Author Richard Cahill's Website--Living By Our Motto:"There Are No Stupid Questions, Just Stupid People Asking Questions Everybody else already knows the answer to."

​In his most earth-shattering announcement since he let atheists into Heaven, the Pope signaled his approval of gay civil unions last week.
 
Mind you, he also said this years ago, when he just wore a cardinal’s pointy hat in Argentina. Mostly the Pope approves of gay civil unions because he doesn’t approve of gay marriage. A real marriage is reserved for a Catholic man and a Catholic woman after they and their family and friends have endured an interminable, fairly expensive ceremony in a Catholic church, followed by a massive party where everyone gets shitfaced. This is the only form of marriage of which God approves. At least that’s what I was told back in the day.

Any other form of marriage, be it Protestant, Buddhist, Muslim, courthouse, shotgun, Vegas wedding chapel or gay, doesn’t count. The nuns who taught me were pretty hard-core about this, as well as being firmly against sex in general, and Catholic boys trying to get it from Catholic girls in particular. Regretfully, in terms of my early love life, they had the Catholic girls mostly on their side in this opinion.
 
But things change. Most of those nuns are dead by now, and if they’re not, they’re nearly as old as the Pope. Now, Francis is not likely to be saying anything like, “Hey, people like to grab each other’s genitals. Whaddya gonna do?”  so he's not going to approve of you meeting another intoxicated person at a bar and clawing each other's clothes off at closing time anytime soon. And he’s especially not going to favor civil unions between a priest and his favorite altar boy.
 
He’s getting heavy criticism from his fellow religious leaders, nonetheless. Soulless fraud Franklin Graham, perhaps jealous because the Catholic Church has been soaking pious peasants for their last penny for centuries while his family has only been doing it for a couple generations, said the Pope was “normalizing homosexuality.” Graham believes that all gays should be living lives of internal torment, squashing their sexuality between shut legs or marrying an opposite sex person so they can both be miserable. Only then will God be happy with them.
 
What makes God happy is a mystery to me. The coronavirus, from all available evidence, just rolls Him, but Graham has different ideas, and the cheerful young guy with the lilt in his voice and a sharp haircut who just brought you your lunch is what pisses Him off, according to Graham, along with abortion, being against the death penalty and the government trying to take away your guns.
 
The Pope is still not cool with abortion, but he’s good with gays and atheists, and he hasn’t given any encyclicals lately on the importance of oversized ammo clips. This is a remarkable evolution on the part of the Church, considering that, back in its heyday, which was before the invention of any size ammo clip, it used the weapons it had, namely wood and fire, to routinely burn Jews, heretics and astronomers at the stake.
 
Or Protestants. Bet the Pope he wishes he could bring that back for Graham.

It looks like today will be the day that Amy Coney Barrett will be rammed into that eager wet vacancy on the Supreme Court, without having to answer a single question about how she feels about the First Amendment right to log on to Pornhub.
 
Having the religious beliefs equivalent to those of a cloistered nun, as she has demonstrated in her speeches and her belonging to a cult of Catholic nuts, I think we may safely assume that ABC is anti-porn. She is the antithesis of the Horny Step-Mom, The Horny Step-Sister, the Friend’s Hot Mom and all the other characters that are rolling around on the first page of that invaluable website just this morning. I checked for you.
 
So, when Amy becomes one of the Nine, and has the power to squeeze her fingers around the giant hose of porn that currently spews out of the Internet, do you think she’s going to hesitate?
 
And, fellow guys, it will be our fault. We males voted for the Republicans that thrust her willingly onto the bench. “She likes guns,” they told us, and we got excited, because we like guns, too. “She’s against abortion,” they whispered, and while we were not excited about that so much, it’s not really our problem. Besides, so what if we have to drive a little further to take our girl to an abortion clinic if we knock her up? We love long road trips. We even love long road trips with pregnant women, until we find out what they’re like when we actually have to take one.
 
Some of us here grew up in a Catholic household in the sixties, before porn became the pillar of American culture that it is today, and know what a porn-free existence can be like. It means seeking inspiration for private fun from the bra-and-panty section of the Sears catalogue. Only it will be even worse now, because there is no more Sears catalogue.
 
“Hold on,” I hear you saying. “She’s only one of the Supremes. There’re guys on the court, too. Brett Kavanaugh for one. You know that dude loves porn even more than he loves beer.”
 
Granted. For sure Brett has spent some time sitting bare-assed on his computer chair. Clarence Thomas, too, has the exhausted, contented look of a guy who can barely tear himself away from RedTube long enough to go to work. But I’m not sure about those other guys. And what about the girls? Pretty sure Sotomayor cares more about immigrant kids than she does about your high-speed connection to greaseyourpole.com.
 
So, we American men may have gotten ourselves into a tight spot, and not in the satisfying porn sense of that expression. Amy is an originalist, which means she believes in the Constitution as it was originally written, and there was no porn in America when the Constitution was written. You had to go to Europe to find it back then, and even there it was just a bunch of statues and paintings of women with big breasts and men with small penises.
 
Some of us are going to be okay. We have women, and while that doesn’t stop us from double-clicking on porn once in a while, if porn disappears, we’ll manage. But some of us don’t. I’m looking at you types that don’t understand why women don’t go for overweight guys who wear nothing but hunting camis and pack a gun and a couple extra clips of ammo every time they go into a 7-11 to buy some beef jerky. Without porn, these guys have got nothing. If Barrett bans porn, they’re looking into the abyss of sexual frustration.
 
For you incels, I have a suggestion. Just carry a picture of ABC in your wallet. If your urge becomes overwhelming, just pull out the pic and stare into those maniacal blue eyes.
 
Chances are, that feeling will go away.

The news has been full of Hunter Biden’s hard drive lately, which Rudy Giuliani claimed was given to him by a blind computer repairman in Delaware, by somebody the repairman didn’t recognize, because he’s blind. Of course, he’s a blind Republican who’s fanatically pro-Trump. And he fixes computers because, being blind, they won’t let him work on jet engines or the bomb squad.
 
Steve Bannon had a hand on it, and so did a Kremlin spy, of course, before they gave it to Rudy and he started bleating about it to the Post.
 
I want to tell those people they can quit fussing about that computer, because I know exactly where Hunter’s Biden’s laptop is. It’s in my garage. I bought it a couple years ago, at the swap meet in Santee. I know, I know. Hunter lives in Los Angeles, not Santee, but the swap meet there is kind of like a black hole for unwanted merchandise, and Santee is way closer to LA than Delaware is.
 
I knew it was Hunter’s the minute I powered it up. There’s a screenplay on it, and it’s by “Biden Hunter.” Maybe you don’t know this, but there’s a local ordinance in Los Angeles that requires everyone who lives there to write at least one screenplay. Hunter’s is called “The Ukrainian Candidate,” and it’s about a handsome young guy who likes to party and take warm baths with candles who meets a beautiful former Miss Crimean Peninsula who has become a CIA asset. She enlists him in a desperate struggle to save Europe from a nuclear catastrophe. There is an ongoing battle with a half-human monster whose exposure to intense radiation at Chernobyl gave him super-strength and the ability to microwave frozen perogies with his eyes, so the monster is very pro-nuclear catastrophe. About halfway through the hero and the beauty queen realize they are in love, of course, and there’s a black moment when the hero and the monster have to duke it out, hand to hand, and the hero seems doomed, until suddenly, he wins and the monster falls off a precipice to his death.
 
It’s just like everything else on Netflix, and Hunter notes that in several bitter asides. “It’s just like everything else on Netflix,” he fumes. “Why won’t they buy it?” He does try to enlist his Vice President dad’s influence, but not on behalf of corrupt foreign interests. “Screw Burisma. When are you going to talk to Warner Brothers?” he whines, in a draft note to the current Presidential candidate.
 
There’s also a little residual cocaine on the top, and a couple razor scrapes, because after a hard night of partying, nothing gets those creative juices flowing like finishing off any coke you might have left over.
 
But what’s not on it is any emails, which makes it exactly like my computer. All my emails are on the Internet. I have to open up Chrome to see them. When I do, there they are, ready to be impatiently deleted, so I can accumulate more.  Because I have had my email address for more than twenty-five years, my account has a complex ecosystem of spam, offering me everything from cheap boner pills to six-figure jobs working for imaginary companies out of India, which has to be cleaned out every couple days. Any email I ever got or sent that I didn’t delete is stored on my account.
 
But when I flick off my browser, they all disappear. They’re not on my hard drive. You could hack them, of course, and in my darker moments I wish you would, but you don’t need my laptop to do that. Ask Hillary.
 
Sure, sometimes I think, Oh, this email is especially incriminating, so I should probably PDF it and save it to my hard drive, but I never do.
 
I’m betting neither did Hunter.

The Caucasian-in-Chief gave a shout-out to QAnon believers while he was slobbering through his town hall last week, which caused me to do some research into this pop conspiracy theory which holds, as its main premise, that the entire world is controlled by a Deep State conspiracy of practicing pedophiles.
 
It is also infiltrating Christianity, as some pastors are now preaching it to their congregations alongside their usual Jesus-based stuff.
 
This is not hard to believe, as Q, the anonymous high government informer who supposedly ringleads the conspiracy, has much in common with Christ, starting with the fact that both have cult followings.
 
Which means that, once again, it’s eerie parallel time over here. Just consider:
 
Both Jesus and Q offer their followers highly dubious belief systems. Q says Trump is waging a war against this secret international cabal of politicians and celebrities that practice pedophilia and drain babies of their blood so they can make and drink adrenochrome, a practice that does not exist in reality, but only in Hunter Thompson’s book of acid-drenched humor, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
 
But if you think that’s hard to believe, consider that Jesus says Trump can get into Heaven.
 
Q followers are waiting for the Great Awakening, which is when Trump will rally his forces and move against every pizza parlor and hidden ranch in the hills where kidnapped children are being held against their will and their blood harvested.
 
The Jesus crowd is waiting for the Second Coming. Both groups are still waiting.
 
Q predicts The Storm, where Hillary Clinton, George Soros and Tom Hanks, along with all the rest of the Deep State and all Democratic politicians above the level of county commissioner, will be arrested and imprisoned at Guantanamo Bay.
 
Jesus predicts the Rapture, where everybody who believes in Him gets sucked into Heaven by the immense Hoover of His love, while the rest of the world turns into Guantanamo Bay.
 
Q turns Trump, a man who has been credibly accused of pedophilia, into a man who fights pedophilia. Jesus turns water into wine. Hard to say which one is the bigger reach.
 
Q wants you to take the “red pill.” Jesus wants you to drink His Blood.
 
Q says if you don’t believe in him, you’re a member of the Deep State. Jesus says if you don’t believe in Him, you’re in deep shit.
 
Q says JFK Jr. and Osama Bin Laden are not really dead. Jesus says He’s not really dead, either.
 
Q is anti-Semitic.
 
Jesus is definitely Semitic.
 
Okay, not all comparisons are perfect.

One of the reasons we can’t just have the election now, defeat Trump and keep him from continuing to be the Hand of the Virus by holding rallies is that he still maintains about a 13% chance of winning the election. Also, there are no mercy rules in politics.
 
The main reason Trump still has a small chance to stop gasping on the dock of defeat and flip himself back into the water of the swamp for four more years, like that trophy bass you lost last summer, is his support among the male gender. A majority of American men still support Trump, according to a variety of polls. It’s not a great big majority—lots of us who pee standing up don’t care for him at all, but overwhelming support from a certain demographic keeps the male vote majority for the Caucasian-in-Chief.
 
That demographic is the guys who learn all the history they need to know on the Fourth of July, which is that beer, burgers and fireworks make us the greatest country on Earth, and it says so in the Constitution. And they proudly support the Constitution, even though all they really know about our founding document is that gives them the right to bear arms in the Second Amendment and interrupt any woman who tries to tell them what to do in the First.
 
These are the guys who sink each other's vessels in Trump boat parades. These are the guys whose guns accidentally discharge when they drop them on the floor of the Hallmark store. These are guys who need supplemental oxygen when there’s a lot of pollen in the air but nonetheless think putting a Trump banner on their golf carts makes them vaginal magnets.
 
These are guys who lost their jobs, businesses and grandmoms to the Covid but think that Joe Biden will be worse than Trump because he’s planning to use a canny combination of dementia and socialism to destroy the USA. They think it’s a good idea to make Amy Barrett a Supreme Court Justice, so she can clamp a giant legal maxi-pad over the soul of America. These are guys who think that if one of their girlfriends, daughters, wives or nieces, or even just some drunk babe they nailed under the rodeo grandstand needs an abortion, it’ll just be slightly more inconvenient to drive a little further from their Texas home to the nearest Planned Parenthood clinic. You know, the one in Colorado. Or Virginia.
 
Also, what about reverse discrimination? Bilingual smiley faces in Walmart? Your HMO making you see a Pakistani doctor? Having to learn one word in Spanish so you can tell the landscaper in what direction you want the dead leaves power-blown? The food court at the mall serving all kinds of gross, noodle-y foreign lunch plates?
​
It just sets your teeth on edge. And you know it sets Trump’s teeth on edge, too. So, you’re going to vote for him, even though he trashed the economy and let going-on-a-quarter-of-a-million Americans die while he watched Fox, picked Tweet-fights with anybody who criticized him and popped a hundred Tic-Tacs a day to get the taste of Putin’s ass off his tongue.
 
My Significant Other tells me a story about one of her daughters. One day, they were both walking down the cul-de-sac where they lived. Several boys of the neighborhood were engaged in a typical random boy activity. They were taking advantage of the downward slope of the cul-de-sac by building a shaky ramp out of abandoned boards and cinder blocks, then taking turns running their bicycles up it at top speed in an effort to get some air before crashing to the ground.
 
The inevitable happened—the ramp collapsed on one rider and he smushed his face into the asphalt. Boy blood and boy teeth were everywhere on the blacktop.
 
My future sort-of-stepdaughter, only four at the time, turned to my mate and said, with preternatural wisdom, “Boys are stupid.”
 
That, we apparently are.

In the stream-of-incoherency that passes for national leadership nowadays, it would be easy to miss Second Son Eric Trump’s claim last week that his dad had “literally saved Christianity.” Easy to miss, because Eric was chirping it in the North Dakota hinterlands while his dad was being Mussowheezy, gasping Covid particles over a small crowd that was paid to expose themselves to him on the White House lawn.
 
“So what?” I hear you say. “Lots of people smarter than Eric Trump, which is almost every English-speaking person on the planet, have misused the word ‘literally.”
 
True dat. I mean, people have literally saved Christianity—Charles Martell did it in 732 AD by defeating the Moors in the Battle of Tours, thereby keeping Muslim hordes from invading France. If the noble Frank hadn’t won that battle, Charlotte McKinney would be spending her whole life wearing a chador, which would be a tragic waste of bikini-modeling talent. There probably would have been a couple of other effects, too.
 
But Trump hasn’t saved Christianity, literally, figuratively or metaphorically. America would remain vibrantly Jesusy with or without the Caucasian-in-Chief. I mean, he’s not saving it from Joe Biden, who is as Catholic an old guy as ever shook a pedophile priest’s hand after Mass. He’s not saving the Catholics, period, because the One True Church proved it knows how to hunker down and survive a plague back in the Dark Ages.
 
No, the Christianity he’s saving is the Church of We Won’t Bake Gay Wedding Cakes or Let You Get an Abortion After Your Uncle Fucked You. People wouldn’t pay near as much attention to that congregation if Trump wasn’t President. Also, people wouldn’t pay attention to Eric Trump at all, knowing that if he didn’t have the Secret Service to protect him during his travels to North Dakota, Eric would probably stumble off into the prairie and get stampeded by a herd of buffalo.
 
But, on a more gracious note, we would like to formally welcome Melania Trump into the ranks of we who War on Christmas. Before the first shot of this year’s War has been fired, which is traditionally the issuance of the Starbuck’s pagan holiday cup, the First Lady was overheard shouting our battle cry, FUCK CHRISTMAS!
 
Melania hates the holidays because she has to decorate the White House for it, and has been roundly criticized in the past for her efforts in doing so. Not without reason. But one look at her husband, even clothed, should be enough to convince any observer that Melania has terrible taste. She should no more be forced to decorate anything than Danny DeVito should be forced to do the high jump.
 
But, whatever their reasons for enlisting, we welcome any new recruits into the War on Christmas. We’re excited for it, because this might be the year we finally win out.
 
Because this year, it’s going to be A Very Covid Christmas. Ask the Hallmark Channel, if you don’t believe me.

A growing trend among the right wing is to “wonder out loud,” which is what they like to do when they’re making completely fact-free claims, why the only prominent politicians and political operatives that are getting infected with the virus are Republicans.
 
And they’re not convinced that it’s because Republicans like to exercise their “freedom” by wheezing all over each other, while Democrats don’t get it because they wear masks, wash their hands and are on Zoom even more than they are on Pornhub.
 
Rush “Cancer Boy” Limbaugh, insists he “doesn’t believe in coincidences,” and openly questions if someone is deliberately infecting Republicans, probably either Nancy Pelosi or China, possibly by means of an infected swab, although if you’ve been swabbed, you realize that, while Infected Swab might be a nice name for a nihilist punk band, it would be pretty tough to infect a swab in real life, especially with the Secret Service watching.
 
It also assumes that Nancy Pelosi keeps a brimming cup of coronavirus in her kitchen cabinet, right next to her instant coffee and cans of Progresso, and has a secretive means of doling it out to the Senate Judiciary Committee, which she doesn’t belong to, without her or her army of baby-killing minions contracting it themselves. If you think instead that Republicans are just giving it to each other because there’s nothing the Super-Spreader-in-Chief likes more than a good spittle-fest, you’re just another consumer of fake media lies.
 
Over here, though, we keep Occam’s Razor sharp, and can announce without a shadow of a doubt the root cause of the Republican plague and the exact reason a black fly got its feet stuck in Mike Pence’s styling gel for two minutes during the Veep debate.
 
It’s pretty obvious the Orange Gasper got his case of the ‘rona from pawing on Hope Hicks, because she is an attractive woman and he is a documented sex pig. He’s been working on getting into her panties, or actually getting into them, since he first laid eyes on her.
 
And those panties were probably made in China. There’s your proof of Chinese involvement.
 
Also, the fly on Pence’s head was the reincarnated soul of Herman Cain.
​
The truth is out there. And if you don’t believe me, you just can’t handle it.

​God appeared to me the other day. He does that sometimes, but it had been a while.

This place isn’t its usual mess,” He said.

“We have a woman who cleans once a week now,” I said.

“I KNEW THAT! I KNOW EVERYTHING!”

When God speaks in His all-caps Voice, the earth shakes. This is California, though, so nobody would notice, I hoped. The Almighty was obviously upset.

“It’s Trump, isn’t it?”

The Creator nodded. For the first time, I noticed His eyebrows are shaped exactly like little lightning bolts.

“You gave him the virus.”

“So many people were praying for Me to. I just gave in.”

“I thought ignoring prayers was your policy?”

“It is, so don’t you start. But after the debate, the chorus of people begging for it was really deafening. Plus, I was already sick of getting stinkeye from Ruth Bader Ginsburg. So, I gave that bloated bag of self-regarding shit the ‘rona.”

“But it’s not working out?”

“IF IT WAS WORKING OUT, DO YOU THINK I’D BE HERE?” The condo rocked again, and I started really worrying. Our HOA has rules against rowdy guests.

“Calm down, oh my Lord. Do you want a beer?”

“No, thanks. It’s Jesus that’s the alcoholic in the family, not me. No, the minute I did it, I knew I’d start hearing from the other side. Not that I don’t hear prayers for Trump all the time anyway—they’re a constant background buzz. People pray for his health. People pray for his hair. After he released his taxes, people actually prayed for his money. I even heard one guy praying that Trump’s dick wasn’t shaped like a mushroom.”

“Did you grant that one, oh my God?”

“I don’t do rebuilds. But now that Trump’s got the covee, everybody who tunes into Fox is praying for me to cure him. Every single person in every trailer park in America is begging Me through their missing teeth to have mercy on Trump’s fat ass. Every Patriot Prayer is shaking their AR-15 at Heaven, demanding that I get Trump back on the golf course before Election Day. All the Evangelicons--Joel Osteen, Franklin Graham, Paula White—they’re all in the pulpit now, telling people to send them money so they can pray to Me on behalf of Trump.”

“Do they do that, Oh Lord?”

“No, thank Me. They just build another mansion or buy another car. But it’s still infuriating. It’s enough to make Me want to smite, and smite and smite again!”

“I’m trembling, oh Almighty One.”

“Don’t worry. I gave up on that. Never really improves humanity anyway.”

“But can you tell me, Oh God, if Trump will live?

“No, and by that, I mean I’m not telling you. It’s for your own good. Put that out on the Internet, and see how long you last.”

"At least tell me if Chris Christie is going to become the white Herman Cain. Maybe just give me a hint? Just enough to place a little bet?”
​
“You want to bet, talk to the Holy Ghost. He’s the one with the gambling issue in the Trinity.”

“Just confirmed, debate #2 is a just a fist fight in a Chili's parking lot.” Some guy on the Internet—yesterday.
 
The above remark was made in response to the first Presidential debate Tuesday. It was treated as an astonishing display of wit when it was Tweeted yesterday, which only goes to show that most of the people on Twitter have never been in a fight in a bar parking lot.
 
Neither has Donald Trump, of course, so it doesn’t prevent them from being braver than that colossal mango pussy, but it demonstrates that the Twitterverse has no idea what bar parking lot to go to if they’re cruising for a bruising. Chili’s is definitely not it. Chili’s is for people who think fried cheese is gourmet food and that Shock Top is a craft beer. You can say what you want about their taste, and say it to their face, but you will seldom provoke them into taking it outside.
 
I worked for twenty years in the bar business one way or another in my carefree youth, for the money and also to seek the company of the flashy and often quite dangerous women who habituate it, and I can describe exactly the kind of bar that you want to hit if you’re ready to rumble. Its name is usually that of a person, from Al’s to Zach’s. Its interior decoration is entirely provided by beer and liquor manufacturers, with an occasional contribution by Harley-Davidson. There is a jukebox with at least two Guns ‘n Roses songs on it. Carcinogenic stuffing spills out of the split vinyl of its barstools, and there are numerous low tables in its dark corners where such items as baggie and handjobs may be exchanged.
 
It is, in short, a dive bar. I only go to them nowadays if I’m dragged there by my PhD holding Significant Other, who claims to love dive bars, which I feel are only enjoyable if you like to watch other people slowly poison themselves with liquor and crystal meth. “I used to get paid for being in places like this,” I whine, until she lets me escape to someplace with a better beer menu.
 
But you can get in a fight there. Sometimes you have to stay until someone on their sixth shot, fourth beer and seventh line of coke decides they don’t like the way you look, but if you want to accelerate the process, you can start criticizing someone’s date or the local football team.
 
Obviously, a joint like this is way beneath the dignity of a President and a wannabe President, but apparently so was the first debate, which I didn’t watch because my hand automatically hits the mute button anytime I hear Trump talking. Can’t help it any more than Pavlov’s dog can keep from drooling.
 
But a fistfight sounds good. On a boxing ring, of course. Or mixed-martial arts in an octagon. Or how about this: Each candidate gets a firm grip on each other’s hair and pulls. Whoever’s hair comes off first is the loser.
 
I think Biden’s odds in that match approach 100%. What do you think, Nate Silver?

There’s a lot of fraught talk nowadays about armed insurrection over a disputed election in November, and the phrase “second Civil War” has been tossed around a lot, like a chewed-up old dog Frisbee.
 
A senior spokesman for the National Health Institute dismissed this speculation out of hand. “Americans are way too portly and aged to fight a meaningful Civil War,” was his analysis.
 
“During the original Civil War, the population was way younger and skinnier. Most people made their living through manual labor and, while they had some bad health habits back then, like chewing tobacco, drinking whiskey by the jug and eating deep-fried muskrat, overall, they stayed in better shape than modern Americans, before they succumbed to some disease which can be cured in one visit to an Urgent Care nowadays.
 
“I cite the case of some Proud Boys back east, where they were drilling for the upcoming race war. They tried to put some snipers in the trees around a member’s farm. Out of the ten snipers, six couldn’t climb up in the trees, two fell out of the trees, and the other two climbed back down within an hour because they needed some snacks.
 
“If you’ve ever been to Gettysburg, you’re aware of the size of the battlefield there. Be honest--can you imagine trying to wheeze across it carrying a rifle and an ammo belt? Most Americans find it uncomfortable just riding around its hallowed grounds in an air-conditioned tour bus equipped with box lunches and a defibrillator.
 
“I mean, some modifications to current medical equipment could make limited skirmishing possible, I suppose. An all-terrain diabetes cart would help. MRE’s would have to include flavors like Loaded Nacho and Little Debbie, or morale would sag on both sides.
 
“Are we going to have an hour’s truce every day so everybody can smoke medical marijuana and watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy? That’s a problem Grant and Lee never had.
 
“Look, it’s not impossible for us to have some sort of armed conflict. Most Americans are still capable of sitting on their porch or stoop with a gun across their lap, and some still do, when they’re taking a break from calling each other libtards and Trumpkins on Facebook. I suppose if you had differing political views in a single neighborhood, gunfire could break out, but that’s really uncommon, and a Civil War where nobody’s leaving the house unless they’re driving for GrubHub just isn’t possible.
 
“So, relax. There’s not going to be violent civil unrest. No matter what our political opinions, conflict is unlikely to break out between you and me. Especially if you let me have some of those cheese fries.”