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."

It’s only been about 18 hours since the Justice Department let it slip that the Former Caucasian-in-Chief was keeping nuclear secrets in a spare room with his pool noodles. It’s been several days though, since word broke, from the lips of America’s Ex himself, that a search warrant was served on the overpriced Shithole-by-the-Sea, Mar a Lago, by the FBI.
 
When that was sprung on the unsuspecting public last Tuesday, Republicans and Trumpeteers were all over it, from the highest ranking to the lowest liars on that side. Wannabee Speaker of the House, Kevin McCarthy, advised The Attorney General to “clear his calendar and preserve all his documents,” indicating that the House would fricassee him down to his gray-haired testicles once the Republicans took charge of it. “Don’t be flushing nothin’ down them Main Justice toilets,” he might as well have added.
 
Since the scandal went nuclear, Kevin’s been notably quiet.
 
Some Republicans argued that Trump wasn’t guilty because he can “declassify things with his mind,” ignoring the fact that the Mango Man can’t even spell things with his mind. Also, the fact that Biden, by this argument, can reclassify things with his mind, and probably did so while playing Frisbee with his dog on the beach in Rehoboth.
 
Since it came out that one of the things Trump might have had boxed next to his pool skimmer was the location of all of China’s hypersonic cruise missiles, we haven’t heard much from the mind declassifers.
 
Many people, and I mean people ranging from Fox frothers like Jesse Waters to Senator Rand “Won’t You be My Neighbor?” Paul, are questioning whether the FBI “planted” evidence underneath Trump’s badminton net.
 
Since it came out that the evidence is so classified it probably won’t ever be read in court, those pieholes have been clamped shut.
 
Trump himself has implied all of the above, which is that the evidence he already declassified with his mind was accidentally shipped there by the White House movers, and also planted by the FBI in a raid which was illegal because he’s an Ex, which makes him entitled to keep a list of all the Russian bunkers we plan to nuke out first when WW III starts next to his cabana boy's cabana. He’s also accused Obama of taking thirty million pages (or pounds, I forget which) of classified documents out of the White House when he left it, and HER EMAILS!
 
But, so far, he’s the only one defending himself. But have faith. Somebody will jump in on his side soon, with something other than a whiny couldn’t they have just asked him nicely, maybe during a friendly game of Marco Polo, for America’s Top Secrets back?
 
My money is on Marjorie Taylor Green, mostly recently spotted selling DEFUND THE FBI baseball caps on Facebook. She’s the one who will say that Trump was masterminding a plan to expose international child molesters by tempting them to his golf course with a promise of classified info, because the only thing that child molesters want more than molesting children is to possess, and possibly sexually abuse, incredibly hush-hush intelligence reports. George Soros, Jews and Democrats were all going to fall into Trump’s cunning trap.
 
Just give her and her kind the rest of the weekend to figure it out. As far as Trump starting to act cunning, though, my guess is it’s going to take longer than that.

Somehow, clicking idly along the Net the other day, I ran across a Fox editorial by David Marcus. I don’t know who David Marcus is, but I suspect he’s one of those people who look at all-white fundamentalist churches praying in unison against Democrats, critical race theory and Mexicans, and feels the power of their righteousness so deeply he almost pees himself.
 
Ol’ Dave had some arresting things to say, after averring that we were on the brink of a religious revival comparable to the Great Awakening, which no one beside him and Neil Gorsuch believes. “Never underestimate God,” he advises us, followed by, “God will start to operated more openly.”
 
All spoken as if he had a direct line of communication with the Almighty. I don’t know about him, but I do have a direct line of communication with the Deity. We Skype sometimes. He used to appear to me in person, but now I, at least, prefer Skype. By tilting the computer at the right angle, I can avoid Him seeing all the mess and empty beer cans in the background. I realize that He can see anything He wants—I’m just thinking He doesn’t need to see that.
 
So, I messaged Him, and about a half-hour later He got back to me. I ran Dave’s ideas by Him and He snorted. “Sure, you ought not to underestimate Me. I’m All-Powerful. But what people don't understand is that All-Powerful doesn’t mean the same thing as really interested. So, he’s kind of right, but it sounds like he expects me to care. I have had enough expectations foisted on me by donut-gobbling Baptists that I’m rock-bottom bored with them. And boredom goes a long way when you’re an Eternal Being.
 
“As far as starting to operate more openly, that’s a hard pass. Shady as fuck is the way I roll. And it’s all your fault. Not you personally—nobody cares what you say. Nobody cares what you pray, either, and nobody means Me, so if you start wafting some piteous yowlings aloft like some so many of your friends do, just because I take your calls, I’m changing my username, kapisch?”
 
Got it.
 
“No, it’s you guys in general. For every guy who’s praying for Me to cure them of cancer, there’s another praying to collect his life insurance money. For every quarterback praying for a touchdown, there’s a defensive back imploring me for an interception. For every war, there’s a bishop with a long dress and a funny hat on each side praying to Me to slaughter their enemies. For every plane crash—well, scratch that one. Nobody prays for planes to crash…well, the terrorists do sometimes…you see why the whole ‘operate more openly,’ thing sticks in My craw?
 
I’m starting to. What about this article, which says the opposite-- young people are rejecting church?

"That is My deal. That's why it's My Will that most of them have to work retail during the day and drive Uber at night just to survive. Keeps them out of the congregations. 
 
“But, for the most part, I’m continuing to stay on the down low. Every once in a while, I let a high school basketball team sink one at the buzzer. Or I grant some Buddhist Asian immigrant his wish to win the lottery, just so all the white people who lose can complain about real Americans never winning it. Or I let Rush Limbaugh die of cancer. No prayer really involved in that one. I just enjoyed it.
 
But what about Trump?
 
“WAS THAT A REQUEST?”
 
No. Sorry. Never mind.
 
“Better be Me-damn certain it wasn’t.”

Alex Jones has been known as an abominable piece of prevaricating offal for twenty years now. Currently, he’s being asked to cough up a considerable chunk of change to the parents of people whose kids he claimed weren’t really dead after a school shooting in Connecticut. After it turned out those kids were actually dead after all,  Jones said, “Whoopsie! My bad.”
 
This may be the worst thing Jones has ever done, but he’s done plenty of things that were close. Like Trump, he’s killed many a person who took his advice not to get the Covid vaccine. He’s anti-Semitic, ant-Muslim, anti-gay and anti-women. I probably missed a couple of things there, but, basically, unless you’re like him, a chonk white guy who makes his living selling dietary supplements, you’re on his shit list.
 
But before he took the stand in Texas, which was just about as smart as going canoeing in Kentucky, Jones was way behind Trump. Jones was in favor of kids in cages. Trump actually put kids in cages. Jones wanted to kiss dictator hiney. Trump smooched pale fascist butt all over the world. Jones financed January 6th, but Trump incited it. The list goes on.
 
So, distant second for Worse Person in the USA? Not anymore. The fact that his lawyer “accidentally” sent two years’ worth of Jones’ text messages to his opposite number in Jones’ civil trial, probably muttering, “This ought to once and for all fuck that fat bastard,” when he did it, may just have put Jones ahead of the Orange Weaseler.
 
They found all kinds of proof that Jones was a perjuring dumpster rat on his phone, natch, but they also found child porn on it. This is not to say that Trump has never enjoyed child porn, or even sex with actual children. No doubt he has. But the evidence is lacking, whereas Jones’ digital spank bank is now a matter of public record. Jones claims the porn was “embedded” on his phone by antifa, or opposition lawyers, or the parents of the murdered children at Sandy Hook, implying that the first thing anybody would do when their first-grader dies in a hail of bullets is bone up on their hacking skills.
 
But the thing that really might put Jones ahead as he and Trump gallop along in the final stretch of the Shameless Lowlife Derby, is the revelation that there are “intimate” messages between Jones and fellow professional unbalanced liar Roger Stone on the phone.
 
This is enough to make anybody grab the nearest bucket and start retching. Jones, who has a protruding belly comparable to any bare-chested oligarch's  who has been photographed wearing a Speedo in his yacht's jacuzzi full of high-priced prostitutes, is sexually attracted to Roger Stone, whose hobby is dressing like the Penguin? If you want to talk about a love that dare not speak its name, let alone be memorialized in hard-breathing text messages, this is Numero Uno, sport. This couple could spend a half-hour trying to find each other’s genitals and count it as foreplay.
 
No one has ever suggested that Trump is attracted to Stone, as nobody should be. Indeed, when informed of the text messages, Trump was said to have remarked, “I’d rather dig up Ivana and have sex with her.”
 
Good idea, ex-guy. That would for sure put you back in the game.

Pope Francis, the current gentle, genial Pope—you know, the guy who let atheists into Heaven and says gay is okay, as long as it doesn’t get married, has a tough schedule this week. He’s in Canada, apologizing for the Church having absconded with at least 150,000 indigenous kids in an effort to make them eligible for Heaven by demolishing their culture. At least 3,000 of them died in Church boarding schools while they were in operation. That operation only ceased in 1998, which means that taking six-year-olds from their families and forcibly indoctrinating them into the ways of the One True Church co-existed with Saturday Night Live for twenty-eight years.
 
That’s tough to believe, but facts can be a bear, and in this case, a ravenous Canadian polar bear. It’s hard to imagine Francis will be enjoying this mission. It’s not going to be like leading a parade in the Popemobile, surrounded by happy dancing Catholics, food vendors and pickpockets. It’s going to be sitting in front of a crowd of angry Inuits and humbly begging their forgiveness for one of the Church’s many monstrous offenses against the natives of the New World.
 
Of course, the Church committed many monstrous offenses in the Old World, too—it was consistent like that, but Europeans had experience with Catholicism and could generally tell what way the Papal wind was going to blow. The native peoples of the far Canadian north had no warning when the priests and nuns showed up and told them, “We’re going to make your kids into nice French Canadians, eh? Because we don’t want them just sitting in the snow among the eagles and the caribou like you do, freezing your asses off on your way to Hell like the useless pagans that you are.”
 
Naturally, they said it in French, but you’ve got Google Translate.*
 
It’s also difficult to imagine any prior Pope taking on such a mission. Previously, the Church’s position on past questionable practices was to blow a little incense up the interrogator’s ass and tell him/her to say three Our Fathers and six Hail Mary’s for even asking. Or they would say, “It was the will of God, and get your shoes off my altar.”
 
When Francis prays at night, in the extremely nice prayer place he has, no doubt surrounded by gold and precious art, it is tough to imagine him being at ease. It is easier to think of him praying, “Jesus Christ, why did you pick me to justify these two thousand years of Catholic brutal overlording and pious sadism and try to get the Church to lurch into the future? If I had known it was going to be like this when I was a young priestling in Buenos Aires, I would have quit and become an electrical contractor like my Tio Luis.”
​
Better him than me. If the Church would replace the Hosts with Cheeze-its, though, it would help. And let people reach into the box and grab as many as they want. That’s what I would do. Amen.
 
Too lazy to use Google Translate? Okay, this is what I got: ‘On va faire de vos enfants de gentils Canadiens français, hein? Parce que nous ne voulons pas qu'ils restent assis dans la neige parmi les aigles et les caribous comme vous le faites, vous gelant le cul sur le chemin de l'enfer comme les païens inutiles que vous êtes.’ Sounds pretty close, really.

I don’t know much about bitcoin, other than it hasn’t been treating its owners too well lately. Many people have made a lot of money on it in the past, but currently it’s down. I also know that there are other cryptocurrencies out there, such as dogecoin and Binance, and maybe even whipcoin and shitcoin if you dig around the bottom of the crypto barrel.
 
I’m not involved in the crypto market, because I really don’t have the means to invest in it. Being old means I spend most of my money on beer and medical co-pays. Apparently, though, it is greatly inspirational to at least some of its investors, particularly Tomer Strolight, who became convinced that Bitcoin was the invention of God, so much so that he converted to Christianity in a full-immersion baptism off Miami Beach.
 
Now I may not know much about bitcoin, but I know plenty about Jesus. Catholic Jesus, that is. He redeemed us by letting Himself get crucified, and we ate His body from the tender age of about six or so in order to thank Him for that. We didn’t really get to drink His blood—that was reserved for the priests, and in my altar boy days I noticed many a member of the clergy starting off their day by bolting down a half-bottle or so of His Blood.
 
Catholic Jesus was held up as an example of forgiveness and love to us Papist tykes, although He wouldn’t lift a finger if you accidentally chewed gum before Communion, which condemned you to Hell. So, okay, a tad shady, but that ran in His Family, particularly in the Holy Ghost, Who has spent all of eternity without a visible source of income.
 
Not chewing gum before Communion is not a tenet of the Church anymore, but unlike some states that have legalized weed, and pardoned people who were once convicted for owning it, there is no Catholic retro-forgiveness program that will let in you into heaven, once you’ve committed a childish mortal sin, and failed to confess it to a priest, which you were too frightened to do because, hey, some of them were pretty angry drunks. So, I’ve been on my way to Hell since I was ten. Any other sins I’ve done since that damning piece of Juicy Fruit have been a bonus.
 
Protestant Jesus is fairly similar, I think, except He wants you to go to church all day Sunday. That was enough to keep me and my dad Catholic, along with everybody else who liked football or had a yard to mow.
 
Bitcoin Jesus inhabits a whole new spiritual realm. As Tomar puts it, “The more I studied it, the more I realized that this (bitcoin) is an incorruptible system,” he says, “that this is a system that has justice built into it through math and truth…This is the genius of God.”
 
But bitcoin, somewhat like the airplane and the nuclear reactor, was definitely invented by a person. That person calls himself “Satoshi Nakamoto.” No one thinks that is his real name, but he has never claimed divinity. He (or she—could bitcoin Jesus be trans?) hides behind that pseudonym because he/she is probably rich enough to own his own island, where he has a private chef for every cuisine he enjoys and beautiful Polynesian girls to fan his/her* genitals with palm fronds when it gets too humid in the South Pacific.
 
And if bitcoin ever fully crashes and burns, and all the secular investors in crypto are wailing and gnashing their teeth in the outer darkness, their net worth reduced to that bucket of nickels on their dresser, Bitcoin Jesus believers will still keep the faith. They will wait for the Second Coming of Bitcoin.
 
Even if it takes 2,000 years.

*Probably being unnecessarily politically correct here. Crypto for sure sounds like a guy thing. Tell a woman you're giving her crypto instead of a diamond and you'll be swiping right again in no time.

Elon Musk is backing out of his attempt to buy Twitter, which is likely to cost him at least a billion bucks. It’s all in the courts now, which promises to generate endless articles in the media, none of which I will find interesting enough to read.
 
No part of this controversy makes el Musko look any more on the ball than falling out of a porta-potty without pulling up his pants, which makes me wonder why he’s doing it. He had a pretty great life up until now, getting to be the richest guy on Earth when Jeff Bezos took a weekend off from squeezing money out of Amazon Prime. He went into space with a bunch of his bros, let his wang hang out in the stratosphere, and had thousands of followers on Twitter who thought he was the inspiration for “Revenge of the Nerds.” Why blow all that up to pursue the single-minded life of a squalling attention whore?
 
The answer is, he had everything besides the title of Most Blatantly Obvious Lying, Self-Centered Prick on the Planet. That title belongs to the former Caucasian-in-Chief, and he’s not giving it up anytime soon. No sooner had Elon made his play to prove himself as emotionally crippled and singularly entitled as Trump, the Orange Object of Authoritarian Fantasies responded by calling him a “bullshit artist.”
 
That was game, match, set. Trump calling you a bullshit artist is like Zeus calling you a god. Or Steven Hawking saying you’re a genius.* Or Stormy Daniels calling you a great lay. It’s being knighted into the World Order of Bullshit. All E M had to do was accept the plaudit and bask in lifelong glory, because when Trump calls bullshit, he knows of what he speaks.
 
But Musk blundered past his moment of triumph, and, acting like a man unable to find his own dick with the James Webb Space Telescope, came back at Trump with a couple of singularly unoriginal insults, like “LMAO,” advised him to “sail into the sunset,” and proclaimed his affection for the newly ascendant Fresh-Faced Fascist, Ron DeSantis.
 
Now, Trump is not going to sail into the sunset. Odds are, he’s not going to be able to even see the sunset, unless his prison cell has a western view, for a couple of years, and if he escapes incarceration, he’s still not sailing anywhere. When you Google images of “Trump on boat,” you only get pics of people in Trump boat parades trying to sink each other. You can’t sail into the sunset if you can’t get on a boat without hurling, which I suspect is the case with America's Ex.
 
Musk will be okay, too. He can afford to take a billion-dollar hit. There’s so many Teslas out here in CA you can barely leave the house without having to park next to one.
 
If I'm nearby and see someone getting in or out of one, I always say, “I love those new Mazdas,” to them.
 
Just to see the looks on their faces, my peeps.
 
*I realize Zeus does not exist and Hawking is dead. Want to see my literary license?

SC Justice Brett Kavanaugh was forced to leave upscale steakhouse Morton’s by the back door the other day, when a crowd of “unruly” protesters showed up out front, pissed off about the Supremes’ recent decision to pull the plug on abortion rights.
 
Morton’s issued a statement, which said, among other things, that “Politics, regardless of your side or views, should not trample the freedom at play of the right to congregate and eat dinner…There is a time and place for everything. Disturbing the dinner of all of our customers was an act of selfishness and void of decency.”
 
He went on to add, “These scroungy leftist broads never paid more than twenty bucks for a steak in their lives. Fuck ‘em,” then, after reconsideration, asked that that be stricken from the record.
 
This statement by a PR person for a restaurant chain does not have the force of law, but a future Court decision could easily make it so. The right to pay a hundred-twenty-nine bucks for a Tomahawk Ribeye by a chubby little frat-house prick who looks like his complexion barely cleared up in time for him to be appointed to the highest judicial office in the land is not established in the Constitution, but it easily could be. The deal with the Court snatching back women’s’ freedom of choice over their own ovaries was, as Sam Alioto put it, “not firmly established in law, back in 1870 or so, which era we’re planning to drag the whole country back to, as soon as the big hoo-ha over this one dies down, so screw Planned Parenthood. The gays are next, ha, ha.” *
 
Fortunately, for Kavanaugh, the right of wealthy white men to chow down, mac out, pig out or otherwise bloat themselves so that the fine brandy they enjoy after dinner can barely trickle through their pre-bulimic stomachs was established long before 1870. Here’s an example of the feasts served by Thomas Jefferson to his guests, back when he was President #3: “Rice soup, round of beef, turkey, mutton, ham, loin of veal, cutlets of mutton or veal, fried eggs, fried beef, a pie called macaroni . . . Ice cream very good . . . a dish somewhat like pudding . . . covered with cream sauce -- very fine. Many other jimcracks, a great variety of fruit, plenty of wines, and good."
 
Now, you might be thinking, “Shit, the meals at Jefferson’s crib made the menu at Morton’s look like a Value Burrito at Del Taco,” but that’s legally irrelevant.
 
Of course, Jefferson had his dinners served by his slaves, which is no longer considered cool. Otherwise, we’re thinking grounds for a ruling have been established. The Supremes could easily decide that Kavanaugh has the right to cram aged beef into his chipmunk cheeks in solitary bliss, with no nasty noisy outside protesters that wouldn’t even have a beer with him in college, probably, to disturb the Justice while he eats and drinks himself into a stupor. And, burping back the taste of Crème Brule in his throat, he has the right to emerge onto an empty street, with only a little tang of tear gas left in the air from when the cops emptied the neighborhood of protesters.
 
That’s how precedent works, people.
 
 
*Not an exact quote

I mean, really ready? The bet here is not. Sure, you talk a big game, saying things, “The first news I want to hear when I flick on the TV is that Trump has croaked,” and “The day Trumps kicks the breathing habit will be the happiest day of my life,” but have you really made plans?

I mean, we’re all excited now about Trump being prosecuted and going to prison and, yeah, it might go that way, and that would be more ecstatic than being the first astronaut to pop ‘shrooms in orbit, but the fact is, the old shitbird could blow out a ventricle any minute, especially when he’s watching those hearings, and the last thing he would see on this planet is Liz Cheney telling him what a whiny little tiny-peckered bitch he was.
 
So are you really ready? No, right? Unlike your prepper neighbor, who has a whole underground shelter full of Cap'n Crunch so he can wait out the End Times, or the Asteroid of Doom, or something else that just might happen, you haven’t bought a single cherry bomb, polished your cymbals, practiced even one dance step or memorized the lyrics to “Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead.” You are in serious danger of being caught flat-footed if Trump finally has that coronary infarction he’s been begging for.
 
He’s a fat guy who lives on cheeseburgers, hopefully triple bacon cheeseburgers, and the only exercise he gets is flicking the “on” switch on his golf cart and watching porn. Like everybody else who gives him advice, his personal physician knows better than to give him bad news. Unlike our doctors, who are regularly telling us to stop smoking, drinking, being fat or having intestinal polyps, Trump’s physician tells Trump he's a "vibrant young man," even as he prescribes Trump's daily dose of Lipitor, Adderal and boner pills. 

If we follow our doctors' advice, we get to stay off that Slip ‘n Slide to eternity a little longer.
 
But Trump doesn’t even have that going for him. Judas, who has the same job in Hell that St. Peter has in Heaven,* is waiting on the shore of the Lake of Molten Brimstone, with a beach chair labeled “Trump” in his hand even as I write this, and he confidently expects to seat Trump's doomed orange soul in it soon.
 
So do your bit. Head to North Carolina, where they sell fireworks that are illegal in all other US states and most members of NATO, and stock up. If you can play a musical instrument, particularly of the noisy, party kind, or a tuba, or really, anything but a recorder or the bagpipes, keep your instrument polished and ready. If you aren’t musical, buy a metal washtub. You probably already own a hammer. Samba lessons? Hell, yeah. You want to be able to dance on your rooftop like a Muslim while Trump circles the drain.
 
If you actually want to attend Trump’s funeral, which will no doubt be held in the Rotunda of the Capitol, just like a better President’s, which are all of them, some measure of decorum will be expected of you, but don’t let that slow you down. Nobody can stop you from saying “SHIT, I thought this was the line for the taco truck,” when you pass Trump’s lifeless corpse. Try to start a round of golf-clapping among your fellow mourners, or even the Wave.
 
So be in a constant state of readiness for Trump to gack out, just like you were waiting for the Rapture, except that Trump’s death will definitely someday happen.

Some pundits worry that we could have civil unrest even if Trump died naturally, what with FOX ghouls and Alex Jones seizing the chance to start yammering about Hillary, or the Deep State, or the ghost of Epstein mysteriously killing him, but I wouldn't worry about that. The only civil unrest predicted here is possible brawling between the factions at Trump's grave that want to dance on it, vs. the ones that want to urinate on it.

And if it doesn’t happen soon enough? Well, you’re all set for when Mitch McConnell closes his shell for the last time, then.

*Not orthodox theology. Made that one up.

It is not often a political party requires that its members believe an unhinged conspiracy theory in order to properly belong to it, but the Republican Party of Texas has broken through that barrier and marched boldly onto the dubious plain of alternative facts.
 
Texas Republicans are now officially required to believe in the Big Lie, or, as some call it, The Vast Flooding River of Bullshit, or the Entirely Unproven Canard About Voter Fraud, or the Murky Sewage-Fest of Squirmy Allegations about the Mango Man winning the last election.
 
This, despite Trump’s Feast of Obvious Ordure currently having its nose held over it by Liz Cheney and her buds, and its various untruths, including the one about the ex-Caucasian-in-Chief actually believing that he had won, being exposed like dog turds in a hard rain.
 
The Republican Party of Texas officially cannot believe that Trump lost. They have formally taken up residence in the tight balloon of all-my-neighbors-voted-for-Trump-so-he-must-have-won. These are people that went to the rallies, nearly drowned each other in boat parades for Trump, belong to Bikers for Trump, or People in Supermarket Diabetes Carts for Trump, or just the Oath Boys.
 
They just refuse to believe he lost. Why? Because they know that if flags in pickup trucks could vote, Trump would have won the last election.
 
The question is, what is the next conspiracy theory that the Republicans of Texas are going to pick up and go with? This one’s not going to have much staying power, as other Republican contenders are going to pay lip service to Trump while they cruelly destroy his chance for the next Republican nomination by promising to get their fascist on while not destroying the Constitution. Or being in prison.
 
Not that NASA faked the moon landings, that’s for sure. Texas Republicans may be stupid, but the spirit of Texas boosterism runs proudly and mindlessly through their veins, and NASA is headquartered in Houston.
 
Nor will it be that 911 was a false-flag operation. George Bush is from Texas, and while he ought to be ashamed of himself for being Jeb’s brother, he certainly wasn’t mixed up with them Al-Qaidos.
 
The thinking here is that it’s going to be the Flat Earth. For one thing, most of Texas is mind-numbingly flat. Unbelievingly, monotonously flat. So flat, that when you’re driving across it, you’re relieved when you see another ugly sign for a Flying J truck stop sticking up out of the prairie, just because your brain has been longing to see something perpendicular. It is the biggest ironing-board of a state this side of Kansas. It’s flatter than a plastic cup of Lone Star accidentally left out on the picnic table from last week’s barbecue (Bar-B-Q, sorry).
 
Texas is one of the easiest places to believe in the Flat Earth on Earth.
 
And for sure, the Republicans of Texas aren’t worried about being pushed over the edge.
 
They already live there.

Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton said recently that he would tell parents of young children killed in the Uvalde school shooting that "God has a plan."--News item
 
God spit out His coffee when He heard that one, and flung the rest of His banana-and-manna muffin over the edge of Heaven in disgust.
 
“Who the Hell said that?” He demanded.
 
“Huh?” said Jesus, who was watching the remains of the muffin hit off an umbrella being held by a woman waiting for a bus on a rainy day in suburban Philadelphia. “I should have put My face on that one,” He mused.
 
“Who said it was My plan to massacre a bunch of third graders?”
 
“Ummm…Wasn’t Me, for sure. I’ve got enough problems with deceased children. I’ve got all these aborted fetuses swarming me. There’s another one, Youdammit (swats away another bleating pre-born) Last thing I want is another batch of dead kids.”
 
“And You don’t think it was Your Mother? Another one of those gotcha gimmicks her lawyer dreams up for her?”
 
“Not really her style. You know who it was.”
 
The Alpha and Omega sighed. “He’s really getting out of hand.”
 
“He is one bitter Eternal Being, that’s for sure.”
 
“I’ve got to have a talk with Him. ‘Ghost,’ I’m going to say…”

​“Stop right there. That’ll get You off on the wrong foot, for sure. You know He doesn’t want to be called that anymore.”
 
“Right. What are we supposed to call Him now?”
 
“I think He’s settled on ‘Ye.”
 
“YE?’ Does He know…”
 
“Don’t tell Him, is my advice. Or else we’re going to have another massacre. I mean, the Holy Ghost can hold a grudge for all eternity. We both know that. Let him focus on minor violence, like Billy Joe Billy shooting his toe off last night in Baregum Hollow while he was cleaning his AR-15.”
 
“Actually, that was Me.”
 
“What? I thought You were swearing off self-inflicted gunshot wounds.”
 
“I was, but Billy Joe Billy was starting to make his 11-year-old niece sit on his lap when he logged onto PornHub. Now Billy's worried that if he does that again, his pecker is going to be next. I was just radiating My Eternal Goodness when I did that. What are you going to do, sue Me?”
 
Jesus sighed. “Anyway, it was the Attorney General of Texas that said Uvalde was Your plan.”
 
“That prick. Him, Abbott and that Lieutenant Governor they have, Patrick…They’re like the opposite of us. The Unholy Trinity, if you get what I’m saying.”
 
“They have Ted Cruz, too, so that analogy doesn’t really work.”
 
“Before you were born, people told me that if I had a Kid, he would spend the rest of His life trying to make Me feel stupid. And they were right.”
 
“Come on, don’t get all pissed off. Nobody wants to deal with a plague or a tsunami today. I got that straight from the Admissions Desk.”
 
“I can’t just let this slide.”
 
“How about another heat wave for Texas?”
 
“Will they even notice?”
 
“Plus, a special disease that only afflicts air-conditioner repairmen. We’ll call it Carrierpox. That ought to get their attention.”
 
“Okay. Let it be so. And while you’re putting that order in, grab me another banana-manna muffin, will you?”