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."

This photo recently was featured on Fox News. Allegedly, it was taken on 9-11 of this year and features a cloudy fireman rushing towards a vaporous angel, whose wings, back lit by the sun, appear to be possibly on fire.
 
Fox News features many stories you don’t see on mainstream news, because those other journalistic outlets are so often wearily preoccupied with our President continuing to be a lying salmon shitbird. Fox does not think this is newsworthy, and so they give plenty of airtime, or at least more airtime than it deserves, to the phenomena of airborne moisture clots looking like angels and firemen.
 
God communicates through clouds. It is Jesus that communicates through toast—the headline is mistaken, but I am too lazy to change it now. You skeptics out there are saying, “If God communicates through clouds, why isn’t He a little more obvious with it? Like, if every single cloud was an identical image of Him, it would be a lot tougher to doubt His existence.”
 
To which I reply, “Why doesn’t He just sit down with Trevor Noah some night and, between yocks about sex and politics, reveal which one of the monotheistic faiths is His fave?” Which doesn’t really refute your point. It’s just something I wonder.
 
God likes to mix it up more than that. When you see a cloud that looks like a crocodile, is He reminding you that you may eventually be eaten by one? Maybe. When you see one shaped like a dollar sign, is He trying to tell you you’ll never win the lottery unless you pray for it? When you see one resembling a coat hanger, is it just a helpful reminder from Him to go get that abortion?
 
In the Middle East, on 9-11, did a cloud formation appear that resembled a suicide bomber rushing towards a virgin?
 
All is possible, with God and clouds. Sometimes clouds are just fluffy angels and firemen, sometimes they clog together to give us much-needed rain—sometimes they give us rain we don’t need at all. Sometimes they wad themselves into humongous hurricanes, and spray whole islands cleaner of houses than a fireman’s hose.
 
There’s a clear message in those kind of clouds, a message from God that rings loud and true, consistently, through the course of history.
 
Watch out for your own ass. 

Amen to that.
​

​In another week of relentless idiocy, Trump has decided we will no longer be required to use energy-efficient light bulbs. We are all used to these incandescent curlicues now—paying more for them, waiting that half-second before they blink into full illumination, burning less electricity to power them, and pondering our own nobility in using them, thereby keeping Greenland from melting and the Amazon from burning even as we climb into our monster trucks to drop our kids off at daycare.
 
When he cast the energy-efficient light bulbs into the waste bin of history, Trump made it personal. He blamed the little fluorescents for his famous skin tone. “They make me look orange,” he said of the banished bulbs.
 
Most observers have blamed Trumps orangeousity on an addiction to tanning beds or tanning sprays. Or just the fires of hell lightly seeping through his skin from the soul he sold to Satan in order to win the last election.  But what if he’s right?
 
I don’t really remember when the new light bulbs started appearing on hardware store shelves, let alone when we were required to use them, but it was a while back. I don’t think I look particularly oranger now than I did then, I think, despite Trump’s claim that energy saver’s “make everybody look orange.”
 
But there could be more insidious side effects. I look a shit-ton older now than I did then.  I just blamed it on the natural process of aging and my drinking habit, but what if it was the light bulbs all along?
 
And I could stand to lose a few pounds. Not sixty, like Trump, but if I dropped ten, it would really make my abs pop out. What if I could achieve the same appearance by going back to Stone Age light bulbs rather than going on some dull, beer-free diet? Making the ladies swoon wins hands-down over a few hundred thousand endangered critters any day.
 
It wouldn’t really matter to me because, like Trump, by the time global warming is really starting to kick humanity’s ass like a last-second field goal, I’ll be dead. The only way to get Trump to care about the future of the Earth is to invent that live-forever pill. In fact,  it’s dead solid certain that the approval by the FDA of the live-forever pharmaceutical would turn every single global warming skeptic into a radical environmentalist.
​
Trump is no exception.  Even-make that especially-if he is the only one who can afford it, he’ll suddenly become greener than he is now currently orange, and in his own lazy, generally incompetent way, work to save the planet for himself. For our kids, too, but their survival would only be an accident.
 
And will he take credit for reinstating all those environmental standards he relaxed and cleaning up all the pollution he encouraged? You betcha! Because that’s the way he rolls. And he’ll start saying at his rallies, “If I can live forever, why can’t I be President forever?”
 
President in Perpetuity—just thinking about that probably would make his mushroom sprout bigger than his daily Viagra.
​
So if one of you drug manufacturers out there is working on the LFP, just one request from me…just release it after Trump’s dead, willya?

The school year started a few weeks ago, and little Brittany and little Keanu are going through the annual rites of the American educational system—cracking the spines of new books, reviewing personal or criminal highlights of the past summer with their peers, bullying the new kids in school, and practicing what to do if someone starts spraying bullets at them.
 
Even as I write this, kids all across America are practicing how to shelter in place, what objects to hide behind that are bullet-resistant (refrigerators, brick pillars, particularly large gym teachers) and what objects are not (their desks, and door and classroom walls). They are learning how to watch after classmates that are bleeding to death. They are strapping on their bulletproof backpacks and working up their sprinting skills in the hope of being one of those kids standing crying at one of those clusters of candles, crosses and balloons, instead of being the kid whose last school picture is at the center of it.
 
In the meantime, though, what have you been doing to avoid being the victim of a shooting rampage yourself? Kidding yourself, probably. You’re saying, “Hey, all these other random shootings are just a fad. It’s a summer thing—they’ll go back to shooting up schools right after Labor Day.” Or saying “I know what to do if I’m exposed to random gunfire—stop, drop, and roll.”
 
No, you idiot—that’s if you set your clothes on fire smoking your crack pipe. Here are the recommendations set forth by the Surgeon General, the Department of Homeland Security, and other government officials that are surrounded at all times with professional armed security.
 
Don’t go to church, especially if you are a Muslim, a Jew, either a white or black Christian, or any other member of a religious minority, as these services tend to get shot up. Also, don’t be an atheist, because praying harder is the only way to stop the mass shooting epidemic. That’s according to Texas state representative Matt Schaeffer, who says that only God can cure depraved hearts and minds. “Pray for protection. Like you pray your wife isn’t pregnant after both of you got fubared on Jack and cokes and had raw dog sex again. Don’t rely on the leaky condom of gun control.” *
 
Don’t believe in evolution. This is according to Tony Perkins, who blames the absence of God, instead of the presence of murderers, in public schools for mass shootings. If you believe life evolved from random chance, the next logical step, in Perkins’ mind, is for you to become a random shooter. Believing that life came from dust=no mass shootings. Believing that life came from slime=carnage. Even though slime is usually just wet dust.

The gay. Stay away. This is Candice Keller, Republican state representative from Ohio’s advice, who sees a direct link between tolerance of homosexuality and active shooters. Also, porn, video games, Colin Kaepernick and recreational marijuana. So, if you spot a gay guy smoking weed and watching porn while playing a video game and harboring a crush on Colin Kaepernick, confiscate that AR-15 right out from underneath his gay bed.
 
All this is useful advice, but I would add stay out of Walmart. They’re about to change all those smiley-face Price Rollback guys into little Chinese-looking guys that say “Sorry—New Tariff” anyway. Also stay away from country-western concerts. Downtown nightlife districts. Garlic festivals. College campuses. Work, needless to say.
 
In fact, stay home. And keep your head low there.

*May not be an exact quote.

The Almighty just took a massive dump on the Bahamas, and Christian prophetess Kat Kerr knows why—He was ticked off at all the underground sex trafficking going on in Bahamian tunnels.
 
No one says sex traffickers are smart, but digging tunnels in the Bahamas is problematic because they sit about three feet above sea level, meaning sex tunnels have to be pretty shallow or else they fill up quickly with the ocean. Remember, though, when Hillary was operating a sex trafficking ring out of the basement of a pizza joint that had no basement? Sex traffickers find a way.
 
The problem with Kerr’s hypothesis is that God is basically cool with sex traffickers. In the Bible, you could buy yourself a hot slave and make her your concubine if you wanted to. See illustration. If that’s not sex trafficking, what is?
 
No, there has to be a different reason God blew up the Bahamas. Here are a couple of different scenarios in which the Bahamas could have attracted the wrath of the Deity.
 
1.He went on one of those three-day cruises to Freeport and got sick after eating at the shipboard buffet. Have you checked out the prices on one of those trips? I mean, it’s cheaper than staying in Heaven. You can eat, drink and gamble all you want, but when your Filipino egg cook, who is working his 43rd day in a row, accidentally slips a little salmonella into your Benedict, you can pay a gastrointestinal price for your little vacay.

2.God hates black people living in low--lying areas. One word—Katrina

3.He meant to destroy Epstein’s Pedophile Island, but sliced his shot right. The problem with this theory is that having sex with teenage girls is also pretty Biblical, so what was His beef with Epstein? Was He just mad about never being invited on Epstein’s private jet? And Epstein’s dead now anyway, so He can take up His issues with Epstein eternally. No need to bash up a bunch of resorts to make His point.

4.Spent a week at a Sandals in Nassau after watching one of their sexy TV commercials, but the pool was nothing but kids and the waiters were rude. 
 
So, there you have it. God likes to keep us on our toes with his special mix of hurricanes, tsunamis, volcanoes, plagues and earthquakes, but it’s never about the sex trafficking. Most likely it’s the gay. Or abortions—don’t interfere with His plan for your unborn child, which is to kill it eventually some other way.

In the meantime, desperate Bahamians are pouring into the United States as storm refugees. Trump’s been too busy playing with Sharpies to notice that much, but wait until he finds out they’re mostly not white, and start questioning why hurricanes never hit Norway.
​
Let’s see if God has an answer for that.

Mexico WILL pay for the wall!

Trump "cleaning out his desk" and found this!

The Prez, after canceling a trip to Poland to guard the Southeast’s electoral votes against Hurricane Dorian, found time to get in a round of golf as the hurricane paused to destroy the Bahamas first, but the big news of the weekend was him firing his longtime personal assistant, Madeleine Westerhout, after she got I'd-better-call-an-Uber drunk with a bunch of reporters and started dishing about Trump’s eating habits and family relationships.

Westerhout, among other things, shot off her inebriated mouth about Trump not wanting to be photographed with his daughter Tiffany because he feels Tiffany is “fat.” He apparently feels that unless he’s standing next to another person who is overweight, nobody will notice that he could stand to shed about sixty pounds himself. Westerhout also mentioned that Trump routinely eats double Quarter Pounders on the toilet while holding his fries between his knees.

In her most revealing chunk of shitfaced gossip, Westerout claimed to have a better relationship with Trump than any of his children. Whether an attractive twenty-eight-year-old woman who routinely wears tight dresses could achieve this level of easy comfort with Trump without at least occasionally tending to his mushroom was not something Westerhout was sufficiently buzzed to discuss, apparently, but she blathered heedlessly on about how much his kids can’t stand the Tangerine Turdbite, much like the rest of us. 

Imagine, if you will, an alternate universe in which Fred Trump, instead of leaving his boy Donald nearly half a billion dollars, had sunk his fortune into Fotomat or a company that made pagers instead. If Trump hadn't inherited a big chunk of change, and held on to at least some of it, none of his kids would have anything to do with him, like the children of any ordinary, dead-broke malignant narcissist.

Trump himself would be living in a mobile home park in Florida, because he would need to maintain his pockmarked tan naturally, which wouldn’t happen in New York. Most days he would be wearing a nothing but a bathrobe that too-often flapped open in front of his neighbors, necessitating yet another visit by the cops. He wouldn’t have been able to spend much money to maintain a head of hair, so a baseball cap would be permanently glued to his skull. His sole indulgence would be having a fifteen-year-old car, an ATV that won't start and a boat with two flat tires on the trailer, all with the vanity license plate “TRUMP” attached to them. He would constantly complain about his kids not sending him money.

The only one who could afford to would be Ivanka. She wouldn’t be married to the scion of a real-estate baron, of course, but she could find herself a guy with some cheese, like maybe the chubby bald owner of a Southern California plumbing company who appears in his own TV commercials, so she would constantly be reminded of her soulless marriage. She would spend most of his money getting plastic surgery so she could appear on a reality TV show and to make herself more attractive to the personal trainers and hot yoga instructors that she is having affairs with. She blames the time difference for the fact that she never returns her dad’s phone calls.

Donald Jr., after a couple of convictions for poaching deer in his adopted state of Pennsylvania, had been unable to get any work other than installing Dish antennas out near Altoona. He finally lucked out by falling off a roof. He collects permanent disability and gets a hundred bucks a week under the table for keeping an eye on his neighbor’s grow house. 

Eric was killed in an auto-pedestrian collision because he didn’t have a personal attendant to remind him to look both ways before he crossed the street. 

Barron doesn't exist. Even in this alternate universe, Melania wouldn't have any trouble finding a rich guy to marry.

Tiffany really would be fat. She would have moved to Florida to be closer to her dad and blossomed into obesity as some Southern girls are prone to do. All them hurricane snacks, I guess. She lives in the trailer park next to Trump's. Every birthday, holiday and whenever she gets a new iPhone, she comes over and insists on taking selfies with him.

Trump can't stand that.

As Hurricane Dorian heads for a possible landfall in Puerto Rico, sources in the White House say that President Trump is miffed beyond words at the island’s audacity at getting hit by another hurricane less than two years after Maria opened a can of meteorological whoop-ass on the US territory.
 
“The President is very angry at Puerto Rico for getting in the path of another hurricane, even though the relief effort after Maria was one of the most successful ever after a natural disaster hit a place surrounded by the ocean and killed 3,000 people who were not able to vote in a Presidential election anyway,” said one of this column’s White House sources. “That accounts for him rage-Tweeting at the mayor of San Juan before the storm even hits. What is she doing to avoid the storm? Why couldn’t she use one of Puerto Rico’s nuclear weapons on it?
 
“The fact that Puerto Rico is still trying to recover from Maria is no excuse for them to have another hurricane. Billions have already been spent on restoring Puerto Rican infrastructure, and they’re just going to leave it lying out in the rain again? All the life-saving medicines we sent them last time have apparently already been used to save lives, so when Dorian blasts PR, we’re going to hear the same dreary cries for antibiotics and insulin we got after Maria. They’ve apparently repopulated their hospitals and nursing homes with more patients to get washed out of. The President feels that this total lack of preparation should not be rewarded.
 
“Meanwhile, Dorian is also on track to hit Florida, where real Americans live. Americans who live in fragile, easily exploded trailer parks and whose blood sugar is usually just about as high as the Pittsburgh Pirates’ current season winning percentage. * These Americans eager to waddle, roll or strap on their oxygen tanks and walk to the polls to Keep America Great Again in 2020. Why should we prioritize Puerto Ricans, many of whom can’t even beg for their lives in English, over natural Floridians who are possibly looking at weeks without the Internet and cable TV? We can’t forget them. Truckloads of government surplus bottled Cokes and emergency Moon Pies are standing by right now, ready to roll towards the Florida state line.
 
“The President has had it with Puerto Rican pissing and moaning about getting whomped by hurricane after hurricane. You know what place never gets hit by hurricanes? Greenland!
 
“I’m just going to leave it at that.”

*424

End Times author Paul McGuire recently announced he had discovered the cause of the problems plaguing Trump’s great rambling clusterfuck of a Presidency. It’s not Trump’s troubled relationship with the truth, or his bottomless appetite for graft, or his inability to keep his zipper zipped around porn stars and Playmates, or just the fact that he is a pretty shitty guy who is also pretty shitty at his job.
 
It’s because he’s under attack by multidimensional Luciferian advanced beings (MLAB’s).
 
You’re snickering out there. But let me tell you, MLAB’s are no picnic. The girl and I had them in the garage, and it took two exorcists and a couple of pest control companies to finally get rid of them.
 
I’m kidding, of course. MLAB’s don’t bother with nearly unknown writers and their Significant Others. They head straight for the top, which is the White House. They love lurking around the corridors of power, giving crappy advice. Being from another dimension, they view screwing with this one as a fun, relaxing way to spend an interdimensional afternoon, just as you or I might enjoy a weekend pm polishing off an eighteen pack and shooting rats at the dump with a pellet gun.
 
I got in touch with McGuire, and he was eager to explain.
 
“Sure, multi-dimensional Luciferian beings are the reason behind a lot of Trump’s screwball decisions. Take the whole kids-in-cages deal. Lucifer hates kids, because you have to be a really bad kid to end up in Hell. All the kid souls condemned to eternal damnation are totally snotty little brats. Or you can be a Catholic kid who chewed gum before Communion. Lucifer really hates Catholics, too, on account of all the Popes he has to feed and house. Lucifer loves it when kids are separated from their parents and held behind chicken-wire, because he’s the Prince of Darkness and his tastes just run that way.
 
“The whole Denmark thing was a big coup for the White House multidimensional Luciferian advanced beings. Satan hates Denmark, because he got that song, 'Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen’ stuck in his head almost seven decades ago and he’s afraid it’s going to be there for all eternity. Eternity is a long time to listen to anything, let alone Danny Kaye rambling on about the virtues of some frozen, overpriced European capital. Hell’s boss sticks it to Denmark any time he can. I wouldn’t be surprised if Trump invades Greenland eventually, because the sight of American tanks rolling towards defenders only armed with harpoons made of narwhal tusks is the kind of thing that really makes everybody in the underworld say, “Hey, ROTFLMAO.
 
“And the dictators? You wonder why Trump loves to buddy around with the likes of Putin, Un, Duterte and anybody else that likes to shoot relatives and reporters? Well, they’re all going to end up in Hell eventually, and if there’s one thing Lucifer hates besides kids and Denmark, it’s making introductions.
 
"The infiltration of the White House by multi-dimensional Luciferian advanced beings has been so successful that nearly everyone who works there has his or her personal MLAB, working with them to tip their efforts to govern the US towards incompetence. Everyone except Kellyanne Conway."

Why not Kellyanne?

"Because she is one of them. Obviously. Duh."

​One of the items my Facebook feed has been trying to sell me recently is a book called Dark Agenda, which subtitles itself as The War to Destroy Christian America, which, briefly, caused me to wonder: Hot damn! Where do I sign up?
 
And, moreover, the author of the book, David Horowitz, is dead, a casualty of the war. His lifeless corpse was found floating in the Hudson river, bound head and foot with NPR bumper stickers…
 
No. He’s dead, all right, but he died of being 80 years old. In truth, the war against Christianity couldn’t be going much worse. Prayer wizards and prayer warriors pop out of the woodwork at every national tragedy, reminding us that hurricanes and school shootings happen because we’re not beseeching Jesus enough to stop them, plus, you know, the gays. Several states have mandated that “In God We Trust,” be painted on the halls of every school within their boundaries, thinking that looking at this prayerful phrase will keep their state’s children from being a grubby lot of unpleasant teenage wankers whose only real interest in their squirmy little lives is sending each other amateur porn on their cell phones.
 
The Catholic Church has been exposed as a pedophile ring the likes of which Epstein could only dream of, but it still has enough real estate and a sweet old Pope that everybody loves, so it will probably survive indefinitely. Meanwhile, the nouveau riche of Christianity, the preachers of the Prosperity Gospel, are rolling in it, thanks to the number of people who believe that giving other people all their money will make them rich, which is as easy to believe in as the Virgin Birth, which these people also believe in. I mean, could finding your target audience be easier? And it’s all tax-free.
 
Rationalism is as taxable as ever, and we get no holidays, despite this column constantly campaigning for Darwin Day, a day on which a kindly old man with a beard flies around the world in a magical sailing ship, giving science toys and puzzles to the clever children of the world, after which families decorate the Evolutionary Tree and eat dinner off the Table of Elements.
 
Even if we get out of bed determined to throw off Christian hegemony every day, how do we do it? Pray for it? Even if, by some miracle, which we don’t believe in, Christianity vanished tomorrow, we would still have every other religion, plus karma, crystals, astrology and lucky rabbit’s feet for people to put their faith in, because nothing is ever going to convince most human beings that there is absolutely no way to influence their unknowable futures, other than taking care of themselves and putting the maximum amount possible in their 401(k)’s. And that only works sometimes.
 
We’re not going to organize rationalist protests, where we carry signs saying SHIT JUST HAPPENS, DEAL WITH IT and RANDOM CHANCE WEARS THE PANTS, because we don’t have a deity commanding us to do useless, pointless things. This is our key flaw. So, Horowitz has conveniently died before his prediction could be proven false, which most prophets, theirs being the most cowardly of professions, conveniently do.
 
Might as well go back to bed.

I mean, really ready? The bet here is not. Sure, you talk a big game, saying things, “I 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?
 
No. 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 flying to Mar al Lago so he can watch 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, the White House 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 most other US states and all 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 when Trump goes down.
 
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 loudly farting when you pass Trump’s lifeless corpse, and many diners in DC serve a passable bowl of chili. 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 11/03/2020.

*Not orthodox theology. I made that up.