“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and now we’ve got the Dumb and Dumber Roadshow going on with those two morons Greene and Gaetz)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a loud squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, everyone please, can you please take your seats so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please find your seats…thank you. Thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I wasn’t able to get to during our last meeting, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce to the guy behind him again)…”Geez, what a bunch of douchebags…”

~From the An Explanation For My Readers In FL Department…

Just an FYI, but contrary to what some of you folks here in the Gunshine State might believe, sotto voce is actually Burmese for “alpaca spleens”; it is not some Liberal left-wing conspiracy motto endorsing pre-marital sex, gay marriage, defunding the police, blatant abuse of the welfare system, coming for your guns and/or rampant mopery.

And what an amazing happenstance, that FL (pronounced “fluh”, as in “duh”) is now home to both ex-, former and no longer President Donald Trump, and his Mini Me, Ron DeSantis; Governor DeSantis recently extended an invitation, to further enhance our great State’s reputation as a bastion of right-wing, conservative, god-fearing redneckness, to both William F. Buckley and Senator Joe McCarthy to move to FL and join in the festivities. According to several people in the capital at Tallahassee, Governor De was quite disappointed to learn that both Buckley and McCarthy are deceased. As in dead.

~From the My, What An Unusual Design That Is On Your Wall, Cap’n Department…

I made an interesting discovery the other day while I was eating dinner at my dining room table in my humble flat (average people have “apartments”; writers have “flats”) here on the Left Coast of Fluh, this while having a nice piece of filet of blobfish, some delicious homemade potato salad (not made by me, but by a friend…I cook like old people fornicate) and a very nice fresh ear of corn. To wit, if you have a mouthful of partially masticated corn kernels and suddenly have to sneeze, and for some reason my sneezes have become WAY more thunderous as I grow older, the resultant spray pattern can be quite decorative.

~From the Some Of Those Who Wander Are Not Lost Just Deeply Confused Department…

Am I the only one in the Universe that is concerned about a “wandering black hole” that was recently discovered by astronomers at the Center For Astrophysics and Other Totally Confusing Science Shit and reported in an article in the Astrophysical Journal? The apparently confused-about-where-it-lives region of compacted spacetime was spotted meandering through galaxy J0437+2456 (the name “Snickers” was suggested and rejected by scientists, saying that we have enough galaxies named for candy bars with the “Milky Way”…so was “Ford”, but that was vetoed as being too obvious) by astrophysicist Dominic Pesce, who was quoted in the article as saying, when questioned about just exactly where the hell Billy the Black Hole was headed, “The damn thing acts like a drunken Republican who can’t find his car in the parking lot of the strip joint he just left…it’s just wandering all over the place.”

Mr. Pesce went on to add that while most black holes are stationary, due to their size, weight and general lack of interest, this one, described as being “like a bowling ball that is several million times the mass of our Sun”, just seems to be “conflicted about where it wants to settle”. Fortunately for inhabitants of Planet Earth, Billy is over 230 million light-years away and is not likely to pose a threat to life here…at least not for another few weeks.

Governor DeSantis is said to be considering extending an invitation to Billy to move to Fluh and “join the festivities”.

~From the It’s A Way Better Name Than The 1910 Fruit Gum Company Department…

I recently went back and re-read author Dan Brown’s 2003 massive bestseller The Da Vinci Code (hey, even sea captains occasionally need some “light” entertainment, and despite the very improbable storyline, it is a great tale) and re-discovered the scene where the assistant Bad Guy, an albino quasi-Catholic monk named Silas (oh sure, Dan, that’s not improbable) has removed his cowled robe in the privacy of his cubicle for the purposes of self-flagellation as penance for his earlier in the evening cold-blooded murder of FIVE innocent people (Holy Grail, Batman) and is now clad only, in Mr. Brown’s words, in a “loin swaddle”. (Apparently Opus Dei, a Roman Catholic sect of which Silas is a member and is described in real life by many as a “bunch of right-wing religious conservative nutjobs” has banned their “monks” from wearing either a thong or bikini briefs under their robes.)

And it struck me, like Muhammad Ali partying with Sonny Liston, that “Loin Swaddle” would be a great name for a rock band.

As an addendum to the above, The Da Vinci Code is not considered appropriate reading for Republicans, as Da Vinci was gay. In an inadvertent nod to the “cancel culture” people, Fluh Governor DeSantis recently asked the State Legislature to introduce, consider and pass a bill naming Bronwyn R. Peabody as the true artist responsible for painting the Mona Lisa.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline Menlo Park CA

In a flip-the-bird gesture to both ex-, former and no longer President Donald Trump and Facebook founder and chief gutless coward Mark Zuckertoots, the Facebook Oversight Board for Rubber-Stamping Everything Mark Does actually grew a pair recently and upheld the ban from the social media platform that was imposed on Trump for inciting the January 6th insurrection and attempted seizure of our nation’s Capital. The Board gave Mr. Zuckertoots six months to respond and either lift the ban or have Mr. Trump permanently banished. (One Board member suggested having Mr. Trump taken out and flogged.) When asked by Chief Fluh Correspondent Coral Gables about the decision, Governor Ron DeSantis said that it “was an affront to Mr. Trump’s 1st Amendment rights”. When further questioned by Ms. Gables about his own flouting of the 1st Amendment by his excluding all media other than the Trump fave Fox & Friends program from a recent bill-signing event, the governor glared at Ms. Gables, gave her the finger and stormed off the podium.

More on the breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

~From the They Must Have An “11” on Their Volume Knob Department…

For the entirety of my misspent youth, our family resided in Northern Illinois, home of Al Capone, the Chicago Bears (“Da Bears”), one of America’s first amusement parks, Riverview Park, built in 1904, at that time the world’s tallest building, the Sears Tower, Chicago-style hot dogs (NO KETCHUP!) and periodic visitations, every 17 years to be precise, of the Cicadoidea, or as they’re more commonly referred to, those noisy little fuckers. (In a parody of the state slogan “Land of Lincoln”, my old man always called Illinois the “Land of Gangsters”…I was never really sure exactly what he meant by that, but Dad’s good sense could always be called into question for having married my mother, which did keep me from being a bastard, so there’s that.)

My first experience with cicadas was in 1956 (full disclosure…I was five) and even at that tender age, I can still recall the mess and the ungodly cacophony produced by their arrival. Again in ’73 another “brood”, as they’re called, hatched in Illinois, and I clearly remember that fiasco. In addition to shedding their “nymphal skin” (see photo) which produces an incredible mess on the ground, considering that each brood consists of gazillions of the little fuckers, the males also “sing” to the females in an attempt to convince the ladies to engage in making whoopee with them. And always at night, and believe me, you get several BILLION of the things all singing “Let’s Get Physical” at the same time…well, according to the article in today’s Tampa Bay Times, the noise level at its loudest has been measured at 105 decibels, or dB; to put that in perspective, a 747 taking off right over your head is about 110 dB, give or take a chirp or two.

So here we are in the Year of Our Ford 2021 and my old friends the cicadas are due back across the Mid-Atlantic states this summer (thankfully not in Fluh), bringing with them used exoskeletons, those hideous red eyes and that awful noise.

To all my readers in that area, a note of caution…don’t stand still outside; cicadas climb anything vertical.

~From the Did You Know That Republicans Backwards Is Snacilbupers Department…

I saw an advertisement featuring LPGA golfer Paige Spiranac the other day on the Sports page of, and it struck me (see Ali/Liston above) that if you read her last name backwards, it’s Canarips, and then for a devastating right/left combo, if her last name was Nroconac, it would be Canocorn backwards. (I wonder if Paige has ever sneezed a big mouthful of corn all over her dining room wall…me neither. Oh wait…)

~From the Happy Mother’s Day 2021 Department…

To all my fans who indulge in this pastime, Happy Mother’s Day. And to my mother, who is no longer with us, due to an untimely demise, as I suspect it was in her mind at least, thank you for the outstanding job you did raising me…I turned out awesome.

Ladies and gentlemen, and that stretches either term in some cases, thank you for your attendance and your attention today.

Love and blobfish,

Cap’n John


“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and thank you DOJ for finally going after that roving asshole Rudy Giuliani)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a loud squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, everyone please, can you please take your seats so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please find your seats…thank you. Thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I need to share with all of you, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce to the guy behind him again)…”Geez, what a bunch of douchebags…”

~From the Where’s the Little Blonde Girl from Poltergeist When You Need Her? Department…

For the three or four of you who read the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog regularly, you might recall that back on March 21st of this year I notified all of you that “your Cap’n” was taking a vacation, and would return, tentatively, on April 1st. Good thing I made it tentative, because I blew right through 4/1 on the calendar, it being at once too soon to return, due to “writer burnout”, as well as April Fool’s Day, which by the way is now a state-wide holiday in GA, SC, AL, KY (home of the famed Jelly) and my home state, FL. (“FL” is pronounced “fluh” as in “duh”.)

(FYI, I’m aware that saying that I was afflicted with “writer’s burnout” credits me with considerably more talent than that to which I am entitled.)

Anyway, “I’m baaaack…”.

(I just discovered that the actual quote was “They’re HERE“, not “They’re back.”)


~From the Or Maybe Eustace Department…

I did a lot of pondering during my hiatus, having no other really pressing matters to which I needed to attend, and one of the things I pondered on was how much more interesting my life might have been if my given name had been “Lalo” rather than “Cap’n”. (For the people in the above-mentioned states, that was a play on words…see, my first name is really John, but since my title comes before my name, some people, like you folks, might think that the name my parents gave me was actually “Cap’n”, which it wasn’t. I hope this clears up any confusion on your part. And yes, my parents were married, to each other.)

~From the Too Bad She Forgot the Pepto Department…

Recently I was standing at the back end of Checkout Lane #2 at the Publix Super Market located here on the Left Coast of Fluh where I am employed part-time as a Front Service Clerk (translation from Publix Corporatese: “bagger”), chatting with my cashier bud Rita during a brief lull in the hostilities, when I look up and see this women coming down the main cross-aisle with a full head of steam and a look of determination on her face, headed for the checkouts. When she gets to #2, she hangs a hard left into the lane and promptly deposits two items on the conveyor belt…a large can of Hormel’s Hot Chili and a four-pack of Charmin toilet paper.

Although Rita and her hubby Dennis (another Publix associate of ours and a great guy) have lived here in Fluh since ’89, she has never lost her NYC Brooklyn accent, or attitude. Best way to describe it? Picture Marisa Tomei in her role as Mona Lisa Vito in the movie My Cousin Vinny, thirty years later…sounds exactly like her. She is about as tall as a fourth-grader, has an impudent little smile that breaks me up whenever she flashes it and might weigh 100 pounds with a full meal in her stomach.

So Rita/Lisa and I exchange “looks”, and I can tell she’s thinking the exact same thing I’m thinking, which is, geez, lady, if you know it’s going to be so bad that you need a quad of TP to handle the aftermath, maybe you should just skip the Hormel’s and go for something a little less explosive.

What made it even funnier was the nonchalant way she approached the whole transaction, like, hey, I’m gonna’ head home, suck down this big can of intestinal rocket fuel and then wait a couple of hours and see what develops.

I live for bagging groceries.

~From the Adventures From the World of the Hearing-Challenged or Sorry, That’s the Wrong End Department…

And speaking of names (go back a couple of departments), I’ve been thinking for some time now about changing mine to Deafasa Post, which I am. Being “hearing-challenged” is a major pain in the ass, let me tell you; that said, it’s no big deal. It is embarrassing sometimes, but It’s not painful, it’s not debilitating, it’s not fascist, it’s just an effing nuisance. I mean, I’m ashamed to be considered as having a “disability” when I think of all the poor folks out there dealing with blindness or being wheelchair-bound or whatever. Yeah, it sucks, but compared to Stage Four cancer of the uvula, things could be a lot worse.

Despite the obvious drawbacks to being Deafasa Post, my hearing limitations have caused me to chuckle ruefully (oh my) from time to time.

Case in point: the other night I was watching the movie IT! The Terror From Beyond Space (oh yeah, LUV the old ‘50s sci-fi flicks, the really awful ones, like I Was A Teen-Aged Werewolf or I Was A Teen-aged Frankenstein or I Was A Teen-aged Turret Lathe Operator…after a bowl or two and a big glass of wine, they’re so camp they’re hilarious) and in that early part of the movie where they’re making you hate the bad guy by telling you all the shitty things he/she has done, there’s this scene where one of the “good guy” characters shows the “Bad Guy” a skull with an obvious bullet-hole in the temporal lobe. (Don’t ask about how the bullet-hole got there or how I knew it was the temporal lobe…it’s not important.) So of course the Bad Guy character has to say, just in case anyone in the audience wasn’t perceptive enough to know what it was, “It’s a bullet hole”.

Not to my hearing-challenged ears it wasn’t; I would have sworn on my autographed copy of Hamlet (alas, poor Yorick) that the Bad Guy said “butthole”…honest.

Having a totally and typically “guy” sense of humor, of course I thought that was hysterical.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline New York NY

In response to the service and execution of several Department of Justice Federal warrants to search both his home and his office, Attorney (using the term very loosely) Rudy Giuliani said in a press conference today that since former and no longer President Donald Trump was actually re-elected last November and therefore still President and since he was in fact still Mayor of New York City as well, that he was not subject to the jurisdiction of the DOJ and that they could take their warrants and have them probated and notarized for all he gave a shit, just after Federal Marshalls were seen leaving his residence and office with wheelbarrows full of evidence. Before Senior RUKME Correspondent Forest Fire, who is the head of RUKME’s Granola Department (Fruits/Nuts/Flakes), was able to question Mr. Giuliani further, the former chief Trump lickspittle (good word, huh?) lurched ahead and continued, saying that he was merely tucking his pants back in and was in no way getting ready to release his Italian Stallion on the allegedly 15-year old young lady in the hotel room with him in that movie. And that we should beware of alien abduction. Mr. Giuliani then turned from the podium, muttering something that sounded to Correspondent Fire like “truck pew”, and walked off.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

~From the Thank You Very Little Department…

Big THANK YOU SHOUT OUT to all the citizens of the great state of KY, for first of all giving us your great Jelly, although I have little cause to use it these days, given my forced-upon-me-by-circumstance celibacy, unless I’m lubing a stuck zipper that I can’t get up. (Did that sound mildly disgusting, or was it just me?) And second, for being the state that sent two of the most reprehensible douche-bags in this country to our national Senate, Mitch “Lickspittle #2” McConnell and Rand “I Am The Lord of All I Survey” Paul. Boy, I thought the people in Fluh were stupid, but that takes the word to another stratosphere altogether.

Lubing a zipper that is stuck open (or closed for that matter) with KY Jelly is a company-tested and approved “alternative” usage for this product. Please read the label for further company propaganda.

~From the Cheer Up, Things Could Be Worse, So I Cheered Up and Sure Enough, They Got Worse Department…

How do I know when things have gone from bad to ballistically stupid? Give you an example…

I was watching a video on YouTube on my desktop the other evening (1958’s I Was A Teen-aged Hog Farmer), leaning back comfortably in my recently purchased high-back office chair, feet up on the little foot-rest I have under my desk, sipping a beverage and mostly content with the world, when my stomach starting giving little (not so) signs of imminent rebellion and I thought to myself, since I can’t think to you because I’m not telegenic, uh-oh, this might be ugly, given the Hormel Chili, broccoli and frijoles casserole I had earlier in the evening for dinner, and sure enough, just like night after day or asshole after Republican, here it comes, a 20-megaton blast of such intensity that I felt my eyes watering and my olfactory nerves leaving immediately on vacation…it was Hello Boys, Damn the Torpedos, Full Speed Effluvium, so bad in fact that after about 30 seconds, I had to leave the room to seek oxygen in a larger supply elsewhere and then I started sputtering from the horrible odor now swirling about my entire apartment which of course turned into a coughing fit and I started to choke and I couldn’t get my breath so I stumbled over to the front door and somehow managed to get the chain-lock off and the deadbolt opened, threw open the door and stumbled out on the porch that I share with my neighbor, who heard me dying through his door and came out to see what was going on and he says, seeing my extreme distress, maybe I should call an ambalance (his term) for you to which I thought, oh, thank you, Mr. Obvious Man, for clearing that up for me and yes, please call an ambalance immediately so he did and the EMS guys arrived in a few minutes but by then I was pretty much done coughing other than some small fits and starts so the one EMS guy, who I knew from my bagger’s job at Publix says do you still want to go to the hospital and I said no, I’m fine, no need and he says well, okay, but we still have to charge for the call and I grimaced and asked stupidly, how bad? and he says, well, since I know you I’ll give you our Guy We Know Discount of 25% which will knock it down to just under the national debt of Uruguay and I said geez, I hope my insurance will cover that and he laughed derisively and responded good luck, bagger boy so they left and the next day I called my insurance company and they laughed too so now I’m out the all that money for the ambalance call and, well, buttholes.

Ladies and gentlemen, and that should cover most of you, thank you for your attention today.

Love and Maalox,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Sorry, I was a little long today, a phrase I have never had occasion to use previously, in any manner whatsoever.


Well, maybe not right down on “E”, but gettin’ close.

Effective immediately, your favorite Cap’n, namely yours truly, is on vacation. 

I need a break.

Current planned return date is April 1, or April Fool’s Day, whichever comes first.

In the meantime, so as not to disappoint my loyal readers (all several of you), here’s a recent post from the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog that should tide you over until I return. (Also please note that there are over 140 previous posts listed under “Sailing The High Seas With The Cap’n” that you can peruse as well…the collected wisdom and wit of Cap’n John Krissongs.)

From 11/20 of last year, here is I WHY WHY WHY WHY WONDER.

See you soon…

Love and time off,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to what I hope is a new fan for Cap’n John, a smart, savvy, hard-working young associate of mine at a Publix grocery store here on the West Central coast of Floriduh, home of the Super Bowl LV winning Tampa Bay Buccaneers and frozen iguanas that fall out of trees and bonk you on the head (see CHICKEN OF THE TREES…I GET LETTERS_VOL VI). In addition to all the above smart, savvy stuff, she’s also a Major Cutie. Ms. Julia, this one is for you.)

So there I was, deep in the throes of summer in the Year of Our Covid 2020, with time on my hands and thoughts of literary fame (and riches) on my mind, when I said to myself, there being on one else here at the time, self, you should write a book. (On a personal note, being a) old, b) almost 90% deaf, c) a person who lives alone and d) old, I not only talk to myself at home, I answer myself…oh yeah, I have whole conversations about shit, and you know what? I’m a really interesting person to talk to.)

Anyway, last summer I thought that I would write a book about my experiences at the Publix Super Market where I have my other part-time job (aside from being the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding) as a Front Service Clerk. (Not sure who does Rear Service, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.) Now “FSC” is nothing more than Publix’ corporate jargon for “bagger”…27 bucks worth of title for a three dollar job. And in the process of bagging people’s groceries, and no, most of us don’t ask “paper or plastic” anymore (although every now and again one of our cashiers will ask a customer “Is plastic okay?” and mostly they say yes, to which I always mutter under my breath, down at the far end of the conveyor/checkout lane, good, ‘cause that’s what you’re getting), helping them out to their car, bringing in carts off the lot and running errands around the store, I hear a lot of funny stories and see a lot of things that make me laugh. (We have a lady who comes in frequently who has a third eye in the middle of her forehead…she always makes me laugh. NOT BECAUSE OF HER THIRD EYE, FOR CRISSAKE, SHE’S A LOCAL COMEDIAN…YOU GUYS ARE AWFUL.)

So I sat down and starting making notes about all the funny shit I’ve seen at the store or things I’ve learned about the company in the almost five years I’ve been working there, the stories of knocked-down midgets (sorry, Vertically Challenged Persons), lost hearing aids, chicken pot pie being three of my favorite things, Bird’s Eye Frozen Llama Spleens, pitchforks on Aisle 9, three-legged pigs, the reason why the Diary Department is always at the back of a grocery store (pretty simple really…they keep the cows in back), what the term “BOGO” REALLY means, and it’s not anatomically impossible, believe me, ESOP’s Fables and lots of other amusing anecdotes about life on the cutting edge of canned corn. (No, I didn’t misspell Aesop…Employee Stock Ownership Plan.)

I did a bunch of research and learned tons of interesting things about Publix, its origins, their corporate structure, their management and their claim of being “a great place to work” (to which, every time I hear this bit of propaganda around the store, I typically think to myself, yeah, compared to the salt mines in Siberia or being the guy at the zoo who has to give the hippos an enema, yeah, for sure) and other fascinating bits of trivia, to further enhance the stories and tales of Shoppers Gone Wild in the Meat Department.

I also expose to the world for the first time stories of Publix managers who sell and use drugs, dangerous chemicals like STP and AARP, orgies back in the Produce Department (“hand me a cuke, Farmer Bob, I’m going back to the farm”), of corporate corruption and malicious mopery, of multiple charges of senior abuse, of which I personally have been a victim (I asked the Store Manager the other day if he felt bad about making an old guy like me work so damn hard, and he said no, then I asked the Customer Service Manager and our Team Leader the same question, and they both said no) and other reports of fuckery so dire as to defy description.

Of course, none of these claims are even remotely true (well, I did ask my bosses about the “hard work” thing and that is how they answered) nor in any way accurate; I’d call them “bare-faced lies” but I’m wearing my mask right at the moment. No, I was just emulating our former President…


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline Mar-Ma-Lardo Resort, Palm Beach FL

At a bizarre press conference held in the ornate and completely tasteless Men’s Room of this posh resort, a spokesperson for the loser of the November 2020 Presidential election, Donald “No Longer Tweety Bird” Trump, today announced that a new foundation dedicated to political chicanery and named for the country’s Big Liar will soon open its doors here in Florida. The Donald Trump Memorial Home for Chronic Liars and School of Spin and Hype will begin operations just as soon as a few wealthy suckers, sorry, donors can be found to pony up the necessary money to establish the foundation, said CEO Jay Walke, and that the DTMHCLSSH should be profitable immediately, given all the goofs that will rush to part with their money in return for the bragging rights of having an affiliation with the former President. When asked by RUKME Florida Correspondent Coral Gables if the now ex-President would be teaching at the school, given his complete and utter inability to ever tell the truth about anything, Mr. Walke gave Ms. Gables the finger and ended the press conference.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to you regularly scheduled column.

I haven’t actually decided if I’m going to publish “Paper Or Plastic: Tales From the Checkout Lanes” or not, since it’s going to cost some money to produce and promote, but I’m giving the idea careful consideration. (The R U Kidding is currently suffering from a severe case of pecuniary strangulation.) If some wealthy sucker, excuse me, “patron of the arts” would like to “donate” the money to cover the start-up/advertising costs in return for a miniscule percentage of the profits (like .25%), or I could get lucky and catch a publishing house in a weak moment, that would be great…contact me at your convenience.

So without any further ado, here’s a brief excerpt from “Tales”, taken from Chapter Three, “IF THEY’RE ISLES, HOW COME THEY’RE NOT SURROUNDED BY WATER? OH, AISLES, SORRY.”

Please let me know what you think…about the excerpt, I mean.

“Being a very neat and organized person (anal retentive), I find myself almost constantly picking up things and returning them to their proper place in and around the store; it’s something I got from my old man, who always told me that I was welcome to use his tools any time I wanted, but heaven help me if I didn’t put them back where they belonged. (My parents moved our family several times when I was a kid…it was only the last time that they didn’t tell me where they were going.)

I was walking through the store one day recently when I saw an “abandoned” cart sitting, alone and forlorn, in the middle of one the aisles…some customer had probably left it and departed the store without buying anything or one of our stock guys had been using it and had forgotten to return it to the lobby just inside the front door where they’re kept. No big deal, but it looks, I don’t know, unorganized and it blocks easy passage up and down the lane (anal retentive). As I always do when I find one of these misplaced carriages, I grabbed it and began rolling it back up where it belongs, like Jennifer Warnes and Joe Cocker did in “An Officer and A Nuclear Physicist”.

As I was walking down #3 (canned goods, International items, pasta and chain saws), I heard someone behind me call my name. (Surprised I heard them.) I was just at the end of the aisle and about to come to the “T” with the main aisle that runs across the width of the store just in front of the checkout lines and, since there aren’t any stoplights to govern the flow of traffic at that intersection and since I was looking behind me to see who had called my name, I bumped into something moving crossways to me. I quickly jerked my head back around to see what I had hit, but there wasn’t anyone there, just a cart half-full of groceries.

Then I looked a little closer and realized what I had done…I had bumped into this little guy that was, well, let’s just say he was “vertically challenged”, shall we? (Back in the days before we all became so incredibly PC, he would have been referred to as a “midget” or “dwarf”.) I had knocked him spang onto the floor, and there he was, struggling to get back on his feet.

I hurried around the carts to help him up, apologizing profusely as I did.

“Sir, sir, I am sooo sorry; are you hurt? Are you okay?” I asked the tiny man. I felt really terrible.

“Well,” he says, looking up at me, “I’m not happy.”

“Oh,” I said, “so which one are you?”

Hey, Julia, Nick says hi.

Love and Pulitzers,

Cap’n John

Post Script…the “tiny man” story (above) was gleefully stolen from comedian Larry the Cable Guy.


Back in the mid-60s, when I was still a mere lad, spending my days learning to play the drums, trying to keep my head above the sucking quagmire that was an all-boys Catholic high school, pursuing carnally any number of nubile young ladies with little (no) success, much like a dog chasing a car, knowing that if I caught one, I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway, somewhere along the line I stumbled onto the wide, diverse and fascinating world of science-fiction, specifically in the person of author Robert Heinlein and his opus, Stranger In A Strange Land.

This brilliant, wonderful, incredible book told the story of Valentine Michael Smith, a human being born of human parents while they were enroute onboard the torchship Envoy with three other married couples to the planet Mars, to start and populate history’s first Earth colony on the Red Planet. Smith’s mother dies in childbirth and his father is killed soon after his birth (no, I’m not going to give you details…read the book) and VMS was subsequently raised by Martians, in the Martian tradition and in Martian customs, and believe me, according to Heinlein, the Martians didn’t do ANYTHING like Earth people do. Hell, they didn’t even have sex, although if a celibate life was the only criteria, I would have been declared an extraterrestrial years ago. (Life indeed seems to come full circle…I wasn’t getting any back then, and I’m still not.)

My all-time favorite fictional character came from SIASL, Dr. Jubal Harshaw, who was at once a medical doctor, a lawyer, a best-selling author of “pulp fiction”, a bon vivant, an “old-fashioned gentleman, which means I can be a cast-iron son-of-a-bitch when it suits me”, and one of the most logical persons to ever draw imaginary breath. The lessons I learned from Heinlien via the good Doctor are manifest, and after all these many years, still abide with me today.

This was my intro into the fictional world of the our next-store neighbor in the solar system, the fourth planet from the Sun, and in subsequent years, Planet Mars managed to come up on my ”art” radar with some frequency. Edgar Rice Burroughs and his brilliant if rather overwrought Barsoom series of Captain John Carter, the Warlord of Mars. Issac Asimov’s The Martian Way, Ray Bradbury and his Martian Chronicles, an earlier Heinlein novella called Double Star, which was amazing, a page-turner and way too short in my opinion. In the movies Flash Gordon went to Mars to fight the evil Emperor, Ming the Merciless (which was how I referred to my mother any time she was on my case for whatever stupid shit I was up to), Arnold Schwarzenpoopen had a fantasy trip to the Red Planet go ALL sideways on him, Matt Damon was stranded and lonely there, the lone survivor of the first manned mission to Mars returned to Earth with IT! The Terror From Beyond Space secretly stowed away onboard the rescue ship and John Carter befriended an eight-foot tall green guy with six arms, tusks and a very poor attitude and they proceed to clout the bejeezus out of the alien bad guys who were Republicans and trying to take over the planet. I thought the Warner Brothers cartoon character Marvin the Martian and the “ack-ack” leader of the Martian hordes in Mars Attacks were hilarious and that Mars: Bringer of War from Gustav Holst’s jaw-dropping suite The Planets was dark, foreboding, martial in the extreme and beautiful (listening as I’m writing this).

I’ve been up to my gunwales (armed crustaceans) with Mars and its referents for lo these many years, and now, for the second time in my life, humans have done the unbelievable and have landed a vehicle on Mars. Like the discovery of fire, the invention of the wheel, the light bulb, the microchip, pizza and apple fritters, our first manned trip to the moon and Viagra, getting to Mars is one of those events in human history that is really too large, too impactful and just too mind-boggling to comprehend completely.

It is earth-shaking (or Mars-shaking if you rather), astounding, awe-inspiring and as amazing as, to quote the imminent Dr. Harshaw again, “the time my two-headed uncle came out in favor of the gold standard and then refuted himself”.

Mars rover Perseverance (which I learned just now was nicknamed by the NASA/Jet Propulsion Lab folks “Percy”) landed on the 4th Planet on February 18th of this year, the second rover to do so, after its predecessor Curiosity blazed the trail back in 2012, and the resulting photographs and videos from the surface of Mars are some of the most fantastic images I have ever seen…think of it: those photos and movies came to us from ANOTHER PLANET. I keep trying to wrap my mind around this fact and I struggle. (All comments about that being a function of a feeble brain rather than the enormity of the event will not be tolerated by management.)

I mean, watching those guys from Apollo 11 take “giant steps” and prance around the surface of the Moon was a once-in-a-lifetime happening, but the Moon is a mere 237,000 miles away; I saw that monster outfielder from the Yankees, Aaron Judge, hit a home run outta’ Yankee Stadium last year that I’m pretty sure got real close to lunar orbit.

But this, this is MARS! No Aaron Judge homer, no chip-shot by Tiger Woods (hope he’s okay), no Washington throwing a rock across the Delaware River, no baby, this was 136,890,000 miles from Terra, and that’s no trip down to the corner 7-11 for a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread and a six-pack of condoms, believe me.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

~Dateline Mar-Ma-Lardo Resort, Palm Beach FL

In a stunning display of ineptitude and self-delusion, former and no longer President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today signed and released a series of executive orders to the Vice Chief of Space Operations of the United States Space Farce, er, sorry, Force, General David S. Thompson, involving troop movements, strategic issues, contingency plans and how to properly use the Flash Gordon Secret Message Decoder Ring that is issued to all troops upon sign-up with the elite force, and further named Mr. Trump’s new BFF, Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene, as the Head Space Cadet. When asked via email by Sunshine State Correspondent Talla Hassee by what authority he took this action, ex-President Trump responded that since he had actually won the election back in November of 2020, a lie that only those persons with the IQ of room temperature still believe, he felt that it was his duty to act to protect the people of Earth from the eminent danger from invading hordes of native Martians. He further promised to build a wall around the planet and make the Martians pay for it. He then signed the massage as the Supreme Commander of the Universe and attached a photo of himself in his spiffy SCofU uniform (see above).

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

As my devotees have increased from three to four and my fame as one of the most-followed humor bloggers on the Internet and lifelong Mars enthusiast spreads, I frequently receive letters, emails, texts, smoke signals and Flash Gordon Secret Message Decoder Ring messages from entities all over outer space, asking for advise on that solar system-wide problem of how to deal with the opposite sex, even when there’s more than one. I thought to share a number of the more pathetic, excuse me, interesting of them with you, my loyal readers…

“Rt5j TT 56{{hx RRRRRj:

                Cq<tftftf g57& wf**, oh sorry, I forgot, you don’t speak Martian. Anyway, I’m Commander of Flying Saucer X-2, and despite my lofty position in the Martian Air Force, I’m having trouble finding a suitable mate with whom I can cohabitate and ultimately have and hatch dozens of little Martianettes. The naggrets (that’s Martian for “female”) that I seek must be short, dark, possess no mouth as I do, be no more than 91.44 centimeters tall and have all the requisite naggrets parts arranged nicely, if you get my drift. I’ve tried interstellar singles bars, Church of Two Moons socialables, I even went to a banth roast that was thrown by my local Burroughs Society chapter, but nothing. Any ideas on where in the system the only guy in the MAF that has made the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs can find a Princess Leia?

                Marvin the Martian, Commander, FS X-2”

Dear “Marvin”:

                There’s a place called Mos Eisley Cantina on Tatooine that is supposed to have some hot action, or so I hear. I mean, I don’t know that personally, never been there…I’m still nursing a crush on Carrie Fisher in that curly metallic bikini thing she wore in Star Wars: Cosmic Beach.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                Captain John Carter here…need some man-to-Warlord advice; what the hell do I need to do to impress Princess Dejah Thoris that I’m the Earthling she needs? Geez, this woman is like a rock…I’ve fought the Tharkian hordes to save her butt not once, but TWICE, I’m devilishly handsome, I can leap 50 feet in the thin air of Barsoom and have the largest “sword” on the planet. I need some ideas on how to soften up Ms. Daddy Is The Ruler of the Planet and maybe become the Royal Consort; whatta’ think, Cap’n?

                Captain John Carter, CSA”

Dear “Captain Carter”:

                Hey, if the Martian Ice Queen isn’t receiving your deep-space transmissions, forget her…I hear Sola the Thark has a MAJOR crush on you, and sure, she has six arms, but she’s hot like a solar flare.

“Dear John Cap’n Krissongs:

                We can’t understand why you continue to ignore our requests for payment on this debt…”

Ahh, never mind that one.

I’m all out of space (get it, “space”, bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha) for any more letters today, according to the atomic word-counter thingie down in the left-hand corner of my monitor.

I’ll leave you with one more quote from Dr. Harshaw…

“Human bipolarity is both the binding force and driving energy for all human behavior, from sonnets to nuclear equations. If any being thinks that human psychologists exaggerate on this point, let it search Terran patent offices, libraries and art galleries for creations of eunuchs.”

“…to boldly go where no man has gone before…”

Love and rockets,

Cap’n John

Post Script…hey, Han, I hate to break your heart, but a “parsec’ is a measurement of distance, not time, you space-dweeb. Geez, how did Leia ever manage to fall for you?



(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to my good friend and former partner-in-crime Joel, a/k/a DJ Chef Boyardee. He lives up in the wilds of rural (RURAL!) Central Pennsylvania on the family “estate” with his Mom, a pet hamster and a herd of indigenous elk that passes through their property daily, leaving in its wake a trail of floral destruction, a trampled lawn and elk poop in copious quantities. Joel is the one who told me the following story last week…well, he told me HIS version; this is mine.)

Once upon a time, up in the wild and woody land of Central PA USA, deep in the forest that stretches all the way across the state from the Pittsburgh Steelers to the Philadelphia Phillies, there lived a family of groundhogs (distant relatives of Phil from Punxsutawney ), one of whom was a teenaged male named Tadfield. (Groundhogs are prone to giving their offspring grandiose names apparently.) Tadfield, or Tad as he was known to all his family and fellow ‘hogs, was young, curious, obnoxious in the way that most teenagers are but fundamentally a good guy.

One day he was out walking in the woods when he picked up the scent of a large carnivore somewhere upwind from him, but since he was a groundhog and didn’t speak English, he had no idea what a “carnivore” was; he just knew that his senses were telling him that there was a big-assed animal up the path a ways, probably an animal that would like to take him to lunch, table for one.

Tad proceeded cautiously ahead, even though he knew he really should double back and get away from his potential lunch date, but he could hear muffled noises, like the cries of an animal that’s hurt or in distress, and since he was more curious than cautious, he decided to very carefully find out from where the cries were coming.

He came to a big stand of oak trees, with a rushing creek right alongside, and Tad could hear the animal crying, the noise coming clearly from a depression that had been carved out at the base of one the big trees by the passing water…something was trapped or hurt. And not ten feet away from the hole in the bank of the creek was Mama Grizzly, anxiously walking back and forth in front of it, stopping now and then to reach into the hole with her massive paw. But she and her paw were too big and too short and she couldn’t reach what was in the hole.

(Yeah, I know, grizzlies aren’t native to Central PA…just go along with me on this one, all right? Geez.)

Being a groundhog, emphasis on “ground”, Tad was a lot smaller and closer to sea-level than the MG, and from his vantage point he could now see the problem…one of MG’s cubs had crawled up into the hole and somehow gotten stuck. The cub couldn’t get out, Mom Bear couldn’t reach it, the cub was crying in fear and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won Super Bowl LV, and how do you like those apples?

So Tad sent a non-verbal, animal ESP message to the grizzly matriarch, which roughly translated into English said the following…

TAD: MG, I can see your cub. If you promise not to eat me, I’ll crawl up into that hole and get him/her out for you, since I’m a groundhog and all.

MG: Oh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Hog, and no, if you save my cub, even though I’m very hungry, not having eaten anything since yesterday because I’ve been so worried about Chicago, I won’t eat you, I promise.

TAD: Cross your heart?

MG: Oh yes, cross my heart with anchovies on top. (Grizzlies are freaks for anchovies.)

TAD: Okay.

So the Mama Grizzly stepped back about ten paces, allowing Tad some operating room, and the brave groundhog crawled around to the front of the tree, got down into the hole where the grizzly cub was stuck, told the kid to stfu and stop squawking, dug the little furball out and shoved him up to the front of the hole, into the waiting arms of Mom.

And joy reigned supreme.

The cub was thrilled to back with his Mom, out of the dark of the hole, MG was delighted to have her cub back and Tad was pleased that he had done a good deed for a fellow denizen of the woods.

Mama Grizzly turned from soothing her still-sniffling-just-a-little child and said to the groundhog, oh, thank you, thank you for saving my baby. Thank you so, ever so much.

And then the huge grizzly suddenly reached down, grabbed Tad by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to devour the kindly groundhog in two massive bites.

You get a choice between two different morals for this story…

Moral #1- As the old saying tells us…no good deed ever goes unpunished; or,

Moral #2- Stay away from grizzlies when they’re a tad hungry.

Your choice.

Now this is an old joke which, being a collector of jokes and being old, I have heard previously, in several variations, one of which in fact was the basis for a post here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog (AS I WAS SAYING…), back in July of last year in the form of the ancient story of the nice man who removes a small stake from an elephant’s paw, elephant is grateful, man meets elephant many years later, thinks how grateful the elephant once was, approaches elephant and elephant stomps man into a bunch of little mini-nice guys.

Same old general story, same old ending.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

~Dateline Mar-Ma-Lardo Resort, Palm Beach FL

Ex-, former and thankfully now gone First Lady Melanoma Trump has been “bitter and chilly” towards husband Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump since leaving Washington in January, according to a report from CNN, based on the way she departed the White House. The wife of the loser of the November 2016 Presidential election feels that her husband’s incessant, ongoing and proven baseless claims of a “rigged” election and his incitement of his followers for the deadly January 6th attack on the Capital building has “tarnished” her reputation. Chief Sunshine State Correspondent Coral Gables sent an email enquiry to Mrs. Loser asking how, considering that she once plagiarized another First Lady, lied about her educational background, lied about her parent’s background to get them into the United States, once wore a coat with the message “I Really Don’t Care, Do You?” written on the back, complained about having to deal with the “fucking” Christmas decorations in the White House and POSED NUDE FOR SEVERAL MAGAZINES, did she feel her reputation could be any worse than what it already is? The only reply from Ms. Trump was a message that had a “selfie” of her giving the camera the finger.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

I got to thinking about “old jokes” like the one above (the groundhog/bear story, not Melanoma) and how we see this pattern repeated over and over again…things seem to change, and yet they really don’t.

We’ve been fighting the “culture wars” in this country for time out of mind, but just in my lifetime, I’ve seen the left/right, liberal/conservative battle that started in the late 1950s and blew up the decade of the ‘60s, with the “Love It Or Leave It”, America First, God, Guns and Glory crowd vs. the pot-smoking, hair growing, 1-2-3-4, we don’t want your fucking war hippie counter-culture. It continued through the ‘70s with the ongoing racism controversy and the Roe v Wade and the bra-burning feminists against the “it’s life at the moment of conception” gang, got a boost from the HIV plague being called “heaven-sent” as retribution for our sinful ways by the Christian folks and Ronald Reagan’s now infamous “trickle-down” theory of economics getting called-out by “libs” as “discriminatory to Black Americans”, continued through the ‘90s with the rise of Newt Gingrich and his band of merry asshole buddies, the emergence of conservative stars like Rush Limbaugh and Jerry Fawell competing with a burgeoning sense of “we need to accept people of different sexual orientations”, into the 21st century where we’re still arguing about race, women’s rights, abortion, immigration, guns and all the same stupid shit we’ve been arguing about, in one form or another, for practically my entire lifetime.

And it started long before I came along, but that’s BCJ…Before Cap’n John. I can only comment on that which I’ve seen personally and that’s enough, believe me.

That silence you hear? That’s the sound of an audience of one-armed people, clapping, giving Americans a Standing O for their intelligent and thoughtful approach to the problems that beset our country.

We could let a group of first-graders run the United States and get better results.

You know, if Tad had stuck to the family business of weather forecasting, rather than trying to be one of those cupcake, do-gooder libtards, he might have lived longer.

Hopefully long enough to collect his Social Security…which depending on the way you lean, is either a socialistic entitlement program that’s sapping the financial strength of American industry or a guaranteed way to ensure senior citizens don’t have to live on cat food and moldy buns from the dumpster out behind the Panera Bread store in their golden years.

Okay, by show of hands, how many of you thought naming Mama Grizzly’s cub Chicago was pretty funny?

Boy, tough crowd.

Love and lunch dates,

Cap’n John

Post Script…did you guys know that Punxsutawney Phil lives in Gobbler’s Knob PA? Yeah, me neither.




“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and now it’s Jewish Space Lasers, can you believe that crazy broad?)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, please, can everyone have a seat so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please take your seats…thank you. Thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I need to share with all of you, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce again to the guy behind him)…”Geez, what a bunch of douchebags…”

~From the Can Armageddon and Total Planet Meltdown Be Far Behind? Department…

Now I am completely aware that a number of my fellow Americans, especially in the Midwest and Northeast regions of the country, have experienced some brutal weather so far this winter, to which I can only comment, bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, you guys choose to live in the frozen tundra of the North, that’s your problem, that’s why I moved to Florida, bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. (I’m sorry, that was totally uncalled for…bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.) I miss the weather in Northern Illinois, where I’m from originally, about the way I’d miss hemorrhoids.

So imagine my dismay when, looking out my back window the other morning, I saw frost on the ground…that’s right, exhaust fans, on February 4th, in the year of Our Ford 2021, on the West Central coast of Florida at approximately 6:45 in the a.m., there was discernable frost on the ground, the temperature having gotten down to about 37° overnight. Now I know this isn’t exactly a life-threatening blizzard of cataclysmic proportions, but in an area whose residents consider anything under 50° as indecent and obscene, that’s ugly, and happens about as often as the Tampa Bay Buccaneers win the Super Bowl, which now that I think of it, they just did last Sunday, several days after the Big Chill of Winter 2021; surely there must be a correlation there, but it fails me.

Sadly, I’m reminded of the words of Mark Twain, who once said that everyone talks about the weather but no one does anything about it.

~From the Farting Is Such Sweet Sorrow Department…

Now I admit that I’m a bit of a child when it comes to flatulence…I think farting is hilarious. (Hey, I’m not the poster child for “mature” sometimes.) And I am a firm believer in good health and allowing my system to expel methane whenever it deems it necessary to do so…except at work. (As many of you are aware, I am employed part-time by the Publix Supermarket chain here in FL as a Front Service Clerk, a $27 title for a three dollar job; I’m a bagger.) We have WAY too many senior citizens in our clientele base and I have this abiding fear that if I let one go while I’m bagging Mrs. Twatwhistle’s groceries one day, the resultant effluvium would have old people passing out in droves, all over the store. That’s not good for business, believe me.

But the other night (not the same night as the Big Chill), I had a dream that my ex-wife and I were sitting around, apparently after having consumed the equivalent of our own body weights at a Thanksgiving feast in the home of my ex-mother-in-law, and that as we sat there sated, bloated and contemplating hiring a fork-lift for removal of the bodies, my ex-, in a stunning display of vulgarity, lifted her left leg and ripped a big one. One of those explosive ones that sounds like the burring rasp of that warning noise your dryer makes when your clothes are baked and toasty, and that produced a stench that only something that is dead should make, causing strong men to faint and several innocent house plants to wither and die. In fact, the dream stench was so strong that it woke me up, so I have no idea what denouement my fevered brain would have produced. My eyes were watering as I awoke, a testament to how “real” this dream was.

~From the As Long As I’m Being Crude Department…

Did you ever snort so hard at something that struck you as humorous that you blew a big booger out of your nose and onto your shirt? Yeah, me too, just the other day. (You thought I was going to ask if you had ever farted so hard that you blew a big booger etc., etc., didn’t you? You guys are disgusting.)

~From the The Names Have Been Changed To Protect the Bewildered Department…

1-Did you guys know that there’s a city in Thailand named Phuket? True. It’s just down the road from Iquit.

2-I used to have a friend whose name was Richard, and for some perverse reason, his parents decided to give him the nickname of “Dick”, apparently being blithely unaware of the off-color significance of the word. Either that or they both had a really warped sense of humor. Anyway, I was over at my friend’s house one day, and I remember asking him about some music he was listening to…I said to him, is that Moby, Dick?, a transgression for which I was banned from his home and removed from his list of preferred friends; he told me he did this because he could not have anyone in his life that could come up with a pun that bad, which by the way was completely unintentional on my part. (Not.)

3-The other day (not the same day as the Big Chill or the Flatulence Dream), it occurred to me that Acutely Aware of My Manhood would be an interesting name for a rock band.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

Dateline Palm Beach FL

In an appearance that was reminiscent of Punxsutawney Phil seeking his own shadow, ex-, former and no longer President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump emerged from the shadows of palm trees and millionaires at his temporary home (if his neighbors have any say in the matter) at the tony Mar-Ma-Lardo resort here in Palm Beach to hold a press conference addressing the recent debacle that took place in U.S. Senate chambers at the opening of his SECOND impeachment trial, wherein one of his lead attorneys, retired Montgomery County PA District Attorney Bruce Castor, “slobbered a bibful” with a rambling, disjointed, mostly incoherent dissertation on the breeding and care of Peruvian alpacas. When asked by RUKME Senior Correspondent Mary Christmas if he intended to replace Mr. Castor on his legal team, the ex-, former and no longer President responded by saying that the election was fixed and that he won, all indications to the contrary notwithstanding, and that yes, he would be replacing Mr. Castor with attorney Elmer J. Fudd, a man known for his hatred of rabbits and, since he holds dual citizenship with both America and Thailand, makes his home in Phuket. When Ms. Christmas attempted to ask a follow-up question, Mr. Trump cut her off, gave her the finger and abruptly left the podium.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled column.

~From the Doctor, That Seems to Be a Really Big QTip You’re Using Department…

Doctors in Largedong China, which is right down the road from Phuket Thailand, announced recently that, starting immediately and extending into the foreseeable future, all tests for Covid-19 would be performed by taking a sample anally, rather than by the current protocol of using nasal and/or throat swabs. (Excuse me, that’s QUANGdong China…my bad.) Local residents have been quoted as saying that, “everyone involved will be so embarrassed”. Me, just before I was required to provide a sample in the proscribed manner above, I would eat a couple of enormous bean burritos, a big side of frijoles (that’s Siamese for “alpaca spleens“), a 60-ounce Diet Pepsi and an apple…you wanna’ dig around in there for a sample? Yeah, well knock yourself out, Dr. Kildare, it’s your pandemic.

~From the But You Can Still Try Artificial Incarceration Department…

Among the various rumors surrounding the Covid-19 vaccines manufactured by both Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna, one that has been reported on a good deal recently is the belief that the vaccines causes incivility; this rumor has been promoted on a number of social media sites, including Facebook, Instagram and Parler (oh that’s right, they’re out of business, aren’t they? bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) and since it has gained some traction with the “god, guns and Donald Trump” crowd, many leading physicians have issued statements challenging this lie and attempting to set the record straight.

(phone is heard ringing in the background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“Yes, First Mate Wetzel?”

“I’m sorry, I said what? (A listening pause ensues.) “I see. Well, I’ll certainly correct those errors immediately. Thank you for bringing them to my attention.”

(hangs up….)

That was my First Mate, Taffie Wetzel…she monitors what I write on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog in real time and points out any little goofs and boo-boos I make. She tells me that the words I wanted above were “insemination” and “infertility”. I sit corrected, please pardon me. (She’s such a snot.)

Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah, the instability rumor. Okay, note to the MAGA/KKK folks…don’t get vaccinated. Please. Don’t do it. A) Because that means that there will be more for the rest of us who aren’t oxygen thieves and b) if you want to kill yourselves, hey, who the hell am I to argue?

(phone is heard ringing in the background…)

“Cap’n John…”

“YES, First Mate Wetzel, what is it? (Another listening pause ensues.) “I see. All right, I’ll fix it. Yes, immediately, Seaman Third Class Wetzel. Was there anything else? Thank you.”

(I hope she develops a bad case of crotch lice.)

I’m surprised Ms. “I Know Everything” wasn’t playing Word Cop and pulling me over for exceeding my self-imposed limit of how long I can ramble on. (Just now cleared 1700 words.)

(phone is heard ringing in the background…)

Love and Macy’s,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I’m truly sorry if I offended anyone of my loyal readers (all three of you) with my comments about living “up North” in the cold weather.

Chumps. (Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.)

Post Post Script…Hi, Robin…I lied. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.


(Editor’s note: Our regular contributor, Cap’n John Krissongs, asked us to please make sure that all the loyal readers of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog are made aware that, if you read the phrase “Tulsa OK” backwards, it comes out “K O a slut”. Yes, you’re welcome.)

As has happened infrequently in the past, like the occasional bouts we all have with maladies like diarrhea or an unresponsive member, I am currently infected with a bad case of loving you, no, excuse me, with what I hope is a temporary case of writerious blockosis, otherwise known as, “I don’t know, what do you want to write about this time, Ollie?”

I don’t have a clue.

Well, okay, I have a clue, in fact I have several, but it just wouldn’t all come together and I’m tired of wrestling with words and phrases that refuse to align themselves in the manner in which I require…fuck’em. I’m going to take my ball and bat and go home, so there.

But since I have a finely-honed sense of responsibility to my loyal readers (all three of you), who I know will have a humor withdrawal of epic proportions if they miss reading one of my thrice-monthly posts, I’m offering as a substitute this bit of comedy genius, produced and directed by yours truly, from back in the ancient days of “back then”.

From August of 2020, here is:


Love and typewriters,

Cap’n John

Robert Palmer “Bad Case of Loving You”


“Testing…testing…(turns away from microphone and speaks to person behind him sotto voce…yeah, and now the GOP wants unity, can you believe it?)…testing, one (turns away again as the PA system lets out a squeal of feedback), two, three, ah, ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, I’d like to get started, so if you would, please find your seats, please, if you would, please find your seats, everyone, please, can everyone have a seat so we can get going, I have quite a number of items to cover today, please take your seats…thank you. Thank you. We have a full agenda of department reports today that I need to share with all of you, so without any further ado, I’ll get started.” (Sotto voce again to the guy behind him)…”Geez, what a bunch of wackjobs…”

~From the The Last Time I Had One Of These I Was Too Young To Remember It Department…

As much as I hate to admit it, I am a member in good standing of the “65 and older” group that qualifies for the Covid-19 vaccination here in FL (which is pronounced “fluh”, as in “rhymes with d’uh”), having been born just a few weeks subsequent to the discovery of fire. Predicated on the pile of years I have amassed, and a morbid fear of dying, I took it upon myself recently to pursue getting said vaccination.

On Wednesday, 1/6, the local rag, the Tampa Bay Times, had a piece in the “Local News” section of the paper announcing that Publix, a large Southeast grocery chain, as well as my employer, was going to begin dispensing the vaccine at selected store locations in three Florida counties, one of which was Hernando, which is the next county north of where I live in Pasco County. The article mentioned that Publix was creating an “online portal” that should be accessed to schedule an appointment and that the portal would become active on Thursday morning, 1/7.

Long story short, I was fortunate to be able to book an appointment for the following Wednesday, 1/13, for my initial shot, then fretted for the next six days that, with my luck, I’d contract the coronavirus on Tuesday, 1/12, and drop dead a week later.

I arrived at Publix Store #411 up in Spring Hill a little early for my appointment, signed in and was directed to a “waiting area” by the front door; after about 20 minutes, a Publix person came and got me…and the horror began.

I hate needles…a lot. So it was to my great dismay that the nice young pharmacist lady who was going to administer “the shot” informed me, in response to my stupid question, that, yeah, it’s going to hurt like hell, maybe the most pain you’ve ever endured in your life, and yeah, my arm, if it didn’t fall off, would be sore for about six months and that I would have a vax scar the size of a large, hairy yak besides. She then told me, after preparing both my left bicep and the needle, which was about 18” long and at least 3/16” in diameter (the needle, not my left bicep), to turn in my chair, left arm presented, so that I was perpendicular to her. So I did, and as I was turning in my chair, the Marquesa de Sade backed up about 15 feet, brought the needle up in a two-fisted rifle grip, took a bead on my upper arm and ran headlong across the room, laughing maniacally, and JABBED that sucker in my arm all the way down to the stopper.

Okay, now that I’m done being melodramatic, it didn’t hurt near as bad as some shots I’ve had and my arm was some sore for about two days. Other than that, and what appears to be a third eye beginning to grow in the middle of my forehead, I haven’t any other reactions. (Some folks who have had vax shots complain of fever, sleeplessness, accidental bowel leakage and vinyl siding, which is like shingles only vertical rather than horizontal, as reactions.) Shot #2 will be administered within the next 28 days…I can hardly wait, both facetiously and seriously.

~From the I Type Like Old People Fornicate Department…

Part of my problem with typing is that I think faster than I type, which says little for either the rapidity of my thought processes or my typing. When I was writing the above, I spelled the word forehead “firehead”, which although it’s an interesting word, it didn’t do much to enhance the description of my reaction to being stabbed with an 18” bayonet, in the name of modern medicine. Although firehead might be another bad reaction to “the shot”.

~From the Losing Your Head Is Never A Good Thing Department…

Speaking of heads, on this date in the year 1793, King Louis XVI was executed by guillotine in Paris for the crime of “high treason”, which history tells us he richly deserved. (He was found guilty by the French National Convention of collusion with Austria, removing the tags from mattresses and general mopery.)

And while we’re on the subject of the abrupt removal of unwanted body parts, on this date back in 1994 Lorena Bobbitt was found to be “temporarily insane” when she removed her husband’s penis with a common kitchen knife and was declared not guilty by a jury made up exclusively of women.


~From the Is This The Party To Whom I’m Speaking? Department…

I’ve received several phone calls recently from some person named Scam Likely, someone who I do not know nor to the best of my knowledge have I ever met. I don’t accept the calls since I don’t know the caller, but I suspect it’s someone who wants desperately to speak with me about my auto warranty.


We interrupt this blog post to bring you a Breaking! News! Story! from the RUKME News Desk…

~Dateline Palm Beach Fluh

For Immediate Release…

“President For Life Donald Trump Draws Enormous Crowds Once Again”

“Supreme Leader and President For Life Donald Trump once again drew huge crowds, as he has continually done at all his political rallies during his administration, including the record-breaking assembly that came to Washington to view his Inauguration back in January of 2016, to protests of the fraudulent Presidential election that just took place in November as well as his Going But Coming Back Soon departure from Joint Base Andrews on Wednesday morning. There were also, upon his arrival at his Palm Beach resort, Mar-Ma-Lardo, bajillions of his adoring fans lining the streets of the city between Palm Beach International Airport and the resort, wanting to show their great love and affection for SLPFL Trump.”

In an unrelated item, a Congressional spokesperson announced today that Congress has retained the services of Ms. Lorena Bobbitt, to be available to administer punishment to former President Donald Trump, should he be convicted in his 2nd impeachment trial in the Senate. When asked by RUKME Political Correspondent Bill O’Rights about carrying out any sentence given former President Trump by Congress, Ms. Bobbitt replied that she had both a full-scale guillotine and a cigar trimmer all sharpened and ready to go.

More on these breaking stories as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

~From the I Wouldn’t Even Know What Kind Of Bait To Use Department…

I saw this advertisement on a news website the other day:

“Have you ever been ice-fishing?” (It was an ad for a sporting-goods place.) And I immediately thought to myself, since I was alone at the time, no, I have two full trays in the freezer, that should be plenty.

~From the Either Way He Looks Like He’s Up To Something Department…

That’s a picture of the side panel of the box that, as you can see, contains the “Tall Kitchen Bags” marketed by the Publix grocery chain, which is the store where I buy my groceries as well as my employer, as I mentioned above. (Part-time bagger since May ’16.)

Note the Beagle in the photo.

I believe said canine appears to be getting ready to do either one of two “bad dog” acts…he’s going to knock over the garbage can, start rooting around in the garbage and make a helluva’ mess, or he’s going to start humping the beegeezus out of it, which will cause it to topple over and make a helluva’ mess. Either way, he’s going to get severely “bad-dogged” no matter what he does, which will, sadly, crush his little doggie feelers.

(FYI, “Tall Kitchen Bags” does NOT refer to old, ugly women over 5’ 10” tall who work as cooks in a restaurant. It would also be a great name for a rock band.)

~From the I Have Never Been That Hungry In My Entire Life Department…

The European Safety Authority affirmed recently that yellow mealworms are safe to eat.

Take a moment and let that sink in…go ahead, I’ll wait…

Now I suppose in the event of a disaster of Biblical proportions, a massive hurricane, a nuclear accident or Donald Trump getting elected president again, I could find myself in the awful position of extreme hunger and nothing to eat, and in that circumstance I could possibly find myself with only yellow mealworms as nourishment, at which time you might as well plant my fat ass, because there is no way in hell I would ever eat yellow mealworms. I have no idea who they might be a “meal” for, but it ain’t gonna’ be me, that’s for sure.

Well, maybe with sriracha sauce…


I’d like to thank all of you for being here today and for your attention. Mr. Smith? (Turns to person sitting on chair behind him.) Mr. Smith? (Person on chair snorts loudly, jerks awake suddenly and begins looking around, as if confused about where he is.) Well, never mind then. We’re adjourned, people.

Love and Neiman Marcus,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: We were approached by our regular contributor, Cap’n John Krissongs, with the following tale, by way of explanation as to why there was no post written for today, January 10th, 2021, as it was due.

“Over the past several weeks, I’ve been a bit frazzled by what really should be minor incidents in my life…a heavier-than-usual work schedule due to the holidays, some preoccupation with a video I’ve been working on, making some New Year decisions on my finances, such as they are, uh, and something else…oh, yeah (snapping my fingers), I know, the apparent implosion of our American democracy.

So between having to hoist the mizzen mast and needing to batten down the mainsail, as well as trying to avoid dying from Covid-19, I’ve been a bit preoccupied recently, the extent of which has caused me not to possess the proper frame of mind with which to write, whatever that is. So I haven’t written the post for the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog that was due today.

Words cannot express the regret and deep sadness that I am experiencing for not having fulfilled my duty to you, my loyal readers. (BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA…yeah, right.) I am abject in my shame…I am in need of punishment. (Need to be careful here…next thing you know, I’ll be talking about introducing myself from now on as, “Bondage…James Bondage”.)

Truly, I am sorry about not having anything new for you guys to read and enjoy. (No I’m not.) No, I really am, honest. (Not.) I wouldn’t lie. (Yes I would, I just wouldn’t let you catch me at it.)


Since I know you guys are really angry with me or disappointed in me or hate me so intensely that you hope I get lesions on my scrotum because I failed you, I figured it would be a good time to ask you for a favor.

Can somebody lend me a half-a-bajillion and give me some REALLY flexible terms?

Wait, that wasn’t what I wanted to ask.

Try this…would you take a few moments from your busy, crap-laden lives and read this column I wrote back in December of 2018, asking you to do me a favor?

Would you mind?

Hey, thanks, much appreciated…you know, you guys aren’t near as bad as those MAGA people make you out to be.

Okay, go already, click on the link, read my piece SPREAD THE WORD, SPREAD THE JOYand then do your duty…just because I didn’t do mine doesn’t mean you people get to be slackers.

Love and restraints,

Cap’n John”

The editorial board reminds the readers of the WATRUK blog that the opinions expressed herein are not necessarily well-considered. (See photo below of Board during its deliberation of the above subject matter.)


Thank you.

Oh, here’s the link I want you to go to: SPREAD THE WORD, SPREAD THE JOY