Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Captain Caption CVII

The Paul Ryan action figure.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Captain Caption CVI

Victoria's Secret:
"I usually ignore the 'Dry Clean Only' instructions on my crown"

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Tip of the Hat to Pat and the Cat

Just read It's Rhyme Time sitting all alone
and what a treat it was!
The cat posted many pictures of Bones
or, most likely, his cuz.

In honor and in tribute
I wanted to do the same.
But to post a lot of pictures 
Yeah, that would be most lame.

So then, as not to soil it
I opted to go with one.
Voila! Bones on a toilet!
Hey!  While you're at it...

Friday, August 19, 2016


      I tried out this new App.  

    Although, I think it's kind of worthless. 

All it said was, "Try looking in your hand.  Dumbass."

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Captain Caption CV

Well, that's just great!
Those people talk all through the movie,
goof around on their cell phones,
and put their feet on the back of the seats.
Now, you tell me they even get own escalator, too?

Sunday, August 14, 2016

Oh Such Shameless Commercialism!

   It's Sunday evening, it's still in the 80s outside, and there's really nothing much on television (besides Freestyle Harbor Trout Slalom LIVE from the Rio Olympics!  So, I figured why not take this opportunity to hawk my newest book, Fifty Shades of Penwasser?  A short work (much like myself), it's a collection of 49 retreads and 1 new essay (making FIFTY TOTAL! Yay, common core).

    Only $5.95 (and $1.99 on Kindle), you could spend your money on worthwhile worse things.  So, why not pony up a few bucks, mosey (or amble or even sashay...I won't judge) to amazon.com and order yourself a copy while millions remain unsold.
Just make sure you type in the entire title.
Because, if you just enter 'Fifty Shades,' goodness knows what you'll get.

"Shoot.  I know what you'll get."

Meanwhile, in Australia...

"80 degrees at night?
Cry me a bloody river, mate."

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Today's Olympic Moment

Mr. Hankey
Official Mascot of the 2016 Summer Games

   The team from Detroit cleaned up at the 2016 Summer Games' newest event, Strong Arm Robbery, having secured the gold, silver, and bronze medals. 

Unfortunately, they were mugged by the
squad from Newark at the Awards Ceremony.

    In related news, Team Baltimore is sure to be a heavy favorite in Synchronized Drugstore Arson.
This is despite what's sure to be stiff competion from the youngsters of Ferguson.
Who are also competing in Freestyle Vietnamese Shopowner Assault.
    Finally, the International Olympic Committee has announced a new medal for those swimmers competing in Rio's Harbor.  In addition to complimentary tetanus shots, all winners will receive the new Brown Medals.
"Hey, how come that fish isn't moving?  
And why is it covered in corn?"

Okay, I'll save you the trouble...

Hey, look at it this way, it could be worse.

"These Olympics are disgraceful, that I can tell you.  And whoever thought competing in water was a good idea, anyway?  Frankly, water polo is one of the dumbest ideas ever thought of.  After all, think of all the drowned horses.  Terrible, just terrible.  If I was allowed to run the games, you'd see the most beautiful, tasteful level of competition not seen since I was on Dancing With the Stars.  Wait.  I wasn't on Dancing With the Stars?  I should have been, let me tell you, because, frankly, I'd be the most wonderful dancer you would ever see.  Some people would say I'd be better than any handicapped guy.  Not me, you understand.  But, some people would make the terrible statement that handicapped people can't dance.  And cycling?  Who'd ever think, in today's day of the automobile, that anyone would ever to ride bikes anymore?  Except Dominican pizza delivery boys.  Whom I love, by the way.  Plus stupid people.  I will be keeping my eye on the Mexican pole-vaulting team, though.  They're probably awesome.  Probably awesome.  But, no Muslims, that I can tell you.  They'd probably be good at grenade tossing.  The best.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Captain Caption CIV

"Holy crap!  Well, whaddya know?  They are small!
My hairdo's probably effed up, too."

Monday, August 8, 2016

Art Imitates Life and I Imitate Art

    A friend on Facebook (hey, I have friends.  They don't come
"You can take a reservation.
You just can't hold a reservation."
cheap, though) related a story about the incompetence of a car rental agency while on vacation.      

    Apparently, they gave her car away, despite she having made a reservation.  It reminded her of an incident on Seinfeld.  If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and look for it on You Tube.  It's pretty funny.

    It also reminded me of an experience I had many years ago while serving as a designated driver for a bunch of drunks (hence the need for a designated driver.  I would think that was obvious).  

    Which also reminded me of the Cheese Shop sketch from Monty Python.  In fact, it reminded me so much that I even used one of the lines from that particular segment.

"We call that plagiarism where I come from, squire."
    Anyway, after closing time, we (well, they) decided to go to the drive-thru at the Auburn, Maine Dunkin' Donuts.  The conversation went pretty much like this:

Them:  Good evening...tee hee...good morning.  Welcome to the Auburn Dunkin' Donuts.  May I take your order?

Me:  Yes, thank you.  I'd like four black coffees with half a dozen glazed donuts, please.

Them:  We're out of glazed, sorry.

Me:  Okay, no worries.  Boston Creme then.

Them:  Ran out this evening, sir.

Me:  Hmmm....jelly?

Them:  Making them now.

Me:  Coconut?

Them:  Uh, not this morning.

Me:  Chocolate frosted?

Them:  No, sir.

Me:  Sprinkles?

Them:  Rainbow?

Me:  Yes.

Them:  Not this morning, sir.

Me:  Alright, I'll have chocolate then.

Them:  No chocolate, either.

Me:  Then why did you ask?

Them:  Wanted to make sure, sir.

Me:  I see.  Butterscotch?

Them:  Did you say butterscotch?

Me:  I did.

Them:  No, sir.

Me:  Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.............powdered sugar?

Them:  A gentleman from New Jersey just bought our last dozen, sir.

Me:  Let me ask you.  Do you, in fact, have any doughnuts at all?

Them:  Of course, sir, we're a doughnut shop.  We have fresh bran muffins tonight.

Me:  Well, those aren't doughnuts then, are they?

Them:  Ummmmmmmmmm.............no.

    I would have kept up the debate, but I needed to hose out my back seat.  I'm thinking a round of tequila shots at last call wasn't such a hot idea.
"Boy, am I glad I got there before all the drunks did."


Sunday, August 7, 2016

Today's Olympic Moment


"Uh...I mean Mens Air Rifle."

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Funerals By George

Brown hair, contact lenses, no double chin, and a part of me that actually worked.  
Ahhhhhhh, the 80s.

NOTE:  The following is a repost.  So, who could blame you for going for a walk?  In doing a little research for the book based upon my stepfather's journal, I came across this little time capsule. 

He would have been 75 today. 


    I’d spent a considerable amount of time deciding whether to even write this.  On first blush, it seems disrespectful.  I mean, how could telling a funny story about my stepfather’s funeral be anything BUT in poor taste?

    The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that our final respects to “Poppy” weren’t contrived or phony.  Rather, they were a sincere goodbye to one of the family and the way I’d wanna go when I gotta go.

    Ray, or “Poppy” (as he came to be known), came into our lives when we were children.  Our mother, having grown tired of living with a man who resembled Ralph Kramden, acted like Archie Bunker, and possessed the social skills of Fred Flintstone, secured a divorce and somehow managed to convince this relatively young man that living with five kids really wasn’t much worse than a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands.

    So it went through thick, thin, and adolescence until,  after the untimely death of our mother, it was Ray to whom we turned as head of the family.

    Even though he remarried a few years later, he was still the glue which held us together.

    He took us to ballgames, gave us advice, provided an anchor through tough times, and was a father to five kids when he didn’t have to be.  He may have thought onion dip with chips was high cuisine and Howard Stern was Masterpiece Theater, but he was our model for manhood.

    When he succumbed to cancer several years ago, we were overwhelmed with grief at the loss of someone who had guided us into adulthood and sadness that our own children wouldn’t get to know him as we had.

    As funeral preparations went into high gear, we didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the person we had lost.  Concerned with the how and where (we definitely knew “why”), we began to lose our grip on the “who.”

    During the two-day viewing, my brothers, sister, and I took our proper places in the front row (the only place where being in the “front row” is not a good thing) and paid our respects to all who came to...uh...pay their respects.

    For two hours, we sat quiet as mummies, while mourners shuffled by the open casket.  As they finished, they turned to us, murmuring “I’m sorry,” “He looks so natural,” (one of the stupidest sayings known to man), or some other such platitude before rushing home to watch “Jake and the Fat Man.”

    Needless to say, it was kinda rough.  Enduring the parade of mourners while solemnly staring at someone who looked nowhere near “natural” took its toll.

    The second night was a little different.  Although prepared to be good soldiers throughout the duration, our solemn fa├žades began to break down after the arrival of one of my brother’s old girlfriends.

    I’ve always admired her for showing up.  She didn’t come to see my brother; she came to say goodbye.  This, of course, didn’t stop the smirks from me and my other brothers and sister.  Nor disapproving looks and hushed “tsk tsks” from some of the other, more distant, relatives.

    Through it all, though, we maintained our composure.

    Until another brother’s old girlfriend showed up.  More smirks.  Then, when one of MY old girlfriends arrived, smirks became giggles.

    Giggles became whispered jokes.  And whispered jokes became throwing our voices at the casket when elderly relatives showed up.  This (to us, anyway) was the very best in funeral home comedy.

    As bad as our performances at the “home”, they were nothing compared to the actual funeral.

    Starting off with a service at the Episcopalian Church (what we refer to as “Catholic Light”) we ended up at the biggest cemetery in town.

    A military funeral (because he was in the Marines), the service was very dignified and steeped in an appropriate level of sadness.

    At its conclusion, everyone but the immediate family withdrew to a cold cuts, beer, and coffee fest at the Elks Lodge (something about a funeral makes me crave boiled ham on a little roll).

    My brothers, my sister, our spouses, and I stared quietly at the casket as it sat suspended over the open vault.  Festooned with an untold number of floral garlands, its mute presence reminded us of our loss.

    It was then I felt a little guilty over our hijinks from the night before.

    As we began to move toward our cars, we heard an almost imperceptible “psst!”  Quickly scanning the cemetery, I didn’t see anything or anyone.  Still looking, we heard it again and spotted a head peering around the side of a tree.

    What the-?

    Suddenly, we spotted one of the people we went to high school with, George, as he stepped from behind the tree, a 30-pack of Budweiser in his hand.  “Everybody gone?”  he called.

    When we told him we were the only ones left, he came over to the site and placed the case of beer on the ground.  “Well, here you are.”

    Sensing we had no clue what he was talking about it, he said, “When Ray knew he was going to die, he told me to get a case of beer and go to his gravesite and hide.  Then,” he went on, “when everybody but the kids left, he told me to come on out and let you have a beer on him.”

    Stunned, we stared at George, the beer, and the grave.   

    Nobody said a word for a few minutes.  Then one of us-I don’t remember who-grabbed a can.  The rest of us immediately followed.

    Popping our tops, we raised our cans to Poppy in toast.

    Before we drank, though, my brother said, “Wait!”  Opening  a can, he set it on top of the casket and said, “Well, here you go, cheaper than you can get at Yankee Stadium.”

    With that, we all had a beer to the memory of our father.

    Needless to say, we finished that case and, despite the “These people are nuts” looks from the cemetery workers, stayed until the casket was finally lowered into the ground.

    It may have been a strange way to act at a funeral, but we knew that was the way Poppy would have preferred it.  Why else would he have had the presence of mind to contract the services of “Funerals By George”?

    Epilogue:  At the post-service "Deviled Eggs and Macaroni Salad Fest", we were discussing how we’d like to be remembered when it was our turn to shuffle off this mortal coil.  We all agreed that nobody should be sad; while “have fun with it” sounds morbid, it pretty much sums up our philosophies.

    Then, we “handicapped” who would go next.  After focusing on who had the most hazardous profession, the discussions finally centered on our most serious health problems.  While none of us have any medical issues to speak of, my brother and I DO have high blood pressure.  Since we couldn’t decide who was more likely to die next, we flipped a coin.

    I lost. 

    Wonder if George is in the phone book?

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Captain Caption CIII

"Hey, why are we here so early, Dad?"
"Gotta make sure we get a good seat for the Synchronized
 Swimming Finals."
"But, isn't that in two weeks?"
"Well...yeah.  I want to avoid the rush."
"You're shittin' me, right?"