My mission today here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog is to quell a persistent rumor I continue to hear/see on various social media platforms and news organs that the state song of Florida is Iron Butterfly’s 1968 hit In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida; this is incorrect. In fact, the state song of Florida is Stephen Foster’s Old Folks At Home, written back in 1851, or as it’s known by the more common name, Way Down Upon The Swanee River. And no, I didn’t know that until just a few moments ago, nor did I know that 4-1/2 years ago when I moved to the Gunshine State, as we affectionately refer to it down here.

Even had I known that Swanee River was Florida’s state song it probably wouldn’t have prohibited me from moving here; as far as I’m concerned, the state song of any state is not critical information to be used in determining where someone cares to live. Climate, services, taxes, cost of living, percentage of good-looking women in the state population, housing, yes, those were factors I considered before I relocated to FL, but no, not the state song. Didn’t even come up on my radar.

Florida at least had the good taste to make an officially-sanctioned change to Mr. Foster’s decidedly racist lyrics to a more acceptable version prior to declaring Swanee the state song. (Foster didn’t even get the spelling correct, the big doofus…it’s S-u-w-a-n-n-e-e.)

So we have guns up the butt, a generally agreeable climate, senior citizens by the bucketful, a state song with rather dubious lyrics, Weeki Wachee, Mickey and the gang, “snowbirds” and now, proceeding right to “Ludicrous Speed” unimpeded, citizens of Florida have to be concerned with falling iguanas.

Yes, that’s correct, exhaust fans, if you’re living in/visiting Florida right now and you walk under a tree, you need to be careful not to get conked on the noggin by a falling comatose herbivorous lizard. (Wouldn’t Comatose Lizard be a great name for a rock band? Or how about Falling Iguanas?)

Apparently, iguanas being cold-blooded, when the temperature drops into the 30s/40s, which it has over the past few days down here, they become immobilized and drop like, well, an immobilized iguana. They’re not dead, they’re just…immobilized. (“Cold-stunned” was the way one guy down here put it, which I thought was a great turn of a phrase.) And FYI, iguanas are not indigenous to Florida; considering how damn ugly the things are, they appear to me to be recent escapees of the Planet Zatox.

Some enterprising Floridians have taken to marketing/selling iguana meat recently during this crisis, calling it “Chicken of the Trees”, which you have to admit is also pretty clever. While I admire the entrepreneurial spirit, I’ll pass…yuck.

So there I was, avoiding any falling lizards and dreaming about being on the “Swanee River”, when the letters, emails, text messages, telegrams, smoke signals and secret decoder ring communiques starting pouring in, in response to my last two posts here on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog.

You want to gauge readership? Say something you know a lot of people will want to smack you upside the head for and you’ll hear from them, believe me. Especially in this day and age of the instant gratification of social media and the Internet.

Being the generous and wonderfully warm person that I am, I thought, as a public service, that I would share some of the more pathetic, weepy, er, excuse me, interesting notes and letters I received…no, no, don’t thank me; it’s just my way of helping y’all to reach the path of enlightenment.

“Cap’n John:

                Hey, Coach Madden here. Thanks for quoting me in your post last week; I love your blog. But you got the quote wrong, buddy; instead of, “Don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the wagon”, it should have been, “If the oleander is twice to the left, then the persimmon will be not transparent”. Just thought you might want to get it straight for the record. Keep up the good work, my man; I think the Cap’n is almost as funny as the idea that Jamis Winston will lead the Tampa Bay Bucs to a Super Bowl.


                John Madden”

“Dear Cap’n Krissongs:

                In response to the remarks in your blog post of 1/9/20, Mr. Crane has asked me to clarify his position, in an attempt to help you and your readers better understand his recent actions. While it is true that Mr. Crane is an “unprincipled bucket of warm spit”, he vigorously denies that he had prior knowledge of the sign-stealing scheme that his team, the Houston Assholes, er, excuse me, Astros, were recently found guilty of employing during the 2017 and 2018 baseball seasons, after an extensive investigation by Major League Baseball. Although Mr. Crane is aware that by denying his involvement and thereby avoiding his responsibility in this matter that he is also confirming to the public that he is not only a total moron but a lying sack of fetid llama parts as well, nevertheless he insists, should you persist in your defamations and libelous accusations towards him, that he will be forced to bring suit against yourself and the WATRUK blog to address damages to his reputation, even though said reputation is now totally and completely in the toilet since it was learned what a no-class dirtbag he is. We hope that this letter will be sufficient in stopping your continued attacks on Mr. Crane, since it is not his desire to bring this matter into open court, knowing what a laughing stock it would make him.


                I.M. Pane, Attorney At Law

                Law Offices of Moore Pane Enagony LLC”

“Cap’n John Krissongs:

                The kids asked me to let you know how much everyone in the band appreciated your recent great review of our concert (Prism 2019) and to show our gratitude, we would be happy to take you up on your idea to assemble all 200 members, complete with instruments, of the J. W. Mitchell High School Debating Iguanas Marching Band at your apartment some morning around 3:00am to serenade your idiot neighbor downstairs…we thought we could do our version of the state song of Florida, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Already looking forward to next year’s concert.

                Yours musically,

                Juan Atatime, Director”

“Mr. Cap’n John Krissongs:

                I represent Her Grace the Most Wonderful Ms. Lori Loughlin and I was directed by HGTMW Ms. Loughlin to assure you and your readers that the recent news report on RUKME that she had undergone ego-reduction surgery in the past is false and that HGTMW Ms. Loughlin emphatically denies the report. HGTMW Ms. Loughlin demands an immediate apology and a retraction from you. Also, HGTMW Ms. Loughlin will be available to all peasants for ring-kissing and other modes of worship every day next week from 10:00am to 2:00pm, by appointment only.

                Sue Perficial, Publicist for Her Grace The Most Wonderful Ms. Lori Loughlin”

“cppn Joohn guy:

                Snot true didnnt kidnap guy only wanted to be frend thought him cute tell man me sorry if hurt man ask man come back will not try to mate again honnest man was sexxy studmuffin love man

                tell man plese com back plese

                a b dominalsnowman

ps you funny guy make a b laugh much”

Please note: no iguanas were harmed during the writing of this column…

Love and Florida oranges,

Cap’n John

Post Script…yeah, okay, there was that one little guy that wanted me to tie him up and spank his little lizard butt, but I wasn’t having any of it; none of that preevert shit here on the WATRUK blog, no sir. I don’t need those PETA nutjobs or the ASPCA folks busting my chops for abusing a comatose herbivorous lizard.

Falling iguanas…boy, what the hell is next, low-flying alligators?


Post Post Script…another great quote from Coach Madden, back in 1985, talking about Chicago Bears free safety Gary Fencik, who played football at and graduated from Yale University and had an “All-American clean-cut youth” image: “Fencik played football at Yale…that’s like saying ‘clean dirt’.”

Post Cereal…coming next week, to a blog near you…THE RETURN OF THE CAP’N JOHN FOR PRESIDENT 2020 TOUR. Exciting, huh? I know I almost peed my pants just writing it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.




Now before I get started here, let me just say this…anyone who laughs at what they’re about to read will a) hurt my feelings, b) reveal him/herself to be an insensitive asshat, which I’m sure NONE of my loyal readers are and c) receive a visit from several large, ‘roided-out muscular men with poor attitudes and gonads the size of BBs, who will remove you from your home, take you out in the country where it’s quiet and repeatedly whack your peenie with a short length of 5/8” garden hose.

Back in the Jurassic Park days when I was a kid, when we weren’t chasing dinosaurs or learning to walk upright, we played board games, especially on those rainy days when outdoor activities were cancelled due to weather. Monopoly (or as my mother referred to it, “Monotony”) was a big fave, as was Life. The Big Three was rounded out by my personal favorite, Clue.

I was excellent at Clue…still am.

Yes, I did. I recently purchased the digital version of the game to play on my desktop computer, and have been playing frequently ever since. Okay, compared to Grand Theft Auto or Fortnite or one of those other violent, gun-laden, blow-up everything in the world grotesqueries that seem so popular these days with the Neanderthal crowd, Clue is quiet and boring. It requires you, and ah, the horror of it all, to think, to reason, to deduce. (Recent polls show that Clue is not well-liked by supporters of our President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump.)

Besides, I like “murder mysteries”; I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, several Agatha Christies’, the Maltese Falcon as well as the Thin Man series by Dashiell Hammett, everything that Stephen King has written on the subject, in between ghosts, vampires and rabid dogs, a bunch of John MacDonald’s “Travis McGee” books and more.

Now I admit that the game is really nothing more than a remake of the old kid’s card game Go Fish…you roll, you move, you “suggest” and you try to get the other players to have to remove an article of clothing. Ah, okay, sorry, wrong game. No, you try to compel the other players to reveal their cards, by skillful bluffs and feints, while trying to reveal at little as possible about your cards and eventually figure out the “murder” was committed by Captain Ketchup with the chain-saw in the outhouse.

So to speak.

The one thing I’ve never been able to understand is why the creators of the game didn’t have the players use the names of independent investigators, detectives or “private eyes”, rather than the characters in the “plot”…I mean, come on, Mrs. Peacock goes into the Conservatory and immediately declares that, yep, the murder was done in this room using the Knife by, that’s right, it was me, Mrs. Peacock, yes sir, I did it, I was there when the crime was committed so I should know, I’m the one, lock me up.


They could have done it like Neil Simon did in his outstanding movie Murder By Death…if you’re not familiar with the flick, a mysterious millionaire, Lionel Twain, played by author Truman Capote, who proved with his performance that as an actor he’d make a fine mailman, invites all of the world’s greatest detectives to his mansion to solve a “murder that will take place at midnight”. Milo Perrier (Hercule Poirot), Sam Diamond (Sam Spade), Dick and Dora Charleston (Nick and Nora Charles of the Thin Man series) and Sidney Wang (Charlie Chan, played hysterically by Peter Sellers), are among the “experts” who are summoned. The detectives could have moved from room to room, made their “suggestions” and then eventually caught the person responsible. (They didn’t in the movie, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Yes, that’s correct, I’m Ms. Scarlett and I bumped off Mr. Boddy (the dead millionaire guy) in the Kitchen with the Lead Pipe. Of course, I could have used one of those sharp butcher knives hanging on the rack on the wall above his head, but that would have been too easy…better to drag a conspicuous piece of plumbing throughout the mansion on my way to the killing.

It’s still a fun game, and I’m good at it, which of course certainly helps the enjoyment factor.

Moving along, I found this last week in an article about avoiding being bitten by an alligator here in the Gunshine State; I managed to misplace the link, but I wrote down the quote I wanted to use, so all isn’t lost. To wit:

“To avoid being bitten by an alligator, experts advise staying out of bodies of water.”

And thank you, Mr. Obvious Man…really, that’s your expert “advice”, stay out of the water, in a state where any body of water more than 3” deep could have a 12 foot ‘gator in it, hiding behind a couple of pebbles, pissed off that he hasn’t eaten a nice, soft, juicy homo sapien for a couple of weeks? Yeah, I feel MUCH safer now for sure.

And once again moving along, I saw a photo on FaceBook the other day of two female friends, who were hugging each other and laughing at the camera in that goofy way we all seem to take on these days whenever we or someone we know aims a cellphone camera at us, posted on the one lady’s time line. And by sheer coincidence, both of these ladies, and I don’t want to be indelicate or come across as a male chauvinist pig snot-wad here, are well-endowed. The pic shows them cheek to cheek and mammary gland to mammary gland, and although there is nothing sexual or “suggestive’ about the photo, it’s hard not to see the obvious physicality of the subjects.

And that got me to thinking about what a pain in the ass a really big set of breasts must be to women who possess same…how to do ladies keep from running into things with them all the time? Aren’t they constantly in the way? I mean, if I’m a big-breasted women, I’d be inclined to sling them over my shoulder when I was trying to do something that caused my boobs to droop down in the way. Lying on your back reading a book has to be an adventure…if you rest the book on your stomach you can’t see it, and if you put it on the other side, closer to your face, it’s too near to be able to make out the words on the page. The House of Representatives has been considering a bill to make it illegal for a women to have breasts larger than a “C” cup, but His Eminence, President “Tweety Bird”, has been quoted as saying that he will veto any legislation that reaches his desk that limits breast size for women. “Based on my experience with women such as Stormy Daniels and Karen McDougal, I believe that large-breasted women are a benefit to America, and I say more power to them. And unlike the Media, in this case “fake” is okay. NO COLLUSION, SEND’EM BACK!”

According to comedian Jeff Foxworthy, if you think 401(k) is your mother-in-law’s bra size, you might be a redneck.

And moving along yet once again, I had occasion to visit my new PCP doctor a few weeks ago (I left my former doctor when the thieves in his billing department decided that arguing over a crummy $50 bill, which I could prove I paid and they refused to acknowledge, was more important than maintaining good patient relationships…greedy cocksuckers), to become acquainted and to make sure I’m not dying of sclerosis of the blowhole or some malady equally distasteful. In the process of being poked and prodded, tested and checked and learning that I’m shrinking vertically and growing horizontally, my new lady doctor asked me if I had ever had a colonoscopy, which I have not, nor, as I informed her, was I intending to do so. Ever. Sorry, but (pardon the pun) to my way of thinking, that orifice is meant to be outbound only…”inbound” traffic does not have clearance to land on this runway.

Since I voiced my reluctance (refusal) to subject myself to this ignominy, Dr. M stated that the “insurance carrier” (when did these assholes start running the world?) would most likely require proof that I am not afflicted with colon cancer, polyps, tumors, stalagmites, termites or the above mentioned sclerosis, and told me that she would provide me with a “collection” kit that would enable me to test myself for “human hemoglobin from lower gastrointestinal bleeding”.

Yeah, except that, once you get to reading the fine print on the test instructions, it’s a “poopie test”…you get a card, a brush, a return envelope and 25 pages of gibberish, all of which allows you check your own stool, sans the doctor, the operating room, the “flexible tube placed through the rectum into the colon”, etc.

Sorry, Doc, but this one is a non-starter for me as well, just like the colonoscopy…I’ll take my chances, and screw the “insurance carrier”.

A buddy of mine had to take one of these “poopie tests” once, right around Christmas, and being a clever individual with an unusual sense of humor, he wrote “Happy Holidays!” on the sample card, complete with sample, that he returned to the lab.

Sometimes I don’t think these doctors and insurance people have a Clue…

Love and miscellaneous,

Cap’n John

Post Script…”PCP” above means Primary Care Physician; it does not mean that my new doctor takes mind-altering drugs, although if I had to deal with “insurance carriers” all day long, I might consider it.


The French philosopher and satirist Voltaire once said that “It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong.”

Just some food for thought.

I haven’t had the chance to finish telling you guys about that call I got recently from President Tweety Bird; you’re not going to believe this, but the whole thing was so completely out of this world, and when you hear the rest of the story, you’ll understand how spot-on that phrase is to describe the things I heard, that, well, you’re not going to believe this.

Boy, the guy even has me repeating myself, I was so freaked.

(Oh, and just so we’re clear about this, Voltaire was not the name that General Motors used for its 60’s era experimental electric car…although it could have been.)

If you don’t recall the first portion of our conversation back on 4/12/18, follow the link below (see below, below) so you’re up to speed.


I try to be as candid, blunt even, as I can be when I’m speaking to world leaders, something that happens about as often as the Chicago Bears win the Super Bowl, an even once for them and me, so when PTB called that day from clear out of the blue, another very prescient phrase for the following story, I didn’t hold back…you’re calling ME for help delivering your message?

“Pres, I didn’t vote for you in ’16 and on top of that, I pretty much think you’re pond scum and a miserable excuse for a human being; I can’t imagine why you chose me to speak with about this.”

“You voted for Crooked Hillary?” he exclaimed indignantly. 

“No, Pres, I wrote my own name in for President on my ballot; I wanted the best person for the office, which is why I’m going to challenge you in ’20, assuming you’re still around then, which is looking more and more unlikely every day.”

Given how easy it is to distract PTB from whatever topic he’s supposed to be addressing, once he feels insulted, which is most of the time, the conversation took a hard left turn here, sans the benefit of the appropriate turn-signal.

“I can’t believe that an intelligent, good-looking, resourceful hunk of sex appeal like yourself doesn’t get what I’m trying to do for our country with my programs,” he went on. (Okay, maybe I embellished his description of me just a bit…call it artistic license.)

“Tell you what, Blogger Boy, I’m gonna’ let you in on something here that’s gonna’ knock you out, something I’m gonna’ reveal to the entire world when the time is right, and when I do it’ll be so amazing, but you’re gonna’ get a sneak preview right now, and if you repeat any of what I’m gonna’ tell you, I’ll nuke that shitty little town of yours there in Flouride or whatever the hell you call that sorry excuse for a, for a, shit, hang on.” I heard him calling to someone there in the Oval Office. “Hey, Kelly, what the hell do you call that place where they have a governor and you have to carry so many of them to get elected President?”

There was a muted answer from the background which I couldn’t quite hear, and then he continued.

“Yeah, right, state, I’ll nuke that shitty excuse for a state you live in, douche-bag, even though I whipped Crooked Hillary’s butt there during the election.”

DOUCHE-BAG? DOUCHE-BAG? The worst President in the history of the Republic is calling ME a douche-bag? Before I could express my indignation at the insult, he hurried on.

“I was reading some of that fake news BS you come up with in that blog of yours last night, and I saw that column you wrote where you mentioned Dr. Browning, a wonderful man, and how he explained about Jesus being an alien and how he came to Earth to get rid of sin and save us all. Hang on a minute.”

While PTB covered up the phone and spoke to someone off-line again about who knows what, I took the opportunity to regroup…Dr. Browning, who the hell is Dr. Browning?

Then it dawned on me…I remembered my post from back in December (“CHARIOTS OF THE GODS?”) about how our Pres was having problems with understanding the difference between “aliens”, as in people who come here from other countries, and aliens, people(?) who come here from other planets. Dr. Bruce Browning, a Presbyterian minister from upstate New York, had written a book back in ’68 called “The Bible and Flying Saucers”, and no, I didn’t make that up, and in it he claimed that Jesus was an ”extraterrestrial sent to Earth to rid the world of sin and wickedness”.

I heard Pres say something about “I don’t care, I’m telling him,” to whoever he was talking to on the other end, just as he came back on the line.

“Listen, Blogger Breath, here’s the deal, Browning was absolutely correct, Jesus was an extraterrestrial, and it just so happens that, believe it or not, so am I. Surprised, aren’t you? That’s right, I was sent here from the planet SuperEgo to follow up for Jesus.”

There was a dramatic pause.

“Very soon, Cap’n John, very soon I will announce to the world that they don’t have to worry anymore, BECAUSE I AM THE SECOND COMING. I WILL SAVE THE WORLD, AND IT WILL BE SO GREAT THAT PEOPLE WILL KNEEL DOWN AND WORSHIP ME…”

He stopped suddenly in mid-sentence, and I could hear what sounded like a struggle there in the OO. “Get your hands off me…”

And the line went dead.

Not ten seconds went by and the phone rang again, same Caller ID as before: “His Eminence, 202-456-1111”.

The White House calling back.

“Uh, Cap’n John, uh, this is Dr. Basil Leaves, I’m President Trump’s personal psychi, excuse me, physician, and um, well, he was suddenly taken ill and couldn’t finish his conversation with you. The President said to tell you that he’s very sorry and that if it’s all right with you, he’ll call you back sometime in the next few days and pick up where he left off just now. I hope you understand. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sedate, sorry, take care of Mr. Trump.”

And the line went dead for a second time.

Oh yeah, Doctor, I understand perfectly…I mean, it isn’t like we haven’t had hints of this coming, pardon the pun, all along.

Per M. Voltaire again…

“If God didn’t exist, it would be necessary for man to invent Him.”

While I would challenge the first part of that sentence, I’m totally onboard with the rest.

Love and megalomania,

Cap’n John



Okay, so what the hell is “fricasseed duck”, anyway? Yeah, I could Google it and find out, but I wanted to see if you guys knew. Is it mandatory for certain types of ducks? Do the ducks mind? Is it a “kinky” thing for them? Are they still located in Anaheim? Could you fricassee a spatula? Enquiring minds want to know, believe me. (Remember that ad campaign from a few years ago for the National Enquirer…could you fricassee an Enquirer reader?)

Just curious.

That’s all well and good, but it isn’t the topic of today’s post, nor is the fact that I’m sitting here in my underwear at 2:53 a.m. writing this…that’s “a.m.” as in “it am really fricasseeing early in the morning and I should be asleep rather than sitting here asking my readers about fricasseed spatulas, thank you”.

Digression, thy name is Cap’n John.

Ever since I announced my candidacy for President in the 2020 election, I have had to undertake all sorts of grown-up activities, such as establishing a political party (voters, say hello to the new “Hearty Party”), creating a PAC for extorting funds, excuse me, soliciting funds from donors, selecting a running mate and setting up a campaign apparatus (almost as good a word as fricassee) with a campaign manager to be in charge and make all kinds of big-person decisions, like where to direct our campaign efforts, where to spend the money we take in, how best to “get the vote out”, whether we should collude with the Burmese and other “getting elected” issues.

Shit, the most important decision I ever had to make previous to declaring was what color underwear I should put on in the morning. (I have a nice pair of “cerise” that I really like, but I only wear them at home…I’m scared that if I wear them when I’m going someplace that I’ll have the proverbial car-wreck and the ER people will see them and laugh their asses off. You should Google “cerise”…it’s really pretty.)

So as a major pain in the ass, excuse me, major Presidential candidate, I have “departments” in my organization that are responsible for certain aspects of the campaign, such as fund-raising, demographics, voter turn-out, fricasseeing, etc., and they report to me periodically, through my “camman”, and I’ve decided to share some of their reports with you, mostly because I feel like it.

So there.

Plunging right in…

~From the Good Thing The Car Didn’t Have Wings Or The Guy Would Have Wound Up In Cleveland Department comes a report of a man who, while driving at a high rate of speed, which had to be roughly that of light I would think, hit a median, got the car airborne and crashed into a SECOND FLOOR DENTIST’S OFFICE. Of course, I’m sure if it had been a real-estate office this wouldn’t have happened.

~From the It’s A Contraction Of The Word “Ugly” Department comes this news that the company that makes Uggs boots has added a new item…thigh-high Uggs. That’s right, exhaust fans, you can now get the nasty, totally hideous footwear in a “super-size” that goes all the way up to near your private area. It’s hard to imagine ever being that cold, or that fashion ignorant.

~From the Apparently Moving To Florida Wasn’t An Option Department, scientists  (why does that word always sound slightly accusatory to me when I use it) now tell us that evidence has been found (a human jawbone) in a cave in Northern Israel indicating that homo sapiens moved out of Africa approximately 180,000 years ago, or about 60,000 years earlier than they previously thought. (Why can’t these “science guys” ever get it right the first time?) However, no ticket stubs or travel brochures were found in the cave, so the method of transportation or what alternative destinations were considered is still unknown.

~From the We Were Bored And Couldn’t Think Of Anything Else To Do Department comes this report that a woman, who used the online name Alexandra58, came home from a shopping trip to find that her “boyfriend and mother-in-law” (her words…and I certainly hope that’s two different people) had decided to shave her baby’s head, thinking it would make the child’s hair grow in “better”; there was no comment from the baby, but the mother was contacted by the ad agency representing Uggs boots about using the child as a model.

~From the Best Idea To Ever Come From A Politician Department was this report on the town of Dorset MN, where they determine a town mayor every two years by drawing names of residents out of a hat, telling us that three-year old Robert Tufts was recently “elected”. His governing style? “Being nice and no poopy talk”. Are you listening, President Tweety Bird?

~From the So Is His Middle Name “Cookie”? Department I learned that the Sesame Street character Cookie Monster actually has a first name…wait for it…it’s Sid. This was announced by the SS people to dispel rumors that the blue-haired, cookie-grubbing animal’s first name was actually Arnold.

~From the So I Assume They Think “STD” Is An Oil Additive Department comes the report that a study done back in 2015 revealed that 11% of Americans think that the term “HTML” is actually an acronym for some kind of horrible disease. The study further found that these same 11% couldn’t find their butts with a flashlight, a map and two hands.

And finally (thank the gods)…

From the I Have An Ex-Girlfriend That Does That Same Thing Department, I was told that lobsters have a bladder on both sides of their heads (who doesn’t?) and communicate and express emotions by urinating on each other, giving a whole new meaning to the term “pissed off” (or pissed on, as the case may be).

I will leave you all with this quote from Ian Malcolm, the mathematician from author Michael Crichton’s books Jurassic Park and The Lost World…”The characteristic human trait is not awareness but conformity, and the characteristic result is religious warfare. Other animals fight for territory or food; but uniquely in the animal kingdom, human beings fight for their ‘beliefs’. The reason is that beliefs guide behavior”. 

I believe it’s time for me to quit…I have to go fricassee a duck.

Love and department stores,

Cap’n John

Post Script…wouldn’t “Pool Noodle” be a great name for a rock band?





I had no more than posted my earlier piece today (see “FLORIDUH…WE’RE #1!” below), when I ran into this little bit of news about another fellow Floridian.

And the real irony here is not only the fact that this young man is from neighboring Port Richey, which of course isn’t near as cool as NEW Port Richey, being, well, not New (well, d’uh) but additionally that the winning ticket was sold at a 7-11 (oh, thank heaven) literally about a mile down the road north of where I live, right across the street from the Publix where I grocery shop every week.

20-years old and he now has TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY TWO MILLION DOLLARS (before taxes, which under the Trump Administration means he’ll have enough for a Big Mac, fries and a shake after he pays up).

My congratulations to Shane Missler…and I hope you get cooties.$451m-mega-millions-jackpot/2935272/

Of course, I shouldn’t bitch…I’ve never bought a Lottery ticket in my entire life, which I’m told reduces the odds of winning greatly.


Love and Mega-Millions,

Cap’n John

Post Script…well, at least I still have the pic of the lady riding the ostrich.


Since announcing my candidacy for President in 2020 two days ago (campaign slogan…”My Name Is Cap’n John And I Ain’t Kidding”), I have been virtually non-stop doing candidate-type activities…you know, forming a political party, which entails getting the chips and dip, the liquid refreshments, the invites sent out, etc., as well as creating a PAC (when I said the other day in my announcement post, see “LET’S THROW A POLITICAL PARTY!” 1/10/18, that I thought “PAC” was the Burmese word for “crook”, I was mistaken…it’s actually the Attic Greek word for “lying thieves”; I just wanted to clarify that), raising money, determining what the “planks” will be for my new party’s platform, soliciting donations, writing speeches, raising money, kissing babies, seeking donors and raising money.

Not in that order, of course.

So I thought I would take a short break from all this political frivolity and discuss just how fucking weird things are here in Florida. (Another great segue, from the master of same.)

I moved here to the Sunshine State, where the state motto is (true) “In God We Trust” (I understand the guy who thought this up is now working at an ad agency writing commercial jingles for Edsel automobiles) back in August of 2015; my thought was to immerse myself in the atmosphere of Florida by coming in the absolute hottest, most humid month of the year, you know, just to get a feel for the “real” FL.

What I have found, to date, is that Florida is a) stormy, b) possessed of the most varied collection of wildlife you can imagine, which includes about a bajillion little brown anoles lizards and bugs the size of a Hummer that fly, c) hot and humid, d) the home of some of the weirdest people in captivity, e) very humid, f) colorful and g) extremely humid. Again, not necessarily in that order.

Those are the high points.

This whole “weird Florida” thing started a few weeks ago when I saw an article in the Tampa Bay Times (motto: All The News Sometimes) about iguanas showing up in people’s toilets. (See link below under the heading “What, Are You Kidding Me?”) 

Rather than rehash the article here, I’ll let you guys check it out yourselves…besides, what the hell else can you say about people finding large, herbivorous lizards that are NOT indigenous to this area doing the backstroke in their commodes? Go ahead, I’ll wait while you think about that…all done?

So here we go, mateys, a compendium, which not a place you live in, of stories from the annals of “Things To Do In Florida When You’re Totally Baked”…or whatever.


       …yeah, Governor Scott, just exactly how the hell does that happen?


       …and I absolutely, positively guarantee you she was doing 45 MPH in the far left-hand lane when she was pulled over.


       …this young woman can eat an ice cream cone from the other side of the table.


       …this does give a whole new meaning to the term “doggy-style”.


       …isn’t it sad when flatulence breaks up a happy relationship?


       …hey, getting a short bag isn’t funny, okay?


       …you guys remember the old BK ad campaign that sang “It takes two hands to handle a Whopper”? (Reminds me of the story I read years ago about vandalism done to a local Mickey D’s… police found a brick that had been thrown through the front window of the restaurant with a note attached: ”You deserve a break today.”)


       …KK was arrested when found hanging around a local Burger King. (Okay, I made that part up.)


       …thank you.

Love and electro-shock therapy,

Cap’n John

Post script…and even more finally, a woman riding an ostrich.



As you can see from the above, I put up my Christmas tree last night, what with it being the holiday season and all. Yes, it’s a very small tree, but hey, we’re talking quality here, not quantity. (I remember telling a young lady that once, in much different circumstances…she persisted in referring to me as “Shorty”.)

(The bitch.)

Anyway, I did my annual five minute’s worth of tree-decorating, hung my two stockings (one for me and one for the Harley Dog (below), who sadly is no longer with us; I still put his stocking up though, just because…it’s my house, and I don’t need a better reason), all the while playing the requisite Christmas music on my stereo (“The Nutcracker”, one of my all-time faves), and drinking eggnog fortified with Baileys. (Actually, it was more like Baileys with a splash of eggnog.) 

Of course, I only heard the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” and “Waltz of the Flowers” and oh well, all done…and FYI, I hate eggnog, I really just had the Baileys.

So, to give all of you an opportunity to get me something I really would like to have for Christmas, and not wanting any of you to have to fret over what to buy me, I have a suggestion for you guys…

…I would REALLY REALLY REALLY like to have a Pagani Huayra (see below). It’s named after the Andean God of Wind, Huayra-tata, which translates into English as “Holy shit, look at that bad oscar”. (Okay, it’s a loose translation.) 

Sporting a V12, twin-turbo Mercedes-AMG engine that develops just over 700 horsepower, it has a top end of about 230 MPH and the 0-60 time is 2.8 seconds. It uses a 7-speed gearbox and has a curb weight of just under 3000 pounds. Base price is €850,000, or $1.15 million, which means it would take me about three weeks to make enough at my part-time gig at Publix Supermarkets, where as you know from my previous posts I’m employed as a “Front Service Clerk” (a $200 name for a 27 dollar job, as I’ve said before) to buy one.

Or you guys could all pitch in…(subtlety, thy name is Cap’n John).

So there you are, mateys…if you’d like to bring some serious Christmas joy into Cap’n John’s world, here’s your chance.

Or you could get me the same thing you got for me last year and just wrap it differently.

And speaking of geography (don’t ask), I just found out today that despite my belief to the contrary, Brazil is NOT located just north of Atlanta. (Like I said, don’t ask.) 

Hey, who knew?

At top speed, I could drive from New Port Richey, where I live in Florida, to Atlanta in just under two hours in a Huayra.

Hint, hint.

Love and fuel injection,

Cap’n John


Apparently not wanting Pasco County and/or New Port Richey to forget her, Mother Nature decided that Hurricane Irma, back in September, wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass for this area, as well as the rest of Florida, but that maybe we should have a good ol’ Midwestern vintage tornado strike, and on Thanksgiving Day to boot, to remind us that she’s still here and still has the same ill-tempered attitude we’ve come to know and love (yeah, right) as Floridians.

You don’t like the weather here in Florida? No problem; wait ten minutes and it will change. (That’s an old Illinois joke, but very applicable here in the, dare I say it, Sunshine State.)

A tornado. We had a fucking tornado on Thanksgiving in NPR, about two miles north of where I live, as a matter of fact. Shit, it isn’t even tornado season in the Midwest, the home of the circular storm…it was like living in Missouri and having an earthquake. (Actually, Missouri DOES have earthquakes, and as far as I’m concerned, they richly deserve them.)

A tornado. In Florida. In late November. I’m going to get my affairs in order, get my will updated and will not be starting any long-term projects, ‘cause if that isn’t a sign of the impending apocalypse, my name isn’t Amelia Earhart.

I was catching up with a friend yesterday on the phone, and he was asking me about my experiences during Irmageddon, and as we were talking I realized that, in my lifetime, I have lived through a) a hurricane, b) a fair number of tornadoes, c) several earthquakes (including one that was about a 6.0 on the Richter, which scared the shit outta’ me), d) the annual Southern California brush fires, one of which, back in 2013, made it to about 5 miles from where I lived in Sherman Oaks, e) a really bad hailstorm back in the ‘80s, which was so fierce that is actually damaged my car, f) the four worst winters in the history of the Chicago area and g) being a Dodgers fan. (So far.)

Sorry, Ms. Nature, but you can take your shitty weather and jam it. (Reminds me of those old Parkay margarine commercials, where the actress playing MN says, after being faked out by Parkay, making her think it was real butter, that it isn’t nice to fool Mother Nature…every time she got fooled, she’d toss a lightning bolt down on some unsuspecting deer or brown bear, scorching the living shit outta’ the poor thing; these days she’s using Florida as a punching bag.)

FYI, this is the sign you see on all the roads entering FL, right behind the “Welcome to the Sunshine State” billboards.

Speaking of really excellent science fiction movies (yeah, I know, we weren’t, but I didn’t have a good segue here, so I said, screw it, damn the tornadoes and full speed ahead), TCM showed “Forbidden Planet” the other night, and even though I’ve seen this movie roughly seven gazillion times, I watched it and, as with every time I’ve seen it, loved it. 

“Planet” (which was loosely based on William Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”, a play about storms that WS wrote after living in Florida for several years) was the first “big budget” sci-fi flick, coming in at just under $2 million, which was serious money back in 1956, when the movie was released. It was groundbreaking for its time, and influenced such artists as Rod Serling, Gene Roddenberry (the creator of “Star Trek”), George Lucas and many others.

For me, the most memorable sequence in the movie is the discovery of what is behind the mysterious evil force that killed all the original settlors on Altair-4, the planet on which the movie takes place, and is now, with the arrival of a search/rescue ship from Earth, menacing the crew-members of the ship, killing several and generally scaring the crap out of everyone else. Without rehashing the entire plot, the entities that are stalking the ship are a creation of the mind of Dr. Morbius, the lone survivor of the original settlors ship and the reluctant host of the Earth-based rescuers… called (I love this) “monsters from the id”. (According to WikiPedia, the id is “the set of uncoordinated instinctual trends” existing in each person’s mind…thank you, Sigmund.) Basically, Dr. Morbius was creating, from his “id”, the monsters that were attacking the new arrivals. (Long story how this happened, but take my word for it, okay? And here’s how the Id Monster looked in the movie.)

And Anne Francis, who played Morbius’ daughter, Altaira, was way, totally hot in this movie…as Wayne and Garth once commented, if she were a President, she would have been Baberaham Lincoln. Racy shit for 1956. (Here’s Robby the Robot, Morbius’ servant (right) trying to look up Alta’s dress, the perv.) 

TCM is showing “The Dirty Dozen” tonight…another great flick, with no monsters of any type that I can recall (Robert Ryan plays an asshole, but I wouldn’t say he was a monster).

I’m going to watch it, assuming we don’t have a flood, a plague of locusts or a complete reversal of all matter in the universe, moving outward at the speed of smell from a point 2456.395 parsnips WNW from Altair-4, which is located in the lower left oblique quadrant of the Snickers solar system. (Three Musketeers? Payday? I know it’s a candy bar.)

Of course, if another channel was showing “Twister”, I’d probably watch that…Helen Hunt is just as hot as Anne Francis, as far as I’m concerned.

Love and barometers,

Cap’n John