See that “banner” up above? Yeah, the one that goes across the top of the page. See where it says “Cap’n John is now on Instagram”? Okay, so go to your Instagram account and then do whatever you need to do to follow the Cap’n (“capnjohnk”) and then in the future, you know, the thing that Marty McFly went back to, you’ll know when the Cap’n (yours truly) posts a new column, which by the way I do every Thursday, since it’s my day off. Then each Thursday I’m going to remind everyone, hey, go read the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, ‘cause Cap’n John (yours truly again) has just graced everyone with more of his scintillating wit, awesome intelligence and devastating good looks.

To my loyal readers who take the time to follow me, thank you, thank you…muchly appreciated. For those of you who do not, well, I’m having difficulty describing how hurt I am…I’ll get over it, but boy (insert several large sniffles here).

As I was setting up my brand new Instagram account the other day and learning how to upload pics and text and other digital minutiae, it occurred to me that, in a moment of lax attention when taking a “naughty” photo of one’s self or of another, it would be possible, not likely but just possible, to push the wrong buttons and, instead of sending the image to the “Gallery” on your phone, you send a beautiful rendition of your/her/his genitalia to Instagram instead, to be displayed there in glorious detail along with pics of your recent visit with your Mom, your night out with the girls and the Trufflewart kid’s cornet recital.

One thing I’ve always believed about nudity…some people look great naked, and then there’s the rest of us. Sadly, I am one of the rest of us.

What a nightmare scenario…you’re sitting around one evening, maybe watching old YouTube videos of the 1910 Fruit Gum Company doing Goody, Goody Gumdrops, and maybe you smoke a bowl or two, maybe have a couple glasses of wine and hey, suddenly you’re thinking about getting amorous with your pet llama Wendell. One thing leads to another and, whoa, the whole episode winds up going “viral” on “social media”.

I had a friend from Texas who had a great line for a fiasco like the above…he would say that “you slobbered a bibful”.


The weather here in usually sunny and warm West Central Florida has finally regained its senses and returned to something approaching normalcy, with temps over the last few days edging up close to 70 during the daylight hours. (Geez, I sound like the weather lady on Channel Two AccuDopplerWeather.) This is an upswing from several weeks ago when temps got down into the high 30s on successive nights and comatose herbivorous lizards began dropping like the real estate market back in the ’08 recession. (Click here to get the scientific explanation for this phenomena.)

Residents of FL are greatly relieved to be out from under the awful threat of this air-borne menace.

Speaking of a Floridian who couldn’t find his butt with both hands and a map, our senior Senator from the Gunshine State, Marco (Polo) Rubio recently made some interesting remarks in re the comic-opera impeachment trial of President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, now showing at your national Senate. (I’m writing this on Super Bowl Sunday morning; by the time I post this on Thursday, I’m sure DTBT will have gotten his Get Out Of Jail Free card and be back to torturing kittens, lying every time he opens his mouth and grabbing female genitalia.)

Our good Senator wrote an essay for something called, which is an interesting looking sort of a blog site with varying authors, at least that was how it appeared to me. Anyway, Sen Rufio made the following statement, as a part of his defense of his idiotic vote in favor of not allowing witnesses at the above-stated impeachment trial.

“Just because actions meet a standard of impeachment does not mean it is in the best interest of the country to remove a President from office.”

Let’s pretend this is shampoo, you know, lather, rinse, repeat…go back and re-read the above statement. Please.

Okay, glad you’re back.

Donald Trump once claimed that he could “stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody” and not “lose any voters”.

I never believed that more than I do today.

Using a non-segue segue, since my triumphant return from The Cap’n John Winter Vacation Tour back on January 9th of this year, I have received a number of letters, emails, texts, smoke signals, carrier pigeon notes and messages on my Star Trek Authentic AstroCommunicator Device Thingie, each and all from readers seeking help with the paucity of love and companionship that haunts their lives. (That last phrase was pretty good, huh?)

Why anyone would ask me for advice on their love-life is beyond my comprehension; truly, the one thing I know about “relationships” and “dating” and “hooking up” and “celestial mechanics” and whatnot is that I avoid them in the same way I would a hooker named Gonorrhea.

But in the Church Of Cap’nism, I am the Head Pope, and I take my responsibilities serially, so I will do my best to provide answers for the seekers in my flock. (Oh gag me with a miter.)

To proceed…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                Me and all the girls in the office here at Terrific Technology read your blog…we think you’re really funny, and a sharp dresser as well. So I thought, given all your background and experience, that you might be able to help me.

                I’m a 28-year old project manager for TerrTech, fairly attractive, financially okay, always a bride’s maid but never a turret-lathe operator; I’ve had a few romances but nothing long-term has ever come from any of them.

                There’s a guy over in the Celestial Mechanics Dept. who I really have a big crush on…he’s medium height, has nice eyes, a decent build, a small furry tail and is rumored to have both nipples pierced. I thought of just walking up to him and introducing myself, but I only have one pierced nipple and I’m afraid he might laugh at me. Well, that and the third eye in the middle of my forehead.

                I need a good way to meet this guy…can you help me Cap’n John?

                Three-Eyed Sandy From Silicon Valley”

Dear Sandy:

                Right or left?

“Dear CJK:

                I never thought I would be writing to an Internet/media All-Star like yourself for help with my love life, but I also never thought you could have a trial without witnesses either and, well, there you are.

                I need some advice, Cap’n John, because I’m stumped. I’m the events coordinator for the GooseBumps AllOver Nudist Colony and Tire Center; I’m a hetero male, six feet (tall…I have the standard equipment of two for walking), have all my hair and no visible warts. I don’t have halitosis, I don’t drool and I’m house-broken, so why can’t I attract a good woman with at least one pierced nipple who wants to marry, settle down and raise a family of Canadian badgers?

                Any ideas, Cap’n?

                Oh, BTW, you were right about “the rest of us”…some of our members naked could scare a virus away.

                Naked Ned From Norwich”

Dear Ned:

                Badgers!? We don’t need no stinkin’ badgers!!

(Offstage announcer, as camera pans over the faces of the anxious waiting nominees…)

“…and the winner in the 2020 Worst Joke in a Blog Post Category is…CAP’N JOHN KRISSONGS ON THE WELCOME ABOARD THE R U KIDDING BLOG!!”

I’m even embarrassed by that one, although not embarrassed enough to delete it. (Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.)

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                We cannot understand why you refuse to acknowledge this debt and our efforts…”

Okay, let’s skip that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a politician from one of our Southern states, a sharp dresser and a two-faced hypocrite, as well as being a lying sack of fetid badger spleens; I’m also a devout Christian, although I have the morals of an alley cat and the conscience of, well, a politician. Other than that I’m a terrific guy and you would think I wouldn’t have any problems attracting a Conservative, God-fearing woman with all her own teeth and no scruples. I have a hard time dating because of all the time I spend fulfilling the responsibilities of my office (not), to say nothing of all the time I spend flirting with lobbyists, donors and other wheeler-dealers like myself. Hey, I even met a constituent last year.

                Anyway, any ideas on how I might meet the woman of my dreams?

                Just Call Me Polo”

Dear Polo:

                I went looking for the definition of “oxygen thief” in the dictionary earlier, and here’s what I found; “oxygen thief: a person stealing oxygen from the rest of us decent folks”, and surprise!, there was your pic, right next to the definition. 

I had a dream last night…I dreamed I was being followed. Then I woke up and remembered oh, that was what I was hoping for.

You guys are awesome.

Love and social media,

Cap’n John

Post Script: No, the above pic has nothing whatsoever to do with this week’s post, but I found this pic the other day, after it had been missing for some time. A Cap’nMobile from many years ago. FYI, that’s a 1972 Porsche (you knew that, right?) 914 F4 with a 1.8 liter, flat-four air-cooled engine that was mounted midships behind the seats. It was a great car and I just wanted to immortalize the photo.

Post Post Script (written Monday 2/3 in the AM): Here’s what I predicted in last week’s post…”Mahomes will be the difference in the Super Bowl this coming Sunday in Miami, home of the falling comatose herbivorous lizard…take the Chiefs.”

Chiefs 31-20 over the ’49ers and Mahomes is named MVP of the game…boy, I’m good.


Step into the WayBack machine for a moment if you would, and set the dial for 1977, the year my daughter, Bronwyn the Flatulent (you didn’t know we were royalty, did you?) was born.

(Full disclosure: Bronwyn is not her real name…the name has been changed to protect the bewildered.)

I always enjoyed being a “hands-on” Dad…the dressing, the bathing, the hair-fixing, the diaper changing (although that would fall well to the bottom of the list of my fave baby activities, believe me), the shoe tying, the cruel and vicious beatings using weapons of brass construction, the playing on the floor together, I really loved it all; she was a good baby with a sunny disposition and a sweet little laugh.

(Phone rings in the background)

Excuse me…lemme’ get rid, sorry, see who this is…

“Cap’n John…”

“Hey, Tammie, wassup?”

“I’m sorry, it’s what?”

“Oh, okay, I guess I got that one wrong. Thanks for the heads-up.”

That was my First Mate, Tammie Wetzel; she monitors/spell-checks my posts in real time and tries to keep me from stepping on my johnson too often. Apparently, that’s “mass destruction”. Thank you, Tammie.

Anyway, I recall one warm spring afternoon when B the F was just a few months old and I was giving her a bath in the kitchen sink: I really hated it when my ex- gave her a bath…she wanted to get in with Bronny and it always made a helluva mess in the kitchen.

So there we were, the sink full of water, soap suds and a small naked baby; I was responsible for the bathing and rinsing, and Her Royal Babyness was responsible for the splashing, giggling and the soaking of Daddy’s shirt, an activity she approached with great diligence.

After a period of minimum bathing and maximum laughing and splashing, by both parties, it was time to end all the frivolity and get on to more serious matters such as cleaning up the mess we’d made in the kitchen and doing disgusting things to our cat with a salad fork.

I reached down and pulled the plug to drain the water and then picked up Her Babyness under both her armpits, holding her up facing me, getting ready to put her down on the towel I had stretched out on the counter next to the sink. As I held her up, eyeball to eyeball with me, I started making faces at her, which usually got her laughing and silly, which it did this time as well.

For a moment anyway, until she stopped, screwed her face up and proceeded to poop, one of those soft, yellowish baby poops that come from the consumption of nothing but strained marmets and apple/turnipsauce, all over herself, the sink, the counter, most of the kitchen, a good part of our backyard and the street out in front of the house.

Finished, she resumed laughing; she was, however, the only one in the kitchen who saw the humor in this.

A classic case of wash, rinse and repeat.

I told her mother later that evening that I was convinced the child would not see her 1st birthday, and if by some miracle she did, that I was further convinced she would have a solitary life as an adult.

It seems that a number of my loyal readers also lead solitary lives these days, by no choice of their own apparently, and they occasionally send me letters and emails and texts and telegraph messages, asking for my advice on how to meet that “special someone”.

Like I would have a clue.

Anyway, I thought I would share a few of these pathetic, err, sad tales of woe with the rest of you…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a mid-30ish hetero male and I make my living as a freelance fortune cookie writer; I’m fairly good-looking, have all my teeth and am the proud owner of all the albums ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company. Problem is, I can’t get a decent (or indecent for that matter) women to go out with me, no matter what I do. I’ve tried online dating sites, church groups, singles bars, tree-prunings, makes no difference, nothing works. I need some new ideas on how to meet “a sweet thing”.

                                               Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, My Love Life Is Crummy”

Dear Crummy:

                According to the State of Florida Wildlife Commission, there is only 1 chance in 3.2 million of being seriously injured during an unprovoked alligator attack; however, if you deliberately provoke one of those big fuckers, the ‘gator will be happy to assist you with your weight loss program.

“Dear CJK:

                Where does a smart, funny, attractive, 40-years old and totally hot professional dumpster diver find a great guy who would make a great partner? The only eligible guy I’ve met lately was some mope who wrote fortune cookies for a living and had all the albums ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company. I need some help here, Cap’n.

                                                   Diver Down”

Dear Diver:

                Well, for one thing you could stop hanging out in Chinese restaurants, and if the rank aroma wafting off the envelope and letter you sent is any indication, you may want to rethink the “dumpster diving” work as well; either that or provide any men you meet with personalized gas masks. As characterized by the late, great Richard Pryor, “She had ohDER!”

“Krissongs Cap’n John:

                This is your final notice before we begin proceedings…”

Okay, never mind that one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I apologize for the carrier pigeon, but I’ve had a lot of problems with emails over the last few years. I’m a short, dumpy married woman in my early 70s and I’m planning to leave my philandering husband soon since he can’t keep it in his pants; I’m sick and tired of Mr. “I Didn’t Have Sex With That Sheep” and all his crap. Bad enough I had to suffer the ignominy of being beaten by a misogynous asshole who once said he grabbed women by their pussies, although he never tried to grab mine, thank heaven. (Sorry, I got off the subject there.) Anyway, I’m getting ready to start all over and I’m wondering if you can help me find a new mate, either romantic or running; any suggestions? (FYI, I’m straight…ignore all that crap about “crooked”, okay?)

                                                 I Thought Monica Was My Friend”

Dear Friend:

                Repeat these words…klaatu barada nikto. Now go away, please.

Well, that’s all I have the time for today, boys and girls; I hope you’ll all consider me when you have problems with your love life. Because my advice on “matters of romance” is about as good as the advice I give people about treating a common cold…try Jack Daniels, applied liberally; it won’t cure the cold, but you won’t care.

And in the immortal words of yours truly…

“Living alone means never being able to leave one ice cube in the tray so the next person has to fill it.”

Love and marital aids,

Cap’n John