Unlike today’s younger generation, the so-called “millennials” in particular, I grasp the arcane concept of a “newspaper” in the old-fashioned sense of a news organ that has a form (ink on paper) other than digital pixels on a screen; I have been an inveterate daily newspaper reader since back in my college days.

(Full disclosure…these days I read the online version of the daily Tampa Bay Times; I miss the tactile feel of the paper in my hands, but I got sick of walking out in the morning to find it drenched and unreadable from the overnight rain.)

Back then, living in the medium-sized town of Joliet IL (yes, the same Joliet made famous in the original Blues Brothers movie, population approximately 75,000 in the 1970’s), I read the local paper, the Joliet Herald News. Most of the residents of the area read the “Snooze”, as we called it, along with one of the Chicago dailies, either the Chicago Sun Times, which was the Democratic, more liberal news source, or the mighty Chicago Tribune, a Republican powerhouse of international scope and national prominence and influence.

It was the Tribune for me, from back in the mid-70’s through the mid-90’s when I moved from Chicago to Los Angeles, where I then got the daily Los Angeles Times, which in those days was owned by the Tribune Company and considered a “sister” paper to the Trib, all the way through to this morning’s TB Times; I read it all, every morning, the front page, the national news, the local news, the sports section, the “funnies” (still my fave part of the paper) and of course, the editorial page, or “op-ed” page as we savvy media veterans refer to it.

Pretty much all the papers I’ve ever seen in this country print, alongside the opinions of the editors on the “op-ed” page, letters they receive from readers, allowing the authors of said letters the opportunity to sound off about this, that and the other subject; it’s been my experience that the “Letters To The Editor”, along with the opinions contained therein, are much like assholes…a) everyone seems to have one and b) most of them stink.

As the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, as well as the editor of this blog, like newspapers, I often receive letters from my readers, either complaining that I have in one of my posts maligned one of their personal sacred cows or that I have made some comment to which they feel compelled to respond. Since the only things I was contemplating doing this evening were either a) watching reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies in Burmese (with subtitles), b) rewriting Article Two of the United States Constitution and reducing the term of the Presidency down to one week, retroactive back to January 19th, 2017 or c) publishing some of the letters I mentioned above, I decided to take the high road and share some of the more colorful and sophomoric, excuse me, interesting missives that I have received here at the WATRUK blog.

To wit, here are some excerpts that I thought you might enjoy (or that might make you yark into your azaleas)…

“As President of the Society for the Lovers of Pond Scum (SLOPS), I must take serious umbrage with your post of 4/12/18 (IS THIS THE PARTY TO WHOM I’M SPEAKING?) in which you compare President Donald Trump to one of nature’s most misunderstood substances, the great American pond scum. It is a grievous and uncalled-for malignment of this most precious of our native algaes to make this invidious comparison, and I can assure you that, should you continue this foul defamation in future columns, SLOPS will be compelled to mount a boycott of your blog and to suggest to your readers that they not only discontinue their readership, but to also seek you out and whack your peenie. This vile durance will not be tolerated.”

                                                Dan DeLyon, President, SLOPS”

“In your post of 11/29/18 (THOUGHTS ON THE BLOGGER AS AUTHOR) you mention the cruel and frankly sick act of the shaving of a gerbil, perpetrated by a character in one of your sick, twisted stories, and we here at the Society for the Prevention of Animal Zoomorphism (SPAZ) are sickened and angered by this disgusting mistreatment of one of these adorable little rodents. You are a repulsive, sick, despicable, degenerate, twisted, sick, repulsive, gross, nasty, deplorable, twisted, reprehensible, disgusting, sick individual and we most sincerely hope that you contract an advanced case of crotch lice and then die from sclerosis of the blowhole, a lonely and broken man. Thank you.”

                                                Patty Melt, Secretary, SPAZ

“Re your column of 11/14/18 (ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE)_VERSION 5.0) wherein you state that you and your daughter were “doing disgusting things to our cat with a salad fork”; this is the kind of flagrant abuse of an innocent feline that sick, disgusting, perverted, gross, horrible, degenerate, filthy, lying, sick, degenerate, perverted asswipes such as yourself find amusing. You are disgusting and perverted.”

                                                Laurel Enhardy, Hippo KY

“As the President of the 1910 FruitGum Company Fan Club, and their Number One Fan, I want to thank you for mentioning this most influential and yet sadly now mostly forgotten American rock band in your recent post of 11/14/18 (ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE)_VERSION 5.0). “Simon Says” rock on, and we “Gummers” agree!”

                                                April Showers, Butt (excuse me) Butte MT

“People here in Idaho (home of the great Grown In Idaho® potato and sister state to Wisconsin, home of sour cream) are frankly damn sick and tired of being made fun of by disgusting, gross, lying, despicable, lying, nasty, gross, disgusting shitwads such as yourself just because we appear russet, sorry, rustic and backwards to you. To imply that Idaho has no universities or institutions of higher learning, as you did in your post of 5/11/18 (A YOUNG MAN AND THE SEA-THE SAGA OF LEAK POHLUPS, BABY SAILOR) is an au graten, excuse me, rotten thing to say, and I think you should be French fried, damn it, vilified for saying it. You are sick, disgusting and reprehensible, and you obviously have no respect for the peelings, shit, feelings of others.”

                                                Jack Cheese, Idaho Falls (down) ID

“I can’t believe you ordered your First Mate Tammie Wetzel thrown overboard 4/1/18 (HOW LONG? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?). You are really a sick, repulsive, gross, unfeeling swine. But hey, I loved your post about the mule who wouldn’t plow (ANYBODY GOT A 2X4 I CAN BORROW 4/24/18). Keep up the good work, you freak.”

                                                Sue Perficial, Pee Pee OH

“Cap’n John, you rock. Love your blog.”

                                                The Behind Bars Reading Group, Stateville                                                                  Penitentiary, Joliet IL

“Cap’n John Krissongs, your application to become a resident of the Home for the Chronically Bewildered has been processed and we are happy to let you know that you have been accepted. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss the details of your residency.”

                                                Juan Atatime, Director

And a big thank you goes out to our Founding Fathers for the wisdom and foresight to ensure that Americans have a free press and freedom of expression…Ben and James and Thomas and all the guys must be spinning in their graves these days.

Love and newsprint,

Cap’n John


In the spirit of the season (holiday, not NFL), I would like to talk about giving back for just a brief moment; no, I won’t bore you with a long monologue about how my Uncle Mortimer once gave $27 gazillion dollars to the Me-Wuk Native American tribe of California to save their dying culture (with which of course they then built a resort/spa/gambling casino on the reservation and made each of the remaining 21 tribe members bajillionaires), but I am going to ask a favor of you, my loyal readers.

Bear with me a moment if you would…

“At the end of the day it’s not about what you have or even what you’ve accomplished…it’s about who you’ve lifted up, who you’ve made better. It’s about what you’ve given back.” Denzel Washington


I’m a somewhat poor man, with just sufficient financial resources to keep myself going; I don’t say that by way of complaint, but merely to set the table. This the reality of my life.

I donate what I can to the various causes that I believe in, in small amounts…would that I could do more. Like my Uncle Mortimer.

But I’ve come to realize over the passing years that the one thing I can “give back” is to bring some measure of joy or even healing, by virtue of my being a person who can make others laugh, into people’s lives. It’s a small thing, but it’s what I have.

So here’s the favor.

I’d like to think, judging from the comments and feedback I get from folks who read the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, that my readers, all several of you, gain a certain amount of pleasure from the things I write; although I have minimal ego, this does give me great satisfaction. Moreover, I’m pleased that I am able to make people forget, for a brief time at least, all the unhappy crap that’s going on in the world and in their personal lives.

But I need your help to spread the happy message of the Kidding further, to reach a larger audience of folks who might be impacted favorably by the humor contained herein (such as it is).

If you agree with me that the antics of your Cap’n and the “crew” of the Kidding are pretty funny, and thereby entertaining, then here’s what I need you to do…

Share the Cap’n.

Yep, that simple…just share the Cap’n with your friends, your buds on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and all the other many social media sites of which I have little clue, your fellow workers, the members of your church, people you interact with in the course of your daily life, your fellow inmates, whomever. Tell them about the WATRUK website, send them the link, open it up on your cellphone and then hand to them, however you want, but please let people know about it.

You see, this is all I have to “give back”…I can make people laugh.

Please, share the Cap’n; introduce him to folks who haven’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Spread the joy.

If you do, you’ll be contributing to, hopefully, making the world a little better place, a little less manic, a little happier.

Please help me…and if you do, maybe I can come up with some free beer for everyone.


Thanks in advance…you guys are awesome.

Love and laughter.

Cap’n John


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



(Note from the Editor…I spent about an hour on-line, trying to find an old black and white photo that captured the theme of today’s post, with no luck. So I said screw it and went with a “Spring-time” pic from Cap’n John’s portfolio of photos. See above.)

I note with no particular interest that it’s that time of year again when the Hallmark holidays of Mother’s Day and of Father’s Day are almost upon us; as I’m sure you’re all aware, and for those of you who are not, Mom’s Day is Sunday, 5/13, and Dad’s Day is next month on 6/17. Wasn’t it thoughtful of President Woodrow Wilson, back in 1914, and President Lyndon Johnson in 1966 to declare certain Sundays of the year as days to express some type of affection towards our Parental Units? (Can we assume that President Tweety Bird will soon issue a proclamation, declaring some date or another as “National Porn Star Day”?)

I’m deeply grateful to Mr. Wilson and Mr. Johnson for the reminders…of course, both my folks have gone on to their eternal whatever, so for me, the point is moot. But Publix is most definitely aware of the impending spring-time celebrations of the joy of parenting.

As some of you may recall, in addition to my duties as the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, I am also employed part-time by the Publix Supermarket chain, one of the largest in the country and the dominant group of grocery stores here in Florida, as a Front Service Clerk; as I have remarked previously, this is a $200 title for a $27 job…I’m a grocery bagger. Publix, like many large corporations these days, is awash in jargon, right up to their little green name badges.

Publix gets a lot of mileage out of the fact that the company has been on the Fortune 100 Best Companies To Work For list for the past twenty years running, and for the most part, it is a pretty good place to work; they have their moments, but overall, I’ve had worse jobs. (I’ve worked in places where that old joke about “The beatings will continue until morale improves” was operative.)

Although I’ve never had the job, I have to think that working as a bagger for Pubics, as I like to call them, is probably a better gig than being a proctologist for Butts R’ Us.

Now as you may have noticed from time to time, I have a well-developed sense of irreverence towards, well, just about everything, now that I think about it; I can do serious, but it’s an effort. And as I further think about it, this might be genetic…keep that thought in mind as you read the rest of this story.

So my “irreverence” towards most things will not come as the surprise that the iceberg was for the crew of the Titanic to my loyal and long-suffering readers…humor is my coping mechanism. If I got my tit caught in the wringer, I’d find a way to make light of it. (And as I wrote that line, I realized for the first time ever that, given the way the old wringer-type washing machines were constructed, it was entirely possible to have that happen.)

(I have a friend who I went to high-school with who went on to become a doctor…he always said that laughter was the best medicine, except for treating diarrhea.)

Back to Pubics, and being irreverent…about a month ago, as I was standing by the time clock waiting to punch in for my shift that day, I saw a notice on our employee bulletin board that caught my attention…it was from the “Corporate Communications Department”, which is Publixese for the PR people, asking anyone who cared to do so to send them a note telling them “the best advise you ever received from your parents”, and giving an email address to use for this corporate communication.

As Gru from the Despicable Me movies would say, lightbulb.

I noted the address and when I got home from work later that afternoon, sent off an email to the CorpComm people, telling them that the best advice I had ever gotten from my parents came from my Dad, who once told me this: ”If at first you don’t succeed…get a bigger hammer.”

Several points here…one, I did this in jest, strictly to have a little fun with the PR folks. Two, my Dad never said this to me, although given his personality, it is something he might have told me. (I once asked him, in the midst of a home project with which he was having some difficulty, said difficulty causing great profane expressions to emanate from him, if I could help…I was about 10 at the time. He turned to me and said, you want to help? I nodded, and he responded bluntly, then stay out of the way. He later apologized.)

Three, I had NO friggin’ idea what was coming next, believe me.

The email, once sent, was forgotten by yours truly. Completely…I had my yucks and moved on.

So imagine my utter surprise when I opened my email inbox yesterday to find a message from Megan in the CorpComm office, to wit:

“We would like to feature your Dad’s advice in our upcoming issue of Publix News.”

After I was able to get up from the floor where I had been laughing hysterically, I continued reading Megan’s message…she requested a pic of my Dad, preferably one of both of us together, included a “photo release form” I needed to sign, told me they needed my answer by May 3 and thanked me “for sharing”. (FYI, Publix News is a monthly news magazine sent out to the stores for the greater edification and enjoyment of the employees.)

In for a penny, in for a buck three eighty-five, I thought, so I immediately went online with the devious intent to find a pic I could use…see the photo to the right. However, upon reflection, I decided that sending this picture would be taking the joke a bit too far, so I rummaged around in the large box of old photos that lives in my closet and came up with the one below, scanned it onto my PC, signed the release form and sent them both on their way.

As I explained in my response to Megan, that’s Dad on the left…I’m the one in the beret.

The old man would have been proud of my restraint, I’m sure.

And you know, I have a feeling that this isn’t the end of the story…more later.

Love and greeting cards,

Cap’n John

Post Script…if you would like to see more of Cap’n John’s photography, here’s the link to a video on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding‘s Facebook page…I hope you like them.

Go ahead…there’s no charge.


It was the first of a new month and I was standing on the main deck of the R U Kidding, just aft of the mizzen-mast, talking to my 2nd Mate Gertruden Shepard about the newly begun baseball season, when her boss walked over to us with a silly grin on her face.

“Hey,” I said to my 1st Mate, Taffie Wetzel, with a nod and a smile.

“Happy April, fools,” she said. (You could tell she’d been waiting all day to try that line on someone.)

We all had a good laugh, and then I called a couple of my deck-hands, who had been busy swabbing the deck behind us, over to where we were standing.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Take Ms. Wetzel back to the stern, bind her up good and then put the plank in place…we’ll join you there in a bit.” TW turned to me with a look of astonishment on her face.

“Aye, Cap’n”.

They grabbed the 1st Mate, who was by now protesting loudly, and dragged her off aft.

When the boys had her trussed up good and tight, we walked back aft as well and with little to-do, made Ms. Wetzel walk the plank…sadly, she walked 11 feet on a 10 foot board, and in the drink she went. One of the hands up on the bow, not knowing what was going on, yelled “Woman overboard!” (Hey, I run a totally PC ship…none of that sexist iguanacrap on my boat.)

I only let her flounder for a few moments, then I had the hands tow her back in, just before a huge school of paranoid goldfish, masquerading as NRA members, moved in to attack her.

“Why did you DO that?!?” she sputtered, dripping wet, after they had her back onboard. “I thought you were going to let me drown!”

“Fooled you, didn’t I?”

Now that we have the frivolity out of the way I’d like to propagate a monumental sea-change here and, whoa, never thought you’d see this, did you, be serious for once, as unusual as that is.

April 1st marks the six-month anniversary of the launching of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and despite all of the nay-sayers and critics who exclaimed loudly that the Cap’n would sink and not swim, you and I and all the silliness that swirls around the Kidding are still going strong.

Okay, limping along vigorously then.

For the past six months I have been boring, excuse me, regaling you with stories of three-legged pigs, or about being a part-time Front Service Clerk for Publix, or with all my advice to the lovelorn columns (remember the three-breasted woman or the retired proctologist who lived in Whoopee Cushion FL) or my Cap’n John For Pres 2020 campaign, or Montpelierians, or my opinion poll, or my trip to the doctor to find out I’m growing a second head or the Antonin Scalia School of Holistic and Organic Legal Education (better known by its acronym ASSHOLE) or with any of the stories of all the other “interesting” things that I choose to expound on occasionally.

And through it all, you guys, my loyal and faithful readers, have suffered, er, sorry, endured.


So two things, mateys…one, I hope to hell that you guys have had 1/10 as much fun reading the Cap’n as I have had telling the stories; two, and here’s the big one, from my heart…thank you.

Thank you, 10Q, danke, gracias, domo arigato, feliz navidad, xie´xie´, e pluribus unum, spasibo, tierra del fuego, in whatever language you care to apply, I am very, very grateful to you all.

Like double-secret probation grateful.

You guys are awesome, I don’t care what Mitch McConnell says.

Hey, as long as we’re all here, how about a few “Cap’nisms”, wadda’ ya say?


                “…the First Amendment of our hallowed Constitution grants the nation’s citizens the right to pop-off with their opinions, any time they like, about anything they want to pop-off about. The Constitution was ratified in 1787 and Americans haven’t shut the fuck up since then.”


                “I know you Oswaldo, you’re not the kind of man who would let his laundry basket sit on the cowling of a P-51 Mustang that was painted orange and why was the persimmon?”


                “And FYI, “yo ho” is not how you say hi to a prostitute.”

                “Hey, it’s going to be under 30 degrees here in central FLORIDA overnight again, with a “freeze warning” having been issued by the county…you’re damn right I’m in favor of global warming. And it better happen pretty damn soon, ‘cause everybody down here is freezing their cojones off. What, are you kidding me?”


                “My wife of 25 years recently left me for a rodeo clown, who had a line of bullshit a mile long, a pimped-out Winnebago and his own barrel, and I’m thinking of celebrating by spending two weeks at some island resort, naked and drunk. Do you have a preference for vacation spots?”


                “I’m a retired proctologist living in a senior’s apartment complex in Whoopee Cushion Fl, and I’m having a problem attracting the “right” kind of women; so far, since I’ve lived here, the only woman I’ve been able to get a date with was an old-maid ex-turret lathe operator with three nipples and a pet iguana named Horace.”

                “The guy in the cubicle next to mine at work is a hunk, but he never says a word to me other than “hello” in the morning and “boiled llama parts” when he leaves at the end of the day.”

                “Well, you could march into his cubicle wearing nothing but an engineer’s cap and a big smile, carrying a left-handed monkey wrench, and announce that you’re there to tighten his lug nuts; that oughta’ get his attention.”


                “…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 report further stated that these same 11% couldn’t find their butts with a flashlight, a map and two hands.”


                “I’m sure Montpelierians (no way I could say that word three times in a row with a couple of adult beverages under my belt) are devastated at this news…I know I would be.”

~From “DID ANYONE CALL MISSING PERSONS?” 12/4/17 (on babies)

                “They’re generally cute, smell pretty good until they do something unspeakable in their diapers (something my ex- and I used to call a “special delivery” whenever my daughter left us one), sometimes noisy but mostly inoffensive, and although they add little to the Gross Domestic Product, they can be counted on to vote Democratic.”


                “-“Freshets Of Profanity” would be an awesome name for a rock band.

                “-do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around…order given by the Captain to the crew, or if he’s incapacitated, the Machinist Mate 3rd Class Cosign PiRSquared, to immediately after hearing the “Hokey-Pokey” horn, turn themselves around. That’s what it’s all about.”

~From “BOY, THE WETTER YOU GET, THE OLDER IT WANTS” 2/11/18 (on getting older)

                “…and it flashed into my mind that if I said something about needles being stuck to any of the kids at work, they wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the hell I was talking about.”

                “I gotta’ be careful farting that hard…at my age I’m liable to blow my spleen right out my asshole and shoot it across the room.”

~From “OH SURE, NOW YOU TELL ME” 2/3/18

                “From the wonderful Tony Bennett song, “I Left My Heart In San Francisco and My Spleen In Cleveland”.”


                “I once ate an entire box of Entemanns Cinnamon Raisin English muffins (with butter melted into them while they were hot, and with a big glass of cold milk…yes) right before I fell asleep and woke up alternately singing “God Save The Queen” and doing Freddie Mercury impersonations.”


                “No donation is too small, and as Bill Murray said in Ghostbusters, no fee is too big, so send in those dimes and quarters and $100 bills ASAP. And remember the immortal words of Will Rogers, who once opined that we should be happy we aren’t getting all the government we’re paying for.”


Hey, I haven’t had this much fun since the last time I had root-canal work, but I need to wind this up and get going…Ms. Wetzel just walked by the door to my cabin, where I’m working here at my desk, and when she saw me turned her head away and refused to speak to me.

I think it might be time for her to take another swim…this time I might let the NRA goldfish have her.

With all my heart, thanks you guys.

Love and anchors,

Cap’n John


For those of you who read and recall my post from 11/10/17, “ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE”), I’m going to pick up where I left off last month, helping those of you who solicit my counsel about their love-lives (or lack thereof).

But in the meantime, if you aren’t reading the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, I can only ask, why not? I mean, shit, do you think I go to all this work and effort for my own amusement? Do you think slaving over a hot keyboard is my idea of good time? Is it your belief that I look forward to being shackled to my desk by the evil forces of Emperor Shlongo, Ruler of the Anopheles Planetary Triad, and forced to write these posts until my fingers are down to the bone, my eyes red and strained, denied food and water until I produce copy worthy of His Supreme Highness…

Okay, I got a little carried away there. Sorry.

Actually, the answer to the most of the questions above is yes, other than the one about the Emperor…his people never shackled me to my desk, I just made that up. (Although the cute blond Anophelite guard who offered to tie me, naked, to the bumper of my car, rub me all over with canola oil, then poke me in a place on my body that shouldn’t ever be poked, while she was dressed in her Temple Guard uniform, high-heel boots and all, yeah, she had my attention, but the rest of it was just me funnin’ you guys.)

Anyway, back to the subject at hand…

Every week, I get scads (one of my mother’s fave words) of letters, texts, emails, voicemails, notes delivered by carrier pigeon, smoke signals and secret decoder ring messages from so many of my loyal readers (all three of you) asking me to please give them the benefit of my wisdom and years of experience in coping with sexual frustration, excuse me, in dealing with the opposite sex, and so here I go, advising the lovelorn, for fun and profit…

“Dear Cap’n John: 

                I’m in love with a man who barely knows I exist, and I need help finding a way to attract his attention. Do you think tying him naked to the bumper of his car, rubbing him all over with canola oil and poking him in places he never knew he liked to be poked would be over the top? Or should I try something more subtle?

                Rohunda, Corporal of the Emperor Shlongo’s Royal Guard”

Dear “Ro”:

                No, you go grrrl.

“Cap’n John:

                Is it love when your eyes are watering, your nose is stuffed up, your sinuses are swollen to the size of possum testicles, your stomach is queasy and you can’t make a fist, or is that something else?

                Thanks…Am I Love Sick in Seattle?”

Dear “Seattle”:

                No, those sound like the symptoms for glomerular, a disease of the spleen that is indigenous to the Anopheles Planetary Triad, and can only be contracted by having sexual relations with a cute blond Anophelite Corporal of the Emperor’s Guard. Who have you been sleazing around with, you perv?

“Dear Cap’n: 

                Recently my wife of many years decided to grow a third breast…I’m a very open-minded kind of guy, and I like the idea a lot, but I’m concerned with how she will look in a bikini, or her Temple Guard uniform. But here’s my real concern, however…do you think I will need to grow another hand?

                Two’s Company, Three Is More Company”

Dear “Company”:

                And this is a problem, how?

“Dear Cap’n John Krissongs:

                This is your final notice. We must receive payment…”

Okay, never mind this one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                There is a girl in my Introduction to Mucus class who is waay hot, but I think she might be a lesbian…she is beautiful, with thick, black hair, dark, penetrating eyes, olive skin and a figure that makes me want to plotz, whatever the hell that is. She says that she is from the Middle East, and that her father is the mayor of Tripoli. She seems interested, but I’m afraid of being hurt if she decides she prefers women to men. Help me, Obi-Wan, you’re my last hope.

                Confused In The Classroom”

Dear “Classroom”:

                She’s from LEBANON, not a lesbian, you feeb. Geez.

Well, I need to get going here…I only hope that I was able to make some of your love-lives a little better, or at least a little more interesting. Please keep those letters, emails, texts, etc. coming…they have helped me to realize that my lovelife (such as it is), is not near as screwed up as other peoples.

Hey, I hear Publix Supermarkets is having a sale on canola oil… 

Love and lovelorn,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Jivo???


(Cap’n John would very much like to give this kid a grocery cart enema, just for general principles…hey, Apron Brain, you already put the lady’s stuff in a paper bag, so why ask her NOW? Geez…sorry.)

I was sitting at my desk (in my underwear, as always…I write better in lingerie) this afternoon, doing some editing on a post I had written earlier, before I had gone to work. Given that being employed at Publix’ Supermarkets as a “Front End Clerk”, such as I am, part-time of course, so I take nothing away from my duties as the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, kills an average of 72,000,156 brain cells per hour, I like to do my “creative work” prior to going in, when I’m a little smarter.

Anyway, I was re-reading my post from this morning (“ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY (AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE”) 11/10/17), and, since I had already forgotten some (a lot) of what I had said previously, it was like reading something that someone else had written, new and fresh, and, I’m sorry, but like Dizzy Dean once said, it ain’t bragging if you can do it, pretty damn funny.

I was laughing out loud, staring intently at my monitor, like a cat waiting at the mouse’s door, dreaming of dinner, when suddenly it hit me, making me laugh even harder.

Even if NOBODY else ever read a word of what I’ve written, even if I had had no expectation of anyone EVER reading my stuff, even if I absolutely KNEW no one else would ever read it, ever…

…I’d still write it and post it, and then read it myself.

I think I’m hysterical.

Remember what Diz said (see above).

I really already sort of knew this previously, that I enjoy my own work and that I am probably my own #1 fan…I’m not sure if that makes me a) a narcissistic asshole, b) WAY more naïve than I should be at my age or c) just fucked up. (By applause, how many of you went right to c), with no hesitation?) But I hadn’t ever really thought about it in quite the blunt terms that I did earlier today.

Yeah, I’m a pretty funny guy. (Just so we don’t lose perspective here, God still had His little joke with me, ha-ha-ha, you Jerk…with a face/shape like mine, you’d BETTER be funny or you’re going to be a very lonely person.)

I’m still really, really glad when someone “likes” something I’ve written…hey, I have an ego, I’m not a unique or anything like that, come on. 

(Phone rings)

“Cap’n speaking.”

“Yes, First Mate Taffie…”

“It’s pronounced how?”

“Oh, okay, I’ll fix that. Thanks.” (“Bitch.”)

Excuse me, that was my First Mate, Taffie McWetzel…she does an instantaneous edit of what I write (mostly as a “spell-check”, but also to keep me from seriously stepping on my johnson) and just informed me that the word I wanted (see above) is “eunuch”. (I hope you’re happy now…no fruit cup for you tonight, missy. And once again, a tip of the hat to the incomparable Mel Brooks, a man who knows a little bit about inducing laughter.)

Ego and all that other shit notwithstanding, yeah, I like making people laugh…it is my raison d’etre, believe me. (I think that’s Latin for “Hoochi, Momma, full blast and top down, baby”…I’m pretty sure it is.)

It’s just that the first person I make laugh will always be me.

Love and Goldmund, (wrong title, see below)

Cap’n John

Post Script…and some Carly.


Rock n’ roll still affects me that way…always has.

I remember where I was the first time I heard “California Girls” by the Beach Boys…the first time I heard “Satisfaction” and all the guys in the eighth grade at St. Jude’s Marycrest were convinced that the singer (we didn’t know from Mick Jagger back then) was saying something dirty in the 2nd verse…the first time I heard “She Loves You” by those four young guys with the mop haircuts from Liverpool England…I remember that Sunday night in February back in 1964, when we parked in front of the TV to watch those same four “lads” captivate Ed Sullivan, and with him, an entire nation of kids…I remember during the summer of ’73, the summer that the song “Smoke On The Water” by one of the all-time great rock bands Deep Purple was released; I was playing around the Northern Illinois area in a bar/concert band back in those days, and “Smoke” got crazy popular and we were getting so many requests to hear it that we wound up playing the song almost every set, or four/five times a night (months later, I was still hearing that “duh, duh, DUH, duhduh, duh duh…duh, duh, DUH, duhduh” riff in my sleep)…I still get the chills when I hear the opening bassline to “Eight Miles High” by THE seminal American band, the Byrds…I remember seeing Van Halen at the old Chicago Stadium back in ’80 or ’81, I don’t recall now, but we had seats center aisle, about 40 rows back from the stage; my ears rang for two days afterwards…going through a painful break-up with the only woman I ever loved, just at time when that haunting ballad “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bonnie Raitt was getting airplay on the local radio, and to this day every time I hear that song, which I dearly love, I get all teary-eyed…anything by the Allman Brothers…I remember the first time I heard “Purple Haze” by Mr. Hendrix, and just sat with my mouth open, I was so stunned.

To quote Mick and the Boys, “oh no, it’s only rock n’ roll, but I like it.”

Moving along…

…ripping into a blazing mandolin solo…

“…and now, the Crazy Tennesseans doing their rendition of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” by Iron Butterfingers…”

Bossie and her date, Lladizlas “Cold Hands” Snotzlowski, on their way to an evening of dinner at Leopold’s and then to the theater, with a night-cap perhaps at that quaint little bistro just off of Nowy Swiat down in the District. (And yes, for those of you who are concerned, Bossie is over 18 years of age.)

I once worked with a guy that had the unbelievably disgusting habit of entering the men’s room, just about every day after lunch, and then proceeding to, using his term for the act, “park a coil”, said parking of said coil resulting in a floating miasma of odor so powerful, so malodorous as to bring tears to the eyes of anyone entering the restroom subsequent to the same said parking…the above is how we finally learned to cope with the situation.

…they have such sad looks on their little, white faces…

“…coming soon to a Land Rover dealer near you…”

Phone rings…

“Ajax Pharmacy, this is Homer, how can we help you?”

From inside of phone…

“Do you carry fan Viagra?”

Click…dial tooooooooooone. (And screw that “a tree falling in the forest” bullshit, I wanna’ know where the dial tone goes when you hang up your phone. Huh? Tell me that one, somebody, ’cause if I can’t get a straight answer from the phone company people about this, I’m going to start thinking conspiracy. Hey, this is some scary shit here, you know.)

“And how was your day, dear?”…

And a BIG shout-out to my Number One Fan (a dubious distinction indeed, considering the ENTIRE fan-club has a membership of three) and fellow laborer in the Publix vineyards, Maureen Klatzhaber. (FYI, the names have been changed to somehow incriminate the innocent.) Mo is living proof that it is possible to be a major sweetie and have questionable taste in what you construe to be “humor”, simultaneously. 

Hey, Mo, I didn’t you were an African-American male…

Yeah, for me it was the eyesight that went second, just after the hearing…first?

Never mind.

I so, so wish I had taken this pic…beautiful.

Love and “The White Album”,

Cap’n John

…and there goes the Cap’n, headed back to the Kidding, and at his side, handling the GPS “chores”, his loyal First Mate Taffie…on their way to bigger and better things, one would hope.




I stand before you (symbolically only, I always write in my underwear), a vindicated man…I have risen above, triumphant! Where are the critics now, the so-called pundits (FYI, the word “pundit” comes from the Ancient Greek word, “pundidelios”, which means “a person who believes that they are an expert in some field or another and further believes he/she is REALLY cool when everyone else thinks they’re pretty much an asshole”), the detractors, the “nay-sayers” if you will, all those who were so quick to judge, so quick to say “it will never happen”, where are they now, I ask?

I am pumped…I could schedule a 15-rounder with Ali in his prime right now, knowing I would last just long enough for The Champ to uncork a hard right to my jaw and knock me spang on my ass.


(Now, the question at this juncture…should I get on with the explanation or draw out the “suspense” a little longer? Cuttin’ to the chase, baby.)

Despite all of the distractions, I am happy to report to you, my loyal crew, that as of today, Sunday, October 15th, the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog celebrates its…


That’s right, K-Mart shoppers (and how many of you remember that little bit of retail history?), it was two weeks ago today, on a day that will live in infamy, that the WATRUK blog was launched.

I could just plotz…I won’t, but I could. (Not sure how.)

(Check out Was/Not Was…”K-Mart Wardrobe”, above)

(In fact, here’s another great Was/Not Was tune…just because I feel like it.)

Did I mention I was going camping? I didn’t? Good, because I’m not.

With all due respect to camping enthusiasts, what a truly monumental waste of time…oh good, let’s haul our fat butts out to the woods, pitch an effin’ tent, which, I am quick to point out, has no hot/cold running anything, roll around in the poison ivy searching for the effin’ Frisbee, eat half-cooked or burnt food cooked over an effin’ campfire, sleep on the effin’ ground and hope against hope that we will not be a) zipped inside a sleeping bag with a young coral snake or b) sprayed by an annoyed skunk that was in the midst of an amorous interlude that we interrupted or c) eaten by a effin’ bear. (The idea of exiting this life coming out of the south end of a northbound bear is just too depressing. And yes, a bear does that in the woods.)

Staying with the “celebration” theme, in other news this evening, residents of Florida were jubilant today over the fact that another 24 hours had passed without a fucking hurricane. (We’re STILL digging out down here, to one degree or another, from Irma…it’s like a plague from the Bible, Floridians chapter 20, verse 17.)

Hey, I know my Bible, lemme’ tell you…here, check this out, off the top of my head:

-Amphibians chapter 10, verse 25…”Verily, I say unto you that Amos begat Tobias, who begat Phineas, who then begat Ursal, who did the begat boogie and brought us Joshua, who followed with a great begat to bring about Ezekial, who, after a failed attempt to begat with Sheila and tired of all the begetting in general, said piss on it and moved to Damascus, where he got a job as a mattress tag inspector.”

-Excretions 10, Giants 6…”And there was a great rending sound, and an enormous abyss was opened, deep into the very bowels of the Earth, with fire and brimstone, and flames of great size leapt up at the walls of the abyss, a conflagration of immense heat, and a voice came out of the black, fiery night and said, “YES, DODGERS UP ONE ZIP OVER THE CUBS, YES!”

I’ll admit to some paraphrasing.

Love and cathedrals,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Cubs/Dodgers, Game 2, 2017 NLCS, tonight, from Dodger Stadium in L.A.

Post Post Script…Did I mention the Dodgers beat the Cubs last night to take a 1-0 lead in the NLCS? Oh, okay, sorry, just wasn’t sure I had brought it up.

Post Toasties…and per Emily Ratajkowski (I assume she’s Irish)…

End of transmission.




(“Dream Police” by Cheap Trick, above)

The headline in the local paper read like this…

“NPR PD raids home of local blogger”

Oh, the ignominy of it all…raided by the fuzz.

Apparently someone who read some of the things I’ve written here over the first (and possibly last) two weeks of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog took exception with my lack of seriousness and turned me into the New Port Richey Police Department, Lack of Seriousness Div. The LSD dispatched two agents, who promptly showed up on my doorstep to ask (question) me about the allegations.

They were an unlikely pair, one taller at about 5’11’, with an athlete’s build, short, short blond hair, sunglasses, uniform shirt tight over his biceps, of which he had three, a gun the size of a bazooka on his belt and an attitude the size of Montana in his eye.

His partner was shorter, much shorter, no more than 3 feet tall, with big teal blue eyes, huge ears, an off-purple floppy hat, a belted lime green tunic that hung to the tops of his shoes, no gun, no badge…OMFG, it’s Detective Dopey, accompanied by his side-kick, Officer Hardgun. 

It was the classic good cop/bad dwarf…or bad cop/good dwarf, or maybe good dwarf/bad mechanical engineer…hell, I have no idea.

I had answered the knock on my door and found the two of them standing there, poised to pursue justice to any lengths. The big cop flipped his badge open, and snapped it closed before I could look at it. “Are you John Krissongs?” he asked.

“Yeah”, I responded, “and it’s Cap’n John Krissongs to you, sir.”

“Cap’n?” said Detective D, as he jumped up and down so OH and I would notice him. “What sea-going barge are you the captain of, barfbag?” His belligerence was already becoming intense; he seemed primed for violence. As I stood in my doorway, offended by being called a barfbag, despite acknowledging the fundamental truth of the allegation, the little policeman reached up under his tunic and grabbed his baton.


(Watch Cleavon Little as Sheriff Bart “whip this out” in Blazing Saddles, above.)

Baton in hand, Detective Dopey advanced on me, intent on punishing me for a crime he had no way of knowing if I had committed, and in fact of which I was not guilty. Okay, maybe a little guilty. A little.



As the tiny detective moved in, OH began to reach for his handcuffs (thank goodness he wasn’t reaching for his baton…or mine either for that matter). Just then, the lowing of a moo-cow could be heard, just outside the entrance to my building. I was confused…we have moo-cows grazing out on the lawn here in the complex? When did that happen? Where did they come from? Whose incredibly stoopid idea was this, anyway? The sound continued, becoming a little louder now, a little more insistent.

“You have a permit for that moo-cow, douchebag?” the diminutive officer screamed at me, the baton raised above and behind his head. (Shit, DOUCHEbag, it was bad enough being a barfbag.)

“That’s Cap’n Douchebag to you, pal.” I’d had enough of his tough guy act, and I was pretty sure that my baton was bigger than his.


The lowing was reaching a crescendo, a wave of sound washing over me…

…and I woke up.

Yes, I do have an alarm clock that sounds like a moo-cow…don’t you? They’re all the thing in NYC, don’t you know?

I promise, cross my heart, that someday, someday I’ll write a serious post…honest to goodness.

I will.



Too much caffeine, you think?

Love and Herefords,

Cap’n John

Post Script…no, that is NOT an allusion (above) to the running joke in the POTC about “CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow”…I would never plagiarize another’s work, nor so blatantly steal what I didn’t create.

Post Post Script…not.

Post Toasties…

!!!! GO DODGERS !!!!