(Editor’s note: Dedicated to my buddy Angel, whose last day is today…I’m gonna’ miss you a ton, sweetie. And hang in there, guys, this is gonna’ be a long one.)

Back in late 2017, after much deliberation and some encouragement from several friends, whose loyalty is above reproach but whose taste might be sorely questioned, not for being my friend, although I suppose that could be the basis for some close examination by the “Are You REALLY Friends With That Person?” police, but for the suggestion they gave me, which was to launch a blog site of my own, with the principal author/editor of said site to be…me.

Apparently some of the various things I had written and posted on Facebook led them to believe that I had some meager talent for humor and making people laugh, so, in lieu of sitting around and pulling the wings off of flies or otherwise abusing small animals with a hand-held propane torch, I decided that, yes, I would become a “humor blogger”. Thus began the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding website/blog.

And the rest, as they say, is Geography.

“I’ll take The World’s All-Time Biggest Idiots for $500, Alex.”

I won’t say that it hasn’t been a lot of work, because it has…a typical post (three a month these days) takes me somewhere between 12 and 15 hours to compose, which includes the writing, the gathering of the “optics” (you may have noticed that I really like old black and white photos), installing various links to articles and videos and a (large) number of edits, going over (and over) what I’ve written until I feel it portrays accurately what I’m trying to say.

Yes, I really do have a notion going in of what I want to say…it isn’t all by the seat of my pants, which is good, because I typically write in the nude, sans any pants that would have any kind of a seat. (Okay, I made that up, but I do wear my special “writer’s matching bra and panty set” when I’m working, in a tasteful cerise color. And yes, it’s a thong.)

So after I set-up the site, I created an FB page for both the Cap’n and the blog. And by the way, Facebook apparently does not recognize a birth date in the 21st century, so when I entered 10/1/2017 as my natal day on the at that time brand new page for “the Cap’n”, FB changed it to 1917, thus announcing to my friends and followers on the first of October that I was a 103 years old…oh good, I don’t already feel old enough, Zuckerberg and his crew of merry assholes had to make me feel ancient. Thanks, guys.

October 1st, 2020 marks the 3rd anniversary of the WATRUK blog, and in celebration of that momentous occasion (?), I have gone back over the past year and gleaned some tidbits from the posts I have written, a “Greatest Hits” if you will, and with your kind attention (or without, ‘cause it’s too late to turn back now), I will share them with you, my loyal readers.

Donations will be cheerfully accepted.


(Where I’m talking about a long-winded, single-sentence paragraph that I opened with)

”By show of hands, how many of you think that the opening paragraph was convoluted, too long, imprecise and utterly brilliant?”

(Talking about an Internet headline I’d seen)

“’Do You Know Your State Fish?’, and I thought to myself, no, not personally, I know him when I see him, waved to him out in the yard a couple of times but no, I never actually met him.”

(Another Internet headline)

“’Premature ejaculation…the brain inside your penis’, and I thought to myself, there being no one else here at the time, shit, that treacherous little (excuse me, amazingly large) bastard has gotten me into enough trouble over the years I’ve been aware of his existence, and NOW you tell me the damned thing has a brain of its own as well? Boy, there’s some good news. Besides, that’s as crazy as thinking that the people of America could ever get together and elect a guy like Donald Trump as President.”

(My review of a high-school band concert I had attended)

“If you take a 200-piece (that’s correct, sports fans, TWO ZERO ZERO) marching high-school band, composed primarily of musicians playing brass instruments, brass as in loud, shiny, heavy and loud, and place its members, complete with said instruments, all around the outer perimeter and up on the stage of what appeared to be about a 1200-seat auditorium, i.e. moderate size, and then have them play the school fight song at full march volume, to then describe the resultant sound as “loud” does not even begin to do the ensuing cacophony justice. Several elderly people fainted, a small girl, sitting directly in front of the tuba section, was injured when she was blown off her chair on the opening chord and a lady who had been crippled from birth suddenly rose up from her wheelchair and walked again.”


“Three observations about watching reruns of old football games on YouTube…1) at the commercial breaks, assuming whoever posted the video took the time to remove the ads, when the announcer says, “we’ll be back in a moment”, they really ARE back in a moment; 2) despite how it sounds, it really is nice to know who’s going to win, especially when the winner is YOUR TEAM; and 3) the 1985 Chicago Bears were the best team to ever play in the NFL…best defense most certainly, and probably GOAT for the entire squad as well. I invite dissenters to dissent.

Yeah, Go Bears! Or should that be past tense, since it was 35 years ago? Went Bears?”


(Talking about leaning against a wall when you urinate)

“You just kinda’, you know, let your left shoulder slump against the wall, and once aim is adjusted, to avoid the dreaded “hit the rim instead of the water and splash urine all over your leg” mistake, you let both arms hang limp at your sides and just lean there and enjoy the pee.”

(This one is self-explanatory)

”And as long as we’re on the general subject, please allow me an editorial comment here, if you would…ladies, I cannot for the life of me understand why you carp at men for not putting the seat down when they’re done peeing. Okay, yes, common courtesy would certainly dictate the return of the seat/lid to the down position, but sadly not all men are graduates of the Miss Manners School For Delicacy and Decorum. But really? Really? You guys aren’t smart enough to check behind you first before you park your butt on the crapper…I mean, it’s kinda’ like backing your car into your garage without first checking to see if the door is open. D’uh.”

(A letter I received)

”’From Sister Kitty Hawk of Makesme IL…

          ‘I represent the National Unified Network of Sisters (NUNS) and I have been asked by my sister sisters to advise you of our strenuous objection and opposition to your formation of a new religion, the Roving Spastic Church. We are deeply insulted by your obvious allusion to the Roman Catholic Church, and are further offended by the disparaging remarks you made regarding the various methods used by the REAL Church, the Catholics, to extort, er, excuse me, raise funds from our members to support our work. You are a vile, despicable, repulsive, sickening, disgusting, gross, opinionated fucktard and we hope you burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, or that you’re subjected to four more years of listening to Donald Trump, which would be approximately the same thing.’”


(My version of the Ten Commandments)

Okay, so here’s the Big Ten, paraphrased:

#1- No side gods…one is enough

#2- Don’t screw over Mom and Dad

#3- Church on Sunday, heathens

#4- No golden calves (see #1)

#5- No swearing using god’s name…say “shit” instead

#6- No killing

#7- No funny business with Mrs. WhatsHerFace next door

#8- No stealing…if it ain’t yours, leave it alone

#9- No lying (even if you are, especially if you are, the President of the United States)

#10- Don’t be looking greedily at Mrs. WhatsHerFace or her new BMW”

(About the Church deciding that eating meat on Friday was no longer a sin)

”Boy, I gotta’ tell you, if I’m some poor SOB languishing in the fires of Hades, parched and in despair, begging for just a drop of cool water and I suddenly found out that I had been railroaded like this by the Church, I’d be some pretty pissed off. All I did was stop off at Mickey D’s for a Big Mac on the way home from work, totally forgetting it was Friday, I get home, eat my burger and then I have this major coronary event and bite the big one, hasta yo’ mama, senor, and next thing I know, there I am in front of St. Peter on the way through, who tells me, hey, special sauce lettuce cheese, you’re on your way to Perdition, have a nice trip, say hello to Lucy Fur for me when you see her.”

~From AS I WAS SAYING… (7/19/20):

(Talking about old sayings)

“’He was asleep at the wheel’. Well of course he was; he couldn’t be asleep under the hood in the engine compartment, unless he was a squirrel or a spark plug, or for that matter in the glove box, unless he was the size of a box of Kleenex tissues, which are currently on special at Publix, 2 for $3.99. Wouldn’t it be better to say: ‘He was being pursued by aliens from the planet Zatox at the time of the accident and was rendered unconscious by their anti-matter ray-guns.’”


(A letter I received from Jay Silverheels, who played Tonto in the old The Lone Ranger TV series, looking for advice, and my response)

“’Cap’n John:

Tonto here. Have heap big problem with squaws, no can find any that don’t already have little papooses in their tee-pees. Tonto need help finding Indian maiden who like Tonto, want to smoke peace pipe and make wampum with Tonto. Have much silver from big, dumb white man with sissy mask, so Tonto okay for money. Need Cap’n to say where all the fine, young Pocahontas’ are. Cap’n please send smoke signal soon, help Tonto pronto. Thank you, kemo sabe.

                Quiver Full Of Arrows, Nowhere To Shoot’

Dear ‘Quiver’:

                Have you tried the Squaws R’ Us Dating Service? Heap big medicine.”


(A News Flash that hit in the midst of the blog post)

“-Dateline Washington D.C.

President Declares War On Planet Zatox

President Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump today announced that he was declaring war on the planet Zatox and as Commander in Chief would direct the Joint Chiefs of Staff to immediately mobilize the Space Farce Corps for a direct invasion of that planet. President ‘Tweety Bird’, in explaining this extraordinary move, said the Zatoxians were guilty of ‘many bad things, terrible things that some experts, and these are great experts, believe me, have said were terrible, like, well, the Zaproxians are originally Yo Semites, and many, many years ago they denigrated from Earth to a new planet and, you know, they’ve done these terrible things like doing experiments on people they’re abdicated and taken up in their spaceships. And the Democrats and Nancy Pelosi have let them do this, ever since the Civil War ended back in 1926, and Kamala Harris is a Zahoxian by birth, according to some other well-known and really great, great experts.’

More on this breaking story as it becomes available…”

~From IS THAT YOUR PET, PEEVES? (8/31/20):

(On the proper use and frequent misuse of commas)

“’Is that a Tyrannosaurus, Rex?’ (The Latin translation of that sentence is “Qui est de tyrannosaurus, King?”, which isn’t as funny but a lot haughtier.)”

“On a recent resume I received, applying for the position of Dungeon Master, Lower Hold…’My interests include cooking dogs and running.’ This was in response to my ad, ‘Help, Wanted.’”

”I love this one…’The panda eats, shoots and leaves.’ (I’ve had women accuse me of that.)”


(Talking about advice columnists and twin sisters Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren, whose nicknames were “Eppie and “Popo”)

And they hated each other, and didn’t speak for years after ‘Abby’ got started with the Tribune in 1956. ‘Ann’ was once quoted as saying that, ‘…and the ugly outfits that our Mom used to dress us in were Popo’s fault, and becoming an adult hasn’t improved her taste any, believe me…’ and ‘Abby’ shot back that, ‘I hope she gets a bad case of crotch lice.’ (Okay, I made all that up, but the sisters were estranged for many years due to the competition between them as America’s foremost and most popular advice-givers. And yes, they once had to be separated by Sheriff’s deputies at a Bar Mitzvah for Jerry Mathers, that kid who played Beaver on the ’50s TV show Leave It To…, and he wasn’t even Jewish. And if it seems like ‘Eppie’ and ‘Popo’ were bad, who the hell names their kid ‘Beaver’?)”

I hope all my loyal readers (all a couple of you) have had as much fun reading the silly things I post on the Welcome Aboard The R U Kidding blog as I have had posting them here, because the past three years, despite Donald Trump being President, have been a lot of fun.

Thank you, thank you.

(I have matching sets in black, a dusty rose and ivory as well.)

Love and anniversaries,

Cap’n John


(Editor’s note: Every now and again I get the urge to dedicate one of my posts to someone who I deem worthy of this august and I’m sure humbling honor, so today’s bit of frivolity goes out to my two newest fans, Ms. Kathi and Ms. Sus, both of whom seem like very nice ladies with decidedly questionable taste in humor. Welcome aboard, girls.)

Opening shot: Masked man in all gray cowboy outfit and a white hat riding hell-bent for leather on a large, pure white stallion as he repeatedly fires an “Old West” style Colt six-shot revolver at unseen villains, moving left to right across a western plains setting with mountains in the background. As shot opens, begin playing final measures of Rossini’s William Tell Overture. (See link below.)

Voiceover: “A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hi-Yo, Silver…the Lone Ranger”.

I always wondered who LR was firing at in that opening sequence, ‘cause they never showed who it was…his ex-mother-in-law? Bank robbers? (The Old West seemed to have a shitload of bank robbers.) The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders? Donald Trump? The Pillsbury Doughboy? I guess we’ll never know now.

The Lone Ranger.

Lemme’ tell you, I spent more than a few hours as a kid parked in front of our old black and white TV back in the late ‘50s watching Clayton Moore, who played LR, and Jay Silverheels, who played “his faithful Indian companion” Tonto, mesmerized by the stories, the action, that amazing big-ass white horse, the fact that he only used silver bullets (later on, after the whole “TV Westerns” thing died out, Moore, having kept the silver ammo, went on to star in a cheap, straight-to-video B movie, The Lone Ranger: Vampire Hunter), and the whole mystique of no one ever knowing just who the hell this masked guy was. Each episode ended with some befuddled townsperson asking the sheriff, “Who was that masked man?” and the sheriff answers, in a voice dripping with respect and admiration, “That’s the Lone Ranger”, as you hear LR shouting in the background, off-camera, “Hi-Yo, Silver, away!”.

The story-line goes that LR, before he was “Lone”, was part of a group of six Texas Rangers (the lawmen, not the baseball team) who were cruelly ambushed by some dastardly villains and left to die, and by some miracle of TV, “Lone” manages to survive, is found and nursed back to health by Tonto, discovers a silver mine, which accounts for the bullets and the horse’s name, puts on a mask, apparently because that was the way he swung, which by the way Tonto wasn’t buying into even a little, being straight hetero only, and goes off to right wrongs, defend the little guys, stomp the crap outta’ criminals and occasionally talk some pliant young Western gal into a “hook-up” involving him, the mask, the bullets, Silver, who not surprisingly was hung like a horse, a tuba, a midget named Horace and a 55-gallon drum of Jello chocolate pudding.

Of course, nowadays, in this PC society that has evolved around us, Tonto would be a Native Canadian, being a member of the Mohawk aboriginal tribe from Canada, and Horace would be a “vertically challenged” person. And Albert Einstein would write a letter to the producers of the show, complaining about the “speed of light” nonsense in the opening, explaining that according to his equation E=mc “squared”, (I have to write it out, since I can’t figure a way to put the little “2” behind the “mc”), a horse couldn’t actually run that fast, without being converted into pure energy, which would then mean that LR wouldn’t have anything to ride on, since Silver would have been changed from matter into…shit, never mind.

Tonto always called LR “kemo sabe”, which I learned was from the language of the Pot o’ Watami and means “he looks out in secret”. (Why he spoke in the Pot o’ Watami tongue since he was a Mohawk is still a mystery to me.) Anyway, Tonto spent quite a bit of his time bailing LR out of stupid jams that he, LR, had he possessed the brains of a doorknob, shouldn’t have gotten into in the first place. The “faithful Indian companion” often looked to me like he wanted to shake his head in disgust and tell LR, you know what, white man, you’re as dumb as a cannonball in a swimming pool, I think this time, I’m just gonna’ leave you here for the bad Indians to use you as a pin-cushion. (The Pot o’ Watami Native Americans derived the name from their habit of filling large iron cauldrons with “watami” and then placing them out on the prairie for the buffalo to eat (the “watami”, not the cauldrons), which was pretty stupid when you think about it, considering how many bajillions of acres of grazing land the buffs already had available. All right, the correct spelling of the word is actually “Potawatami”, a for-real tribe from what is now the Illinois/Wisconsin area. And FYI, Gary Larsen of The Far Side fame, one of the funniest cartoonists ever in the history of mankind, once opined in a cartoon that “kemo sabe” actually meant “horse’s rear end” in Navajo.)

As it relates to modern times, at least the Lone Ranger was wearing a mask, and yes, it only covered his eyes but he seems like a pretty good guy so I’m sure we could have gotten him to cover the rest of his face as well without all the griping and bitching we hear these days every time some mouth-breathing MAGA knuckle dragger is asked to wear a mask to protect the rest of us. Geez, you’d think it was the imposition of the century, like they’re being asked to wear a ball and chain complete with steel manacles and a full coat of armor along with which we’re going to staple this 50 pound weight to your scrotum, or in the case of the female representatives of the mouth-breathing MAGA knuckle draggers, thumbtack the damn thing to your forehead, and then ask you to swim the entire length of Lake Winnebago, thusly clad, all the while chanting “kemo sabe, kemo sabe” over and over again.

Hey, LR wore one, hockey goalies wear them, bank robbers wear them, catchers wear them, Batman wore one and a shitload of guys in cheesy porn movies wear them, not that I’ve ever actually seen a cheesy porn movie, but my friends have told me about them. So get with the fucking program, all right? Geez.

Now that I have all that out of my system, on to today’s topic, which is once again, as I do periodically, answering all the letters, emails, texts, smoke signals (typically from the Potawatami folks), carrier pigeon messages and notes in bottles, asking for my advice on my reader’s love lives.

Yeah, like I have a clue…the last time I had a date, buffaloes were eating watami out of big iron kettles on the prairie.

And so…

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I hope you will be discrete with this inquiry, as I have to remain onmagneto, or whatever the hell that word is. I’m a hetero male in my early 30’s, virile and studly, but I’m having serious problems attracting a good, decent pioneer-type “little woman” to settle down with and raise little cowboys and cowgirls. I’ve tried all the typical singles places, the saloons, the church socials, the barn raisings, some quilting bees, even went to a Singles Bronco Busting Night once at the local rodeo, and nothing. I wear a mask as part of my work, and I thought, gee, maybe some of the ladies will think that’s kinky and, you know, express some interest, but nope, not a one. I’m getting tired of it being me and my horse, out on the prairie, just the two of us…shit, even Silver is starting to look pretty good to me. Can you give me a “hands up”, Cap’n John?

                Riding The Range Alone, Ranger”

Dear “Ranger”:

                You know, I’ve heard you frontier types weren’t real big on personal hygiene…maybe get the smell of buffalo dung off your boots and try splashing on a little Eau de Horse Blanket and you might have better luck with the gals.

“Cap’n John:

               Tonto here. Have heap big problem with squaws, no can find any that don’t already have little papooses in their tee-pees. Tonto need help finding Indian maiden who like Tonto, want to smoke peace pipe and make wampum with Tonto. Have much silver from big, dumb white man with sissy mask, so Tonto okay for money. Need Cap’n to say where all the fine, young Pocahontas’ are. Cap’n please send smoke signal soon, help Tonto pronto. Thank you, kemo sabe.

                Quiver Full Of Arrows, Nowhere To Shoot”

Dear “Quiver”:

                Have you tried the Squaws R’ Us Dating Service? Heap big medicine.

“Dear Cap’n John:

                I’m a vertically challenged person who is having difficulty finding a soul-mate who sees life in the same way I do, that is, at a very low level. I’m financially secure, having been very successful as a partner in a silver mining business, have all my own teeth and hair and a closet full of hip, trendy size XXXX Small clothing that should impress any young (tiny) woman I meet. I don’t want to go on the Internet to one of those online dating services like Loving Munchkins or Tiny HeartThrobs because it just seems like a shortcut to me; I’d rather find a source of eligible bachelorettes to possibly hook up with and spark a romantic fire, even if it’s just kindling at first, rather than logs. I could sure use a hand up, Cap’n John…can you be a big man and help me out?

                If This Were Baseball, I’d Be A Shortstop”

Dear “Shortstop”:

                Tell you what, the short version, I’m afraid my answer might go right over your head.

Looking at the word counter thingie down in the corner of my monitor, I see I’ve gone over my limit again; time to get astride my mount and ride off into the sunset.

Love and saddles,

Cap’n John

Thanks to Rick Kirkman and Jerry Scott for the above.