITEM~ As I was opening the blinds on my sliding glass door the other morning, I thought to myself, since on one else was there at the time, gee, I wonder what the weather is like outside this morning? “Oh look,” I said, now talking out loud to myself again…think there’s a pattern here? “It’s grey and unpleasant-looking.” Which it was. And then I further commented to myself, “Hell, I’ve dated women that matched that description”, which I thought was pretty funny.

My version doesn’t look NEAR as creepy as this abomination…geez.

~ITEM~ I really like my version of Huevos Rancheros, which uses refried beans, which I dearly love, as one of the main ingredients; sadly however, there’s something about the combo of the beans, the eggs, the peppers, the hot salsa, the plutonium and the WD40 that has an effect on my digestive system that can be only be characterized as “thunderous”. The other day, several hours subsequent to scarfing down a big plate of “Eggs of Ranchers”, my GI system woke up from an extended slumber, nodded recognition to the bubbling and churning going on in my stomach, responded to the urgent call for relief from my colon and proceeded to release gas in vast quantities, with the appropriate (and quite loud) aural accompaniment. “Geez,” I said to myself (yes, out loud), after the smoke cleared and I could breathe again, “I gotta’ be careful farting that hard…at my age I’m liable to blow my spleen right out my asshole and shoot that sucker across the room.”

~ITEM~ “Down”, you know, like as in the opposite of up, is one helluva’ lot farther these days than it used to be.

~ITEM~ I’m further unhappy to report that, due to a certain “loosening” of the muscle tissue on various unfortunate parts of my body, if I’m not careful when I’m wearing shorts (it’s Florida, you guess how often that is) and I sit down on one of my leatherette chairs, the flab on the back of my legs makes a very realistic fart noise against the leather…stop it, it’s not funny.

I don’t remember signing up for any of this shit, you know, back when…


They must have mis-filed my application…I didn’t sign up for any of this shit.

“Check the box for each of the old-age problems you would like added to your ‘Old Age Package’; you may choose as many as you like.”








[] UGLY (sorry, did that one twice)



[] EXTREME FLATULENCE (watch your spleen!)

[] HEMMORHOIDS (sometimes known by their more common name “Republicans”)

~ITEM~ The other day I was wiping down the kitchen counter, slid the towel off the top too quick and smacked myself (not real hard) right in the private parts, specifically, I wacked my own pee-pee. I stopped, assessed the damage (slight to none, but a good scare), and then looked down to the general area of my crotch and said, “Excuse me, Dick”.

And then spent the next 5 minutes laughing like a maniac.

At least I was talking to someone else for a change.

Love and monologues,

Cap’n John


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.


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


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


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


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


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


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


       …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.”)


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


       …thank you.

Love and electro-shock therapy,

Cap’n John

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




In keeping with the “nutcase” theme of the holiday season, I attended, along with a very good friend, the opening night performance of the Next Generation Ballet’s production of P.I. Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker last Thursday, which took place at the Straz Center in downtown Tampa. Despite an uneven and, at least in my friend’s and my estimation, a rather ordinary rendition of what is one of my all-time fave pieces of music/ballet, and further having to pay twice for parking at the Rivergate Tower, even though we only brought one car (long story, involving an advanced case of “stoopid” on the part of the Tower people), we had a lot of fun and a memorable evening. (Okay, sorry, you can accuse me of being a purist if you so choose, but come on, TUMBLERS? Yes, sports-fans, they featured two people doing a by-god-run-across-the-stage-and-leap-into-the-air-and-twist-and-turn-and-somersault tumbling thing at one point during the second act. What, are you kidding me?)

Tchaikovsky was most certainly spinning in his grave. Oh, and FYI, that’s STRAZ, not SPAZ, above…yeah, I made the same mistake the first time I heard the name as well; I remember thinking to myself, since no one else was there at the time, well, that’s pretty rude.

Anyway, my loyal readers will recall from several of my previous posts on the subject that since the very beginning of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, a number of persons have taken the time to write, email, text, send a telegram, call, send a smoke signal, release a carrier pigeon or send a message via telepathy to me, looking for advice on their love-lives, or lack thereof. Given that most of them are pathetically laughable, excuse me, that I am a kind and empathetic person, who has much experience on the battlefields of the sexes, I try to provide answers and counsel as I am able. 

Here goes…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I recently met a young woman (to protect reputations here, I’ll call her Bronwyn; her real name is Clara…oh, sorry) at a Christmas party at the home of her parents, and throughout the course of the evening, Bron (not her real name…d’uh) was very friendly and “interested”, if you get my drift. Since I am a member of the military, she asked me to return later, after the party, to assist her in confronting an army of mice that had taken residence in her basement, and to possibly vanquish the king of these vermin and throw them out of the house. So I did, and we had a memorable evening, with an epic battle and sword fights and trumpets blowing and much running about, plus a victory lap through the Land of Sweets afterwards that featured beautiful music, dancing by Russians and fairies, and even some tumbling. It was all very magical, although the tumblers were a bit much. Anyway, here’s my problem…I think Bron is a bit young and immature for me, and I just can’t see any future to this relationship; sooo, do you think I should get season’s tickets for the Buccaneers’ games next year, considering what a shitty team they are?

                Perplexed in Tampa”

                Dear “Perplexed”: 

                Screw the Bucs…Jameis Winston is a clown and couldn’t find his butt with both hands and a map; the guy has 5000 turnovers in his first three seasons. Don’t waste your money.

                Cap’n John 

“Cap’n John:

                My new boyfriend and I recently took a tour, after a Christmas party at my folk’s house and later a really bitching battle with some nasty rodents, through Sweetland, and afterwards we went back to my place and got it on BIG time, I mean, we had a trombone, a Die Hard battery, two Dalmatians, an egg-beater and a 55-gallon drum of lime Jello (there’s always room for Jello). This guy is pretty rad, and even works for Planters in their Prep Department, but he does have an old girlfriend he stills sees now and again…he says they’re just friends. Knowing all this, I’m thinking of buying two season’s tickets for us to see the Tampa Bay Bucs next year, but I’m afraid he’ll dump me and head back to the princess. Should I toss this nut, or take a chance?

                Cracking Up

                Dear “Cracking”:

                Screw the Bucs…they couldn’t win with Joe Montana at quarterback, and Jameis Winston is more like Joe Dirt than “Joe Cool”. Save your money and keep dancing.

                Cap’n John

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m married to a wonderful woman who is a loving wife, a fine mother to our children, a woman with a career who also supports my work and an all-around decent human being; however, she is an ax-murderer in her spare time, and it’s making problems in our marriage. Would you advise getting tickets for the Buccaneers’ games for the ’18 season? I hate to pay for two seats and then have my wife end up in jail.

                Married to Jane the Ripper”

                Dear “Ripper”: 

               Screw the Bucs…they stink. Save your money for a good defense attorney. And FYI, two season’s tickets to the ballet are a LOT cheaper, and the action is very similar to what you see on the field every Sunday during the Buccaneers’ games.

                  Cap’n John

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                Repeated attempts to collect payment on the debt you owe”…okay, never mind this one.

 “Cap’n John:

                The girl in the apartment below mine has attracted my attention over the last few months by lying out in the nude on her patio, which is directly under and in clear view of mine. I think she’s trying to give me a message, and she has a great tan, but I found out from another neighbor that she’s an avid Tampa Bay Bucs fan, and I’m afraid she might be some kind of mental deficient…should I say the hell with it and take a chance anyway? Oh, FYI, she has three breasts.

                Guy in Apartment D”

                Dear “Apartment”:

                Screw the Bucs, but don’t take a chance with this woman, I don’t care how many boobs she has. There’s something wrong with someone who follows a team that sucks as bad as the Buccaneers and has an asshole like Jameis Winston as their quarterback. Suggestion? Find one with more brains and one less breast…unless she’s a “D” cup, then you might want to reconsider.

                Cap’n John

That’s all I have time for now, loyal readers…I certainly hope this answered and at the same time put to rest some of the concerns many of you seem to have about love, dating, the opposite sex and just how bad the Tampa Bay Buccaneers football team is.

Oh, and I just learned that the Glazer family, owners of the Bucs franchise, are sponsors of the Spaz Center…boy, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?

Love and toe-shoes,

Cap’n John