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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

Just ask him.

Love and Nikons,

Cap’n John


I had to go to the doctor today.

I hate going to the doctor.

I hate going to the doctor (squared).

A lot.

A number of years ago, maybe 12-13 or so, I discovered a small lump on the back of my head, just behind and a little above my left ear…it was a tiny little thing, much like other parts of my anatomy that I would prefer not to discuss in mixed company (I’ll bet there’s some Republicans reading this right now), but discernible to my probing fingers, which was how I found it in the first place.

It was about the size of the eraser end of a pencil around, and maybe a 1/16” deep…when I held a mirror up behind my head and looked into another mirror, even with my head shaved you could barely see it. (Yes, I used to shave my head…I thought the stimulation might encourage a growth spurt. Sadly, that didn’t happen. Hair, or anything else for that matter. Except the “lump”.)

It wasn’t tender, it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t discolored, it made no ridiculous promises to build a wall along the Mexican/American border, it didn’t do anything but sit there, much like my ex-wife.

So I ignored it.

Over the years it “grew like Topsy” and after careful cultivation, periodic watering and fertilization, it’s gotten quite a bit bigger; it’s now about the size of a ’57 Edsel and weighs approximately 6268 pounds. Okay, I exaggerated a little…it’s about the size of a quarter around and maybe 3/16” deep.

But it’s ugly…and yeah, I know, another wart on the warthog doesn’t make him any uglier, just wartier, but still.

Back around the first of this year, I was at a friend’s place, sitting on a dining room chair, close to a wall. At one point I leaned back to stretch and smacked my “lump” against the wall…not real hard, but hard enough for me to wish that I hadn’t. I said several bad words that I wouldn’t say in that same mixed company I spoke of above (see above, above), and decided it was time to go see someone about removing it. The lump, not the mixed company. (“Mixed Company” would be a great name for a CW band.)

My first thought was a tree service, figuring they could use a chain-saw on it…I called a couple of places but didn’t get any bids. (One guy asked me if I had considered using a small shaped explosive…I hadn’t, but it was a thought.) Then I tried the Roto-Rooter guy, but he was WAY too expensive.

One of my friends suggested a doctor, which seemed like a novel concept, so I called my PCP (that’s the physician, not the drug) and made an appointment.

Did I mention I hate going to doctors? But I went, reluctantly, dragging “lump” along with me, and presented myself for inspection.

The ladies at Doc Johnson’s office think I’m a character (you know the way I write…I’m like that in person too) and they always take good care of me, and the Doc is a good guy, for a doctor. (At least he’s not a lawyer…I wouldn’t want him examining my nether areas with nothing more than a Juris Doctor degree hanging on the wall.) He checked out the “lump”, said that in the entire history of medical science, nothing like this had ever been seen or recorded, and that he was stumped as to its composition or nature.

And then gave me a referral to a specialist. (Does Doctor A get a kickback from Doctor B when Doctor A refers someone to Doctor B? Probably, unless you elect to take the sinter exemption, then you must deduct two-thirds of your base annual melotron ratio retroactively and then apply the 43% capacitor reduction to the blender column.)

Dr. B, to be known here as Doctor B, was happy to examine the “lump” for me, pleased at the notion of being able to see, firsthand, a medical first, as well as have the opportunity to bill the shit outta’ Medicare for the consultation, exam, x-rays, spinal tap (volume at 11, please), root-canal, blood work, transfusion, re-grouting, sonogram, oil-change, cauterizations, several MRIs and a wheel alignment. Dr. B left his office to consider the problem, post-exam, after assuring me he would return in the foreseeable future.

I waited. (Ha-ha, waiting in a doctor’s office, another novel concept.) Quite a while.

After lengthy deliberation (he bills by the hour apparently), he returned, sat down behind his desk and looked me straight in the eye.

“Well, Cap’n John, I have good news and bad news.” (Donald Trump quit and Mike Pence took over.) “I’ve looked at your “lump” and checked it out and examined it in every conceivable way, consulted with experts in the field, pored over all the pertinent literature, checked with CDC in Atlanta, all of which is being billed to Medicare, and, well, here’s the bad news…”

“All indicators point to the fact that you appear to be growing another head. That’s the bad news.”

“The good news is that, those same indicators lead us to believe that this one will be much better looking than the one you currently have, WAY smarter and, due to the increased brain activity, will cause other parts of your anatomy to be enhanced as well.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively when he told that last thing.

Okay, I was just hit with this momentous news…Holy Cranium, Batman, ANOTHER head! Shit, I barely use the one I have now. This was incredible, it was shocking, it was cataclysmic, it was double-secret probation weird. I was incredulous, shocked, I was almost catatonic and my probation was completed years ago.

So what was the first thing out of my mouth, in response to this devastating news?

“So, Doc, just how “enhanced” (I used the two fingers on each hand “air quotation-marks” sign here) are we talking?”

The ultimate “guy” moment.

The day before I went to my appointment with Dr. B, one of the customers at the Publix where I work part-time as a Front Service Clerk (and don’t think it isn’t hard work dragging a title that grandiose around), after I mentioned I was going to see a surgeon the next day, asked me who I was seeing. So I told him.

“Oh,” he says,” is that the blind guy?”

Insert rim-shot here.

Love and scalpels,

Cap’n John



There’s a scene in the movie Amadeus (rating=**********1/2 out of 5 stars) where Wolfgang Mozart, though arguably the greatest composer of classical music of all time, as portrayed in the eponymous movie is a certifiable wack-job, is in a milliner’s shop trying on wigs, and not able to make up his mind which he likes best. At one point in the scene he bursts out with, “Oh, they’re all so beautiful, I wish I had three heads!” and gives out this crazy high-pitched giggle, to the delight of the shop-owner and his helpers.

If the “wearing of many hats”, i.e., having multiple jobs/responsibilities is any criteria, I could use a couple more heads as well, preferably quite a bit better looking than the one I currently have.

As most of know by now, besides being the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, as well as a newly-announced major candidate for President in the 2020 election (Vote Hearty Party!), I am also employed by Publix Supermarkets here in Florida as a part-time Front Service Clerk, a title so grandiose, as compared to the duties attendant thereto, that it is laughable. What I really do is bag groceries, help people to their cars with said groceries, chase carts and tease the cashiers, most of whom think I’m a cutie. (Little do they know.) “Bagger” is a much more accurate and down to earth title, but that’s way too mundane for Pubics and their sense of jargon.

FYI, although I love to bust their chops re their self-inflation, Publix was named once again in the Market Force Collection’s survey as the Top Grocery Chain in the country, tying with Wegmans, a chain that operates mostly in the mid-Atlantic region, with a 77% customer approval rating. (To give you a frame of reference, Whole Foods came in at 61%, Kroger at 57% and Walmart at -45%.)

Publix has also been named one of the top places in America to work, according to the annual survey done by Forbes magazine, for 20 years running (1998-2017).

So I guess I should stop picking on them…nah.

The other hat that I keep having to don is that of advisor to the lovelorn; since I started the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, I have received letters, texts, emails, postcards, messages by carrier pigeon, smoke signals and notes in bottles (hey, I live less than 2 miles from the Gulf of Mexico), from folks asking for advice on their love-lives or lack thereof.

As I have done several times previously, I would like to share some of these pathetic, excuse me, heart-rending missives with you…don’t laugh, this could be you writing in someday.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a guitar player and singer, and have played in a bunch of great bands over the years I’ve been a musician, along with a number of other great players; sadly, I’ve fallen in love with the wife of another guitarist who is one of my best friends. His lady is beyond beautiful, with long, silky blond hair, big blue eyes, a sweet personality and three breasts. I’m obsessed with her and have even written songs about her…I don’t want to bust up their marriage, but I can’t get her off my mind. So here’s my question: I’ve always played Strats before, because I love that piercing high, trebly tone, but lately I’m starting to incline to the Les Paul, to get that fat sustain when it’s run through a Marshall stack and cranked to 14. What do you suggest?

                Pickin’ and Not Grinnin’ in Tulsa”

                Dear Pickin’:

Stay with the Strat…that fat Gibson neck plays like a washboard.

“Dear CJK:

                I’m the President of a major country, and a gazillionaire to boot, as well as being a stable genius, able to recognize pictures of giraffes. I had an affair with a porn star/stripper a few years ago, while I was married to my third, I think it was my third, yeah, my third wife, paid her off (the stripper) to keep her mouth shut and tried to forget her; trouble is, now that the media has found out and brought her back onto my radar screen, I can’t get her off my mind. She’s a beautiful blond woman with big blue eyes and three breasts. What should I do? Should I invade North Dakota, or wherever that crazy Rocket Man guy is located, or nuke the Washington Post?

                King Donald the First”

Dear King:

                You are such a dweeb.

“Honorable Cap’n John:

                I recently met a young girl at a party at her parent’s home, and I am in love! Problem is, her parents and mine hate each other, and will never let us be together. I spent one night with her and it was ecstasy, but now because I killed her cousin, the Prince is pissed and has exiled me to Cleveland. I so hate to leave her, for parting is such sweet sorrow, but I must. Do you think the stripper with the three breasts who had the affair with that dweeb in Washington is available?

                RM in Verona”

Dear RM:

                Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs…whatever that means.

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                Since you have ignored all our efforts to collect this debt…”

                Okay, never mind this one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a single woman in my late 20s and live in a large apartment complex with several pools that I like to hang out at…I’m into fitness and tanning. There’s this cute guy that I keep seeing around the recreation area, and I think he has noticed me as well…problem is, although I know he’s aware of me, he hasn’t made a move. I’m wondering if it’s because I have three breasts. What can I do to attract his attention, besides wear a regular bikini and let one hang out with a name tag on it?

                Poolside Patty the Third”

                Dear Patty:

                What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.

Well, boys and girls, that’s about as much frivolity as my ancient heart can stand…under love’s heavy burden do I sink. Would that I had three heads.

Love and William S.,

Cap’n John



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

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

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

Here goes…

“Dear Cap’n John:

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

                Perplexed in Tampa”

                Dear “Perplexed”: 

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

                Cap’n John 

“Cap’n John:

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

                Cracking Up

                Dear “Cracking”:

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

                Cap’n John

“Dear Cap’n John:

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

                Married to Jane the Ripper”

                Dear “Ripper”: 

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

                  Cap’n John

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

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

 “Cap’n John:

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

                Guy in Apartment D”

                Dear “Apartment”:

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

                Cap’n John

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

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

Love and toe-shoes,

Cap’n John


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

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

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

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

Anyway, back to the subject at hand…

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

“Dear Cap’n John: 

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

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

Dear “Ro”:

                No, you go grrrl.

“Cap’n John:

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

                Thanks…Am I Love Sick in Seattle?”

Dear “Seattle”:

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

“Dear Cap’n: 

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

                Two’s Company, Three Is More Company”

Dear “Company”:

                And this is a problem, how?

“Dear Cap’n John Krissongs:

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

Okay, never mind this one.

“Dear Cap’n John:

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

                Confused In The Classroom”

Dear “Classroom”:

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

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

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

Love and lovelorn,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Jivo???