NOW HEAR THIS…OR NOT

(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to one of the most adventurous, fun, sexy, strong and slightly askew human beings I’ve ever had the privilege of calling “friend”, a young lady who has my great affection and has earned my respect at her decidedly ripe old age of 24 (25? I think she’s 24), which by the way is 3.43 in dog years. Thanks, Mags, for brightening all of our lives…the world was denied a fine person when you weren’t born twins.)

Okay, I’m done…I just wanted to write that dedication.

Just kidding.

I recently took a poll among the various officers and crew members of the venerable ship the R U Kidding, looking to determine if they, like myself, think that Polish as a written language wouldn’t be near as interesting to read without all those curlicues and squiggly things they attach to the letters…they look like they’re trying to grow roots and branches and limbs and shit.

Word plants.

No, what I really asked them was who they thought was the biggest asshole ever to walk the planet, Donald Trump, Ron DeSantis, Greg Abbott, Charles Manson, Adolf Hitler or a person of their choice. (They all refused to participate unless I allowed them a “write-in” candidate, and they also made me let them answer anonymously…when I saw their responses I understood why, the ungrateful cretins.)

There were two votes for the former and no longer President Donald Trump, one vote for the My Pillow goof, Mike Lindell, a vote with which I completely agree, and 18 votes with my name written on the ballot.

Later on that day, my First Mate Taffie Wetzel came to my cabin and told me that the guys were just having some fun with me, and that they really all would have voted for that repulsive shitwad Sidney Powell, Donald Trump’s “Kraken” lawyer who is about thisclose to being disbarred from practicing law anywhere in America and in several foreign countries as well (Poland has said that if Powell shows up in Warsaw to try a case in court that they will immediately launch an invasion into Slovakia) for her advancement of and litigation concerning fake (i.e., crazy) 2020 Presidential election fraud theories.

I think she was lying. My First Mate, I mean. I know the dumbass lawyer is lying. (You’ve heard the old joke about how to know if a lawyer is lying…are his/her lips moving?)

So let’s talk about characters (no, I don’t care to be bothered with segues).

In addition to being the Captain and Master of the good ship the R U Kidding, I also, as most of you probably know by now, work part-time at a Publix grocery store here on the Left Coast of the Gunshine State (Florida) as a Front Service Clerk, which is a prime example of typical Publix corporate jargon…I’m a bagger.

At work I am surrounded by “characters”, people who, in one way or another, are not quite right, as in approaching bat-shit crazy, if you get my drift.

Allow me to give you an example…

(I was going to give you an apple fritter but I don’t have any, but Publix does.)

Yesterday, in the midst of my shift, one of our Customer Service persons called me over to the CS counter, needing to tell me something. Now let me digress a moment for some clarification…

If my family name was Post, my parents would have named me Deafasa. I wear hearing aids; my audiologist says that if she had to characterize my hearing loss in one word, that word would be “profound”. (True story.) So they help me to hear, immensely, but unfortunately, grocery stores are really, REALLY loud places. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re shopping, stop and listen, I mean really listen. There’s the background hum of the ventilation system fans, the whirr and chirr of rolling carts, the almost constant “boop, boop, boop” of the registers as they announce to the cashier and most of the surrounding county that the item has scanned properly, the overhead PA speakers, barking out instructions for the Embalming Department to take the call on Line Two, children screaming at the ignominy of being refused a candy bar and all manner of noises that fall in the “Other” category that add to the cacophony. (It would be pretty funny if every other register said “Betty”. Betty, boop, Betty, boop, Betty, boop, all day long.)

So here’s the CS person, my good friend the Pixie Girl, who by the way has total cosmic sweetness, is at the top of the “cutie” scale and a very good sport for allowing me to tease her all the time about pretty much everything. She was saying something in her rapid-fire but soft speaking voice from behind a cloth mask to a guy who wouldn’t hear a cannon fire even if it went off back in the Deli Department, something about an electric cart, a gallon of Lime Jello, two Frisbees, a black Tahoe and all-you-can-eat chicken tenders, all the while pointing towards the back corner of the store where we have the milk coolers and the chain saw display.

So being the epitome of subtle, I delicately enquired as to what she had said, i.e., “PG, what the hell are you talking about?” She knows that with me, often times there is only here, and no hear.

An interpreter was brought in and it was explained to me via sign language, raised voices and printed page that a customer had phoned in and requested an electric cart be brought out to her car (a black Tahoe), as she was unable to walk due to having just had foot surgery. (Good thing it wasn’t hemorrhoid surgery…she probably would have wanted me to carry her around the store.)

(Ahh, a really cool idea just hit me…Publix could get a couple of those sedan chair thingies for each store, you know, the chair on a platform thing that some king or Grand Vizier or Winnie the Poohba from olden days parked his butt on and then was carried around by several big strong guys in matching loose trousers and vests. We could charge people an extra 50 bucks to have four Front Service Clerks (baggers) carry them around the store, like they were the Pasha of Genoa salami Italy or the Duke of Earl maybe. Hey, it’s just a thought, okay?)

I never did get a completely lucid answer as to why the PG was pointing southeast towards the milk and yogurt section of the store instead of southwest towards the parking lot, where typically patrons park their cars. I have never found a vehicle in the Dairy Department. (We have cows in Dairy. There are, however, no cows in Bakery.) All I got from PG was her cute little grin and a denial that she was pointing in the wrong direction, which of course was patently untrue and had added greatly to my confusion at the time. (I’m deaf, not blind, you stinker.)

She’s a snot.

It could have been worse…one day last week an LOL (little old lady) walked up to me, and judging from the way she was moving, I would imagine she was born sometime during the Reconstruction, and asked me where she could find “assholes”. (My immediate thought was to tell her to try either Washington or Tallahassee, but my more judicious side overruled my major smart-ass side and I said pardon me, ma’am, I didn’t understand your question. (Here not hear.) What are you looking for?

Assholes, she says through her mask, a little agitated.

Drive cross-state to Palm Beach, lady…there’s a big orange one living at the Marm-a-Lardo Resort there.

Ma’am, I’m really sorry, I still don’t understand what you said.

She pulls her mask down and in a disgusted voice says to me, Where. Do. You. Keep. The. Apples?

Ma’am, go right down this aisle until you get to the rubbers and then hang a left.

She looks at me, shocked.

Young man, do you just say “rubbers’?

No, ma’am, I said assholes.

Love and Beltone,

Cap’n John

Post Script…hey, Mags, if you guessed that the PG’s real initials are SK, you’d be in the right aisle to find the apples.

1600 WORDS AND NOT ONE MORE…I PROMISE

 

My very good friend Robin, who is also my frequent partner in crime, is a big fan of sloths.

The animal, not the sin.

Robin and I both work part-time for Publix Super Markets here on the Left Coast of Floriduh, her as a Cashier, said job title being self-explanatory, and myself as a Front Service Clerk, said job title needing clarification due to it being another example of Publix’ rampant corporatese…I’m a  “bagger”. (I’m surprised the geniuses over in Lakeland FL, where the home office is located, haven’t decided to call our cashiers “Electronic Scanning and Payment Clerks” or some such nonsense.)

Anyway, Robin and I have been working together for over five years now, and we’ve become great friends, which I firmly believe is a testament to her patience, forbearance and somewhat questionable taste, so last year, knowing of her affinity for the South American mammal, I bought her a stuffed animal sloth for her birthday, which she thought was adorable. (It was, I have to admit…of course, she thinks I’m adorable, which supports my earlier assertion regarding her taste.) The real ones? Not so much, and despite my friend’s insistence that they’re “cute”, I think they’re creepy as hell. (She will from time to time text me little cartoon pics of the hideous damned things, apparently with the intent of convincing me of their massive cuteness…sorry, doesn’t work.)

If you’ve never seen one, look to your right…yeah, that hairy thing with the large, dark eyes, fur that grows backwards (per WikiPedia), a Mo Howard haircut and the dopey expression on its face is a sloth. (My brother, the Pompous Ass, once dated a girl that looked suspiciously like one…he learned after they split up that she had been seeing an alpaca on the side. And he was my mother’s favorite.)

Sloths are known for, among other things, the extreme slowness of their movements…in French, they’re called paresseux, which translates to English as “hideous hairy things that hang upside down from trees like overripe fruit”. (Okay, it actually means “lazy”.) Their couldn’t-win-a-100-yard-dash-with-a-glacier movements are creepy enough, but Holy Coke Nails, Batman, how about those two-feet long claws? Eeeeyeeeew.

Creepy, I don’t care what Robin says.

As stated above, sloths are indigenous to Central and South America, and by no means are ever found in Canada.

The other thing you never find in Canada is black basketball players, at least none that are natives of our frost-bitten neighbor to the north.

This all came to me last week when, on an evening of having nothing better to do, I decided to watch some of the exploits of the 1992 American Men’s Olympic Basketball Team, the “Dream Team” as they were called, as they did their “Sherman’s March To The Sea” plundering of all the other competing teams in both the Tournament of the Americas, the Olympic qualifying competition for this side of the world, and the Olympics themselves; the NBA guys won every game they played by an average margin of fifty gazillion points, give or take a few bajillion.

The game I chose to watch was their second game of the T of the A against the team from Canada.

Now none of the teams in the qualifying tourneys or the Olympics themselves were bad teams…some of them were pretty damn good, especially the teams from Croatia and Lithuania, but they weren’t the Dreamers. (If you’re not familiar with the ’92 games, imagine the hordes of Genghis Khan invading a city protected by a bunch of middle-school kids armed with BB guns or David and Goliath, where David fucks up and leaves his slingshot in his other pants.)

Midway through the first quarter, with the Americans up by 156, the Canadian coach started sending in his bench guys, to give the starters a breather from the onslaught, and wait, what?, in comes a young man at the shooting guard position who is black.

A black Canadian basketball player? Oh no, I don’t think so. (There were only two on the team.)

To the best of my knowledge, there are no black people in Canada, anywhere. None…I looked. The kid was pretty good, made a couple of nice drives to the basket, played decent defense, but an African Canadian? Shit, that doesn’t even sound right for goodness sake.

Canada’s all-time greatest athlete is probably Wayne Gretzky, the Hall of Fame white guy hockey player, but as Michael Jordan remarked to comedian Bill Murray in the movie Space Jam, talking about Boston Celtic great Larry Bird, “Larry isn’t white, he’s transparent”. Thus Wayne Gretzky. I mean, people in Canada are WHITE. So I don’t know where this young man on the Canadian basketball team was REALLY from, but it wasn’t Toronto, believe me. (My thought is that the Maple Leaf Gang sent roundball spies south over the border into the United States to recruit players, and then gave each guy they signed to play a phony Canadian passport and a pet moose.)

Although the sloth is from the same family as the anteater, to the best of my knowledge they are not in any way related to moose.

!FLASH! !FLASH! !FLASH!

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

Dateline Planet Zatox

In a complete departure from anything that even begins to approach sanity, according to a recent opinion poll conducted by Politico/Morning Consult, 29% of Republican respondents believed that former and no longer President Donald Trump will be reinstated to the Presidency by August of this year. (In the State of Florida, pollers said this belief was to some degree predicated on the fact that the Tampa Bay Buccaneers won Super Bowl XV back in January, proving conclusively that anything is possible.) 84% of the Democrats and just over 70% of independent respondents said that they thought the idea of Trump’s return to the White House was “nuts” or “bullshit”. In a follow-up question, 100% of the Republicans who believed in Trump’s reinstatement also said that the Dems and Indies were “stupid fucks” and that their opinions don’t count. When asked by RUKME Chief Political Correspondent Ben Tover about why the poll had a +/- accuracy factor of 10%, Politico President and CEO Count Em Again replied that “getting in and out of all those trailer parks safely hindered the accuracy of the poll results to some extent.”

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

I am the frequent recipient of letters, emails, text messages, carrier pigeon notes and messages in a bottle, asking for advice and/or an opinion on any of a number of subjects, and I thought I would share with you some of the more pathetic, err, sorry, interesting of these missives.

 “deer scumbag:

                i hop yur prepard to dye you heathen asshole becus god is shirley gone to strike you ded very soon for yur pinko commy idees on that shitty blog thing you rite. yur a commy and a dickbrain and i hope you rott in hell, you shitbag. why don’t you move to canda or lithutia or one of thos other commy cuntrees? it’s riten in carpathians 15:52 that sloth is “the habitual disinclination to exertion” and you will be judgd harshly for yur actons. you prick we hatt you.

                som decnt god fering peepul in tenassee who luv donld trump”

Dear “Peepul”:

                Per Leviticus Chapter 18, Verse 23, Subsection 42(n), “Do not have sexual relations with an animal and defile yourself with it.” I hope this doesn’t mess up your love life. Or Mr. Trump’s, for that matter.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                Since you are the most intelligent and best-looking person in the known universe, I thought you might be able to answer this for me…is it true that your nickname is “Salami Boy”? No wait, that wasn’t my question…in attempting to determine the likelihood of Donald Trump being reinstated to the Presidency, is it true that the geometric probability density function builds upon the binominal distribution, thus making the value of x equal to pi R squared intrinsic? Or more easily stated, an ice-cube’s chance in hell? That sloths are cute? Please share your wisdom with us, Cap’n…is Donny on his way back to Washington?

                Mary the Mathematician From Maine”

Dear “Mary”:

                After much consideration and after consulting with the leading minds in American politics, I would have to say that the chances of Donald Trump being reinstated are two…no way and no how. Buh bye, Donny, you are seriously toast. And will he run in 2024? Well, he couldn’t win in ’20, so you wonder what makes him think he can win in ’24?

“Cap’n John:

               Is it true that you recently saw a panel truck parked in the lot at the Publix grocery where you work that had a sign on its side that said “Florida Keys” and then right underneath was painted, “Locksmith”?

                Connie From Underlocken Key FL”

Dear “Connie”:

               Yes, it’s true. (When questioned about the name, the owner of the vehicle/business said that he was surprised that no one else had ever thought of it previously as he incorporated in the State of Floriduh 15 years earlier when he started the company.)

“The habitual disinclination to exertion”? Boy, if that isn’t sinful it oughta’ be. Sounds like some of our fellow Publix associates, doesn’t it, Ms. Robin?

Love and capital sins,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I hope you folks are proud of me; I was under 1600 words this time (my self-imposed limit), unlike so many of my posts that seem to ramble on for days with no end in sight. I promise to do 

ARE YOU THE OPPOSITE SEX OR AM I?

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

For those readers of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog who are squeamish about and/or uncomfortable with a frank and open discussion about, well, umm, sex, today’s post is all about, umm, sex.

And if recent activity is a criteria, than I am frankly not qualified to speak on this matter, not that I intend to let that stop me. I mean, if good taste and common sense aren’t enough to keep me from writing some of the shit that I write, then I see no reason to let forced-upon-me-by-circumstances celibacy be a deterrent either. Please be forewarned.

And much like the social media trolls that you frequently see and read online, screaming at the top of their lungs about subjects upon which they are “experts”, given their extensive “research” on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, I intend to expound largely, confident in my ignorance.

Despite my warning (above), something tells me that none of you have stopped reading…sluts.

Now before I get too far into today’s post, I need to pause for a moment and give a big shout-out to the Two Bandits, the Pixie Girl and Boogerbutt, my four young friends from the Publix grocery store where I work part-time, also and better known as Janessa and Maggie, Sarah and Janessa’s hubby Sean, who are headed for Alaska on a cruise next week…have fun, kids, be safe and, if you think of it, bring me back a penguin or an elk or an Eskimo or whatever. (Leave the Aurora Borealis there.)

(FYI, Aurora Borealis comes from the Inuktitut language and means “multiple orgasms”.)

Back to the subject matter at hand.

It was simple when I was young and still in my prime, which was just a few weeks after fire was discovered, because there were only two genders…female and other, and there was little debate about a person’s membership in either category; “females” knew they were “females” by equipment and temperament, and those of us who were in the “other” category knew who we were because the “females” told us, just before they said to shut up and go stand in the corner.

(Listen, I have NEVER won an argument with a woman…never. Women are not only better-looking than men, they’re smarter, have WAY more common sense, smell better and are all-around nicer people than their “other” counterparts.)

Now the sex part was a little more complicated than that I admit; I mean, there’s always been a whole lot more than the “missionary position” going on between people. Sure, we knew that some guys liked other guys, and some girls liked other girls and some guys liked hamsters but once we got past the Sexual Revolution in the ‘60s and gays and lesbians and McHamsterHeads began to come out of the closet and live among us openly, the majority of people got used to the idea and were mostly okay with it. (That’s not to discount the “haters”…I just don’t think they’re in the majority. Oh, and I’ll explain “McHamsterHeads” another time.)

Certainly for me it was pretty much, oh, what’s her name is a lesbian, no shit, really, hey, who do the Bears play this weekend?

It’s called priorities. I mean, if the only way a person can get off is to dress in a latex nun’s habit, put Wagner’s The Ride of the Valkyries on the stereo at about “9” volume in the background while he/she does disgusting things to their cat with a salad fork, it’s none of my business. Unless you’re using MY latex nun’s habit, then I might have something to say about the matter.

But these days, much to the bewilderment of someone my age (think tortoises or redwood trees), there are suddenly a lot more classifications of “gender” than there used to be, and lemme’ tell you, folks, I am some sorely confused.

Believe me, all this confusion hasn’t diminished my interest in ”sex”, but sadly, when it comes to women, I suspect I’m much like a dog chasing a car…if I caught one I wouldn’t know what to do with it. But for me, being in my declining years (oh please), it’s truly a comfort to be able to admire a beautiful, sexy woman without all the compulsion and “drive to reproduce” that I had when I was younger. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not declaring myself a monk…given opportunity, sure. I mean, I’m old, not dead, okay?

But these days, it’s enough to admire a beautiful lady and appreciate her various “assets” without having to “slobber a bibful” watching her. (I have never been one of those guys who stare…they’re assholes.)

Now being one of the Internet’s top humor bloggers (per myself) is lots of fun, but it has responsibilities as well, one of which is leadership…my loyal readers (all several of you) look to me for answers, for guidance, and it has come to pass that I have received a number of letters, texts, DMs, emails, pre-and postcards, etc., asking me to clarify all the various “genders” that have sprung into existence over the past few years. This of course is much like asking a four-year old to give a detailed explanation of quantum mechanics, but hey, I’m game if you guys are.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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

Dateline LaLaLand CA

In an announcement that surprised most of the known world, former Bruce, once husband of Kris, father of Kendell and Kylie, stepfather (mother?) to all those moron Karhootzians and winner of the 1976 Olympic Decathlon as a man, Caitlyn Jenner came out of her political closet today and said she is running for Guber of California in the 2021 gubernatorial recall race. Jenner, who is a conservative, Christian, right-wing Republican and who believes that all women should have the “XY“ chromosome and be subservient to their husbands, has said publicly that she voted for former and no longer President Donald Trump in 2016, although voting records showed her casting no vote in the election, but that she now thinks he’s a flaming asshole and that she further supports same-sex marriages but does not believe that transgender girls should be allowed to compete in woman’s sports. When asked by RUKME Senior Political Correspondent Boy George if he supported Jenner’s candidacy, Mr. Trump stated that he thought Jenner “should grow a pair”. Mr. Trump then suggested that Correspondent George perform an unnatural act upon him/herself and walked away.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.

So I thought for your general edification and amusement that I would share with you some of the more inane, uh, excuse me, interesting missives that I’ve received on this subject and my responses thereto.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Dear Cap’n John:

I don’t get all this hetero-, gay-, cis-, dis-, mis-, Lebanese, queer, trans, binary (oh good, like I wasn’t confused before, now there’s math involved), regular, extra-crispy, unleaded, geez, this list seems endless and I’m still back at “boys and girls”. Give us a show of your massive intellect, Cap’n, and explain all this crazy shit, would you?

A Swiss Cis Miss From Geneva”

Dear “Miss”:

            Okay, here goes:

            ~hetero= boy/girl, all OEM parts

            ~gay= boy/boy, all OEM parts

            ~bi= a word to say when leaving, as in “doe, a deer, a female, non-binary hetero cis deer”

            ~trans= six-speed on the new Chevrolet C8 Corvette, a car for which I would sacrifice a testicle, making me an old, cranky, hetero, binary, incel one ball male

            ~queer= no idea

            ~incel= typically a male hetero who, due to circumstances, such as most of them being roving assholes, is celibate involuntarily

~Lebanese= female person from Lebanon

~Symbionese= female person from Symbion

~Manganese= female person from Manga 

~cis= if your birth certificate says you’re a “male”, you have the XY chromosomes, the appropriate male equipment amidships and you identify as a “male”, you’re a “cis” male (that whole concept is almost as stupid as Donald Trump telling people to ingest bleach as a way to combat the coronavirus)

~binary (not “bi”)= is a number expressed in the base-2 numeral system, or third-and-long from the Bucs 43-yard line, tax, title and license not included

Well, “Miss”, I certainly hope this cleared up any confusion there might have been on your part; if not, just go with what feels right, or as Steven Stills once so succinctly put it, love the one you’re with.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Cap’n John:

            I’m an early-30s, recently divorced, hetero, binary, translucent, cis male that does not want to slip into being an incel; I would like to start dating again, but I’m not sure about partners. Should I be looking for a helio, binary, XX chromo female with a tendency to Lebaneseism or would a Snap-On CDI 3/8s Drive 10-80# Torque Wrench be more appropriate? Do you think it’s okay if she doesn’t have all OEM parts, like What’shername Jenner? Would that make me a binary, cis, 3rd Degree Black Belt homosexual? (Caitlyn says she likes girls, and I didn’t even know she was from Lebanon.)

            Anyway, thanks, Cap’n…you’re a lot nicer than that Berkowitz humor guy says you are.

            Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places”

Dear “Looking”:

            What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree and is dangerous as hell?

            A sparrow with a machine gun. (Gleefully stolen from the 1960s Batman movie.)

~~~~~~~~~~

“Doe a Deer Cap’n John:

            I’m a single, hetero, trapezoidal, binary cis female turret lathe operator in my late 20s, never married, but not a virgin, having had previous relationships with hetero binary males with OEM equipment, and I’ve always thought that was what I wanted. Lately though I’ve been getting these “urges” to seek out Lebanese, binary, lemon-flavored, cis females for some “girl on girl” action. I’m feeling a little guilty about this…I don’t want to betray my sister cisters and not be true to my real sexual identity, but there’s this really hot girl with a great butt in Accounting that I’d like to explore the Mariana Trenches with, if you get my drift.

            So here’s my question…does this make me Lebanese, or worse yet, a Republican?

            I Can Lick My Own Eyebrows Edna”

Dear “Eyebrows”:

            I once played in a band with a guy, our guitar player, who was convinced that if one of us would sit on the back of his neck, very gently but firmly, he would be able to bend down far enough to perform fellatio on himself.

            I’m not sure if that qualifies as “an unnatural act” but it’s gotta’ be in the ballpark. (I told him once that his problem wasn’t a lack of limberness but a deficiency in size…he didn’t think that was humorous.)

Well gang, I see from the word-counter thingie down in the lower left-hand corner of my monitor that I have, once again, blown right by my self-imposed limit of “x” words, rambling on like coked-up magpie on speed.

Tell the truth, it would have been okay with me if we had left this whole subject right where the little kid in the movie Kindergarten Cop left it…”Boys have a penis and girls have a Virginia”.

Unless they’re from Lebanon.

Love and hamsters,

Cap’n John

Post Script…I don’t know is this means anything, but a friend of mine tells me that he knows of an “adult toys” website that sells “personal lubricant” by the 55-gallon drum…I checked it out and he was right. Fifteen hundred bucks.

Order now and have it in time for Memorial Day picnics and 4th of July cookouts.

 

THANK YOU FOR COMING, OR HOWEVER IT WAS YOU REACTED

“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.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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 Yahoo.com, 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

SO WHO KNEW GROCERY STORES COULD BE THIS FUNNY?

(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…

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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.

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO AREN’T GETTING ANY, AND I DON’T MEAN ADVICE_VOL XVI: THE MARTIAN EDITION

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.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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?

 

THIS MEETING IS NOW CALLED TO ODOR…AH, SORRY, ORDER

“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.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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.

A SHOT OF MODERNA AND A BEER CHASER

“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.

Yes.

~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.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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…

Eeeeeeyeeeewww.

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

AS AN EYESIGHT RATING, 2020 IS GREAT…AS A YEAR IT SUCKED

(Editor’s note: Today’s post is dedicated to my fave Team Leader (my boss) Janessa, who’s a cutie person with a 10 mega-watt smile, an impish attitude and the worst taste in jokes I have ever seen…this one’s for you, kiddo.)

Okay, you can all exhale now…by the time you read this, 2020 will be on its last dying legs, and not one nanosecond too soon for my money. 2021 HAS to be better, but then, ’20 set the bar so low that ’21 has nowhere to go but up.

So as a public service, in the last decaying lights of the Year from Hell, I thought I would take a few moments and reflect on some of the events/incidents that have occurred since 12:00:01 on January 1st, almost a year ago, that have impacted us all so greatly.

In no particular order then…

~PRESIDENT LOSER~

Other than the Covid-19 pandemic which has dominated the news of 2020, the most significant event to occur this year was the Presidential election that took place on November 3rd.

DONALD TRUMP…YOU LOST. THAT MAKES YOU A LOSER. LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER AND A LOSER. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

Yes, it’s true, and although our Big Mac in Chief still refuses to acknowledge his loss to President-Elect Joe Biden, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump lost…big time. Biden 306-Loser 232 in the Electoral College count (which by the way was the same count, Trump over Clinton, in 2016, which DeeTeeBeeTee characterized at the time as a “landslide”). On January 20, 2021, he’s gone, goodbye, sayonara, he’s history, he’s outta’ there, left the building, hasta yo mama, buh bye, don’t let the door hit you in the ass as you leave, auf wiedersehen, stick a fork in him and so long, so wrong.

By show of hands, how many of you are going to miss Donald Trump about as much as you’d miss hemorrhoids? Or less?

~TP STOCKPILING~

Due to supply problems caused by the reaction to the Covid-19 pandemic from worried consumers who were apparently concerned about running out of toilet paper in mid-wipe, stores throughout America had mostly empty shelves on the paper-goods aisle throughout the year, as shoppers swept up in great mass quantities any and all forms of toilet paper, Handi-wipes, paper towels, tissues, burlap sacks, old Sears & Roebuck catalogs, carpet padding and 800-grit Ultra Fine sandpaper, in an effort to maintain a “shiny hiney“. The “hoarding” was crazy, and believe me, I know…I work part-time in a Publix grocery store. I remember many mornings where the stock crew had put up 3-4 pallets of paper goods before the store opened at 7:00am, only to see the shelves were bare again by 8:00am.

One older lady and I were talking about the shortages, and she looked at me with a grimace of disgust and said, “What, are people pooping more all of a sudden?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’ve always thought many of our customers were full of shit, so I wasn’t surprised at the response.

~SNOW REMOVAL~

Back in January, according to the Fargo Forum of Fargo-Moorhead newspaper, a local man, Ya Heydare, was cited by Fargo police for using a WWII era flame-thrower to remove snow from his sidewalks and driveway; Heydare was charged with disturbing the peace, discharging a firearm within city limits, aggravated mopery and possession of a controlled substance. He was arrested and has since been released, posting bail. When asked by RUKME Correspondent Holly Berries about the unusual approach to snow removal, Heydare replied that he was a “god-fearing, patriotic, card-carrying member of the Republican Party and an American and the 2nd Amendment says I have the right to bare arms and naked legs if I choose.” He went on to say that he would “fight the charges and emerge victorious”, and that he has plans to acquire a 108mm self-propelled howitzer in the near future, for “hunting squirrels”.

~KANYE WEST FOR PRESIDENT~

On July 4th of this year, in a burst of uber-patriotism, rapper, mogul and certified moron Mr. Kim Kardashian, err, excuse me, Kanye West, announced his entry into the 2020 Presidential election, to run as an independent, since no official political party with leadership possessing at least the IQ of a doorknob would have West as their headliner (later changed to become the candidate of the newly formed Birthday Party). Kim’s Husband went on to qualify for the ballot in 12 states, all of which were immediately removed from the rolls of official United States states and sold to Canada for $1500 and a hockey team to be named later. West’s platform had planks that called for “a chicken in every driveway and two Chevies in every pot”, as well as being in favor of legalized cannabis, free drugs for all his fellow “rap artists”, immediately signaling his ability to employ oxymorons early in his campaign, and a strong defense against “those Commie assholes over there in Sweden and New Zealand”. In an interview with RUKME Correspondent R. U. Serious, West further said that he didn’t feel that his “being IQ-challenged should be a drawback to running for President”, which was proven unequivocally by Donald Trump in the last two elections. West raised $6,771,472.66 in campaign contributions, $6,760,000.00 of which was a personal loan from himself to the campaign, with the remaining $11,472.66 coming from individual contributors. West was endorsed by Geraldo Rivera and Dennis Rodman, among others. (FYI, those numbers are true and accurate.)

~THE ELECTION~

DONALD TRUMP…YOU LOST. THAT MAKES YOU A LOSER. LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER AND A LOSER. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

~FREQUENT SEX~

A study conducted by the John Holmes Center for Sexual Mayhem and Currency Exchange, entitled “Does Frequent Sex Increase Chances of Pregnancy?”, determined that, yes, frequent sex does in fact increase the chances of a woman becoming pregnant. The study, which was released back on February 14th of this year,  did not make any claims as to whether frequent sex impacts the chances of men getting pregnant however. The report was authored by Chinese sexologist Hung Wei Lo, who is the same researcher who recently published a related article, “Woman Have Vaginas (Most of Them)”.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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

-Dateline Washington D.C.

“Trump Claims God Has Named Him New ‘Supreme Being’ In Recent Phone Call”

In a surprise announcement from the White House today, President (but not for long) Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump told reporters in the WH Press Room that he received a heavenly phone call last week, and that the call was directly from the Almighty Him/HerSelf. The President said that the Big Republican’s Chief of Staff, Saint Peter, left a message telling him that He/She said that being god “was a lot of work, trying to control all those left-wing libtards constantly” and that He/She had had enough and was retiring to Florida to join the rest of the “Christian Right” and play shuffleboard every day from now on. Pete went on to say that, to fill the top spot, the Almighty chose Mr. Trump to be the new “Supreme Being”, to take up his duties as SB on January 21st, 2021. When asked by RUKME Chief White House Correspondent Lucy Fur about the rumors that the call actually originated from Perdition and was placed by someone named Bee L. Zebub, Mr. Trump gave Ms. Fur the finger and stormed from the podium, Bible in hand.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

~TONKA AND GOYA~

In July of 2020, First Daughter/Secondary Wife Tonka Trump appeared in a photo with a can of frijoles negroes that was manufactured by Hispanic-owned Goya company, whose CEO, Robert Unanue, is a big supporter of President Trump’s; the endorsement was apparently in response to Mr. Unanue’s comments praising President Trump, saying how “blessed” America was to have Trump as President. The photo was featured on Ms. Trump’s Twitter page, and included the slogan, “Nobody’s beans make me fart like Goya’s…nobody’s”.

~THE ELECTION~

DONALD TRUMP…YOU LOST. THAT MAKES YOU A LOSER. LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER AND A LOSER. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

~FEDERAL OFFICIAL RESIGNS~

In a recent edition of the right-wing conservative rag the Washington Examiner, an article appeared telling of the resignation of the head of the federal agency that oversees meat and poultry examinations. The administrator, a man named H. Russell Cross, said in the piece that he was leaving the agency due to “repeated attacks from consumer groups” over deadly outbreaks of the e. coli bacteria in hamburger, llama spleens and calf brains.

The headline for the article? “Meat Head Resigns” and when I first saw it, my heart leapt, thinking the paper was referring to the new Supreme Being. Sadly, my hopes were quickly dashed.

~THE ELECTION~

DONALD TRUMP…YOU LOST. THAT MAKES YOU A LOSER. LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER AND A LOSER. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

~MURDER HORNETS~

Question…what is 2.2 inches in length, can fly up to 25 MPH, has a wingspan of 3” or more, a stinger the size of the Washington Monument and is said to have a very poor attitude? If you answered the Asian giant hornet, or “murder” hornet, you nailed it. That’s right, exhaust fans, in the worst infestation of a parasite since Republicans won control of the Senate, in 2020 the so-called “murder hornets” emigrated across the Pacific from various Far East countries to take up residence in the Pacific Northwest, particularly in the State of Washington, where Governor Jay Inslee, a Democrat and frequent critic of the new Supreme Being, Donald Trump, says that State employees of the Game and Wild Life Department are carefully trapping the giant bugs and having them shipped to the other Washington, the nation’s capital, and delivered to Senate Majority Leader Mitch “Turtle Boy” McConnell, to give him an graphic example of one of the few things in nature more repulsive than he is.

~KARENS~

(Karen Customer): “I want to speak to the manager!”

(Me, looking around): “Where’s Janessa?”

Well, I can see from the counter thingie down in the left hand corner of my monitor that I have cruised right through my self-imposed word limit and have traveled to the outer reaches of long-windedness once again. Just one more thing that happened frequently in the Year of Our Lord Satan 2020.

Another year like this one and I might be tempted to join the GOP in their quest to get back to the 1950s…

Love and calendars,

Cap’n John

Post Script…

DONALD TRUMP…YOU LOST. THAT MAKES YOU A LOSER. LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER AND A LOSER. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

ASK THE CAP’N_SPECIAL HOLIDAY EDITION_HO HO HO

(Editor’s note: Cap’n John Krissongs, our regular contributor, informed us that he had always wanted to start one of his columns with the phrase, “Once upon a time…”.)

Once upon a time, back on September 21, 1897, long before even someone like myself was born, someone who is accumulating years like a tortoise I might add, a little girl from New York named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of the now defunct New York Sun newspaper, looking for reassurance. She chose the paper because, as she stated in her letter, “Papa says if you see it in the Sun, it’s so”, and that was more than enough credibility for her enquiry.

It seemed some of her friends had told her that there was “no Santa Claus” and she entreated the editor, a man named Francis Pharcellus Church, to “Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?” Mr. Church responded in a now world-famous editorial that, in fact, Virginia, there is absolutely no Santa Claus, and that the little girl should stop her whining and complaining and get back out in the kitchen and get the dishes done and the floors mopped. (Mr. Church was apparently a Republican, and like most members of the GOP, was already looking for a return to the halcyon years of the 1950s, even though they were still 50+ years in the future.)

Okay, I was just funnin’ you guys…what Mr. Church actually said was, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, in a lengthy, heart-warming and poignant piece that has since become the most reprinted newspaper editorial in history. 

In counterpoint to Mr. Church’s position, we have a scene from the 1935 Marx Brothers movie, A Night At The Opera , which for my money is one of the funniest movies ever filmed, wherein Fiorello, played hilariously by Chico Marx, an agent representing tenor Ricardo Baroni, was negotiating the singer’s contract with Mr. Otis B. Driftwood, who was played by Groucho, who was (sort of) representing the New York Opera Company. (The entire runup to this scene is WAY too long to recount here…just go with the above.)

Driftwood pulls two copies of a “contract” out of his inside coat pocket, hands one to Fiorello and the two men begin, with much hilarity, to debate the various articles. (Driftwood: “The party of the first part in this contract will be known as the party of the first part.” Fiorello, in his thick Italian accent: “No, thassa’ no gud.”)

They finally get down to the bottom of the document, and the dialogue is thus:

“Fiorello: Hey, wait, wait. What does this say here, this thing here?
Driftwood: Oh, that? Oh, that’s the usual clause that’s in every contract. That just says, ‘if any of the parties participating in this contract are shown not to be in their right mind, the entire agreement is automatically nullified’.
Fiorello: Well, I don’t know…
Driftwood: It’s all right, that’s in every contract. That’s what they call a sanity clause.
Fiorello: Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! You can’t fool me. There ain’t no 
Sanity Clause!”

(Reader will please insert rim-shot here.)

Having never met the gentleman, I cannot personally attest to his existence, although I do recall being a believer when I was a mere lad, back many, many, many years ago. (Many.)

But what this debate brings to mind is the plethora (that is SUCH a good word…plethora, plethora, plethora, plethora…thank you) of the unusual and frankly rather strange beliefs and customs that surround the Christmas holiday, ones that probably wouldn’t be tolerated for a lesser holiday like Cinco de Mayo or Arbor Day.

For example:

~ Hanging mistletoe…when I was a youngster (many, many, etc.) I thought that mistletoe was a fungus that afflicted astronauts, much like athletes are afflicted by athlete’s foot; it was only later in my life that I learned that mistletoe is in fact the “common name for obligate hemiparasitic plants in the order Santalales, that are attached to their host tree or shrub by a structure called the haustorium, through which they extract water and nutrients from the host plant”, which doesn’t say much for their character frankly. Why we suspend this parasite above doors and archways in our homes, requiring two people (it used to be a man and a woman, but I think that rule has been suspended) to share a kiss when standing beneath its leafy presence, thereby giving occasion to the possibility of passing a deadly disease from one person to the other is beyond me.

~ Eggnog…I am assured by many of my friends and acquaintances that eggnog is in fact tasty and delicious, but I’m not buying into that hype. I think it’s a covert attempt by the National Dairy Council to encourage greater consumption of moo-cow products and ensure our heightened dependence on them. The point is that this “Christmas custom” of consuming copious quantities of dairy wouldn’t fly on Independence Day, which of course makes sense, when you consider all the beer that’s available for that holiday.

~ Fruitcake…it is a largely unknown fact that there have never been more than several hundred fruitcakes produced in the entire history of this country, and that they were made many, many, many years ago, when I was a youth. (Many.) Since they are never actually consumed, being largely inedible, and are merely recycled, Christmas after Christmas, after being stored all year in a pantry or cupboard by last year’s recipient and then forwarded to a new owner the following year, making more of them would be pointless. Do these things have a shelf life? Do they ever spoil? What’s the secret ingredient that guarantees their longevity? I guess it doesn’t make any difference how fresh they are, because nobody ever eats them anyway, but that solid brick of candied fruits and nuts (sounds like a description of my ex-in-laws) sitting in (on) its can in your closet may very well have been around since Colonial days. Yuck.

~ Elf on a shelf…whoever thought up this travesty ought to be taken out, drawn and quartered, stretched on “the rack” and then summarily shot at dawn. (Although I think the “goose on a moose” thing is pretty funny.)

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

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

-Dateline Washington D.C.

“GOP Senators Demand Congress Provide ‘Special’ Christmas Gift For President”

Senate Majority Leader Mitch “Turtle Boy” McConnell announced today that Republicans in the Senate are demanding that legislation be passed by Congress to give a “special” Christmas gift of 500 bajillion dollars, tax-free, to President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, as a holiday bonus to “recognize his immense contributions to this country during his only term in office”. When Mr. McConnell was asked by RUKME Political Correspondent Joy Totheworld if this unprecedented gift was really a bribe to mollify the President and to keep him from skewering the careers of the various Republican Senators with his constant and vicious “tweets” any time they anger him, the Majority Leader said that Christmas would again fall on December 25th this year. Mr. McConnell then gave Ms. Totheworld the finger and left the podium.

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

I have received a number (a very small number) of letters, emails, texts and telegrams (an ancient form of Instagram), asking about the many unusual traditions surrounding the Christmas holiday, things like Black Friday, mall Santas and the cooking of various once-winged fowl as the Yule dinner which I thought I would share with you, my loyal readers.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I travel a great deal for my job and I thought that I would give ‘the little woman’ an extra-special gift this year to keep her company during those long, lonely hours when I’m absent. I saw a device on one of those Internet ‘adult toys’ sites called an Extreme Uber Mega Battery-Driven 15” 20 Pound Vibrator, but the ad said it required a 12-volt Sears DieHard battery (not included). I’d love to get her this but I’m wondering if you know of any alternative power source (solar maybe?) that could run this little baby, since I don’t want to be replacing DieHards, which are expensive, very often?

                Traveling Tom from Tennessee”

Dear “Tom”:

                Get her the vibro but attach it to a pull-start gasoline generator…that oughta’ keep her electrons flowing freely.

“Dear CJK:

Is it true you can take a 10 pound fruitcake, soak it in Ty-D-Bowl overnight, apply a thin coating of KY Jelly then attach it to a pull-start gasoline generator for 3.863 hours and it will spontaneously grow an obese Republican Presidential candidate with thin blond hair, an orange face and the morals and ethics of a pedophile used-car salesman? Or is that just another holiday myth?

                Curious Connie in Cambridge

Dear “Connie”:

                That reminds me of the story about the lady that went to her doctor because she had questions about having anal sex, and when she asked the doc if she could get pregnant that way, the doctor said of course, where do you think Donald Trump came from?

“Dear Cap’n:

                My husband voted for President Trump, and now I’m wondering if I should remove our Christmas turkey from the oven early, before it reaches 165° internal temperature, which would allow any salmonella bacteria to thrive due to undercooking, and then feed it to Mr. GOP and see what develops? And how easy is salmonella poisoning to detect in an autopsy? Thanks.

                Married to a Moron in Maine

Dear “Married”:

                I don’t know about all that, but if it works, please let me know, ‘cause I’m pretty sure there are a lot of my readers who would LOVE to have that recipe.

That’s all the time I have to answer your holiday questions today, loyal readers; in the meantime, just remember the lyrics from the famous Christmas song…

“You better watch out, you better not cry,

You better not pout I’m telling you why,

Santa Claus is dead.”

Love and ornaments,

Cap’n John