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."

I just read my umpteenth Internet pundit who described my native Pennsylvania as “an important Midwestern swing state,” and it caused me to reflect that the least important thing that will happen if Trump loses in November will be that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania will no longer be in the Midwest.
 
Unlike other states in the Northeast, the citizens of PA’s Democratic urban centers do not completely outnumber the residents of Pennsylvania’s Republican hinterlands, known locally to insider Pennsylvanians as “Pennsyltucky,” or “Baja West Virginia.” This makes the Keystone State a crucial swing state. But it does not put it in the Midwest. From Philadelphia, it takes about 70 minutes to drive to Atlantic City, which is definitely on the East Coast, which you can tell on account of you can put your toes in the ocean there. The Acela Corridor, the preferred transportation route for egghead Eastern libtards everywhere, runs through Pennsylvania.
 
Upstate PA has a substantial population of older white people who blame BLM and antifa for the fact that nobody wants to pay their kids to mine coal anymore, which makes it similar to Michigan, where white people blame climate scientists and Mexico for them not having auto plants anymore, and Wisconsin, where the local custom is to sit in a deer blind with your hemorrhoids killing you, for hours on end. There is no more Republican feeling than this.
 
But PA has a distinctly East Coast vibe. Pennsylvanians speak in five different accents, for one thing, from the simple Amish, who agreeably say “Ayup,” to almost everything, to South Philadelphians, who drink, bathe and put out fires with “wooder.” People in the Midwest have one accent for the whole region.
 
People in Pennsylvania tend to be not nearly as nice as Midwesterners. Maybe putting ketchup on hot dogs makes you a better person. Linguists have proven that conversations between Pennsylvanians are 72% percent more likely to contain the phrase “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” than conversations between Ohioans, Indianans and residents of other states that are geographically in the Midwest.
 
It's true that Pennsylvania borders on the Midwest, and has a shore washed by one Great Lake. But people who color maps of the US red, blue and purple according to hypothetical election results for a living should have noticed by now that Pennsylvania sits far to the right of other states they think Trump might carry again and that did not belong to the Confederacy. It’s squished up against New York, New Jersey and Maryland, states notorious for being top-heavy with liberals and other people who think that there are more than two seasons (hunting and football) in any year.
​
Besides, ask a Pennsylvanian, even one living in a trailer in the hills with at least six dogs sleeping under it and four cases worth of Rolling Rock empties in his recycle bin, if he’s living in the Midwest.
 
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” is liable to be his answer.

​In a week where the Caucasian-in-Chief spent most of it denying what he said on tape and blaming Joe Biden for the US not having a national mask mandate, Attorney General Bill “Consigliere” Barr put this out for the public to contemplate:
 
"You know, putting a national lockdown, stay at home orders, is like house arrest. Other than slavery, which was a different kind of restraint, this is the greatest intrusion on civil liberties in American history," Barr said.
 
To describe having to wear a mask in the middle of a plague as a “different kind of restraint” as opposed to actually being owned and forced to work for other people belongs in the Euphemism Hall of Fame, is what you’re thinking. How many bowls of ice cream did Barr eat to get on a sugar high so intense that it would cause him to babble that out loud?
 
Conservatives love to compare things to slavery, for shock effect and also to let us know that they finally disapprove of it, even though they depend on the votes of white supremacists to get elected, and those people think it was a fine idea. It’s been the mantra on the right for years that the Democratic grip on the black vote is akin to slavery, when it’s really black reluctance to vote for people whom they know can barely conceal their distaste for them. Conservative bipolar black musical artist and Presidential candidate Kanye West was recorded urinating on one of his Grammys the other day while complaining that the American music industry was worse than slavery, when, really, it’s not. Take your meds, Kanye.
 
Some other stuff has happened in the story of America that possibly caused more hardship than having to wash your hands frequently. Maybe they should print history on the inside of pizza boxes, so Barr can have a chance to read it when he feeds. We interned Japanese citizens during World War II just because they were Japanese, for one. If those people were given an option between getting ripped out of their homes and put in camps and wearing a mask every time they went outside, which do you think they would have chosen?
 
Women weren’t given the vote here until 1919. If suffragettes were told, “All right, you can vote if you stand six feet apart,” do you think they would have said, “Nah, we’ll wait another sixty years?”
 
If Native Americans were told, “Okay, you can keep your ancestral lands. No death marches, no cavalry attacks, no blankets infected with smallpox. You just have to gather in groups of less than fifty for a year or so,” do you think they would have replied, “Nope, we’ll just wait until you let us have casinos?”
 
There are other examples available—giving black guys syphilis so you could win the science fair comes to mind—but you’re getting my drift. Barr knows there’s lots worse things America has done than make people wear masks so they don’t snot virus all over each other. He just wants perfectly free white Americans to complain that they’re reliving the lives of slaves when they have to put on a mask to get into Walgreens, and that the chains are just going to be clamped on tighter if they even think about voting for Biden.
 
And we know you’re just doing your job, not merely auditioning for the Shameless Fat Shitbird Pantheon of Heroes, Bill.
 
Just don’t watch your cholesterol on my account.

Tara McCarthy, who describes herself as an “ethno-nationalist,” which is a euphemism for white supremacist, was caught complaining on the Internet the other day about being harassed by trolls from her own side for being a woman.
 
You might have suspected that men who shoot paintballs at protesters or carry automatic weapons into Hallmark when buying their Christmas cards might not be the most supportive of bros when it comes to female equality, but it was a revelation to our girl Tara, who apparently has never made a sandwich and brought it, along with an ice-cold beer and slippers to her man after he’s spent a hot afternoon chanting “Blue Lives Matter!” and shooting pepper spray at social justice warriors downtown.
 
When Tara is on the Internet, complaining about rap music and advocating for a separate white homeland, or at least a return to segregation, she is attacked by trolls who believe in exactly the same thing, except that they also believe she should shut up, get married, and start raising some little blonde stormtroopers of her own.
 
“It’s the Proud Bois, not the Proud Bois and Girlz. It’s the Boogaloo Bois, not the Boogaloo Chicks,” she is constantly reminded when she’s spewing racial hatred on the ‘Net. “Can you even bake a pie?”
 
Tara gives as good as she gets, or so she claims, fiercely defending her right to add a woman’s voice when it comes to calling out race traitors and cukservatives. She can Jew-bait and noose-make as well as any man, she notes. Why can’t she be treated equally by those whose bizarre beliefs she shares?
 
Tara, if you think about it, it’s almost as though all professional racists are sordid little dicks who are all misogynists to the bone as well.
 
There’s your answer, girl. But you go on. Maybe you’ll find your perfect man someday—a Nazi in the streets and a freak in the sheets.
 
When you do, make him a sandwich.

​I’m not an anti-vaxxer. I couldn’t be—my mother dragged me into the doctor’s for a fresh set of vaccinations every year in my long-ago youth, and thanks to them, I’ve never gotten polio or smallpox.
 
I’ve never suffered any weird aftereffects from them, either. Unless one of the unknown side effects of the vaccines I’ve already gotten turns out to be becoming an elderly alcoholic that nobody pays attention to, they’ve done me no harm.
 
This year, I’m even going to get a flu shot, just to be a good citizen and also because my Significant Other says if I don’t, I’m free to sleep in the garage with a roll of paper towels wrapped around me for warmth.  In vain have I argued that wearing a face mask everywhere, as we have to do here in San Diego County, and washing my hands like an OCD raccoon, makes it extremely unlikely I’ll get the flu as well as the ‘rona.
 
But when I’m going to get a purported Covid vaccine depends on who’s selling it. The Caucasian-in-Chief claims he might have one before Election Day, at which point he thinks the sixty percent or so of Americans who think he’s an amoral, compulsively lying, traitorous, ignorant miscreant are going to be so grateful for the cure that they’re going to vote for him anyway, conveniently forgetting that by November, there will probably be about 300,000 Americans who will need neither a vote nor a vaccine, thanks to him.
 
I’m not rolling up my sleeve for that one, even though I’m as sick of this pandemic as anyone. No one likes eating in restaurants, drinking in bars and running across the border to Mexico more than I do. It keeps me off the streets at night, much to the relief of my neighbors and the police.
 
If it’s Trump waving that needle in my face, I’m avoiding it like it was just pulled out from  an HIV-positive junkie’s arm.
 
I’m getting the Covid shot the day after Fauci gets his. And I’m getting the same one.
 
I recommend this course of action, without a hint of my usual smart-assedness, to everyone. 

Several craft in a flotilla of Boat People for Trump capsized like Philippine ferries in Texas over the weekend, causing a wave of risibility that endangered the funny bones of political America.
 
A spokesperson for the Travis County Sheriff’s department said that conditions on Lake Travis, where the boat parade set out, were calm, with winds under 10 miles an hour and no storms in the area. She did not add, “You’d have to be a complete drunken bonehead to sink your boat under those circumstances,” but she could have. She merely said that the cause of the accident was “under investigation.”
 
My bet is they won’t need to investigate much, nor will they find that antifa-loving Democrats had mined Lake Travis. As someone who has spent as much time as I can and can afford on the open ocean in small craft, I will explain here exactly what happened.
 
A bunch of country club, boat-owning jerkholes gathered on the lake to show their support for the Jerkhole-in-Chief. And well they should, for the mission of this Administration is not something complicated. It is not about law and order, or keeping socialism at bay. It is to make certain that privileged white male peckerheads continue to get what they want out of living in America.
 
But there’s a pecking order among these insensitive oafs, because boats come in all different sizes. The biggest jerks have the biggest boats. Other dimwads have smaller boats. But that didn’t matter when they first set out. They are emotionally united under the Trump flag. And they are chugging brews, White Claws and rum coladas as fast as they can, for it is hot on Lake Travis on a Texas summer afternoon.
 
And, laughing wildly about Nancy Pelosi’s haircut all the way, they push their throttles forward as far as they’ll go, because they are not going to support Trump any less than boisterously, and no-wake zones are probably a Democratic invention, anyway.
 
There are simple rules about how much of a wake a boat kicks up. The bigger the boat, the bigger the wake. Also, the faster the boat, the bigger the wake. So, you have a couple of giant lake-yachts going as fast as they can, with the smaller boats trying to keep up. Pretty soon there is enough wake-action on the lake to make those Trumpsters in the little boats wish they’d popped some Dramamine before the parade. And, shortly after, enough foaming white water to start swamping those little boats.
 
Which is good, because once you start swimming for your life, you forget about how seasick you are, every time.
 
But the biggest assholes’ boats didn’t sink, just because they were the biggest. It’s the little boneheads that started pooping in their American flag shorts.
 
But it’s a sweet, if unintentional, metaphor for Election 2020. White-privileged America elected the biggest, most careless oaf in the country as President, and his re-election campaign is the biggest boat on the lake. Anyone who’s following him, I have some advice for you:
 
Put your life jacket on.

Chuck Parry, the spiritual leader of the Bethel Church in Redding, California, has claimed that he has brought two people back from comas via the video app Zoom.
 
This is less impressive than one might think. Thanks to the pandemic, we are all familiar with Zoom. I doubt that there’s anybody out there who hasn’t been a face in one of those little Zoom boxes since March, and we are all powerfully aware of the ability of Zoom to render participants comatose. Nothing like a sales meeting that was supposed to last 45 minutes but is dragging on past an hour thanks to that one salesperson who keeps asking stupid questions that everybody else already knows the answer to, to put you in a state of stupor so advanced that you can only be brought out of it by the boss saying your name.
 
I handle Zoom meetings like any intelligent adult would, by claiming that my camera doesn’t work so I don’t have to put on clothes or quit drinking, throwing my headphones to the floor so that the other participants’ voices became tinny, far-away and blissfully irrelevant, and opening a fresh browser window to something moderately entertaining, like TMZ, Facebook, or porn. The only hazard to this approach is forgetting to mute the sound on whatever web site you are actually on, and everybody else on your Zoom being able to hear the love cries of the Hot Big-Ass Stepmom.
 
That woman knows how to keep a coma at bay.
 
But back to the Bethel Church. Presumably, someone else logged in a comatose believer to Bethel Zoom, and during the course of whatever theological spouting was occurring on it, the unconscious church member responded by sitting upright and abruptly shouting “Hallelujah!”
 
Or even, “I think I filled up my bedpan!” Really, when you’re in a deathlike coma, you can say almost anything when you come out of it and people will be impressed.
 
There is some doubt among the cynical and sinful this miracle actually occurred, because the Bethel Church has some underpinnings of its faith that are really out there, and I mean out there like the left moon of Uranus. They were the congregation that tried to pray a dead two-year old back to life last year, only admitting failure after it became apparent that the child coming back to life would be basically an episode of the Walking Dead.
 
Instead of acknowledging what is obvious about God (there’s nothing He enjoys more than pointless tragedy) the Church buried the child with full religious honors.
 
Zoom, meanwhile, instead of being an app used only by distanced geeks, has taken over the world. Various conspiratorial fantasies have sprung up around the ‘rona. That it was deliberately created by the Chinese is something the CIA is investigating. That it was deliberately created by the CIA is something China is investigating.
 
But who is benefitting the most by the virus? Is it Zoom?
 
Nope, it’s Amazon. Forget I said anything.

A backlash of titanic proportions is growing against the professional sports leagues of America, all of which have canceled some games in protest against cops killing black people on video.
 
This has disturbed any number of backwoods peckerheads who think that millionaire athletes who have far better jobs, incomes and opportunities for sex than they do have no business being social justice warriors, and need to shut up and play so the Billy Bobs of this country have something to watch while they crack that eleventh Natural Light on their day off.
 
A movement to boycott pro sports is being fomented out there in Murica, and the burning question is, what is going to replace numbly sitting in front of the tube after getting shellacked on medical marijuana when you don’t have the Dallas Cowboys to drop passes for your entertainment anymore? Got some suggestions for you here:
 
COLLEGE SPORTS: Sure, but they’re not really having them this year. Even when they resume, the only real college sport is football, and they only play that for a few months out of the year. You think Bobby Joe Dumdickey is going to get excited about lacrosse or crew or any of that other ESPN3 stuff? Naw. He’d rather be…
 
HUNTING: Yep. That’s the ticket. Nothing like being out in nature, killing a few of God’s perfect creatures. Except that hunting has seasons too, and at some point, you’re too old to be trudging through the woods, wearing holes in your  diabetes socks. Or you’re just sick of freezing your ass off before dawn in some soggy duck blind. Then it’s time to go…
 
FISHING: Again, not a year-round entertainment opportunity. Sure, summer’s a great time to snag your lures on the branches overhead trying to catch trout, which are edible, even though they taste faintly of mud, or bait up for catfish, which are not, because they taste entirely like mud. There’s deep sea fishing, too, where you can spend a shit-ton of money finding out how good the fishing was yesterday. Then there’s ice-fishing, which is what you can plan to do instead of watching the next Super Bowl. So maybe you should try…
 
BASHING MAILBOXES WITH BASEBALL BATS: Just kidding. You had your fill of that when you were a kid. Even though it keeps Democrats from voting, you’re not going back to that. You’d rather…
 
DRINK BEER AND PLAY POOL IN SOME HIDEOUS REDNECK DIVE BAR: That’s the ticket. You know your spot. They don’t serve any bottled brew that doesn’t come in a longneck, four of their six draught taps dispense a beer that ends in “Light,” and if you don’t ask for a shot of whiskey with your suds, your friends ask you if you’re feeling all right. The trouble with this place is that there is a TV crammed into every corner and hanging from every nook in the ceiling, and they're all tuned into a game, so you’re going to find yourself watching those hateful professional athletes again, just like a common libtard, especially when there’s two minutes left in the game and it’s tied. So, there’s hardly anything left, except for…
 
PORN: Hey, your wife just left for the supermarket and you’re on the Internet anyway. Why not quit reading this and…

BREAKING NEWS--Kyle Rittenhouse, the alleged pre-adult killer of two random protesters in Kenosha, Wisconsin, will not occupy a speaking slot at the Republican National Convention.
 
The 17-year-old, whose social media accounts indicate an affinity for cops, guns, and Trump, would have made a perfect addition to the roll call of speakers, admit the convention’s organizers. “Kyle’s previous career as a Public Safety Cadet indicated his strong desire to grow up, become a police officer and shoot people, which is a treasured Republican value,” said one prominent Republican, who wished to remain anonymous. “We just wish he’d waited until then. Kyle will too, most likely, when he finally loses his virginity in the shower at some state prison. ”
 
That’s an example of this column being on the cutting edge of the news. Here are some previous thoughts on the RNC:
 
I was catching up on the highlights of the Republican convention second-hand, and I couldn’t help but noticing that if I don’t vote Republican this year, violent demonstrators are going to roll up my driveway, burn my house down, and kill everybody I love, and Joe Biden and the Democrats will cheerfully let them do that because that’s the way socialism works.
 
Only Trump will be law and order enough to prevent this from happening. He’s going to do this by keeping the burbs white ‘n wealthy by forbidding low-income housing from being constructed there, particularly subsidized housing with names like Antifa Acres, Black Households Matter, or M-13 Livin’ the Dream.
 
Trump will respond to protests that erupt when unarmed black people are, say, shot in the back seven times at point-blank range, in the only way that preserves America’s twin commitments to justice and equality—tear gassing everybody who objects and shooting elderly women protesters in the face with rubber bullets, while waving a Bible.
 
Only Trump’s re-election will assure me of certain privileges. If Biden is elected, my girl and I will watch our dream of standing outside, barefoot and drunk, and waving guns at protesters, if any march down our cul-de-sac, go down the drain. Likewise, a Democratic Administration will probably look suspiciously at my plan for starting a fake charity to embezzle money from, so I can buy a boat with it, like Steve Bannon did.
 
Did you notice how good Steve looked when he got out on bail? All that rosacea and crust he usually has on his face, which gives his complexion that varicolored hue that closely resembles the surface of Mars, had vanished. That’s what a boat tan will do for you.
 
I still don’t have a boat, and a Biden victory will leave me reflecting bitterly that Mexico is never going to buy me one.
 
My Significant Other, on the other hand, is worried that a Biden win will mean she won’t get to be inspired by Women for Trump leader Becki Falwell, and have the option of boinking the pool boy now that she’s retired, with me having the option to watch. I pointed out that we share a community pool with the rest of the condos, which is cared for by a commercial pool service, so we have more than one pool boy. She said that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
 
If Trump somehow loses, when will we again be treated to the spectacle of a convention speech by a Presidential son who is at that very moment resisting a subpoena while proclaiming his dad is all about law and order? All we’ll be left with is drunk Hunter. Maybe he’ll surprise us and come out with his own brand of vodka, made, naturally, in the Ukraine.
 
That’s about all we can hope for, and that’s not much—a Billy Beer for this century. It will be a bleak future, especially for satirists, if all of his grifters, liars, backstabbers, relatives, cretins and full-on demented loonies follow the Caucasian-in-Chief out the White House door in January and are replaced by earnest policy dweebs who actually want to make the government work instead of starting fights and stuffing their pockets.
 
I might have to find other work.

It’s seldom we make headlines out here in sunny San Diego, so we’re proud to report on this individual, whose name has not been revealed by the press, who is now notorious for not only shooting himself in the nutsack, but posting the incident, along with his subsequent trip to the hospital and release, to a Facebook group he belonged to, Loaded guns pointed at (b)enis.
 
This group does, in fact, consists of members who post pictures of themselves pointing loaded pistols at their genitals. This individual, however, was the first to find the courage to fire while doing so. The group celebrated this shot heard round the world by making him an admin.

The membership in this group is exclusively male, natch, and there is no corresponding group called Loaded Guns Pointed at My (t)itties for gun-loving girls to join. Blatant sexism, for my money, for they are out there…here’s a link to one of my fave gun stories, Second Amendment Guarantees Freedom to Shoot Mom in Back.

The caliber of the weapon used was large (.45) but the size of the target was not revealed, so we don't know the degree of marksmanship this feat entailed, though if he was aiming for his man-tool, he was just a tad off.

Why, you might ask, would anyone point a loaded weapon at his member, let alone take a picture of it and share it with his fellow low-in-the-Q’s bros on Facebook? You might just think it’s because you’re young, dumb and bored, and weren’t using your wang for anything else important anyway, but you’d be wrong. Loaded Gun etc. exists to troll other Facebook groups that extol the virtues of responsible gun ownership, using terms like “trigger discipline,” which means not putting your finger on your gun’s trigger unless you intend to use it. Loaded Gun guys are sick of being lectured by responsible guys. You could even say “triggered,” but I am already sorry I did.
 
Over here, we are sticking with our theory of gun ownership, which is you never know if you’re a good guy with a gun, a bad guy with a gun, or a dumb guy with a gun until your gun goes off and hits someone, or yourself. Then you’re firmly ensconced in one of those categories. Before that, you’re just a guy with a gun.
 
It’s been a dull couple years for guns. The NRA has been hiding in the bushes, on account of being almost out of money. They’re secretly praying for a Biden victory in the fall, so they can tell gun-lovers that Kamala is going to be knocking down their doors looking for their chillers and ammo unless they buy a shit-ton more memberships. Four more years of Trump means they’ll be slurping Ramen noodles out of their high-capacity clips, unable to even afford beer to cry in.
 
Even this story ends on a down note. First off, we can’t find the Loaded Guns Pointed at (b)enis page, which means the hot glare of publicity has wilted these shy flowers that promoted pointing your rod at your rod. Secondly, this incident was confirmed by the Imperial County Sheriff's Office, which means we can’t even claim this guy as a stupid San Diegan. The heart of Imperial County lies about a hundred miles east of here, so it’s like someone from Harrisburg claiming to be a Philadelphian.
 
It’s also generally about 20 degrees hotter than it is here, and here it’s scheduled to be 96 today.
 
So, yeah, maybe hot enough for you to want to shoot your own cajones off. But you won’t be the first.

"You know what that is? That's right. That's God testing me. He said, You know, you did it once. And I said, 'Did I do a great job, God? I'm the only one who could do it.' He said that you shouldn't say. Now we're going to have you do it again. I said, 'OK. I agree. You got me.' But I did it once. And now I'm doing it again. And you see the kind of numbers that we're putting up. They're unbelievable. Best job numbers ever. Three months, more jobs in the last three months than ever before." Trump on talking to God. News item.
 
While Trumped bragged about bragging to the Almighty while campaigning in Minnesota last week, he did not release the full transcript of his conversation with the Creator of All Things. Fortunately, this column has been able to obtain it. It follows below.
 
The scene: Golf course, Bedminster, New Jersey. The President is playing his third round of the weekend.
 
TRUMP: Dear God, please let me not slice this shot, for then I couldn’t do any better than two over par.
 
The Lord appears, in a golden golf cart powered by flames.
 
GOD: (Thunderously) Don’t you have better things to pray for, Donald?
 
TRUMP: Not currently, Oh Lord, because I’ve had to cheat to break 90 all weekend. (looking at the Supreme Being. Suspiciously) How do I know you’re not Obama trying to punk me?
 
GOD: I am the Lord thy God, Donald.
 
TRUMP: Swear?
 
GOD: So help Me, Me.
 
TRUMP: Are you coming to thank me for tear-gassing people so I could hold a Bible backwards in front of a church? Or are you here to answer my prayers about Ivanka? The Bible is fairly pro-incest is what I told that girl after she became Jewish, especially the Old Testament. Or are you here because one of Paula White’s visions, where I ride next to Jesus in the Apocalypse, is coming true?
 
GOD: The one where you’re riding a white horse covered with jewels, your mighty sword in hand, and your vast swelling manhood is covered by a condom made of woven gold?
 
TRUMP: That sounds about right.
 
GOD: Hell no. I just give Paula those visions to gross out Jesus. It really pisses Him off. Guy that got crucified once ought to be able to take a joke, don’t ya think? But no, He gets all sulky about it. But I’m getting off the subject. I came by to tell you you’re going to lose big in November unless you get more like Me.
 
TRUMP: You mean wise and merciful? (looks a little queasy)
 
GOD: No! That wise and merciful stuff is just spin. I mean work in mysterious ways. You’re constantly kissing Putin’s ass, even though nobody knows what he’ll be up to next. You admire him because he kills whoever he feels like and has a job for life. AND I DON’T? Think about it. Same goes for Duterte and Erdogan. Why do you suck up to brutal dictators? They’re just puppies compared to me.
 
TRUMP: Oh, Lord, now I see the error of my ways. But why did you have to send the pandemic to screw up my re-election?
 
GOD: I just love a good plague. If it was possible for me to have any weaknesses, it would be that. Nothing personal.
 
TRUMP: I think I’m getting the picture. But if You really want me to change, I could use a little supplication. I’m already You-like in that department, You know, demanding worship, begging and praise before I lift a finger. A few wet kisses on my hiney goes a long way with me, as it does with You. How about you write me a beautiful letter like my boy Kim did? (Hits ball. It slices wide right, into a thick clump of hedges.)
 
GOD: There’s your answer.