(Editor’s note: this week’s post is dedicated to my co-worker and good buddy Ms. Megan, a super-nice young lady who has a mega-watt smile and a serious case of major sweetiness. She’s a joy to work with, and even better, a fan of the Cap’n, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is absolutely no accounting for taste.)

Over the past almost four years that I have resided here in the Gunshine State I have on several occasions remarked on the varied and extensive wildlife that populates the Gulf Coast here in Central Florida; to say that we have a poop-load of species, both common and exotic, would be the understatement of the millennia. (Of course, we’re only 18+ years into the current millennia, so greater understatements over the next eighty-one and one half years are certainly possible.)

Alligators, ibises by the truckload, green iguanas by the container-load, anoles lizards in quantities so vast as to defy counting, sand-hill cranes, some of the strangest looking ducks I’ve ever seen, hippopotamuseses, cardinals, dolphins, armadillos, otters, manatees, opossums (I’m assuming they’re Irish), key deer, lock deer, camels, llamas, panthers, skinks and, every spring in numbers so vast as to be nearly suffocating, love bugs.

That’s right, ceiling fans, love bugs.

Piecia neartica, also known as “march flies” or in the more common parlance, a bigger pain in the ass than our current President, Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump, the little fornicators are EVERYWHERE. Literally. And not just by the dozens or the hundreds or the thousands or the millions but by the gazillions. The other day at work at the Publix grocery store where I’m employed part-time as a bagger, just inside the main entrance which is protected by one of those automatic doors that opens as people approach from either side, I counted over two hundred of the “couples” (I’ll explain that in a moment), lying about on the floor, on the window sills of the big plate-glass windows, on the windows themselves, on the carts just inside the door, flying through the air, on the hand sanitizer dispenser, on the walls, on the “Caution Wet Floor” holder thingie, on the bulletin board, every friggin’ place you can imagine and a few you probably can’t. They’re invasive and they’re disgusting. (Much like some of my ex-in-laws.)

These little fuckers are so named “love bugs” because they stay “coupled” during and after mating, even when flying, for several days post-coitus. (According to scientists, the female of each pair is the one who does the flying, as the male has rolled over and gone to sleep.)

Fortunately the damned things don’t bite or sting, but by a curious fact of their nature, they have a slightly acidic body chemistry; if one of the couples (or several bajillion) die on the surface of your car, the remains are difficult to remove and can cause “pits and etches” in automotive paint finishes. No big deal for me and my 1989 Yugo, but the folks with new Beemers and/or Studebakers can’t be too pleased.

Once believed by urban legend to be the result of a University of Florida genetics experiment gone WAY wrong, it is now widely thought that P. neartica have been inflicted upon Florida as retribution by Mother Nature for giving Supreme Ruler of the Universe Trump its 29 electoral votes in the 2016 Presidential election.

It is difficult to describe how disgusting it is to see these repulsive creatures flying by, wings wrapped about each other, smoking their little bug cigarettes, smug and content in their post-coital bliss.

As if hurricanes and the gun-toting Republicans weren’t bad enough.

Speaking of disgusting and invasive (yes, that was a segue, a literary device seldom used here on the WATRUK blog), I’ve noted an increase in the amount, and in many ways the inventiveness, of the junk emails that I have been receiving lately. Since I have both a personal email address ( as well as one for the WATRUK blog (, I’m blessed with double the pleasure and fun, like the old ads for Wrigley’s DoubleMint gum, of folks sending me all kinds of offers, tips, warnings, gifts, notifications, etc., every day.

Yes, I am truly blessed.

Since I know none of the rest of you out there in InternetLand ever receives these messages, I thought I would take a moment today and share with you some of the more interesting and informative ones that I’ve gotten recently.

~From Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws, President of the Third Nigerian Bank and Tire Center:

                “I am writing you this day tomorrow to tell you of a sad dying of Mrs. Styrpdf Dghbarmj, just of lately, who left in her account pigeons the sum of $5,000,000,000 USD, and not claimed by hairs or relations tenants and so to be distributed to those worthy doughnuts as by decree to from Mrs. Dghbarmj, should the money not be claimed by vandals or surfers. Your name has come to attention of my orifice, as being on the list of rhinos not currently displaced, and I need information from your person as to where to send any portion yours of the $5,000,000,000 USD soon yesterday. Please give your name, address, cellphone number, hat size, bank account number, password, Social Security number, name of first-born children mantis, suit size and favorite flavor of ice cream dispersely and I will forward your part of the $5,000,000,000 USD soon last week tonight. And do not be taken in congeal by others on Internet with offers to yes money as they are lying, love bug hating llama defilers and only want to blowtorch your goodwill roughly.

                Sincerely, Mr. Nagutrjus Huryfgrwws, President,

                Fourth Nigerian Bank of Nairobi Switzerland”

~From DHL:

                “Your package cannot be delivered due to indifference of the address as we know debenture so closely. Please provide your name, correct address, cellphone number, hat size, bank account number, password, Social Security number, name of first-born children, suit size and favorite flavor of ice cream so we can upbraid your address and deliver love bugs.”

~From Big Dicks R’ Us:

                “Tired of being in a locker room full of guys hung like stud horses when you’re hung like a stud chipmunk? Tired of being called Tiny Tim, or having your girl ask, is it in? If so, then RIP-A-DICK is for you! That’s right, the all new and completely safe MALE ENHANCEMENT compound, tested and declared potent by the FBDA (Federal Big Dicks Agency), RIP-A-DICK is the new chosen path to the size women love! Recent experiments on love bugs in Florida have resulted in male member increases that boggle the mind! Men everywhere are praising RIP-A-DICK as the wonder of the 21st century! Try RIP-A-DICK today!”

~From Dr. Halie Unlikely, M.D.:

                “If you’ve tried all the fad diets and weight-loss programs on the market today with no success, seen and heard all the fake ads for “lose up to 3000 pounds eating nothing but Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey Ice Cream and Carrot Cake Oreos everyday”, then you’ll be pleased to learn that a NEW physician-tested weight loss program is now here and available. That’s right, if your weight is almost the same as a North Atlantic right whale, then the Dr. Unlikely Weight Reduction Plan Diet is for you! There’s no weekly weigh-ins, no calorie counting, no special milkshakes or “mix with water” powders that leave you hungry enough to eat the north end of a south bound iguana, just delicious pre-packaged meals and desserts that satisfy your appetite and empty your bank account. Don’t wait, try the new Dr. Unlikely Weight Reduction Plan Diet today and start losing those unwanted pounds immediately, if not sooner.”

~From Svetlana Titslova:

                “Hi there, remember me? We talked on the Web recently and I sent you my picture…you know, the one of me in the string bikini? Sorry about the hairy legs but I LUVED your comment about being into Russian girls with three breasts and defiling llamas and thought we should “hook up” again. You’re a real stud muffin, I’m sure. Send me your name, correct address, cellphone number, hat size, bank account number, password, Social Security number, name of first-born children, suit size and favorite flavor of ice cream and let’s get it on! Can’t wait to hear from you, macho dude! Svetlana”

Makes you really grateful for the “Empty Folder” icon, doesn’t it?

Love and love bugs,

Cap’n John

Post Script…FYI, is a for-real address that you can send any comments, complaints, ideas, gripes and observations you might have. Play your cards right and I might even answer. CJK


Dear Santa:

I can explain…

Remember the scene in the original Blues Brothers movie where Carrie Fisher has John Belushi trapped in the tunnel under the highway and is holding an automatic weapon on him, preparing to shoot his lying, betraying butt for standing her up at the altar? JB is on his knees, begging her not to kill him.

“I swear”, he cries, “it wasn’t my fault”.

“My car ran out of gas…”

“I had a flat tire…”

“I didn’t have any money for cab fare…”

“My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners…”

“An old friend came in from out of town…”

“Someone stole my car…”

“We had an earthquake…” (In Illinois?)

“There was a flood…”



Impressive list.

Just to set the tone here, I still believe in Santa Claus. Yes, it’s true, I still believe in the whole Santa and the elves and Mrs. Santa and Rudolph and the other reindeer and the toy factory and the sliding down the chimney, leaving presents and eating the milk and cookies schtick.

And don’t tell me about fantasies and impossibilities, okay? ‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, Funk and Webster’s should have taken the word “impossible” right out of their forking dictionary on November 9th 2016, the day after Donald “Tweety Bird” Trump got elected President of the United States.

Impossible? Shit, that was double-secret probation unbelievable.

I can still remember clearly watching all the election night/political analyst dweebs on CNN fumble-fucking all over themselves that evening, trying to wrap their minds around and then explain how in the world Donald Trump got elected, despite all their analysis and predictions that he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of beating Hillary “Lock Her Up” Clinton. (I didn’t think he did either.) The visages and verbal expressions of incredulity were everywhere. From the way their faces looked, you would have thought Wolf Blitzer had suddenly run on-camera stark naked from the wings offstage, yelling that he was the Emperor of Spleens and that he would sprout angel wings, fly off the roof of the CNN building there in Hotlanta and swoop down on Jane Fonda to prove it. (Yeah, I know, Jane and Ted aren’t together anymore, but who was Wolf gonna’ swoop down on, Hank Aaron?)

Stunned. Like a bovine hit with a cattle prod, right between the eyes stunned.

Impossible? Don’t tell me about impossible after that fiasco.

So yeah, I still believe in Santa. And the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin and the check is in the mail. As far as I’m concerned, all bets are off since that November night, just over two years ago.

Anyway, I was in the middle of writing my annual letter to Santa Claus…

It wasn’t my fault, Santa, because I was led astray by evil, wanton women, who forced me to pursue sins of the flesh (repeatedly), to drink “likker” (repeatedly), to indulge myself with illegal drugs (repeatedly), to get a nipple ring (not repeatedly), to boldly go where no man has gone before and to party on, Wayne.

Party on, Garth.

So given my complete lack of culpability here (just like certain folks of the “liberal” persuasion…it’s always someone else’s fault), I’m going to give you my “wish list”, Santa, and hope you can see your way clear to bring me these things. At least one or two anyway.

Here we go…

~An electric train set. Not one of those little baby, roundy-round things, but one of those huge, fills up the whole basement monster sets with buildings and mountains and bridges and bushes and trees and tiny towns and little crossing barriers that go up and down and all kinds of cool-looking little railroad cars and engines in G or HO or BS scale or whatever the hell they are, chugging around the tracks making little “whoo-whoo” noises and blowing real smoke out the smokestacks. I’ll build it, I just need a place to keep it and the money to pay for it…that’s where you come in.

~A synthesized, gamma ray-generating 56mm harmonizing laser cannon.

~Some new underwear.

~Eight maids a-milkin’.

~A Pagani Huayra. (Please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please. A Porsche 718 Boxster would be okay too, but the Pagani would be way cool.)

~Every album ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company.

~A Taylor 858ce twelve-string acoustic.

~And just like Sandra Bullock and all the contestants in the Miss United States beauty pageant (“It’s a scholarship program!”) in the movie Miss Congeniality, world peace.

~Oh, and free beer.

Yeah, I know, it seems like a lot, but honest SC, I truly have been good, other than those one or two moments of indiscretion I alluded to above. Certainly getting the nipple ring wasn’t really a “bad” thing to do, and it was way better than doing what Kelsey Grammer did in the movie Down Periscope…he had “Welcome Aboard” tattooed on his johnson, which now that I think of it, maybe wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have, being the Captain and Master of the R U Kidding and all.

Well, maybe just a decal (a very small one) at first, just to see how it looks.

Tell you what, Santa, I’ve got a better idea…instead of bringing me or anyone else all the material crap on their lists that, quite probably, they don’t need anyway, how about you take all the money and effort you would usually expend and build new places for those poor folks down in Puerto Rico? Or help out all the Floridians who lost everything they owned after Hurricane Michael? Or give a hand to all those poor people out there in Paradise and the rest of the California? In fact, how about if you just shut down the toyworks completely and put the elves to work on these types of projects all year round from now on?

I mean, I don’t really need a Huayra, and I can buy my own underwear. And how many more buildings and resorts and golf courses does Donald Trump need anyway?

Besides, it would save me having to write one of these dopey letters every December if you did.

Love and mistletoe,

Cap’n John

Post Script…full disclosure here: I didn’t really get a nipple ring.

I got two.


(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


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



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



I had to go to the doctor today.

I hate going to the doctor.

I hate going to the doctor (squared).

A lot.

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

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

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

So I ignored it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ultimate “guy” moment.

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

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

Insert rim-shot here.

Love and scalpels,

Cap’n John



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



I remember telling my good friend Maureen, who is a fellow sufferer, excuse me, employee at Publix Supermarkets, where we both work part-time, myself as a Front Service Clerk (if jargon were profit, Pubics, as I call them, would be awash in cash) and her as a cashier, back when Marie Callender’s Chicken Pot Pies were on special, that that’s three of my favorite things, a silly joke from which we both still get a big charge whenever a customer throws a box of them up on the conveyor (see my earlier post “HE WAS BORN WITH THE GIFT OF LAUGHTER AND THE SENSE THAT THE WORLD WAS MAD”, 10/7/17); it’s the little things that often times make life more livable.

Mo is a major sweetie…she’s one of those rare people that always has a smile for you and never bitches, even when she’s entitled. She makes the world a better place for being in it, and we were all deprived of a decent, fine lady when she wasn’t born twins. And she is just one of many super folks that labor in the vineyards of Publix, day in and day out. Much as I bitch about Pubics, the people are mostly cool, with a few notable exceptions. (Are you listening, Ed?)

But I digest.

So imagine my excitement when, during this past weekend’s various football games, and Holy Forward Pass, Batman, wasn’t that throw/catch for a touchdown at the end of the Saints/Vikings game effin’ amazing, I saw repeated commercials for Chicken Pot Pies at KFC. (There was a kid in our neighborhood, back in the day, who could never say “Kentucky Fried Chicken” properly…it always came out “Kenfucky Tried Chicken”. He went on, as an adult, to become a Senator from Illinois.)

Hey, three of my fave things, now at KFC for only $3.99 a pop. Whoa.

To say I was disappointed when, after obtaining one of these delicacies and not finding any hint of pot whatsoever, would be an understatement; chicken, yes, and it most certainly was a pie, although I prefer apple typically, but pot, not so much. In fact, more like none, nada, zilch, bupkis, zero, close your eyes and what do you see, not a bit.

Absolutely none…I didn’t get the slightest buzz from it at all (it was pretty good though). And I’m sorry, but I think that’s a blatant case of false advertising, and I intend to approach the FCC, the Interstate Commerce Commission, the Better Business Bureau, the FBI, the CIA, the Mafia, B’Nai Brith and the Shriners about this travesty. These big corporations must know that they can’t trifle with the American public with impunity. 

Okay, it’s a really bad joke, but hey, I had you going for a while there, admit it.

And as long as I’m talking about TV commercials, another repeated attempt during the games by Corporate America to get into my wallet was the Charmin toilet paper ad…it shows the cute animated Bear Family on vacation, checking into a hotel, when suddenly Papa Bear charges out of the bathroom, all upset that, instead of Charmin in the dispenser, it has an inferior brand of TP. “I’ll never get clean with that”, he bemoans. Mama Bear comes to the rescue, however, when she whips out a roll of Charmin from their luggage…yeah, I always carry my own toilet paper in my suitcase when I travel. Flash to the beach, where all the Bears are now happily frolicking, even PB, who cutely shakes his butt at us, to show how clean, and therefore by implication, how happy he is. See, America, taking a good dump and cleaning up afterwards can be fun with Charmin. 

Sorry, that’s disgusting. (It ranks right up there with ads for feminine hygiene products, erectile dysfunction cures and the Edward Jones investment jerks.)

Oh, and as long as we’re on the subject of crap, I stumbled onto this headline yesterday…”Ivana Trump Says Donald’s Not Racist, Just Confused” (see link below). Gee, how nice of her to clear that up for us; here we were thinking that he’s just basically a dotard, which by the way, according to Google’s online dictionary, is defined as “an old person, especially one who has become weak or senile”.  

I have, as I believe I have shown frequently, a very vivid and active imagination, but I can’t think of a thing to say about this…it rather speaks for itself, wouldn’t you agree? Please nod your head if you do.


I understand that President Tweety Bird has directed Attorney General Jeff (I’m Not A Racist Either Just A Roving Asshole) Sessions to launch an immediate investigation into Yum Brands Inc., parent company of Kenfucky Tried Chicken; PTB believes that they may be a major distributor of marijuana.

Love and the munchies,

Cap’n John