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."

Trump claims he's getting arrested Tuesday. I just hope I can get ready in time. I know I can pick up a couple of air horns, and I've got buckets and hammers in the garage.

Fireworks are out. I live in firework-free California, and don't have time to drive out to Yuma and pick up enough personal pyrotechnics to beat Elon Musk to Mars. I'd like that, though.

I don't own any bagpipes or kazoos. Until Trump actually dies, that will be the case.

The party will happen all day. In my time zone everything happens early. I expect Trump to be indicted before my first sip of morning coffee, so I can switch to margaritas instead.

Trump plans to make a speech on the courtyard steps after he gets inducted into the justice system, and has called upon his followers to join him in protest there. This is not going to work out nearly as well as he thinks it is. First off, MAGA folk are going to suffer from the short time allowed to get to NYC, just like I can't get to Yuma. Some of them have jobs or drug deals they have to show up for; some of them still have their RV's up on blocks for the winter. Plus, parking your Ford 750 pickup in Manhattan is almost as easy as getting the Pope's autograph on a Communion muffin.

When they get there, they really can't expect the wide-open rampaging they enjoyed on January 6 in the Capitol. NYC's finest, plus probably the National Guard, plus an alphabet soup of Federal cops will be there. If you show up with merely your leftover pepper spray and a DON'T TREAD ON ME sign, you're gonna get treaded on.

But this is only the first time Trump gets indicted. You'll have time to perfect the art of getting a multi-year prison sentence on behalf of the Ex, if you haven't gotten one already, only this time, he's going to get one, too! Makes you tingle all over, doesn't it? Whether it's on the courthouse steps in Atlanta, or the federal courthouse in DC, there will be at least two more indictments, and you can play the chump for your orange-hued hero a few more times before they send him away.

Over here, we're just stoked. Nor quite as stoked as Meatball Ron. Close, though.

​In the current Republican party, the general itch is to make laws that nobody wants. They daydream about cutting Social Security back to dog-food once a week rates and paring down Medicare until you’re only entitled to a couple free Advil’s a month.
 
But don’t just accuse them of granny-starving. They’ve got plans for the younger generation, too. Loosening child labor laws has always been a dream for them. Instead of happy children playing video games or running around outside committing small acts of arson and sneaking puffs off swiped cigarettes, like we did, Republicans think kids ought to be working for the minimum wage, or, ideally, the minimum special child wage in a perfect Republican economy, in giant dangerous factories, and only smoking cigarettes during designated breaks.
 
Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the newly minted governor of Arkansas, is leading the league in getting minors off their asses and toiling on poultry farms. Of course, Sanders herself can’t be accused of hypocrisy on this account, as everybody knows Sanders worked as a trained circus pig every summer of middle school. Other Republican hands aren’t so clean. Iowa legislators are considering a bill that would allow 14- and 15-year-olds to work certain jobs in meatpacking plants and shield businesses from civil liability if a child laborer is sickened, injured or killed on the job. A bill in Minnesota would permit 16- and 17-year-olds to work construction jobs.
 
It is dead solid certain that these various Midwestern legislators aren’t envisioning their own kids working in a meatpacking plant, or some other dangerous industry. It’s not like they’re telling their kids at the end of the school year, “Boy, this is the summer you find out what a working crop thresher smells like,” or “There’s nothing a face full of chicken feathers in the morning to make you feel like you’re alive, son.” Hell, no. They’re all enrolling their kids in summer sessions at Country Day Something School, hoping they can raise their grades enough to stumble into Stanford, or at least TCU.
 
No, child labor is for brown children, particularly brown children whose English isn’t so good and their illegal parents or guardians don’t much like filling out paperwork. Meat-packing executives look out their office windows at these kids playing soccer with a ball made of taped-up rags and think, “Look at those little slackers. We could put them to work, and nobody would care.” So, they give them jobs at meat-packing plants full of sharp saws and knives, and keep them until they’ve lost enough fingers/limbs so they can't be a successful team member any more. Then they let them can drift back to the border and hold up a begging cup with what remains of their digits, so people crossing back into the US can throw their remaining pesos in them and think better of themselves for it.
 
Republicans seldom cross the border by foot or car—they usually fly in and out of Cancun, a la Ted Cruz. But if they are stuck in the border line, they gaze out of the tightly-rolled up windows of their Land Cruisers and say, “Look at that kid with one arm and one leg! And he’s probably trying to get into our country so he can get welfare!”
 
He’s already been here, you know. He’s been here.

It has been pointed out many times that Trump and his band of merry MAGAS have no actual future plans for America, except to torment refugees, people that want abortions, and the Ukrainian nation.
 
Apparently, the Trumpers have heard this criticism and been stung by it, because now Trump has a plan for after his supposed re-election, besides giving himself a get-out-of-jail-free card. He is going to build ten “Freedom Cities,” high in the air above federal land, which will all bear a significant resemblance to Orbit City, the future home of George Jetson, complete down to the flying cars.
 
“Yeah, why don’t the Democrats give us something useful, like flying cars instead of all that health care shit they’re always pushing down our throats?,” says the typical Trump voter, who nowadays only flies when he cooks up a really good batch of crystal meth. His license is currently suspended due to a couple of at-fault accidents and a DUI he got while four-wheeling in the swamp, but his flying car record is unblemished and he can’t wait to get behind the joystick of a Jetsonmobile.
 
Of course, we have flying cars, or to be precise, small personal aircraft, now. The reason they don’t dominate the transportation market is that they fly. Piloting yourself in three dimensions thousands of feet in the air is a way more serious business than rolling your wheels down to the Quick Mart to buy some vape juice, which you can easily do drunk, with your glove compartment stuffed with weed, expired registrations, and unpaid tickets, just on the off chance you can make the cut on On Patrol Live. On the streets of  Virginia, a hypothetical fender-bender between Kellyanne Conway and Kimberly Guilfoyle would only result in each of them lying about who was at fault, but in Freedom City, it would result in a fiery plunge to the ground, and both of these legendary sources of prevarication would have their voices stilled forever.
 
And don’t just say, “so what?” Another one of Trump’s plans for Orbit City is that he will pay white people to have babies. He doesn’t actually say “white people,” but you know what he means. High above the ground, Caucasian-Americans will clutch their paid-for children, letting them go only to scream, “Get away from that window!” every five minutes.
 
Whether this will work or not nobody knows. Probably depend on the money involved. If Trump tries to low-ball the Future White Dads and Moms of the USA, they’ll probably just say, “Naw…I’ll just buy me some Bitcoin instead.”
 
 
The height of Trump Orbit Cities is obviously meant to discourage refugees from climbing aboard, which won’t work unless you add some really dark real-estate accoutrements, like spikes and boiling oil gutters on the legs of Freedom Place. Even then, the moment Rosie the Robot goes out of warranty, some smiling Salvadorean housekeeper will appear magically at the elevator, ready to take her place.
 
So, we’ve discovered some flaws here, but don’t expect that to stop Trump from trying, even if it just results in a heap of rust somewhere in the Midwest, kind of like his wall did for the Southwest.
 
If you really want to make a mess of it, put Elon Musk in charge.

Scrolling through the pages of Facebook last week in one of my many idle moments, I came across a plug for heavenornot.net. I had never heard of this web site, but realized right away it could prove profoundly useful. I’d like to know if I’m going to Heaven. I’d like to know if there is a Heaven, too, but the domain name presupposes that, I guess.
 
I clicked on the link. I expected detailed questions about masturbation, drinking, lust, church attendance and use of pornography. I freely acknowledge that I might rank among the lower percentile when tested in the religious SAT (Sin All Time) rankings, but you never know—I may be avoiding just enough sin to scrape into Heaven, and that would be cool with me. The bottom rung of the Hereafter would suit me just fine. I’ve always been a back of the class kind of guy.
 
At the very least I expected a quick quiz like the kind you always run across when you log into Zuckland. You know, one like “What Kind of Central American Tropical Insect Are You?” I did one of those the other day, and it turns out I’m a Costa Rican Hairy Caterpillar. Self-discovery is always worth the effort. At least I could find out if I’d be hanging with the Heavenly Hosts, Cherubim and Seraphim section, or if I’d be confined to one of the smaller eternal subgroups, like Philadelphia Sports Fans Who Aren’t Quite Shitty Enough for Hell.
 
Heavenornot.net turned out to be vastly disappointing. I don’t recommend it. One of the first lines you come across is “Many historians, as discoveries over time have increased, now believe the Bible to be the most reliable source of early world history.”
 
The Chinese and the Indians were already having history in Biblical times, and indigenous peoples had barreled across the Siberia-Alaska land bridge and were finishing up spreading to every corner of the Americas. This was happening in the world, and God was unaware of it, apparently, or ignoring it, or just being laser-focused on the Middle East, because that’s the only part of the world where the Bible can claim to be any kind of historical guide at all, and a sometimes dubious one at that.
 
The site rambles on about sin and Jesus, and how we were born with the first and must accept the second to have any chance at all at eternity, and concludes with an invitation to prayer. You can click a button that says “Yes, I Prayed,” or “No, I Still Have Questions.” There was no button that said, "I Prayed, But Nothing Happened." The addition of this option would improve the site immensely, in my opinion.

No matter what your response, you are invited to submit your email to heavenornot so you can receive what I expect is a barrage of solicitations for the salvation of your soul. Also, probably requests for money.
 
The site is just boring, nearly as boring as singing hosannas for all eternity. It’s the opposite of raptureready.com, which is hours of entertaining info about the imminent probability that you will be Left Behind. I recommend it highly.
 
But I gave them my email anyway. That way, when tragedies like train crashes in Ohio, or earthquakes in Syria strike, and the doubters among us start wailing, “Where is God?” I’ll have an answer for them.
 
He’s in my spam folder. 

The downing of two “unknown” objects over the far north has raised a question that, so far, that our cowardly politicians and mealy-mouthed military have failed to answer.
 
Are we shooting at Santa?
 
Those among the captive media who pooh-pooh this hypothesis by pointing out that it has been almost two months since Christmas, when Kris Kringle is sure to take to the Arctic skies, must be reminded of the North Pole’s need to maintain its preparedness for the holiday season. The popular view of Santa gorging himself on milk and cookies and cuddling with Mrs. Claus for all but one night a year is obviously a carefully cultivated image. Flying sleighs must be rigorously spot-checked. Just because they are magical does not mean they are not subject to maintenance schedules and fluid changes. They may very well have to be flown on a regular basis. And there may be more than one.
 
Not only the sleigh, but the reindeer must be kept in shape. Do you expect these small northern ungulates to pull a sleigh full of toys and goodies around the entire planet once a year if they spend the rest of it lounging around eating candy canes with elves and polar bears? Hell, no. They have to be worked into a lather at frequent intervals. The efforts of a thoroughbred at a racetrack are nothing compared to the stupendous mission of Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph, et al, on Christmas Eve.
 
The authorities have kept this pretty buttoned up, but several ominous clues have emerged. One is that the mystery objects shot down were said to be “car -size.” Well, “car-size” is about the same as “sleigh-size,” isn’t it?
 
The other is that the downed objects “did not appear to have surveillance equipment.” Bullshit. He knows when you’ve been sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. This is obviously a cover-up.
 
Be prepared for never seeing photos of the downed “objects,” because they are probably gruesome tableaus of fragments of a red suit trimmed in white fur scattered across the icy wilderness, together with a pitiful debris field of dolls, toy trains and Legos, a “test payload” of next year’s holiday season’s giving.
 
But all cover-ups collapse eventually. I don’t like Joe Biden’s re-election chances, though, if he has to stand before the nation and say the words no American wants to hear:
​
“There is no Santa Claus.”

Numerous Republican sources have reported that Joe Biden waited to knock the Chinese spy balloon out of the sky over the ocean because it was carrying another one of his son Hunter’s laptops, a laptop he had accidentally left at a repair shop in China while he was funneling funds to his father from the CCP.
 
None of these sources were willing to be publicly identified, but they were said to fall along the MGT—Matt Gaetz—Tucker Carlson wing of the party.
 
“Biden couldn’t risk downing the balloon over dry land and having the pulverized pieces of Hunter’s latest laptop put together by the New York Post,” hissed the Gateway Pundit.
 
To even hear even regular Republicans talk about it, he might as well have sent the spycraft a bouquet when he ordered a missile through its envelope.
 
Brave Tom Cotton said to FOX, “What began as a spy balloon has become a trial balloon testing President Biden’s strength and resolve, and unfortunately, the president failed that test. Of course, if he had downed it over Arkansas and crushed so much as a single meth lab, I’d be singing an entirely different tune.”
 
“This is all about China testing the American resolve,” Chris Sununu, who is coincidentally sometimes referred to as the New Hampshire Gasbag, said on "This Week" on ABC. “They know that tensions are escalating, and they want to see what kind of leadership we have. The president clearly failed on this one,” he added. “I just wish it could have been downed over my state. My constituents don’t mind being covered in radioactive soft noodles for the sake of national security.”
 
But, let’s face it--if Joe had climbed into a fighter jet himself, Independence Day style, and shot the spy balloon out of the sky fearlessly while it tried to slather him in death rays, Republicans would not be happy about his actions. They are annoyed because he followed expert advice (the Pentagon’s). This is not the Republican way, as exemplified by their treatment of the Center for Disease Control during the pandemic. The advice of people who think about certain problems and how to solve them full-time is to be cast aside in favor of the opinions of reality TV stars and country-western singers when it comes to a national crisis. People standing in their yards and emptying their AR-15’s uselessly at the sky are the real Americans, not our woke military and its billions of dollars’ worth of air-to-air-missiles, of which exactly one was used to pluck the spy balloon out of the heavens.
 
Apparently, Biden wanted to pop that sucker right away, but was counseled not to shoot it down over land, even when it was over Montana, where it would only possibly have killed a few a few sheep and survivalists when it fell. Or so he says. The haunting possibility that the President dunked the balloon deliberately in the drink in a calculated attempt to cover up the crimes, and possibly more naked pics, of himself and his kid renders this accomplished act of American self-defense in a sordid light.
 
The Republicans, ever paragons of forthrightness, would have shot it down over Atlanta, just for the sake of suppressing the black vote, I suspect, along with preserving the proof of Biden chicanery that the Chinese were so helpfully trying to ship them.
 
But we’ll never know for sure, now that the hard drive full of Biden crimes is melting hopelessly into the dead sargasso off the Carolina coast.
 
Next time, Xi, just use DoorDash.

As people with adequate credit ratings and a stable home address, myself and my life-partner-domestic-companion-main-squeeze, Nancy, receive more than our share of mail solicitations. She gets way more than me because she actually contributes to charities, whereas I remain a tough sell, also known in the donations industry as a “cheap bastard.”
 
Much of our daily mail consists of solicitations from a cornucopia of worthy causes, so many that if we contributed to them all, we would be living in a cardboard box under the freeway ourselves, and I would constantly be invited to get my own cardboard box, and find my own freeway, if I didn’t like it.
 
Before I threw yesterday’s batch of starving children and abandoned puppies in the trash, though, I noticed one item that was distinctly different than the others. It had a picture of the ex-Caucasian in Chief, in all his vulvic-necked glory on it, and it had “Pay to the Order of (her full name) $1100” visible on the outside of the envelope.
 
I sincerely doubted that Trump was sending 1100 smackeroos to my beloved and, on opening the missive, discovered that I was, as happens occasionally, not wrong. The 1100 bucks were a “credit voucher” towards the purchase of the MAGA Movement Coin Set, 24 “luxuriously layered in gold” coins, each “33 mm in diameter” (which is promptly translated as 1.3 inches, for those of you who are so core MAGA you regard the metric system as purely a libtard scam) enclosed in a “Free Premium Wooden Collector’s Box.”
 
Once the $1100 credit voucher is applied, the prospective buyer must cough up a measly 99 simoleons in order to own the whole package of base-metal, thinly coated with gold coins arranged on a cheap velvet-type material enclosed in artfully stained particle board, which can then be displayed in your home until Republicans take away half your Social Security, upon which it can be taken to your local pawn shop to be laughed at.
 
It is hardly necessary to say that Nancy will not be purchasing the 24 Piece MAGA Movement Collectors Set, not even if she gets higher than a Chinese spy balloon. She is far more likely to make a guest appearance on MILF Manor than to buy anything from Trump. In a way that is too bad, because we all need to be reminded of what Trump regarded as his triumphs, which included “Supporting America’s Veterans,” despite insulting Gold Star families and war heroes when it suited him, “Achieved Record-Setting American Economic Comeback,” even though the economy was fine when he started his term and teetering next to a cliff like Wile E Coyote when he ended it, and “Supported the Constitution,” except when he tried to overturn it.
 
Notable are missing coins, like “Built the Wall,” “Made Mexico Pay For It,” and “Repealed Obamacare.”
 
The whole project is designed to scam money out of the people he failed to scam money out of with his NFT fraud, not because they wish to not be scammed, but because they don’t understand NFT’s.
 
Hey, maybe he mailed it to the right house after all.

​Satan popped up on my Skype screen again to vent a little. He looked woebegone. His usual gleaming scarlet complexion was verging on a dull purple, and the Satanic glint in his eyes had been replaced by a dull, if still thoroughly unwholesome, stare.
 
“What gives?” I said. “I didn’t think the Evil One got hangovers.”
 
“I don’t,” he said. “The pressure of running Hell just getting to me.”
 
“I imagine. The war in Ukraine must be filling the place up with customers arriving early.”
 
“It’s not them. Most of them just get the standard treatment. Melt a red-hot medallion onto their chests and turn them loose to swim in the Lake of Molten Fire or play along the Beach of Blisters. The grandma-rapers and other war criminals get fileted by my imps when those guys get around to it, which isn’t often—they negotiated a four-day work week for themselves in their last contract, plus unlimited mental health days, claiming that pitchforking souls for all eternity gives them permanent PTSD. Even pouring hot lead down the gullets of politicians to keep them from lying gets old after a while, they say. But you don’t see them on some condemned psychiatrist’s couch on their days off. All they do is hang out at their taverns, drinking boiling wine from gold chalices and playing cornhole with shrunken heads.”
 
“Are you just showing up to complain about your labor issues again?
 
“Hell, no. I’m here to talk about real problems. Vladimir Putin’s going to die one of these days, and I always feel the pressure when someone who really, really, REALLY deserves to be here shows up at the Gates of Despair.”
 
“Are you afraid he’ll take over? He might be qualified.”
 
“Frankly, I wouldn’t mind. Ain’t no vacation days in eternity, and sitting by the Pool of Urine from Failed Drug Tests, sipping the blood of unbaptized boys, and enjoying the screams of the damned from afar sounds like a peaceful way to spend a millennium or so, but there’s no rest for the wicked. Kind of sorry I made up that rule in the first place. But, no—if I let Putin have the run of the place for even a few hours, he’ll drum up some kind of fake referendum to make himself Lucifer-for-Life. I know how that guy works.”
 
“Well, you could just torture him in any of the numerous ways he’s killed people here. Poison his underwear, put polonium in his tea, starve him in some gulag, launch missiles at his head, shoot him from behind when he least expects it. I mean, the ways are almost endless.”
 
“I could, but then I might be accused of a lack of originality.”
 
“Just combine it, then—shoot him while he’s exploding while wearing poisoned underwear and sipping radioactive tea. Over and over. And just for the lulz, push him out of a high window in the Castle of Condemned Souls at random intervals.”
 
“Hmm…not bad. I always knew you were an idea guy.”
 
I blushed. It’s not every day you get praised by THE fallen angel.
 
“Thanks. And oh, by the way—see you soon.”

As I sit here, on the Legal Holiday That We Get Because Christmas Was on a Sunday This Year (I really don’t know what else to call it) my thoughts are dwelling on the Christmas wishes the ex-Caucasian-in-Chief recently bestowed upon the nation he formerly, and half-assedly, led for four years.
 
I’m no huge fan of Christmas myself, mostly because I hate the traffic and the music, but I endure it until the ho-ho-hoing stops and the cold, credit-card balance viewing depression of January sets in. I don’t blast the airwaves with bitter harangues about “Radical Left Marxists who are trying to destroy our Country,” among other things.
 
For those of you who don’t know what a radical left Marxist is, and that includes just about all of you who fling around the term like it was the pickleball of cutting insults, it merely means someone who didn’t vote for Trump at least twice.
 
The FBI comes in for some abuse, as does the “Social and Lame Stream Media,” whom the Tangerine Tyrant accuses of ‘pushing for a mentally disabled Democrat (here he is frothing about the current President) over the Brilliant, Clairvoyant and USA-LOVING Donald J Trump.” (Random capitalization all by the Stable Genius)
 
You might be thinking that clairvoyant is a strong word to describe a person who blackmailed Ukraine for political favors and begged for fake votes from Georgia on recorded lines, and never looked at Cassidy Hutchinson in her office down the hall from the Oval one and thought, “That girl is going to dime me out to the Select Committee someday,” and you would be right, but this is the sort of baked-in batshittery that Trump serves us in lieu of Christmas cookies.
 
America’s Ex finishes off his Christmas fury with a blast at “the Special ​​Prosecutor​’​ who, together with his wife and family, HATES ​’​Trump​’​ more than any other person on earth​.”
 
This sentence, once you get passed the oddly-moored quotation marks, is enough to give anybody pause. If I had known hating Trump was a contest, I’d have entered it long ago, especially if there were cash prizes involved. I don’t know how you would quantify hate for Trump in order to make the competition fair. Hate grams? Hate joules? Cubits of hate? I’m sure it would be near as difficult as winning the lottery, though. For all the distaste I can muster for Trump, there’s probably another guy who has a full-size voodoo doll of the Ex in his basement and kicks it in the genitals every day while screaming obscenities. He’s going to be favored over me.

Meantime, the mentally disabled guy put out a message for peace on Earth and unity among Americans. It’s treacly and possibly insincere (you can read it here) but, hey, that’s what we expect out of our politicians at Christmas.
 
Not the airing of grievances. Christ, you’d think Trump was celebrating Festivus. 

We’ve only developed a concern about planet-busting size asteroids since I grew into my dissipated adulthood. We never worried about asteroids hitting Earth when I was a youth—we were too busy worried that we couldn’t get under our desks in time if the Soviets decided to drop an H-bomb on our elementary school.

Worries change though, and the discovery that a massive chunk fell out of the sky and killed the dinosaurs, plus a few Hollywood blockbusters about a fictional chonk space rock killing all of us if it wasn’t for Bruce Willis, and now there’s at least one story a week in the news about astronomers discovering another near-earth object that could potentially flatten us back into the Stone Age.
               
They haven’t found one that is actually going to hit our planet yet, and their definition of “near” extends out several millions of miles, but when science writers seize on each newly-discovered interplanetary brick capable of busting the windshield of human existence, the first thing they do is size it. And we’re not talking about its size in feet, yards, meters, tons or kilos. The science press is obsessed with comparing planet-popping rock gobs to objects it thinks the public can identify with.
               
Just go to Google and run “asteroid the size of” as a search and you’ll see what I mean. They run the gamut from “the size of a giraffe,” up to “the size of Texas.” Architectural achievements are well-represented. The Great Pyramid, the Empire State Building, the Golden Gate Bridge and the Eiffel Tower all have their asteroidal equivalents floating around out there, waiting to smush into us and cause unimaginable harm.
               
For some reason, giraffes are the favored animal in which to size asteroids. Asteroids the size of polar bears, elephants and blue whales must be out there as well, but so far, they remain outside of scientific scrutiny. But giraffe-sized asteroids have been spotted, raising the questions about the appearance and behavior of these space stones. Are they spotted? Do they graze on the high leaves of the solar system? Will they inevitably crash into the Serengeti?
               
Another Google result is “the size of 350 giraffes.” This is useless. Nobody I know has ever seen 350 giraffes at once. There is also “the size of 2,000 ferrets.” This may make sense to you, if you are concerned about asteroids and also a ferret-farmer, but it doesn’t help the rest of us much.
               
Some asteroids are vaguely described. The “size of a building,” is often used. Buildings can range from the size of a sex shop or a meth lab to the size of the Pentagon, and the asteroid-watching public deserves to know which variety of building is most likely to land on their head like a leftover Chinese booster rocket.
               
There are many objects that most people are perfectly familiar with the size of, and yet they never make it into the asteroid comparative-sizing chart. You’ll never see “The size of the yard sale my weirdo neighbors have every week,” “the size of the truck I’ve been stuck behind for five fucking minutes on this goddam upgrade,” “the size of an $800,000 condo in La Jolla, California,” or “the size of a destination wedding party on Maui,” used to describe any potential earth-ending space rubble.
               
Also neglected are the effects of sized asteroids. An asteroid the size of a giraffe would kill you pretty cleanly if it landed in your man cave, just as cleanly as a real giraffe would if it did the same, and a tad more explosively besides, but it wouldn’t end many lives outside of your own. An asteroid the size of the Golden Gate Bridge would blow up Marin County and a couple of adjacent counties besides, or swamp the Bay with a tsunami as tall as, say, the Eiffel Tower, if it landed in the adjacent Pacific, but it wouldn’t would wipe out life on Earth.
               
State-sized asteroids are of much deeper concern. An asteroid the size of Rhode Island would be massively bigger than the six-mile-wide space slab that erased the dinosaurs, so evolution might have to start over again from whatever preheated scum might survive in the oceans, if that one hit. An asteroid the size of Texas would be pretty unlikely, considering  Texas is 801 miles across, and the largest known asteroid, Ceres, is only 587 miles across. But if an asteroid the size of Texas would sneak in from one of the low-rent neighborhoods that surround the Solar System, like the Kuiper Belt, it would probably blow enough of Earth into space to form a ring around it, which would eventually coalesce into a second, smaller Moon.
               
​Which would be pretty, sure. None of us would be around to write songs about it, though.