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."

Scapegoat dog in pink leather chair


I got nearly got myself in trouble today by sitting in my Significant Other's pink desk chair in a wet towel.

The pink chair is one I have dragged into her office to use; it originally sat in her daughters' room. It is designed be sat in by a young woman. It's not a great chair for me. Its aesthetically pleasing, egg-shaped bottom doesn't really match mine, which has  neither of those qualities, and its raised lip and embracing sides cause me to be clenched in places I would rather not be clenched.

My only other option is her office chair, a chair that is designed to keep the back straight while working. You have to sit on it with your knees under you and your feet behind in order for it to keep your vertebrae aligned. Maybe it works but I don't like it either; it feels as if you are trying to type while perched on the edge of a building.

The phrase "ARE YOU SITTING ON THAT CHAIR IN A WET TOWEL?" was the signal for conflict, a question posed to me in a booming voice more suitable for an evacuation order than a domestic inquiry.

"This waterproof, pink plastic chair?" I replied mildly. "Yes."

That answer, surprisingly, got me off the hook, but I began to reflect on which of my worn and crumbling chairs I would object to her sitting on in one of my stringy, mismatched towels in a wet condition, and I realized there were none. It's because I'm a guy. I don't have furnishings. I have stuff.

She has furnishings, but don't get the impression that my S.O. is one of those women who maintains an immaculate, carefully furnished house with a themed décor in which you shouldn't touch anything unless it is actually handed to you. She has plenty of odd items, like the chairs, and it looks like she's hit IKEA a couple times since her divorce, but she has treasures in here, like this antique desk at which I type AND YES I AM USING A COASTER FOR MY COFFEE CUP. She also has collection of mid-last-century furniture and subscribes to a magazine for those who share her taste for that style, called Atomic Ranch.

I don't mind the atomic furniture. It's nice. It's valuable. And if I ever need to be ruthlessly murdered in my sleep, all I have to do is get caught sitting on the coffee table. I wouldn't own this furniture, though, unless it had accidentally survived from the '50's and found itself in my house by sheer circumstance. I wouldn't make any extra effort to care for it, or make it feel more comfortable by surrounding it with companion furniture from its own era, either.

Furniture, in  the male mind, is just more stuff and may be divided into four categories: Stuff you sleep on (beds, couches, hammocks), stuff you put things in (cabinets, shelves, desks), stuff you put things on (tables, end tables, counters) and stuff you sit on (chairs, stools, coffee tables).

Stuff by its very nature is interchangeable. You can sit on your desk. You can fall asleep on the kitchen counter, especially after a party. You can leave a power drill on a table, but if you do, you had better be prepared to hear someone you love bellow sweetly "DID YOU LEAVE A DRILL ON THE OCCASIONAL TABLE?"

And now it's time for panic, because you do not even know what an occasional table is. All the tables you have ever owned were full-time tables.

My lack of sophistication in the area of home furnishings is often laid to the generalized fog testosterone induces in the brain, but I know that's not true, and it becomes obvious when we leave the arena of stuff she cares about and enter the garage. She knows the difference between a hutch and an armoire, but I know the difference between a level-wind and a spinning reel. She knows whether a stool is pub height or bar height, but I know whether a bucket full of rusty metal is a cache of sixteen-penny nails or a set of Allen wrenches. At least I can speak of her furniture in generalized terms (table, chair, thing that the TV sits on) whereas she refers to my stuff in entirely theoretical language (gizmo, thingamadingle, hoopadoodle).

The more I think about that, the more I feel disrespected. I would march downstairs and straighten her out, if I hadn't just discovered that the pink chair I am sitting in, in the wet towel, is in fact made of pink leather, not plastic. Pink leather for the man is like the background radiation from the Big Bang; he doesn't know why it exists, and he seldom thinks about it. And there is a ring on this leather from where the wet towel has forced itself on it, and now I must urgently summon all of my creative powers to figure out a way to blame that on the dog.

Presidential Candidate Rick Santorum, in interview, explains his opposition to abortion even in the event of rape, by advising pregnant rape victims to ""just make the best of a bad situation," and explains that the unborn child of their rapist is a "broken gift" from God. Huffpost, 1/23

RICK SANTORUM is loosening his tie, alone in an anonymous hotel room after campaigning all day. A HEAVENLY CHOIR begins to sing. GOD appears.

HIM: Rick! Rick Santorum, my son.

SANTORUM: Turn off that awful music! I've been out grubbing for votes in the sweatiest strip malls in Florida for days. God knows I need some peace and quiet!

HIM: Of course I know that, Rick. I know everything. If it's peace and quiet you want, I can fix that up for you real quick, though if you plan to spend eternity with Me, you'd better get used to My taste in music.

SANTORUM: (falling to knees) My Lord! Forgive me!

HIM: I've been following the campaign, Rick my son. As you know, I originally called four of My followers to run for the Republican nomination this year. You're the only horse I've got left in this race, now that Bachmann, Perry and that black fellow have dropped out.

SANTORUM: I prayed for them, My Father.

HIM: I heard your prayers, Rick. You prayed for them to screw up.

SANTORUM: And my prayers were granted!

HIM: That was more of a clerical error. Listen, Rick, about this "broken gift" thing…

SANTORUM: But it is Your will, Heavenly Father, that a child conceived in rape should have a right to life!

HIM: And have his mother look at his little baby face every morning and see the face of her attacker? Well, yeah, it is. Eternity is a long time, and that's the kind of random shit that gets me through the days. You're not wrong, Rick my son. I just want you to soften up the message a little. You're at 9% in the polls.

SANTORUM: But I thought the broken gift concept was a stroke! In fact, I was going to use it next Christmas by giving my kid a jar full of lug nuts or something like that instead of another four hundred dollar cell phone like he got last Christmas, and tell him it was a broken gift, just like You would give him.

HIM: Nix on that, Rick.

SANTORUM: But Valentine's Day is coming up…

HIM: I said no.

SANTORUM: I don't want to be argumentative here, My Father, but the broken gift thing explains a lot of Your doings. Take that tsunami, or the Holocaust. They were broken gifts, because all those victims didn't have to suffer here anymore! They were swept up to Heaven!

HIM: Not necessarily, Rick, because they were mostly Jews and Buddhists.

SANTORUM: Oh. Well it gave them the opportunity to convert before they were wiped out, so that's a good thing. I mean, even if they just yelled "Jesus Christ!" when they saw that big wave coming, that counts, doesn't it?

HIM: We've got the lawyers working on that one, Rick.

SANTORUM: Father, one thing I have been wondering…why did You let Obama become President in the first place?

HIM: Ok, now you can talk broken gift.

Mitt Romney's teeth, apparently disgusted by their candidate's second place finish in South Carolina, are leaving the Romney campaign to run for the Presidency as a third party candidate.

"Our association with the Romney campaign is over," the teeth said in a prepared statement. "We're sick of being held back by the rest of the Romney anatomy. Those lying lips, those gibbering gums, that hinged tongue, that spineless spine…The American people deserve better. Unlike the rest of Romney, we teeth are perfect, perfect like perhaps no other teeth in history. We stand straight and all American, solid on principle, patriotic to the core, polished white and upright, like tombstones in a graveyard of heroes or an alabaster city gleaming."

This reporter caught up with the disenchanted choppers for an exclusive interview.

The first thing critics are going to say is that you teeth are all shine and no substance. How do you respond to that?

ROMNEY'S TEETH: Our advisors are working on a master plan to restore this nation's greatness, particularly its dental greatness. All the details haven't been worked out, but it's going to be called Checkup for America, or possibly Flossing Our Way to the Future.

What about the other Presidential aspirants' teeth? Could they mount separate campaigns?

 ROMNEY'S TEETH: We're not worried about them. None of them are qualified to be President, by reason of not being native American teeth. Obama got his cavities filled in Kenya. Gingrich has a mouth full of Mexican implants, and Santorum was root-canaled while visiting Rio.

Then let's address the rumor that you guys were bleached in Belgium.

ROMNEY'S TEETH: We categorically deny that. Our official biography is perfectly clear and perfectly truthful—we were born, straightened, capped, filed and whitened right here in the USA, and have the receipts to prove it. Anybody who says otherwise is just one of those irresponsible toothers.

There's nothing more critical in a third-party campaign than the choice of a vice-president. Whom are you considering for the VP slot on the tooth ticket?

ROMNEY'S TEETH: We're still in the interview stage on that, so we can't comment.

Mind if I speculate? What about Newt Gingrich's hair?

ROMNEY'S TEETH: Of course we've thought about Newt's hair. It's a blow-dryed, sprayed flat wonder, but Gingrich is sixty-eight and the hair hasn't shown signs of leaving him yet, so we doubt it will abandon Newt now. We've also considered Rick Santorum's gall. Anybody who's said women don't know if they need abortions, scientists don't know anything about global warming and John McCain doesn't know anything about torture has plenty of that to spare. Either Michele Bachmann's legs or Sarah Palin's smirk would sex up the ticket, but we've also considered reaching across the partisan aisle and grabbing Hilary Clinton's cankles.

Are you considering any other aspect of Governor Romney to round out your ticket? A lot of voters seem to find his other features attractive. His graying temples, for example, or those utterly disciplined eyebrows, the aquiline nose…

ROMNEY'S TEETH: Hell, no! We want no part of him. We'd rather run with Lindsey Lohan's liver.

The ugly thing about democracy is that there are only three ways for politicians to get the public's attention and consequently their votes. The first is to build us something (a nice bridge) or give us something (unemployment checks, free health care). This costs money, so taxes get raised, the voters get disenchanted and other pols get elected. This makes actually accomplishing something the most perilous (for them) way for politicians to stay on our radar.

The second way is to make us afraid of something, and to claim that only the election of a certain candidate will prevent the destruction of our way of life. Sometimes the alleged menace is rightfully frightening (Nazis) and sometimes not actually so scary (hippies). The fear-mongering election strategy can be used over and over especially if employed against an alleged evil that will never go away, like smoking pot. It costs nothing to scare people, at least compared to what it costs to build bridges, so taxes stay low and we stay happy, if being afraid to let your kids play outside can be called happy.

The third way for politicians to convince the voters that they are not just a bunch of tired old leeches gnawing away at the capillaries of society with their perfect, capped and polished teeth is for them to ban things. There are always things that people want banned, which means laws can be passed against them. Passing laws is one of the few things politicians actually are expected to do. A politician who told the voters "I figured we already had enough laws, so I spent my last term of office learning how to fly-fish," would be rejected overwhelmingly in the next election, though not by this voter.

I'd vote for that guy as many times as I could figure out how.

Now, though, all the obvious stuff has been banned. Politicians are reaching. I came to this conclusion as I tried to check a weekend's worth of beer and liquor through the automated check stand at my local supermarket and was told I couldn't. A new state law means that all alcohol purchases have to be made through a human cashier, so I had to wait with my cart full of shame behind an elderly woman who took longer to write a check than it takes Charlie Sheen to remember where he left his pants on any given morning.

This inconvenience was foisted on my by the pols of California, who decided it was too easy for underage people to buy liquor through the automated check stand, although it wasn't easy at all. The machine always stopped when liquor was scanned and an attendant had to hit a button, which in my case she usually did after a glance at the back of my head. I'm sure if I had presented a more underage appearance, I would have been ID'ed.

I'm not as inconvenienced as the residents of Shreveport, Louisiana, however, who are fighting to keep their right to wear pajamas in public. Michael Williams, one of the local burghers, proposed the ban, after seeing some Shreveport dudes wearing pajamas outside "with their private parts about to come out."

First off, define "about to come out." Whether it's in or out should be abundantly clear. Secondly, define "pajamas." At what point on the continuum of soft, comfortable outerwear can a garment be definitely said to be pajamas, as opposed to snuggies, sweats or scrubs? Thirdly, what is wrong with the men of Shreveport? Wearing pajamas outside is for girls, not guys.

The most outstanding new ban comes from the Los Angles City Council, which has banned the production of pornography in which the actors are not wearing condoms. Yes, condoms are now required in porn manufactured in LA, where they say 90% of the porn made in the US is produced. The council is debating methods of enforcing the ban, but the formation of police units nicknamed the Condom Cops, the Rubber Rangers or the Trojan Task Force seems inevitable.

The cops will have to go undercover. I say this because it is obvious, not because I enjoy making terrible puns. Police men and women will have to pose as porn performers. ("Okay, Detective, your alias for this sting operation will be Larry Load.") Can a hit TV series based on their exploits be far behind? The Rockhard Files? Magnum--My Size? All right, I'm stopping here.

The Council's bold step flies in the face of history, where condom bans have been far more frequent than condom coddling. Just a few years ago, the state of Georgia voted, possibly inadvertently, to ban ribbed condoms, although to my knowledge no French Tickler Strike Force was ever organized. And you can just click here, if you want to sign an e-petition to restrict condom sales to married couples with a prescription from their doctor.

In a blow for freedom, one of the world's oldest (all right, the oldest) anti-condom organizations has reversed its position on rubbers. The Pope announced that the Church would no longer consider the use of condoms a sin, as long as they were used to prevent the spread of AIDS and not as a contraceptive device.

Thus, a big day for any porn stars in LA who are also devout Catholics. About time those people caught a break.

I don't want a hug. I don't want to give you a hug. Even one of those man-hugs where you bump each other on the back with your clenched fists instead of embracing, although I would rather do that than really hug you. I realize that we know each other, and haven't seen each other for a long time. That's no reason to hug.

I just don't find it pleasant. I don't want to get close enough to you so I could guess your brand of deodorant or discover you like breath mints. Or need breath mints. It's not homophobia. All right, it is, a little. Ironically, though, I always hug gay men, if it's obvious they want a hug. It's too awkward if you don't.

I don't like hugging people unless they happen to be women to whom I feel attracted and I can at least fantasize that the hug is a prelude to sex. There, I've said it. In the interest of fairness, I should say there are plenty of women I don't want to hug, even though I could hug them without any possible same-sex erotic hint being attached. Generally speaking, I don't want to hug anybody customarily addressed as Auntie. Or Oprah, although I would hug her if she had me on one of her specials, and insisted on it. Or Sinead O'Conner.

And ladies, no air kisses! The driest, most perfunctory peck on either or both of my cheeks is acceptable, but going mwahh! mwahh! in the general direction of my ears reeks of insincerity. I have probably already guessed you are insincere about your embrace of me. Don't rub it in.

But I digress. Back to you, old buddy whose name I can't quite remember, standing there with your elbows wide in the hug-threat position. Fortunately, I have positioned my beverage between us. It's full, frothy and cold. It would look lousy and smell worse if we spilled it all over our clothes. You hesitate. That's the way I planned it.

You can shake my hand. Even if we haven't seen each other in twenty years, it's fine. Go ahead.  There's probably a reason I haven't looked you up in twenty years. No sense both of us figuring out what it is, or was, by attempting to get closer.

No handshake? Too mid-last-century white male for you? All right, we can fist bump. Just warn me you are coming at me with a fist bump. Don't proffer your hand and then close it into a fist, leaving me holding my fingers gaping open like the loser in a game of rock, paper, scissors. I don't like that.

And we are not high-fiving! We haven't won anything. But in the event we need to high five in the future, like if the team we like in the game we are watching in this bar where we have run into each other does something good, keep in mind to hold your hand upright and still so I can hit it with a clean smack. Just flailing at the air and hoping we connect seldom works for me. And the one where you do a little half-turn and jump before you high-five is for basketball players, not us. They practice. We don't.

Ahh, you settle for the handshake. Very good. So how you been? Still married? No? Too bad. Oh, not so bad, you say? I know how you feel…

Newsweek's controversial cover question on this week's issue, Why Are Obama's Critics So Dumb? seemed calculated to arouse fury among Republicans, so this reporter contacted the Republican National Committee, expected GOP wrath to be running at a fever pitch, but the guy who answered the phone seemed quite calm about the controversy, although he refused to be identified by name.

RNC SPOKESMAN: We're not surprised Newsweek figured us out. We Republicans have gone for dumb for years. Remember, we make our politicians sign pledges with every fringe-loony group out there. We take Exxon's word on global warming, instead of the American Academy of Science's. That's dumb. We take Pat Robertson's position on evolution, instead of the National Science Teacher's Association's. That's dumb. We think homosexuality is a mental disorder, instead of taking the American Psychiatric Association's word it is not. Dumb is an important part of our political base. We treasure dumb.

Why this extended primary campaign, then? Why not pick the dumbest candidate and nominate him by acclaim?

RNC SPOKESMAN: Each of the current candidates represents a different kind of dumb, from which Republican voters can select their favorite, now that we've gotten rid of Huntsman, who was dumb enough to think he was smart. Well, we showed him what we think of smart. (Chuckles)

I don't know what you mean by different kinds of dumb.

RNC SPOKESMAN: Take Mitt Romney—he's smart dumb. He's smart enough to embrace dumb, now that he's wallowing through the red states. Doesn't know the difference between his own health plan and Obama's, but just demonstrated in the other night's debate that he knows the difference between moose and elk. That's the kind of knowledge dumb people want in a President. Even our dumbest party members know the difference between elks and moose, which is that elks have clubs and moose have lodges.

What about the current second-placer in the polls, Newt Gingrich?

RNC SPOKESMAN: Gingrich is crafty dumb. Crafty enough to know that people remember his name, but the dumb ones don't remember all the dumb things he did back in the '90's, and the really dumb ones are still in favor of them.

How many kinds of dumb are represented by the Republican field?

RNC SPOKESMAN: More than you would think. Rick Santorum is sanctimonious dumb. Holier than thou, and also dumber than thou. His position on gay rights is aligned closely with the position espoused by most dumb right-wing Christians—he loves gay people, but wishes they didn't exist.

Ron Paul has what many people believe to be the most consistent political philosophy of any of the candidates. How is he dumb?

RNC SPOKESMAN: Ron Paul is tunnel-vision dumb. He's dumb enough to think the country was better off in 1930 than it is now. His plan for a combination of radical financial moves, laying off all government workers and a return to international isolationism will bring the unemployment rate up to 25%, just as it was in 1930. Then we can start all over again, without Roosevelt to fix it. The smart thing about Paul's position is that 99% of the people who remember 1930 are dead.

There's only one candidate left…

RNC SPOKESMAN: My personal favorite, Rick Perry, who's just good old fashioned dumb dumb. What a sweet, dumb man. Just called an American ally and a member of NATO an Islamic terror state. As recently as Christmas, he thought that Turkey was a dish served with cranberry sauce, and now he's infuriated this entire nation. He doesn't know the voting age or what century the Revolutionary War was fought in, but neither do most dumb Americans. I predict at least a Vice-Presidential slot for him.

So Newsweek is not only correct about the GOP's criticism of Obama being dumb, it represents an election strategy?

RNC SPOKESMAN: Hey, you're smart. Yup. The GOP is the party of the big tent. A big tent full of dumb people, pinheads guiding the cruise ship of the American Dream toward the reefs of this country's future. Makes your heart beat faster, don't it?

I'll say.

Republican Presidential candidate Newt Gingrich has accused frontrunner Mitt "The Mittchurian Candidate" Romney of being able to speak French, like fellow Massachusetts pols, unsuccessful Presidential nominees and worst of all, Democrats, John Kerry and Michael "Snoopy" Dukakis.

Romney denied speaking French, despite spending two years in France as a Mormon missionary. A spokesman for the Romney campaign explained that "Governor Romney did spend two years in France, but spoke only Mormon while he was there."

The Gingrich campaign was not satisfied with that explanation, this reporter discovered, when he interviewed Joseph Redstate, a national organizer for Gingrich.

What's wrong with speaking French? I took two years of French in high school.

REDSTATE: And do you speak French?

No.

REDSTATE: Exactly, because you're a normal, French-hating American. French is not a real language.

It seemed real. Real hard, even.

REDSTATE: How many words of French do you remember?

Maybe four.

REDSTATE: That's because French only has four words! All the rest of the time, they just mumble, like they have some of their crumbly cheese in their mouths, and expect you to understand them! Go there if you don't believe me. You'll find out the truth about France, which is that it's not a real country. It's more of a tourist destination, like Disneyland, only for snotty wines and baguettes instead of cool rides. Why do you think they lose all the wars they fight? Could Mickey and Minnie, fine Americans though they are, stand up to a panzer division?

Mickey and Minnie are cartoon characters. French people are real.

REDSTATE: Real put-ons, is what they are. You wake a French guy up in the middle of the night and ask him something quick in English, he'll answer in English, just like everybody else. Go ahead, try it.

No thanks. So you think the Gingrich campaign will rev up again now that Romney's been discovered to be a secret Francophone?

REDSTATE; Here's the real blockbuster—it's not only Romney! All of our opponents are secretly French!

Hard to believe. What about a stalwart, gun-toting American like Rick Perry?

REDSTATE: The most obvious Frenchie of all! You saw the debates, so you know he barely speaks English. It's a little-known fact that France and Texas are about the same size. They both have Spanish-speaking neighbors to the south, and they both contain cities named Paris! It's obvious to any thinking person that being in the governor's mansion in Texas and being the head French honcho in the Louvre are practically the same thing!

The Louvre is an art museum.

REDSTATE: Okay, the Eiffel Tower. Wherever Monsieur Le Big hangs out.

What about isolationist libertarian Ron Paul? He doesn't want to have anything to do with France, or any foreign country, for that matter. He's not French.

REDSTATE: Au contraire. Ron Paul consumes cheese without melting it over something first. Ergo, French. And he's related to Ru Paul, and rue is French for "street."

Hey, you seem to know more than four words of French.

REDSTATE: (coldly) You're full of fromage, buddy.

Rick Santorum—there's no doubt he's a natural, non-French American.

REDSTATE: Santorum eats snails. We've got the pictures. Don't make me show them to you.

So there's hope for the Gingrich campaign?

REDSTATE: Hope? We're talking about inevitable victory, pal. The Republican candidates have long accused each other of being secretly for healthcare, or soft on immigration, or believing in their hearts on the myth of global warming, but nobody but Newt has unleashed a shocker like this! They're all French! On to victory in November against Obama!

Hey, after you guys get the nomination, maybe you can accuse Obama of not being American.

REDSTATE: Now, that's not a bad idea. Wish I'd thought of that.

The toast of Denver


The author is trying to avoid thinking about the entire football season this year, since both his favorite teams finished 8-8 and out of the playoffs, but it's hard to avoid hearing about born-again QB Tim Tebow. His latest overtime win, over the heavily favored Pittsburgh Steelers featured a "halo" appearing over Denver after the Broncos scored. This led the author to seek out his go-to guy on matters sacred, the Dr. Reverend Oral Willkie, to pose the question: Does Jesus really love Tim Tebow more than He loves the rest of us?

Reverend Willkie: Technically, no, but I saw the halo too. It was perfect, perfectly round, except for the parts that weren't perfectly round, and perfectly circular, except for the parts that were a little bit blown out by those mile-high winds. So I would say technically, no, but possibly maybe. And who could blame Him?

Well, Steelers fans, for one. Does Jesus hate Steelers' fans?

Reverend Willkie. Hate, no. Seriously sick of them, yes. The Steelers have already won five or six Super Bowls and does He get the credit? No, some concussed lug named Roethlisberger does. That's why when millions of Steeler fans were praying for Tim to throw an interception, The Lord had Tebow's back, not theirs.

But doesn't Jesus have more important things to do? What about the war? What about starvation in Somalia? What about  disease? What about the people who are  praying for their lives at this very moment?

Reverend Willkie: More people starving in Africa…you can't help thinking Jesus might be getting tired of being beseeched about that. Disease? Are you talking lepers? The Lord's got quite a résumé with lepers…go to the source material if you don't believe me. And, sure, there's some guy getting his leg chewed on by a crocodile who's praying hard right at this very moment, but you, I and Jesus all know that yesterday at this time, he was probably looking at dirty pictures on the Internet, so if Jesus wants to say Sorry, buddy, I'm watching the game right now you can hardly blame Him. Frankly, wouldn't you rather listen to the prayers of a handsome young man of considerably athletic prowess and that adorable scruffy beard than Joe Average begging for whatever?

Sounds like there might be an element of sexual attraction there.

Reverend Willkie: Bite, bite, bite your tongue before you say another word. The Lord is immune from fleshly passions. His love for Tebow goes no further than a heavy bromance.

How long has Tebow been tight with the Son of God?

Reverend Willkie: Since he was a mere child. At the age of eleven, before he'd even thrown a touchdown pass, Tim Tebow demonstrated his love for Jesus in many ways. For example, the young Tebow wouldn't even eat a piece of toast unless the image of Our Lord had appeared in it. When he was in college, it got to be a concern for his coaches, who were worried that their star quarterback wasn't getting his minimum daily toast requirement. Luckily, they discovered the Shroud O'Turin Toaster Oven, which burns the image of Jesus into every slice. Tim's been munching prayerfully on toast ever since.

And it looks like he'll need some prayers Sunday, as he and the Broncos go up against Tom Brady and the New England Patriots, who beat them like they were a lingerie football team a couple weeks ago. Will Jesus show Tebow and the Broncos mercy when they play Tom Brady and the powerful Pats tomorrow?

Reverend Willkie: I don't see why not. Tom Brady already got what he was praying for when he married Gisele Bundchen.

I notice you're wearing a Broncos jersey. If Jesus takes Tebow all the way to a Super Bowl win, don't you risk making the rest of the NFL's religious fans into a bunch of embittered atheists?

Reverend Willkie. So be it. Just means more room Up There for me, Him and Tim.

The author was recently invited to test a beta version of Microsoft's new "Avoid the Hood" GPS application for its smart phone. A user is directed away from "bad" neighborhoods by the app. The original version is based on crime statistics. The beta version I was using actually sensed neighborhood occurrences and advised direction changes to avoid driver exposure to crime-ridden streets. A Microsoft representative accompanied the author on the test.

CAHILL: So, the unit just advised I make an abrupt right, which I think is about ninety degrees off from a direct route to where we want to go, and a small figure of Ludacris just flashed on the screen.

MICROSOFT: Right. The unit just detected someone playing hip-hop. You're advised to avoid.

CAHILL: And now it just made me swerve again.

MICROSOFT: If you'll look carefully down that side street, you'll see a Korean man behind the counter of that bodega. (Simulates sound of submarine diving horn) Awoooga! Awoooga! Hood alert! Hood alert!

CAHILL: And now it wants me to go back in the opposite direction, and a burst of gospel music just came out of the app.

MICROSOFT: Right. We've just passed a church wear everyone was singing a hymn in key. You won't find that in a white neighborhood. Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

CAHILL: We seem to be going south once more. Is that Charles Barkley on the screen?

MICROSOFT: Yup. Playground with a pickup basketball game in progress. We'll be giving that a wide berth.

CAHILL: And now it's showing me a picture of Foghorn Leghorn.

MICROSOFT: Chicken and waffle joint around here somewhere. Rest assured, it ain't in no suburban shopping mall.

CAHILL: But I was getting hungry.

MICROSOFT: There's a thousand apps for finding restaurants. First, we have to break you out of the ghetto. (Pointing at the unit) What's that?

CAHILL: It seems to an extremely well-dressed older black man.

MICROSOFT: It's Al Sharpton! Step on it!

CAHILL: Now it's got a red arrow pointing straight ahead.

MICROSOFT: Means there's a police patrol unit ahead doing racial profiling.  It'll be safe for us. KIller app, huh? Follow the arrow.

CAHILL: You know, we've been heading this way for some time now, and the app won't let me get off at any of the exits.

MICROSOFT: Working perfectly. It's detected a pawn shop and a check-cashing joint on the same block, a rent-to-own furniture warehouse and a Mercedes-Benz parked outside. All signs of a neighborhood thronging with criminals.

CAHILL: That sign said "Last Exit in United States." We're going to be in Tijuana shortly.

MICROSOFT: Hope you brought your passport. (Chuckling) One of those zany hazards of beta testing. Easily fixed. I'll just make a note to combine the program with our Avoid Mexico app.