And boy, I gotta’ tell you, it’s gonna’ come just in the nick of time.

Back a few weeks ago, you may remember, I got an email from Bill (Isn’t It Amazing How Many Billions I’ve Made With My Shitty Products) Gates, telling me that, because I’m such a great blogger, all-around good guy and devilishly handsome to boot, he wanted to GIVE me $5,000,000…in American money no less. (“I HOPE HE DOESN’T START ANYTHING WITH BURMA EITHER”)

No strings, no gimmicks, just, here you go, Cap’n John, enjoy.

I didn’t take Microsoft Bill’s dough, however, because I think he’s a jerk and that his company and the products they make are huge ripoffs and I refuse to have anything to do with him. I may not be much, but I’ve got more integrity than Bill Gates ever thought of having…like Jesus, I may consort with sinners and debauched women, but I refuse to break bread with Pharisees. (Wow, that was esoteric as hell, wasn’t it?)

Don’t get me wrong, I could have used the money, or more to the point, my campaign could have. Yeah, the Cap’n John for President 2020 campaign is having some difficulty attracting donors and raising funds. To quote Mortimer Snerd, who would have thunk it? (I understand that Mr. Snerd is in line to replace Jeff (I’m Not A Racist Just A Roving Asshat) Sessions for Attorney General under our current President…he should fit right in with this administration.)

Let me clarify the above…the campaign is NOT having trouble attracting donors; we have many, many generous folks happily forking over, excuse me, donating a few dollars here and there, a couple of bucks, a fiver, but we haven’t been able to land those BIG BUCKS folks who drop large coin on political campaigns in the hope of a quid pro quo later on from the victorious candidate. (FYI, that’s Burmese for “insert the suppository gently”. Speaking of which, one day last week I looked into the bathroom mirror and noticed I had a suppository in my ear, and right then it dawned on me where my lost hearing aid had gotten to.)

I learned about this disturbing trend in our campaign financing yesterday, when I got a call from my Campaign Manager, Mack DeKnife; Mack was, to say the least, worried.

“Boss,” he said, “the money’s coming in, but in dribs and drabs…we got no big spenders throwing down the large bills.” (Mack has a colorful way of expressing himself, as you can see.) “The ‘Cap’n At The Wheel’ PAC is dead in the water right now,” he exclaimed, and that’s a term we sea Captains are familiar with and fear. “And I’m hopin’ you don’t have any ‘Stormy Daniels’ payments to make, ‘cause if you do, we’re in deep fecal matter, kid you not.”

“Well,’ I said, “we’re okay there, Mack, ‘cause when it comes to women, I’m like a dog chasing a car…if I caught one I wouldn’t know what to do with it. How much has the CATW PAC brought in so far?”

“Lemme see,” he said, as I hear him shuffling some papers. “To date, since we incarcerated back in January, we’ve brought in, ah, $126.38.” Not what you would call a king’s ransom. I sighed out loud.

“Yeah,” Mack continued, “we’ll never get time on CNN with that kinda’ dough…Fox maybe, ‘cause you know what kinda’ whores they are.”

But once again, an unexpected boon may save the day, and it came in the form of another unsolicited email from some rich guy, wanting to give me money for, well, just for being such a great person I guess.

“Hi,” it said, “My name is Charles Koch. A philanthropist, CEO and Chairman of the Charles Koch Foundation Charitable Foundation, one of the largest private foundations in the world.” Must be a pretty solid organization with that many foundations, I thought to myself, since no one else was there at the time. (Yes, I have used that line before…so sue me.)

It went on to say that Mr. Koch, who despite being a philanthropist, etc., apparently doesn’t understand the necessity to have both a subject and a verb in a declarative sentence, had decided to give $500,000 to “lucky individuals” and that I should consider myself “as the lucky individual selected to receive the above amount”. (Help me out here, mateys…is that pronounced “coke” or “cock”?)

So I called Mack back and gave him the good news. “Boy,” he said, “that’s a relief. We can sure use it. I was afraid for a while there that we were gonna’ have to do something drastic to get people to notice us.”

Now I like my camman a lot…he’s a great guy and a solid supporter of my candidacy, but he’s a little rough around the edges, if you know what I mean. His idea of “something drastic” could include gelignite, napalm or a synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon.

“Jack, just exactly what do you mean, ‘something drastic’?”

“Well, boss, it’s like this story my old man tol’ me once when I was just a penknife…seems this here guy was walking down a country lane one day, you know, out for a stroll, and as he’s walking along he sees another guy up ahead, looks like some kind of farmer or something, and this here farmer, he’s standing in front of an ol’ mule who’s hitched to a plow and just sittin’ there, not moving, and the farmer guy is just jawing away at this mule, trying to get him to get up and get plowing. But the mule ain’t having none of it; he’s looking off in space like the farmer ain’t even in the same county as him.”

“So the guy walks over to the farmer and says, “Won’t budge, huh?”, which of course irritates the farmer guy even more. So he turns to the walking along guy and says, real sarcastic-like, no, I can’t get him to move; you got any bright ideas?

So the walking along guy says, yeah, I might, and he turns and sees an old piece of 2×4 laying in the weeds alongside the road. So he walks over and picks it up and then walks back and stops right in front of the mule, who’s still ignoring what’s going on between the two men.

“Are you gonna’ get up and plow?” says the guy with the 2×4, and the mule says fuck-you in mule and doesn’t move.

So the walking along guy hauls back and he cracks this mule, PayaaaM, smack in the kisser, and before the farmer guy could say a word, the ol’ mule shakes his head and then gets up and starts pulling the plow.

“See,” says the walking along guy, as the farmer grabs the reins of the plow passing by, “sometimes you just have to get their attention first.”

I told Mack that I had to go see about shivering some timbers and battening down some hatches and that we would have to continue this conversation later; I have no idea what exactly he has in mind to use as a “2×4”, but I sure hope it doesn’t have anything to do with that Michael Cohen guy.

Taking money from one of the Cock Brothers is bad enough.

Love and payoffs,

Cap’n John


(Please note…before anyone busts my chops for being irreverent towards the late Stephen Hawking, let me say that I bow to no one in my respect for Mr. Hawking; that he was a brilliant and courageous man of great character is unquestioned. This is humor (I hope) and should not be taken seriously.)

Now I could be wrong about this, but I doubt it.

I’m convinced that the high quality of the educational experience that we offer here at the Antonin Scalia School of Holistic and Organic Legal Education, of which I am the Headmaster, Dean of Education and custodian, which as I noted in my post from 11/18/17 (“IT’S ONLY HIGHER LEARNING IF YOU’RE STANDING ON A LADDER”) pays better than janitor, is the reason I got the letter that I received just last week, and I have to tell you, I’m excited.

Of course, my work for the school is in addition to my duties as Captain and Master of the R U Kidding; like the Hydra from Greek mythology, I am capable of wearing many hats.

ASSHOLE has been quickly gaining a reputation for heightened learning, through the various courses of study that we offer; as you can see from this sampling below (below, down there), our curriculum is varied and broad in scope, and is intended to give our students a strong foundation for their legal training by exposing them to a number of other disciplines.

~Adventures In Animal Husbandry 101…this is a video course designed to give the student a comprehensive understanding of animals and their mating practices. (Student participation is encouraged in this course.)

~Treatment Modalities For The Chronically Bewildered 201…delves into the manner that doctors approach the handling and care of bewildered patients. (Requires successful completion of Psychology For Dummies 101).

~The High Art Of The Bong 100…in-depth look at the art and craftsmanship that goes into the making of bongs.

~Legal Fees And Billings 201…this course addresses the most basic tenet of an attorney’s skill set in an increasingly litigious world. (Requires the successful completion of Lawyering For Fun And Profit 101. Course is taught by Mr. Howard Dewey, of the law firm Dewey Cheatem and Howe.)

~Sociology 301: The Making Of The President 2016…explores the election of President Donald Trump and the subsequent denigration of integrity, honesty and class in America. (Guest speakers to include Ms. Stephanie Clifford and Ms. Karen McDougal.)

At ASSHOLE, our motto is simple… “Laws are the foundation of a good lawsuit”.

I received the letter that I alluded to above (see above, up there) from a Mr. Frank Lee Scarlett, who identified himself as the father of one of our students, as well as being the President and CEO of Idont Giveadam Industries. Mr. Scarlett’s son, Frank Jr., is enrolled at ASSHOLE as a Senior, and is on the Dean’s List; he should graduate Summa Cum Laude with our 2018 graduating class, achieving a Bachelor of Arts degree in Legal Tomfoolery, excuse me, Legal Education.

Mr. Scarlett got quickly to the point in his letter; he had been so impressed with our curriculum, embodied by a quiz that his son showed him from a course Frank Jr. took earlier this year, Current Events 400, and he queried me on the establishment of a second school of learning on campus, allowing us to become a university, which he would be willing to endow.

He cited several questions on the quiz that had influenced his decision, and in the interest of showing my readers the type of educational strength we have here at ASSHOLE, I’m going to share with you, as Mr. Scarlett did with me, those questions. (And good luck stopping me now, Bubba.)

*Question #1- Explain why the word “l-i-m-a” is pronounced “leema” when referring to a city in Ohio, but is pronounced “lyema” when referring to the legume. Cite precedents to support your explanation.

*Question #2-In his post of 4/6/18, (“I HOPE HE DOESN’T START ANYTHING WITH BURMA EITHER”), Cap’n John Krissongs speaks to an attache’ from the Japanese Embassy in Tampa FL; what was his name?

[]             a) Mr. Topo Gigio

[]             b) Mr. Sheezabad Mammajama

[]             c) Ms. Tokyo Rose

[]             d) all of none of all of the above

*Question #3-The Republican Party in America is often referred to as the “GOP”; what does this stand for?

[]             a) nothing, like the Party itself

[]             b) Grand Old Party

[]             c) Guns Or Perish

[]             d) all of the above

*Question #4-Name three states in which voters supported President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump in the 2016 Presidential election.

[]             a) confusion, ignorance and Rapture

[]             b) Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania

[]             c) confusion, ignorance and Rapture, redux

[]             d) any state where the cumulative IQ level is slightly below that of a doorknob, three times

*Question #5-“I Fought The Law And The Law Won” is…

[]             a) a pretty cool song from 1966 by the Bobby Fuller Four

[]             b) Donald Trump’s last words before leaving the White House

[]             c) a caramelized persimmon

[]             d) Sheezabad Mammajama

Mr. Scarlett went on in his letter to explain that he has always had a great admiration for higher education, and cited as personal examples of his regard for learning such individuals as Sir Issac Newton, who first articulated the principals of gravity; Albert Einstein, the father of modern physics and the first man to explain relativity with his now famous formula “E=mc2”, which in the states of Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania is thought to be a sandwich from McDonalds; and most recently, the late Stephen Hawking, the celebrated theoretical physicist and author of the seminal book on cosmology in general, A Brief History of Time.

In fact, Mr. Scarlett informed me in his letter that, should we be able to bring to fruition his dream of endowing a school of advanced learning on our campus, that he would like it to be named after the brilliant English physicist…he said he would like the school to be called the Stephen Hawking Institute of Technology.

I have responded to Mr. Scarlett’s letter very positively, and indicated to him that I would be both pleased and proud to assist in seeing his dream of the SHIT become a reality here on our campus.

Hey, if they can have it in Washington in great copious quantities, we ought to be able to have some here as well.

Love and lesson plans,

Cap’n John


Basket swamp, hate going deduction for icicles plus divinity, cooking hydrate; luminosity gave plasma to scrapbook jump, but drivel took cavort immediately twice.

Hang on.

Okay, I think I’m all right now.

Like most dragonheads dancing hail Caesar…damn it.

(Giving my head a thorough shake)…There, that’s better…I think Dr. B might have let some of the ol’ gray matter leak out a little while ago when I was in his office and he removed “lump”; at one point while he was working above me, I heard him say “oops”, and believe me, you never want to hear someone with a razor-sharp scalpel in his hand who is doing something to the back of your head with it say “oops”. (FYI, if you don’t know about “lump”, see my post “CALLING DR. HOWARD, DR. FINE, DR. HOWARD…” from back on 3/27.)

Like most people I know, I have a list of things in life that I dislike, some of them intensely…yogurt, NBA basketball, being late, my ex-, your ex-, stepping in dog poop, hip-hop stuff (I refuse to call it music…it’s not), my ex-, Uggs, some of the assholes that shop at Publix, liver, Donald Trump, and my ex-; foremost on that list, going to the doctor.

I mean, if some person in authority comes along and says, Cap’n John, you are to be given two choices, and you must and can only pick one…Choice #1, a flaming Scud missile enema or Choice #2, going to your doctor, I’m going to need several minutes to consider the options.

I hate, hate going to the doctor.

For those of you who decided to be lazy and not go back to my earlier post for an explanation of “lump”, here a brief catch up (ketchup?)…

I had a small lump on the back of my head behind my left ear that was there for a long time and it was uglier than Mitch McConnell so I got tired of watering it to make it grow so I went to my doctor and he told me it was a sebaceous cyst and that I wouldn’t die from it but that I might turn into a Republican if I didn’t have it removed so I had it removed today and now you’re all caught up.

Wait a minute, I need to catch my breath.

I don’t know about you guys, but to me, the idea of somebody removing things from my body, especially when I’m knocked out, is not one of which I am fond.

Okay, that’s stating it mildly.

I HATE the thought of surgery; for one, how do I know I won’t need the thing that’s being removed later on? Two, it’s always painful. And three, it’s always painful. And I wasn’t crazy about the idea of having something removed from my head, which is the repository of the awesome Cap’n John brain (unlike the folks in Congress, who keep theirs in their butts, or so it seems)…I mean, a small mistake that causes a minor reduction in IQ and I’m down to the level of room temperature.

At least now I’m a couple of ounces lighter than I was, and when it comes to weight loss, I’ll take all the help I can get…so there’s that, I guess.

This is my third experience with “surgery”; I had a vasectomy forty years ago next month (and boy, now that I think about it, THERE’s a story that I need to tell), a hernia repair four years ago next month and today, a “lump” removal.

It would seem I have a penchant for having things removed/repaired from/on my body just subsequent to the vernal equinox. Like I’m a Druid or something.

First of all, I hate, hate, hate needles; I don’t even like to sew with the damn things. (Did I mention that I hate needles?) There is absolutely no fear that I will ever become a heroin user, ‘cause there’s no way in hell I’m voluntarily sticking one of those nasty fuckers in me anyplace.

So of course the festivities today, after the prelims of having my blood pressure taken, having it put back, lying down on the bench thingie, taking out my hearing aids (Dr. B: “I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU A SHOT NOW, CAP’N JOHN; NOD IF YOU HAVE EVEN THE SLIGHTEST CLUE WHAT I JUST SAID. OKAY?”), having them put the sterile drape over the side of my head, getting all comfy, etc., had to begin with, SHIT, he poked me with that damn needle.

I swear he stuck it in, kinda’ twisted it around a few times for maximum effect, jammed it in deeper to make sure the Novacaine took good hold and then pulled it out reeeaall slooooowww, all the while laughing maniacally.


It took him longer to administer the shot than it did to remove “lump”…it wasn’t 10 minutes and he said, “OKAY, I’M ALL DONE, IT CAME OUT REAL EASILY. I’M GOING TO PUT A COUPLE STITCHES IN NOW, OKAY CAP’N JOHN?”

Like I was in a position to argue with him about it.

All teasing aside, although I’ve only met him twice for just a few minutes each time, Doc B seems like a pretty good guy; he has an easy-going demeanor about him, smiles a lot, tells you what you need to know straight up, no bullshit, isn’t worth a roving damn for keeping appointments on time and other than that nonsense with the needle, I’m pretty sure I could learn to like him. He did a nice job today. He even anticipated me some, because when he was all done and I had the HA’s back in place so I could hear again, I asked him if I would be able to play the piano after I was all healed up.

“Could you play before?” he responded.

“No,” I said, and we both started to laugh. (I love that joke…I pulled it on the Emergency Room nurse who was splinting my finger after I broke it playing softball a bunch of years ago, and she threatened to remove another part of my anatomy that I didn’t need to have or particularly want to have removed, without the benefit of an anesthetic.)

So now “lump” is gone, I have several stitches on the back of my head, Doc B has moved on to more important things like spleens and gallbladders and I’m now waiting with breathless anticipation to see what my part of the damages are going to be after Medicare tosses in their 10 bucks worth.

I told Doc B he could keep “lump”…I’m pretty sure I won’t be needing it anymore.

And I still can’t play the piano.

Love and forceps,

Cap’n John

Post Script…okay, I know, it’s an organ, not a piano; I got as close as I could… gimme’ a break, I just had life-threatening surgery and I’m in terrible pain. 

(Insert enormous wink of exaggeration here.)


(Note From Your Cap’n: this post is dedicated to my buddy Ms. Angel, who I work with at Publix, a hard worker, a fine and decent lady and a cutie to boot…this one is for you, sweetie.) 

Today we’re going to talk about Earth, spelled with a capital “E” when using the word to refer to the planet; it is not capitalized when using the word to refer to dirt, and there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to bring the President into this conversation, thank you.

Planet Earth, as we all know, is the third planet from our Sun, which is a minor star that lies close to the rim of the Milky Way (that’s the galaxy, not the candy bar) in the Orion Arm. It is not known whether or not Orion has legs as well, but for the sake of this essay, it will be assumed, otherwise how could it walk, run and wear pantyhose, one of man’s most ubiquitous and consternating inventions?

(And lemme’ tell you, I think I should get points of using the words “ubiquitous” and “consternating” in the same sentence…please be impressed.)

A little info to give you some perspective on the Earth’s relationship to the Sun, the solar system, the other stars and the universe. First, we must consider the measurement of velocity referred to as the “speed of light”…

Light waves travel in a vacuum at approximately 186,000 MPH, which is visual; as a referent, sound waves (aural) travel at a mere 741 MPH and that stench coming from Washington (olfactory) is moving WAY faster than most of us ever imagined it could.

A light year, the measurement used to determine distances in space, is thus…

The speed of light x 60 seconds in a minute x 60 minutes in an hour x 24 hours in a day x 365 days (approximate) in a year, or 186,000 x 60 x 60 x 24 x 365 = 5,865,696,000,000 miles in a year, or about the speed I was moving at when Old Man Adams came out from behind his garage and almost caught my friend Jimmy Walker and I soaping his windows on Halloween night, back when I was 11. (Every time one of us hit/threw a ball into his yard he’d come out of his house and take it…the following year after almost being caught we tried the old “shit in a bag, put the bag on the front porch, set it on fire, ring the doorbell and run at the speed of light” routine on him. Sadly, the old fart didn’t stamp it out with his foot as we had hoped, but went in the house, returned with a glass of water and put out the fire…it still had to be disgusting to clean up.)

The closest star to our Sun and to Earth in our galaxy is in the Alpha Centauri system, Alpha Centauri A and Alpha Centauri B, which form a binary pair and are 4.3 light years distant. Using the above measurement for a “light year”, that equates to these stars being 25,222,492,800,000 miles away; FYI, that’s trillion, and further FYI, the next unit of measurement after “trillion” is “umptyfuckingbazillion”, which we will be using soon to refer to the national debt under the “let’s shrink government spending” Republicans in our Congress.

Our solar system is part of the Milky Way galaxy, which contains somewhere between 200 and 400 billion stars, and is estimated to contain at least 100 billion planets. (The term “Milky Way” comes from the Latin “via lactea”, or “milky circle”, and since I promised to stop making obnoxious references to women’s breasts, I think you guys should be proud of me for keeping the dumb joke I would usually make here to myself.)

To extrapolate further, you must use a “loofah”…excuse me, that’s exfoliate, sorry.

Begin again…There are approximately 100 billion galaxies like our Milky Way in the Universe (and with that many galaxies I figured that’s a word that ought to be capitalized). If we assume the existence of 100 billion planets in our galaxy, then we can further assume that there are 10 x 18th power, or 10 QUINTILLION planets, give or take a few bajillion, in the Universe.

Given each planet’s proximity to its star, or Sun, the atmosphere of said planet, the age of the planet and other factors, such as the duration of the cubic zirconium and the radius of the torrential nebulae, most scientists, evil fucks that they are, would probably agree that there is in the vicinity of 6% of those planets that would sustain “life” as we recognize it, said life not to encompass any beings as obnoxious as that repulsive Mitch McConnell, or a potential 60 trillion planets that could sustain some type of life form. (Actually, most scientists would probably say the number of potential life-sustaining planets is considerably less than that, but I was on a roll.)

I believe it safe to say that at least a few of these potential life-sustaining planets are inhabited with some kind of sentient creatures, possibly akin to the Iguana people of the planet Zatox, or brainless oxygen suckers like Kardashians, from the planet SelfImportant. (FYI again, “Kardashian” is Armenian for “llama mucus”). In any event, given the above numbers, in the final analysis, most likely Man on Earth is not alone in the vastness of the Universe.

My point? We exist in a immense, veritable ocean of stars and planets, so deep and vast and measured in numbers so unbelievably huge as to defy comprehension, all surrounded by the bleak nothingness of space, which could be a good description of the span between our President’s ears, and yet, with all these stars, all these planets, all these systems and all these potential life-forms, we still find ourselves getting pissed off at the asshole in front of us with 15 items in the 10 Items Or Less Express Lane.

Just a little perspective, mateys; some things just aren’t worth the hassle…we are small cogs in a VERY, VERY vast wheel, not insignificant by any means, and most certainly unique, but minuscule in scope nonetheless.

Well, except for President Tweety Bird, who is WAY more significant in the Universal scope of things than the rest of us…just ask him.

See what comes from being a part-time Front Service Clerk (a grandiose corporate name for a “grocery bagger”) in a Publix grocery store?

Love and space stations,

Cap’n John


A few years ago, on a warm, breezy early summer afternoon up in Northern Illinois where I was visiting at the time, on one of those rare and brief vacations I periodically take from my duties as the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, I was at my youngest grandson’s Little League baseball game, along with some family members and friends, and as we were standing around at the concession stand in between innings the subject of then President Obama somehow came up in the conversation.

Not a good topic of discussion with that group…sadly, many of my relatives are God-fearing, 2nd Amendment supporting, right-wing Christian Republicans whose disdain for Mr. Obama was deep and abiding. Much like the Dude from The Big Lebowski.

When I made a comment that was critical of the President, (as I recall, it was about his lack of a strong foreign policy), one of them turned to me and said, “Well, you voted for him”, in a tone of voice that implied that they equated a vote for Obama with having regular anal intercourse with a llama.

Now it just so happens that I hadn’t, (voted for the man that is…who I have anal sex with is my business) but they all consider me to be a far-left wing liberal, which I’m not, based on my avocation for sensible gun control laws and their belief that I’m a Devil-worshipping heathen due to my lack of attendance of any church, and as a group they all turned to me and gave me the ol’ stink eye, as if to say “llama defiler”.

They had just made, in their world, the absolute worst accusation they could make against a person (the vote, not the llama thing), and I stood before them, in their minds and eyes a condemned Cap’n.

So I quietly told them, although I was loathe to say for whom I had voted, since like the llama thing it wasn’t any of their business, that I hadn’t, and then further told them all to go and perform an unnatural act upon themselves with a trumpet and walked off to go back to my seat.

Barrack Obama is a fine and decent man, a man with whom I would be proud to sit down and hoist a few adult beverages, although I thought him to have been at best a mediocre President. But I have to tell you, to me, the accusation of having voted for him, true or not, pales in comparison to some citizen with a “Make America Great Again” bumper sticker on his/her car, right next to the Jesus fish.

President Tweety Bird is going to screw things up in a major fashion at the rate he’s stepping on his johnson recently, to put it mildly…the man is a blight on this country.

The phone rang here at my place yesterday, and since I wasn’t home at the time I didn’t answer it; later on, after I had returned it rang again, so since I was there this time I picked it up…the caller ID said “His Eminence, 202-456-1111”.

The White House.

“Is this Cap’n John Krissongs?” a women’s voice inquired.

“Well, that depends on who wants to know,” I replied, thinking this was a giant hoax, and that it was actually Visa calling, using some kind of new “masking” devise so you wouldn’t know who was really calling; I tried to remember if I had paid last month’s bill on time, or at all.

With no other response, the voice said, “Please hold for the President”, and the first thing that went through my mind was, why would that horse’s backside Mark Zuckerberg be calling me?

Wrong guy. (Zuckerberg just thinks he’s President.)

I heard someone pick up the phone on the other end, and in that goofy, high-pitched voice of his, holy Hail To The Chief, Batman, none other than PTB came on the line.

“Cap’n John, may I call you Cap’n John, this is President Trump, how are you today?” he said.

I was at once shocked and wanted to hurl at the sound of that voice, but I regrouped quickly and said, “Sure, if I can call you President Tweety Bird.”

“Well,” says PTB, “that’s a little rude, don’t you think? I am the President, after all.”

“Okay, out of respect for your office, how about if I call you Mister President Tweety Bird?”

“How about if we make it ‘Cap’n John’ and ‘Your Eminence’?” he replied, with a rather snotty tone in his voice. This is the Great Negotiator? I thought to myself.

“Here, let’s go with ‘Cap’n John’ and ‘Pres’; how’s that sound?” He grudgingly agreed, and away we went.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling you this afternoon,” said Pres, and I told him that was the understatement of the century, to say the least.

“Well, I wanted to reach out to a number of journalists and bloggers like yourself, people with a yuge number of readers who I hope will be unbiased and assist me in spreading my message of bullshit, sorry, of making America great again. As you probably know, I’m having some trouble with all the “fake news” media people like CNN and those lyin’ bastards at the Washington Post and the New York Times always misrepresenting what I’m saying and the things I’m trying to do as the Supreme High Commander of the World, excuse me, as President, and I was hoping you would help me out.”

Fat chance, Orange Boy, I thought to myself.

“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.

The Dodgers have started the ’18 baseball season at a blistering 4-7 pace, and so far look like they could contend for the NL West Division crown only if there’s some kind of Divine intervention, which would obviously have to come from the depths of Hades, given that I’m a devil-worshipping liberal to my relatives up in NoIL.

Oh, the rest of my conversation with President Tweety Bird? That’s continued until next time.

What, you guys never heard of a cliff-hanger?

Love and Presidential seals,

Cap’n John



It was the first of a new month and I was standing on the main deck of the R U Kidding, just aft of the mizzen-mast, talking to my 2nd Mate Gertruden Shepard about the newly begun baseball season, when her boss walked over to us with a silly grin on her face.

“Hey,” I said to my 1st Mate, Taffie Wetzel, with a nod and a smile.

“Happy April, fools,” she said. (You could tell she’d been waiting all day to try that line on someone.)

We all had a good laugh, and then I called a couple of my deck-hands, who had been busy swabbing the deck behind us, over to where we were standing.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Take Ms. Wetzel back to the stern, bind her up good and then put the plank in place…we’ll join you there in a bit.” TW turned to me with a look of astonishment on her face.

“Aye, Cap’n”.

They grabbed the 1st Mate, who was by now protesting loudly, and dragged her off aft.

When the boys had her trussed up good and tight, we walked back aft as well and with little to-do, made Ms. Wetzel walk the plank…sadly, she walked 11 feet on a 10 foot board, and in the drink she went. One of the hands up on the bow, not knowing what was going on, yelled “Woman overboard!” (Hey, I run a totally PC ship…none of that sexist iguanacrap on my boat.)

I only let her flounder for a few moments, then I had the hands tow her back in, just before a huge school of paranoid goldfish, masquerading as NRA members, moved in to attack her.

“Why did you DO that?!?” she sputtered, dripping wet, after they had her back onboard. “I thought you were going to let me drown!”

“Fooled you, didn’t I?”

Now that we have the frivolity out of the way I’d like to propagate a monumental sea-change here and, whoa, never thought you’d see this, did you, be serious for once, as unusual as that is.

April 1st marks the six-month anniversary of the launching of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, and despite all of the nay-sayers and critics who exclaimed loudly that the Cap’n would sink and not swim, you and I and all the silliness that swirls around the Kidding are still going strong.

Okay, limping along vigorously then.

For the past six months I have been boring, excuse me, regaling you with stories of three-legged pigs, or about being a part-time Front Service Clerk for Publix, or with all my advice to the lovelorn columns (remember the three-breasted woman or the retired proctologist who lived in Whoopee Cushion FL) or my Cap’n John For Pres 2020 campaign, or Montpelierians, or my opinion poll, or my trip to the doctor to find out I’m growing a second head or the Antonin Scalia School of Holistic and Organic Legal Education (better known by its acronym ASSHOLE) or with any of the stories of all the other “interesting” things that I choose to expound on occasionally.

And through it all, you guys, my loyal and faithful readers, have suffered, er, sorry, endured.


So two things, mateys…one, I hope to hell that you guys have had 1/10 as much fun reading the Cap’n as I have had telling the stories; two, and here’s the big one, from my heart…thank you.

Thank you, 10Q, danke, gracias, domo arigato, feliz navidad, xie´xie´, e pluribus unum, spasibo, tierra del fuego, in whatever language you care to apply, I am very, very grateful to you all.

Like double-secret probation grateful.

You guys are awesome, I don’t care what Mitch McConnell says.

Hey, as long as we’re all here, how about a few “Cap’nisms”, wadda’ ya say?


                “…the First Amendment of our hallowed Constitution grants the nation’s citizens the right to pop-off with their opinions, any time they like, about anything they want to pop-off about. The Constitution was ratified in 1787 and Americans haven’t shut the fuck up since then.”


                “I know you Oswaldo, you’re not the kind of man who would let his laundry basket sit on the cowling of a P-51 Mustang that was painted orange and why was the persimmon?”


                “And FYI, “yo ho” is not how you say hi to a prostitute.”

                “Hey, it’s going to be under 30 degrees here in central FLORIDA overnight again, with a “freeze warning” having been issued by the county…you’re damn right I’m in favor of global warming. And it better happen pretty damn soon, ‘cause everybody down here is freezing their cojones off. What, are you kidding me?”


                “My wife of 25 years recently left me for a rodeo clown, who had a line of bullshit a mile long, a pimped-out Winnebago and his own barrel, and I’m thinking of celebrating by spending two weeks at some island resort, naked and drunk. Do you have a preference for vacation spots?”


                “I’m a retired proctologist living in a senior’s apartment complex in Whoopee Cushion Fl, and I’m having a problem attracting the “right” kind of women; so far, since I’ve lived here, the only woman I’ve been able to get a date with was an old-maid ex-turret lathe operator with three nipples and a pet iguana named Horace.”

                “The guy in the cubicle next to mine at work is a hunk, but he never says a word to me other than “hello” in the morning and “boiled llama parts” when he leaves at the end of the day.”

                “Well, you could march into his cubicle wearing nothing but an engineer’s cap and a big smile, carrying a left-handed monkey wrench, and announce that you’re there to tighten his lug nuts; that oughta’ get his attention.”


                “…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 report further stated that these same 11% couldn’t find their butts with a flashlight, a map and two hands.”


                “I’m sure Montpelierians (no way I could say that word three times in a row with a couple of adult beverages under my belt) are devastated at this news…I know I would be.”

~From “DID ANYONE CALL MISSING PERSONS?” 12/4/17 (on babies)

                “They’re generally cute, smell pretty good until they do something unspeakable in their diapers (something my ex- and I used to call a “special delivery” whenever my daughter left us one), sometimes noisy but mostly inoffensive, and although they add little to the Gross Domestic Product, they can be counted on to vote Democratic.”


                “-“Freshets Of Profanity” would be an awesome name for a rock band.

                “-do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around…order given by the Captain to the crew, or if he’s incapacitated, the Machinist Mate 3rd Class Cosign PiRSquared, to immediately after hearing the “Hokey-Pokey” horn, turn themselves around. That’s what it’s all about.”

~From “BOY, THE WETTER YOU GET, THE OLDER IT WANTS” 2/11/18 (on getting older)

                “…and it flashed into my mind that if I said something about needles being stuck to any of the kids at work, they wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the hell I was talking about.”

                “I gotta’ be careful farting that hard…at my age I’m liable to blow my spleen right out my asshole and shoot it across the room.”

~From “OH SURE, NOW YOU TELL ME” 2/3/18

                “From the wonderful Tony Bennett song, “I Left My Heart In San Francisco and My Spleen In Cleveland”.”


                “I once ate an entire box of Entemanns Cinnamon Raisin English muffins (with butter melted into them while they were hot, and with a big glass of cold milk…yes) right before I fell asleep and woke up alternately singing “God Save The Queen” and doing Freddie Mercury impersonations.”


                “No donation is too small, and as Bill Murray said in Ghostbusters, no fee is too big, so send in those dimes and quarters and $100 bills ASAP. And remember the immortal words of Will Rogers, who once opined that we should be happy we aren’t getting all the government we’re paying for.”


Hey, I haven’t had this much fun since the last time I had root-canal work, but I need to wind this up and get going…Ms. Wetzel just walked by the door to my cabin, where I’m working here at my desk, and when she saw me turned her head away and refused to speak to me.

I think it might be time for her to take another swim…this time I might let the NRA goldfish have her.

With all my heart, thanks you guys.

Love and anchors,

Cap’n John


You guys know what you call a boat that lies on the bottom of the ocean and twitches…a nervous wreck. (Now you know why I didn’t try to make a living as a stand-up comic.)

But I gotta’ tell you, I’ve been a boat lying on the bottom of the ocean twitching this past week, as I narrowed it down to one from the list of the various and sundry candidates I was considering to be my running-mate in the Presidential race in 2020…

…that’s right, circulating fans, I am a candidate for President; my name is Cap’n John and I ain’t kidding.

You will recall from my post back on 1/25/18, “MY CANDIDATES FOR V.P.- A V.I.P., AN M.V.P., A GUY THAT SELLS S.T.P. AND A KID FULL OF C.R.A.P. (NOT IN THAT ORDER)”, that there were several qualified (?) individuals that I rejected early on for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was in some instances gross incompetence, steadily increasing in severity, going all the way up to rampant and undignified mopery.

Putting (as in setting something in place, not the golf-stroke) the ol’ weedwacker in high gear, I tore through, excuse me, I carefully vetted them all, until one person rose above the rest, the cream to the top so to speak, the stepping forward of the best person to be my right-hand man, my Girl Friday and the guy that runs out to pick-up the pizza.

Of all the wannabes, he was the most wannabe…he was double-secret probation wannabe.

My fellow Americans, with great honor, humility and pecuniary I hereby announce that as of today, I have asked Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, the former President, Rough Rider, conservationist, outdoorsman and all-around good guy, to be my Vice-Presidential candidate in the election in 2020. I believe strongly that with my leadership skills, savvy, bullshit, excuse me, experience and devastating good looks, coupled with everything that “Teddy” brings to the table, including San Juan Hill and an awesome ‘stache, we will be an unbeatable combo. We will conserve, we will defend with vigor, we will negotiate with integrity and we will fear no one under 5’4” tall.

I am excited to begin the official campaign with Mr. R.

So far, I haven’t heard back from Teddy’s camp…one of those occasional, annoying communications screw-ups, I’m sure. Like Hillary’s emails.

(Phone rings) Ah, that’s probably Teddy or one of his “people” now…

”Hello, CJ speaking.”

“Hi, Taffie…”

“Oh, he is…I didn’t know that. Shit, that changes everything. Shit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, all right, thanks for letting me know.”

That was my Second Mate, Ms. Taffie Wetzel, who spell/content-checks my posts as I write them…she tells me that Mr. Roosevelt is dead. Happened back in 1909. Over a hundred years ago.

Hey, I’ve been busy, I missed the obit in the paper, all right?


This was my guy…he said to speak softly and carry a big stick, and that every reform movement has a lunatic fringe, that if you believe you can you’re halfway there and that Republicans are crooked lying douche canoes. (Okay, I made up the last one.) Shit, now what the hell do I do? Teddy was perfect, plus he’s loaded (come on, he’s a Roosevelt, are you kidding me?), which was a BIG plus. Damn, now he can’t even endorse me.

I wonder if Rocky and Bullwinkle are available?

Love and coroners,

Cap’n John

Post Script…The names have been changed to confuse the guilty.

Post Post Script…back to the drawing board. Shit.


As you loyal readers of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog are by now aware, your Cap’n (that would be me) has declared himself a candidate for dog-catcher, excuse me, I thought I was Donald Trump there for a moment, for President in 2020…that’s right, party lovers, I am issuing a challenge to all comers, be they Democrats, Republicans, Libertarians, Green Partyians, Peace Partyians, Reform Partyians, Deformed Partyians, Socialists, Anti-Socialists, Constitution Partyians, Constipation Partyians…you name’em. Bring’em on, and I’ll whip their butts.

My name is Cap’n John and I ain’t kidding.

First of all, I have decided, after much counsel and advice from my counselors and advisors, to call our political party…wait for it…

The Hearty Party. (Catchy, huh?) 

The Hearty Party, as in “drink up, me hearties, yo ho…” (Staying with the nautical theme, don’t you know. And FYI, “yo ho” is not how you say hi to a prostitute.) 

Like all the political prostitutes, excuse me, parties above, the Hearty Party will have a “platform” with “planks”, or statements on where we stand on the various issues facing our great country today, and I thought that I would plunge right in and begin to make my positions and ideas known so that you could all make intelligent and thoughtful decisions on which candidate you prefer in the next election…just like the people who voted for President Tweety Bird did in ’16. 

Here then, in no particular order, is a synopsis of my thoughts and ideas on the issues, with an expansion of these themes to come later in the campaign…


                Let me say right here that I firmly believe in always having no “imitations”, in all things, and that I further believe strongly that the American people should be assured that I will oppose any efforts by Congress to substitute imitation anything for the real and genuine article. My administration will not allow “fakes”, “replicas” or “knock-offs” of any kind. Americans can be confidant that, under President Cap’n John, they will always have the real deal.


                There will no “trickle-down”, “trickle-up” or trickle any damned direction under a CJK administration… I believe in a strong dollar, unfettered competition, a fettered stock market, tax-free municipal Barry Bonds, capital gains and losses as needed and free beer for all citizens (except you sissy wine-drinkers; you guys can buy your own). That’s right, there will be a Beemer in every garage (wait a minute, that’s one of those Kraut rides, forget that), a Cadillac in every garage, a chicken in every pot, legal pot and discount Lotto tickets. And cable TV won’t cost fifty gazillion dollars a month when I’m Pres.








                Hey, it’s going to be under 30 degrees here in central FLORIDA overnight again, with a “freeze warning” having been issued by the county…you’re damn right I’m in favor of global warming. And it better happen pretty soon, ‘cause everybody down here is freezing their cojones off. What, are you kidding me?


                This is an issue that I feel very strongly about; all people should be allowed a Second Amendment, period. If the First one doesn’t work, then try a Second one. Why should American citizens not have the chance for a “do-over”? It’s un-American in thought and in action, and my administration will come down firmly in favor of giving all Americans a second chance to fuck-up, excuse me, to go back and try again. With a bigger hammer the second time, I hope. (One of my Dad’s fave jokes…”If at first you don’t succeed, get a bigger hammer.”)


                As far as the President Cap’n John administration will be concerned, women are always and always will be…right. Period. Shit, all the women I’ve ever known were. Men should learn to keep their stoopid mouths shut and just do as they’re told by the women in their lives, who typically are better, smarter, better-looking, have more common sense, smell better and don’t belch and fart like men. (Richard Pryor, may he rest in peace, once said that women don’t fart, they poot. And FYI, I think women are awesome…sadly, they don’t think I’m worth a broke fuck.) 


                See ~ECONOMY~ above.


                Fucking A, bubba; you wanna’ roll up a fatty and toke up, under the CJK Presidency, you’re happenin’. And I will lobby Congress vigorously to get the price down so that middle-class Americans can have affordable dope. Just like their health-care.

I will be expanding on the above themes as the election gets nearer and my campaign heats up…I am, like most political candidates, capable of being verbose to the point of insult, as you have probably already noticed.

It’s gonna’ be a fun campaign, don’t you think?

Love and hanging chads,

Cap’n John




Editor’s note: the views expressed below do in fact reflect the opinions of the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog, since Cap’n John runs the whole damn thing. (We insert a huge sigh of resignation here.)

As many of my loyal readers are aware, in addition to my duties and responsibilities as the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding, I am also employed part-time by the Publix Supermarket chain here in Florida as a Front Service Clerk, which is, as I have commented previously, a $200 name for a $27 job. (Publix’ motto for their employees: “Publix…a GREAT place to work”, to which I always add, “…compared to hemorrhoid surgery.”) I suspect, despite the fact that, and this is the truth, I am an exemplary employee, good ol’ Pubics, as I call them, probably wouldn’t appreciate my attitude.

Which is certainly understandable…it’s been my experience, after almost two years of working for the company, that they do not seem to possess a sense of humor. At least, I’ve seen no evidence of one.

Anyway, I was on my way home from work earlier this afternoon, when I noticed a bumper sticker on the vehicle in front of me, as we were waiting for the light to change; to wit…”Annoy A Democrat: Use Facts And Logic”, to which I could only think, yeah, annoy a Republican…have some empathy for your fellow man, try to use class, tact, good taste and decorum in your actions, and try pursuing what’s best for the country, rather than for all your billionaire buddies.

I do so love politics. 

After hearing that Oprah Winfrey, based on her speech at the Golden Globes award ceremony on Monday night last, is now running for President in 2020, it got me to thinking about presidential campaigns, candidates and what have you. (All these various Hollywood award ceremonies always remind me of the old joke about the egocentric Broadway star who, after giving a fan 10 minutes of self-praise for her work in a play, says to her listener, “Well, that’s enough of what I thought of my performance, what did YOU think of my performance?”) Because apparently Ms. Winfrey’s comments were such, and I admit, other than a few short examples of what she said, I haven’t heard the entire text of her remarks, that she is now a serious candidate for the Presidency.

Oh good, just what American needs, another entertainer/gazillionaire who wants to lead us to the Promised Land, or in the case of President Tweety Bird, the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Make America Great Again.

Since apparently Ms. Winfrey’s only qualifications for the office are a) having her own drippy, sentimental TV show, b) one good speech that was, in fairness, spot on in its support of the #MeToo movement, and c) a propensity for weight gain/loss that mirrors the up and down actions of a roller coaster (which I sincerely believe she does intentionally to cash in on her Weight Watchers endorsement), I figured, nothing from nothing leaves nothing, so why shouldn’t I, your Cap’n, run for President as well?

Yes, that’s right, party-lovers, as of today, January 10th, 2018, I am announcing my candidacy for the Presidency of the United States in the 2020 election. (“Hail To The Chief” begins to play softly in the background here.) 

Over the next few months I will be busy with a number of activities aimed at furthering my candidacy, the first of which will be the formation of a new political party, since I’m too practical to be a Democrat and too honest and too proud to be a Republican. I was preliminarily thinking of adopting the nickname of the Native American Party, later known as the American Party and commonly referred to as the “Know Nothing” party from back in the mid-1850s, but I figured the Republicans already had a firm grip on that moniker. (Of course, they knew enough to pass a tax-reform bill that will save each of their major donors a bajillion in tax breaks, so I guess you can’t really say they know nothing…just not much. Well, except for the Pres, who is a self-proclaimed “very stable genius”, whatever the hell that is.)

So I don’t even have a name, as yet, for my proposed new party, nor do I have any planks for my political platform, and I’m going to work on those things over the next few months and announce them as I formulate them, but I do at least have a motto….wanna’ hear it? (Good luck stopping me.)

Wait for it…

“My name is Cap’n John, and I ain’t kidding”. 

Catchy, huh?

I am working with my advisors and lawyers on the creation of a PAC (I believe that’s Burmese for “crook”, if I recall), and if you would like to allow me to extort, excuse me, if you would like to donate to the Cap’n John For Pres campaign, here’s where to send your shekels, rupees and drachmas or douche-bags or whatever they call them:

                The If The Cap’n Ain’t Kidding Neither Am I Campaign Fund

                P.O. Box 000000.523-2/3

                New Port Richey FL 111111111101

No donation is too small, and as Bill Murray said in Ghostbusters, no fee is too big, so send in those dimes and quarters and $100 bills ASAP. And remember the immortal words of Will Rogers, who once opined that we should be happy that we aren’t getting all the government we’re paying for.

Or to quote the late Mayor of Chicago, Richard J. Daley (father, not son, and this is a true quote, by the way), “Vote early and vote often.”

Love and ballot-boxes,

Cap’n John

Post Script…Tom Hanks was asked if he would consider being Ms. Winfrey’s Vice-Presidential candidate, to which he replied, “I will only be VP if I’m guaranteed at least two rides on the Presidential helicopter a month. If I don’t get that, I will not serve. I want to ride shotgun on Marine One twice a month.” Tom, you cheap shit, drop a few of your katrillion dollars and buy your own damn helicopter.




I am stunned.

Yesterday I learned something so disturbing, so unbelievable, so down right Un-
American that for a few moments after I read about this on the ‘Net, I was stunned.

Montpelier, the capital of Vermont, and in fact the smallest state capital in the country, with a population of 7,855 per the 2010 census, 54% of which are women, much to the pleasure of the local men, and home to the New England Culinary Institute and Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream…

…does not have either a McDonalds or a Burger King within the city limits. (I know a woman who, while pregnant with twins, craved ice cream so much that she and her husband named their newly born twin sons Benjamin and Jerald…damn good thing it wasn’t Haagen-Dazs I suppose.)

This is shocking, to say the least (something I rarely do.)

It occurs to me that this situation is so anti-everything we believe in as Americans that, certainly, some measures must be undertaken to address this calamity. It is unconscionable that the good citizens of this fine, upstanding New England town are required to drive 7-1/2 miles to nearby Barre to get their Big Mac or Whopper fix. 

I think an all-out write-in campaign and media blitz must be launched to convince the corporate hoodoos from both the McDonalds and Burger King chains to look into this matter and take immediate action to alleviate this gross injustice. I urge all of you to please contact someone in Vermont (although the population of Vermont is just over 600,000 people, so it’s possible you won’t know a soul up there) and light a fire under them to get this travesty rectified.

Otherwise, people of the Green Mountain State, you can have no expectations of a visit from President Donald “Tweet ” Trump, given his affection for Big Macs, if you do not.

And I’m sure that Montpelierians (no way I could say that word three times in a row with a couple of adult beverages under my belt) will be as devastated as I would be by this possible snub from the Pres.

Speaking of orgasm allergy (as you can probably tell, I think segues are vastly over-rated), I recently, during one of my several-times daily perusal of for my news fix, came across an article that told the story (plight) of a man I’ll call Mr. O, who suffered from…wait for it…orgasm allergy. 


It seems that Mr. O is a 50-year-old married man, and has suffered from this allergy since the age of 19. Every time he ejaculates, Mr. O “experiences fever, weakness, exhaustion, loss of initiative, headaches, disordered speech, irritability, forgetfulness and frightening dreams, not to mention swollen lips and throat.” Yeah, not to mention. (Needless to say, puberty was the only time sex was any fun for this poor guy.) Further symptoms include loss of a day’s pay, halitosis, hemorrhoids, taxation without representation, voting Republican and rampant mopery. (Oh, the picture above? I couldn’t come up with “art” to depict orgasm allergy, so I decided to throw in a photo of a woman riding an ostrich. Hey, I’m not perfect, okay?)

The article goes on to state that, “The symptoms are so severe that he and his wife plan intercourse for Fridays so he will have two days to recover before returning to work on Monday.” (Then it gets serious.) “HE ALSO SUFFERS FROM PREMATURE EJACULATION, SO THE PROBLEM IS NO PICNIC FOR MS. O EITHER.” (Emphasis was mine.)

Okay, I’m back up at my desk after falling on the floor laughing, although I’m sure there is nothing humorous about this matter to Mr. and Ms. O.

Shit, and I thought I had problems.

Interestingly, Mr. and Ms. O live in Montpelier VT, and there has been speculation by the various doctors there that have treated Mr. O that the lack of good ol’ American fast-food hamburgers could be a causative factor in his case.

So come on, Vermontians, let’s get cracking and get Mr. O the fat-laden, empty calorie burgers that will help him get on the road to recovery.

Because man does not live on ice cream alone.

Love and two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,

Cap’n John