DYSTOPIAN NIGHTMARES…I GET LETTERS_VOL VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate that fucker.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                           ######

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

(Great segue, huh?)

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

And so, to proceed…

“Dear Captin shitface:

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

                Makkin Amurica Grate Agin”

“Cap’n John:

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

                The Unmasked Avenger”

“Dead Meat:

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

                Nothing Says Hate Like An Automatic Weapon”

“Dear Captain Butthole:

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

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

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

“You Hell bound sinner:

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

                Jesus Was White, You Scumbag”

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

Love and jammies,

Cap’n John

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

Truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know who you are.

On this date in history:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

“Cap’n John:

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

                                Groucho’s Younger Bother Karl”

Dear Brother:

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

“Dear Cap’n John:

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

                                Megan the Merciless, Ruler of the Galaxy”

Dear Ruler:

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

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

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

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear CJK:

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

                                Terry the Trojan Horse”

Dear Horse:

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

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

At least I think that’s what he said.

Love and geography,

Cap’n John

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

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

SHTICKS OF ONE AND HALF-A-DOZEN OF THE OTHER…CAP’N JOHN FOR PRES

President Teddy Roosevelt, at his desk in the Oval Office, reading a press release

Back in the mid-80s, I was living on the south side of the great city of Chicago, in what has been known for years in the Windy city as the “Back of the Yards” neighborhood, and managing a medium sized steel warehouse not far from there, up on 35th and Pulaski; I had moved into the city, rather than commute every day, as I had been doing for a number of years, after I got divorced from Bubona, the evil, conniving Goddess of Cattle and perpetual tormentor of yours truly. (I think it was the comedian Gallagher who once said that “there’s no such thing as an un-contested divorce…somebody’s pissed”. Ours wasn’t uncontested.)

About a year after Bu and I went our separate ways, I got a call from her kid brother, whose name was Alfred, although everyone had called him “Shithead”, er, sorry, “Skip” ever since he was a baby; at the time of this incident, he was not quite 19.

I had extended an invitation to him to stay with me for a time, during a period when he and my ex-in-laws were battling over, at any given time, either his lack of a job, his hair, his attitude, his friends, his music, his shish-kabob, his pet tortoise Heloise or whatever; Skip was fundamentally a good kid, and when I volunteered to take him in and get him a job at the steel warehouse, my offer was, despite being the hated “ex-husband“, accepted by all with great relief.

So young Skip came to stay/work with me, and I’m happy to say that I believe I contributed mightily to making him the total failure he is today. (Hey, it’s a gift, you know.)

We were sitting in my living room one evening, after he had been staying with me for about a month, dinner eaten and dishes done, watching TV, when an ad came on soliciting funds for research into finding a cure for the devastating childhood disease, spina bifida. The Grasshopper turned to his older mentor and asked, what’s spina bifida?

It’s a disease of the spinal cord, I replied, being the “older mentor” in this instance.

Weird name, he said.

Yeah, I replied, it was named for the guy who first identified the disease, Dr. Biff Kadootie.

Now one thing Skip knew about me, despite his youth and inexperience, was that I occasionally “finagled” the truth a bit…

Yeah, I repeated, Biff Kadootie, Spina Bifida.

He looked at me with suspicious eyes and asked…you sure?

Yeah, absolutely certain, I said. Hey, they sure weren’t going to call it Spina Kadootie, were they?

I have always thought, since that day, that the denouement in this instance was pretty funny. So much for being a mentor and teacher.

And thus were the seeds of good Cap’n John planted in fertile soil and allowed to grow to immaturity.

Speaking of “teaching”, one thing I have learned, being a major party candidate for President, is that there’s always more info you need and/or should assimilate into your thinking as you run for the highest office in our country.

That’s right, radiator fans, the Cap’n John for President 2020 campaign is running full-speed ahead, and gaining momentum and supporters at a furious clip…all three of them.

My campaign manager, or “camman” as I like to call him, Mack DeKnife, has assembled a top-notch staff, with a number of politically savvy men and women as Department Heads, to focus on certain aspects of the campaign and to keep me abreast of news/developments in their area of concern; I get reports regularly.

And unlike our current President, I actually read them…of course, I don’t pretend to know everything, like some Presidents.

Anyway, I thought I would share with you folks some of the reports that I have received from the various persons on our staff recently…

~From the Midgets Aren’t The Only Thing Vertically Challenged Department, it was recently learned by my crack team that the highest point in Florida is the town of Britton Hill, which is 345 feet above sea-level, or about one REALLY big tsunami wave away from being the only spot in the Sunshine State that you don’t need snorkel gear to visit.

And isn’t “snorkel” a great word?

~From the When We Pray To An “Imaginary Friend” It Won’t Be To Your Heathen God Department… according to an Associated Press article on 4/2/19, several legislators from the great state of North Dakota recently abstained from participating in a pre-session prayer that was offered by Mr. Rajan Zed, a visiting cleric from the Universal Society of Hinduism in Nevada, “marking the second time in recent years that some GOP representatives have objected to an invocation from a non-Christian”.

Really? Are you kidding me? Really? You mean to say that only Christians are allowed to have an imaginary friend, and that all the other equally confused religions can go pound sand?

~From the If Publix Ever Enforces A Minimum IQ Requirement They’ll Lose Half Of Their Employees Department, comes this news. According to one of our FEC’s (Publix corporate jargon…Front End Coordinator) who will remain nameless here, on a day when we were short-handed in Customer Service at the Publix Supermarket store where I work part-time as a Front Service Clerk (more jargon…I’m a bagger), we were expecting several cashiers to come into work in the next few hours, thus alleviating the personpower shortage we were experiencing. The FEC involved, a nice lady who has over-stayed her time with the company by a factor of “a bunch” (she’s 75 and getting squirelly), mentioned to me that Alice, Fern (the names have been changed to protect the foolish) and Payola were due into work soon.

Who, I asked her, thinking I hadn’t heard her correctly.

Payola.

Okay, now the term “payola”, as many of you will remember, refers to a scandal that involved record companies making payoffs to certain well-known disc-jockies/radio stations back in the late 1950s to ensure their records got increased on-air playing time…I was pretty sure this wasn’t what she was talking about, although it was possible, given the individual involved.

I glanced down at the schedule she was holding, and then it dawned on me…we have a sweet nice lady from Peru who works as a cashier at our store, a wonderful lady who smiles all the time and with whom it is a genuine pleasure to work.

Her name is Paola. (And for those of you who don’t have the benefit of 3-1/2 years of HS Spanish as I have, the word is pronounced POW-la.)

This could easily be the explanation for why some species eat their young.

~From the I’m So Old, When I Was In School We Didn’t Have History Department…I was watching another of those re-runs of America’s Funniest Home Videos on YouTube the other evening, of some boys and girls playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey at a kid’s birthday party, and it struck me that, given how long ago it was that I was young (I started to write “a kid” rather than “when I was young” but I’m still pretty much, even today at the ripe old age of old, an overgrown kid) that if that had been myself and my contemporaries portrayed in the video, that we would have been playing Pin The Tail On The Dinosaur.

~From the I Assume Trojans Are The Official Condom Department…it was announced on numerous occasions during the television broadcasts of the preliminary rounds of this year’s NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament that Wendy’s is the Official Hamburger of the NCAA Tournament. It must be noted here that MLS, being mostly sissy vegetarians, vegans or some other Commie Pinko nonsense like that, has no Official Hamburger…they do however, have an Official Tofu of the MLS, but I can’t recall the name of the company right now.

And last, from the Pictures of Adorable Animals Department, which has nothing to do whatsoever with my campaign for President, comes this pic (see below), taken of one of my kitty buddies that I feed all the time that live on the abandoned golf-course out behind my apartment complex; I was standing in my living room, looking out my window, when I saw him/her.

The Photography Gods were good to me that morning…sadly, if I was in the North Dakota Legislature, I wouldn’t be able to offer a prayer of thanks to them out loud.

Love and sound bites,

Cap’n John