richardcahill.net

Did Jesus Have Two Mommies?

2/26/2015

Gay parents?

Boston| A Catholic priest from Massachussetts was officially dead for more than 48 minutes before medics were able to miraculously re-start his heart. During that time, Father John Micheal O’neal claims he went to heaven and met God, which he describes as a warm and comforting motherly figure.

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The story goes on to say that despite Father O'neal's personal out of body experience and face-time with the Almighty, his boss, the Archbishop of Boston, Sean P. O'Malley, called a press conference to say that Father O'neal was full of near-death crap, and that God was indisputably male.

What does this story tell us, apart from the fact that it helps to have an Irish surname if you want to work for the Boston archdiocese? It tells us that Father O'neal is one tough old bastard. Most people who have taken the trouble to be dead for 48 minutes just keep on being dead for much longer, but Father O'neal obviously isn't one to just go with the flow. He came back, and he came back with a scoop.

The breaking news that God is female does not bother me. Like most agnostic types, I would be happy to discover that there is an afterlife presided over by a nice God in which you can mingle with or avoid all of your dead relatives, whichever seems best to you. If the Almighty is a She, it wouldn't trouble me one bit, as long as the beer is cold and the manna is tasty for all eternity.

So why is the Cardinal all P-Oed? A female God does not work well with the Biblical storybook is the answer. If God was female, would She have banished Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden just for bringing a snake into the house and then eating some fruit She had told them to keep their mitts off of because she was saving it for a dinner party she was having later? No. She would have been mad, of course, and Adam and Eve might have had their TV time curtailed or gotten a serious time out, but eternal banishment from the Garden for them and all their descendants? No. Moms don't roll that way.

A Mom God would not have asked Abraham to sacrifice his only son to her. She might have asked Abraham to pay a little more attention to him, adding loudly and a trifle sarcastically, "AT LEAST AS MUCH ATTENTION AS YOU PAY TO ANY FLOOZIE IN A SHORT ROBE AND HIGH SANDALS THAT WALKS BY," or she might have asked Abraham to watch the kid for a few minutes because She needed to make a hurricane, but She would not approve of child sacrifice.

Likewise, it wouldn't have taken Her 40 years to lead the children of Israel to the Promised Land as a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night, because She would have admitted She was lost and stopped to ask for directions.

But the most important thing is that She would be the co-parent of Mary, the Mother of God, according to standard Catholic theology. This means that Jesus Christ, the only perfect human being that ever lived, was the product of a same-sex relationship.

That's mind-boggling, and nothing the Cardinal is going to tolerate. It's not going to work out well for Father O'neal. He's going to get his priest license yanked and his black book full of altar boy phone numbers confiscated. You know what he must be thinking:

"The next time I go to heaven, I'm not coming back."

Good for him.

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The Countries Obama Really Loves

2/23/2015

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Do you blame him?

The recent outburst by Rudy (America's Ex-Mayor) Giuliani concerning whether President Obama actually loves this country has made a nice splash for a couple days, and while Rudy has backed down from his original full-throated accusation of Presidential non-affection for 'Murica by admitting he cannot read Obama's mind, the ugly accusation is still lying out there like road kill, and I mean road kill that's been squashed by monster truck tires and roasted in the sun on some warm Southern highway for a week. It's yucky.

Loving your country is like loving God, only even harder to quantify. After all, you can just tell God you love him in prayer. Even though it is unlikely He will actually reply, unless you've gone off your meds, you're on the record. You can't tell America you love it by murmuring "I love you, United States," before you go to bed at night, though. You have to say it out loud, in front of someone else. Then you have to hope they don't ask you "Why do you love America?"

Then you have to answer. You can just hum a snatch of a patriotic song, or mumble something about the Bill of Rights. Those are good replies. You can go down the tricky road of honesty if you like, and say "I love America because I've made a crap-ton of money selling junk bonds on Wall Street," or "I love America because female mud-wrestling is legal here."

It's no wonder Obama avoids the question. It doesn't matter whether he goes to sleep every night with a fuzzy Uncle Sam doll tucked warmly into his BVD's or he sits moodily behind his desk all day thinking "I wish I'd never gotten myself elected President of this sh*t-hole," the inquiry itself is a conversation-stopper.

But he's the President, and if he doesn't love this land from sea to shining sea, why should the rest of us bother? I put a phone call into Rudy Giuliani, who immediately claimed that the whole controversy had been misconstrued.

"It's not that Obama doesn't love America," the Mayor said. "It's that he loves too many other countries, too."

Really? Like, what countries?

"Guinea-Bissau, for one. The President has a thing for countries with hyphenated names. You try it. Just say 'I love you, Guinea-Bissau,' a couple times in a row, and you'll feel yourself falling for this dusky beauty of a nation state."

I'll give it a shot in my spare time. Are there other countries?

"Sure. Luxembourg. And who can blame him? It's just an adorable little country. The face-licking lapdog of Europe. When Obama wants a country he can just cuddle with, Luxembourg is his happy place."

What about other tiny European countries, like Lichtenstein, Monaco, or Andorra? Does our President love them, too?

"Hell, no. They're dumps. Lichtenstein's a snowdrift, Monaco's a casino and Andorra's a goat-pen. Give the man credit for some taste."

Any others come to mind?

"I don't know if it's love, but he's got the hots for Trinidad and Tobago. The President is a bold guy, and what do you have when you get next to Trinidad and Tobago? Automatic threesome, baby."

Are there countries the President used to love, but no longer has feelings for anymore?

"Sure. France. The President used to love France. The wine, the cheese, the women who only bathe on weekends. But then he picked John Kerry as his Secretary, and Kerry made it clear that if there was anyone who was going to love France in this Administration, it was going to be him. Obama graciously stepped aside and let Kerry have her. I actually admire him for that. It's what I would have done. A lot of people don't know it, but back when I was young Republican schlepper, I coined the phrase 'Bros before ho's.' It's just that by loving all these other countries on the q-t, Obama is risking a lot."

Like America finding out?

"Or Michelle, pal."

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The Vikings Are Coming--Back, That Is

2/19/2015

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A group of people in Iceland are building the first Norse temple there in over a thousand years. This monument to Odin, Frigga and Thor will be used for weddings, funerals and the Norse equivalent of bar mitzvahs.

This is a frank acknowledgement, in my opinion, that Christianity has not worked out for the former Vikings. In the days of the Norse gods they were the scourge of the western world, feared by mewling peasants from Kiev to Killarny. Now, instead of being cheerful bloodthirsty pirates, they are a bunch of socialists with the nicest fjords and the safest cars in the world. It's no wonder they looked around one morning and said "Screw all this, by the hammer of Thor. How did we end up stuck here freezing by a bunch of glaciers? Let's build a temple. And then a couple long ships when nobody's looking."

Yes, this temple can only mean the return of Vikingism, in a world much changed from the high point of this cult in the 900's. Not only will they resume raiding Ireland and England every summer, but Long Island and New Jersey as well. With only a few hormonal teenage lifeguards to oppose them, they'll hit American beaches every year, swarming ashore with broadswords and long axes like a human Hurricane Sandy. And, unlike natural disasters, politicians won't just be able to stand around in raincoats telling everybody to stay inside to combat the Viking menace. They'll have to be fought hand-to-hand on the bays and boardwalks. It'll be almost worth enduring the mayhem to see if they make leather skirts in Chris Christie's size.

On the bright side, no one will get excited about being forced to live under Sharia law anymore, because Sharia law is a walk in the park, and I mean a walk in the park with flowers and donuts, compared to Viking law, which is basically "Hold still while I pillage ya!" Apologists for Islam continually point out that most Muslims are peaceful people, and they are probably right. No one ever said that about Vikings.

If the Vikings win out, we will have to make all sorts of cultural adjustments. The story that inspired this warning contained a link to this article, which basically says that Viking culture valued penis size and hardness above all other virtues. In other words, they lived in a society organized on the same principles as the American porn industry. "So what?" you say. "It's not like big dicks don't run everything around here already." Yes, that's true, but at least they have job security. In the Viking world, even if you were king, all you had to do was wake one day and discover your pipe was a little rusty, if you know what I mean, and you were sent out to pick fleas off the sheep while a sturdier guy took your place on the throne.

This would apply to all levels of society. A cursory survey of the locker room would be all that was necessary to determine who was captain of the football team. The judge with the heaviest gavel would be Chief Justice. Say Bill Gates has too many chocolate milks to satisfy Mrs. Gates one night. All of a sudden Microsoft is being run by a guy named Rangmar, who basically lives to install his "updates" in your wife.

We're talking the return of the Dark Ages, otherwise known as Viking 2.0. I say we need to buy that temple and turn it into something nice and modern, a bar-b-q joint, or a handball court, or anything to keep Icelanders from yodeling for Odin in it. For a thousand years these descendents of the mighty Norse have been shivering in the dark with nothing to do but eat lichens and give their kids funny names.

Let's keep it that way.

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The Aliens Are Coming to Vaccinate Us All

2/16/2015

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Current Hillary Clinton advisor John Podesta said last week that his deepest regret when working in Bill Clinton's, then Obama's White House is that he did not get to tell the truth about UFO's and now that he's working on putting a second Clinton on Pennsylvania avenue, he's going to stay clammed up about what he knows.

What this means is that the flying saucer news is not good. Presumably every President since Truman has known that we are not alone in the Universe, and that taxpayer money is used to keep alien corpses frozen in Area 51. None of them has thought the general public could handle the news, which means the aliens are a problem. They are not lovable ET types, out to save humanity by installing world peace, stopping global warming, or even landing at major population centers to give out live-forever pills and flying cars. They are up to something unpleasant, or are just unpleasant themselves.

I've always been a skeptic about UFO's, mostly because of the distance between Earth and other places in the galaxy. The longest most of us have ever been crammed into a metal tube and launched at great speed to another destination is flying in an airplane, and the longest airplane flight on the planet is over the Pacific Ocean. Now, to use one of those quizzes that Neil deGrasse Tyson types love, if we think of the galaxy as being the size of the Sahara desert, the Pacific Ocean would be the size of:

    a. A camel
    b. A flea
    c. A drop of sweat in one of that flea's armpits.

The correct answer is "c." To get to the nearest star while flying in anything Boeing makes would take about six hundred thousand years. That's a long time to sit with your tray table locked and your seat in the full upright position. You could probably read everything on the Internet before the captain even turned off the seat belt light.

"Wait a minute," you say. "How do we know UFO's are coming from outer space at all? Maybe they're visitors from our own future, or they come flying out of volcanoes, or they originate in a parallel universe?"

To which I say, is any of that good news? In the future the human race will have evolved into a bunch of small, pale, bald beings with gigantic eyes and big splayed fingers? That could easily happen—it's a possible consequence of countless human generations doing nothing but stare at and tap on their cell phones for the next million years or so, but it's nothing we want to find out.

If you lived in a volcano, once you came flying out, you'd stay out. Trust me on that. And the parallel universe theory is the ookiest one of all. That would mean we were surrounded at all times by invisible, creepy aliens just dying to warp space and time long enough to stick a probe in us while we're soaping up in the shower. No wonder Obama is keeping that on the down low.

No, they would have to come from space. And revealing their existence means there would be a clamor to build a Space Border Wall to keep them out. The politicians want to avoid that.

I suppose we maybe couldn't trust foreign leaders to keep their mouths shut about the aliens if we told them, but it could still be a useful foreign policy tool. If we told Putin the aliens were on their way to Earth to steal the oceans and mutate us all into house pets for their children, he might lend us a couple of his mobile H-bombs to lob at them. Or we could confide to ISIS that every single alien spaceship that has crash-landed in the American Southwest had a crude cartoon of Muhammad scrawled onto its mystery metal exterior. That might re-direct their energies.

Or maybe the government knows the aliens would tell us the secret of the Universe, and that secret is that there is no God, Jesus, Muhammad or Shiva and that nobody knows anything for sure, and that we're all just here.

In that case, you can see why Podesta would keep it to himself.

On the other hand, the New England Patriots just won the Super Bowl despite being a bunch of known cheaters, and all their fans were cheering and gloating and lording it over the rest of us in their annoying Wicked Tuna accents until they got eighteen feet of snow dumped on them.

That shut them up, and could be evidence that there may be a God after all.

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Shirts That Stay in the Closet

2/12/2015

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Like all American men and women, I have a spectacular collection of t-shirts for any occasion that calls for looking like a poor slob with an indifferent attitude towards his personal appearance. I have my favorites, t-shirts with the names of Baja fishing villages on them, t-shirts that let all who view me know that I hang out in paradise, if you consider paradise warm weather, flat seas and big dead fish. I have many t-shirts given to me by the local baseball team when I have attended their games, maybe to placate me for them not having won anything for eight years.

I have t-shirts I wear because my son didn't take them to Australia with him. I have plain t-shirts, shirts with no mission other than to keep me from getting sunburnt. Often I do no careful planning when thrusting a hand in my drawer for a shirt—whatever one I grab is fine. Except for these two.

The Chicken Ranch is a legal brothel in Pahrump, Nevada. A friend of mine's family lives there, and when she said she was going there to visit, and mentioned it was the home of the Chicken Ranch, I said "Bring me back a t-shirt," and she did.

This is a shirt you can't wear everywhere. It can not just be not worn at church picnics or when I visit anybody's mother. It can't be worn anywhere I don't want to be perceived as a rancid old pervert. When I get dressed in the morning, I never know where the day's travels are going to take me. I could get called in to the college campus where my special lady teaches, if she has a flat tire or has forgotten her phone at home, where wearing clothing that objectifies women marks you as a slobbering deviate, whereas wearing clothing that glorifies a tribe of Mexican Indians that practiced human sacrifice means you have the proper school spirit.

I don't need to get in an argument over that kind of logic. I take the easy way out--unless I am certain I am going to spend the entire day at one of three kinds of bars—dive, strip, or biker—the Chicken Ranch shirt stays in the drawer.

The other shirt is even worse. At least I only imagine what other people think of me when I display the colors of the Chicken Ranch. When I wear Marinated in Sin, people tell me what they think of me, which is that I am going to Hell. This can be startling, because by the time I have been wearing the shirt for several hours, I have completely forgotten its message. I can just be standing in the supermarket line peacefully, not aware that I am advertising that I am in the clutches of Satan, when the person behind me abruptly starts warring for my soul. "I'm praying for you!" he'll bellow suddenly (public critics of the shirt are always guys), causing me to clink my bottles of vodka together in alarm. I have had no time to prepare myself for a theological debate, unlike Sunday mornings when I know the Mormons could knock on the door at any time, and usually have to say something basic, like "Don't bother," or just "Shut the intercourse up." Later I am ashamed for my lack of glibness.

I am sure many religious people leave me alone, but that is only fair, because I leave them alone. I don't scrape Jesus fish bumper stickers off cars or pull magnetic Marys off their dashboards unless I have purchased the vehicles in question. When I see people who proclaim that they are Not of This World, I don't yell "Yes you are, you deluded bastards, you evolved here!" at them. When I sneeze all over small children and their parents graciously say "God bless you," instead of shooting me a dirty look, I simply say "Thank you," instead of seizing the occasion to launch into a diatribe concerning the existence of God and questioning whether invoking His name in the wake of an unexpected expectoration has any positive effect.

So I ought to be able to wear the shirt anywhere and not be molested, in the interests of fairness, but that is not the case. I am particularly apprehensive about wearing it while hiking up Cowles Mountain, a local peak with a steep ascent that I stomp up on a regular basis, along with many other health-conscious San Diegans, in the hopes that it is keeping my heart strong. Just in case it has the opposite effect, though, I don't want to be wearing a shirt that says "Marinated In Sin" after I have succumbed to a cardiovascular event, for fear of being clucked at by possibly faithful fellow hikers. When I leave this life, I want to go without being a lesson to anybody.

I like that. Maybe I could get it put on a T-shirt.

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What Happened to the World Net Daily?

2/9/2015

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It has been awhile since I mentioned the WND, or World Net Daily, one of my favorite Internet publications, in this column. This is not because I ceased to enjoy this online magazine. It is because my subscription was cancelled.

For those of you unfamiliar with the WND, it is a forum devoted to Sharia law and gay agenda resisting heavily armed white Christians fanatically behind the most right-wing politicians they can locate, who also share an undying devotion to the state of Israel, not so much because they care for Israelis but because they are constantly looking for events in the Middle East that presage the Second Coming, Final Judgment, the Rapture and the Apocalypse, which most of the WND's readers look confidently towards in a kind of continuous eschatological frenzy.

Why you would worry about minor political questions or how much ammunition you have in the shed when you are convinced that Jesus is coming in glory to assign you your outside table in eternity by the end of the weekend, at the latest, is a question the WND always leaves hanging.

During the time I was subscribed to the WND I received 362 email notices from them that urged me to read such news flashes as "War Cry of Allah Heard at White House," and "Homosexuals Wage Holy War on Israeli Village." While I didn't always click on the links, I felt better informed just by glancing at them in my inbox before I hit the delete button.

All that ended last August 15th. Why? I didn't cancel my subscription voluntarily. It was weeks before I noticed I was no longer being kept up to speed about the government seizing control of all my financial accounts, or the growth of polytheism among Democrats. Did the WND notice that I occasionally made fun of them? That would mean someone was actually paying attention to me, which never happens, so I dismissed that possibility. Maybe someone just spilled some coffee on their server, and I was erased while they were mopping it up. Or maybe they noticed I never bought one of the hundreds of books and videos the WND offers to its readers, because they are written by the same people who compose headlines for the publication, headlines like "Disneyland Measles Part of Obama's Medical Genocide." With titles like that, you just know that the meat of the article is bound to be a letdown. You're not about to buy a whole book by that guy.

So I had to log on, and was relieved to see the WND hadn't changed much. A countdown banner has been added. On the day I viewed the site, it read "Bye-Bye Obama Countdown—718 Days Left—Can You Wait?" It appears that the WND is actually considering the possibility that the current President will leave office peacefully, instead of seizing power in a UN-inspired coup, then revealing himself as the Antichrist and imprisoning us all in Final Days FEMA camps.

It seems that the near-certainty that Obama is the Antichrist, a position held by the WND for 6+ years, is now wavering, or else the WND should be trumpeting that the Beast of Revelations, instead of hunkering down for a war for the soul of humanity, has been handily defeated by a constitutional amendment passed in 1951. No massed choruses of angels or battle of Armageddon will be necessary, as the Spawn of Satan, whose initials are B.O., has apparently decided to retire to Hawaii, with its gorgeous weather and plethora of golf courses, instead of opening the gates of Hell and letting loose the Horsemen of the Apocalypse upon this earth, thus postponing the turmoil, terror and frightening glory of the Last Days indefinitely.

Good decision. Of course, no one will give the man credit for it.

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Come the Revolution

2/5/2015

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Most days I don't care much about income inequality. Sure, it exists, and it's probably not altogether good, but you can say the same thing about death and the debt collection industry but if you don't feel sick or owe anything in arrears, you're not going to dwell on them. I know that there are people out there who make more money every fifteen seconds than I have earned in total since Sofia Vergara squeezed into her first bra, but it doesn't affect my daily routine as long as they leave me alone. Intellectually, I am aware that the Koch brothers plan to buy the next US Presidency for someone who is, for all intents and purposes, their employee, and that Bill Gates has become the richest man on the planet by enslaving all of us to a computer program whose best feature is the production of untimely error messages, but I don't sweat it, most of the time.

I didn't sweat it, that is, until I ran across this ad in the New Yorker. Yes, this is an advertisement for a solid gold chamber pot, which you can buy for $125,000. Why this glaring example of income inequality, instead of any other, made me want to find the guy who owns this item and choke him to death with one of his Ralph Lauren neckties, then drag his body out to the curb and let pedicab drivers run over him until he is an unrecognizable bloody pulp, I will try to explain here.

First off, this is a gift, obviously. A gift for someone for whom you have already bought a specially designed, lightweight water bed for his private jet, so that jet can land on shorter runways. A person for whom you have already gotten a gorgeous female sex robot that doubles as a figurehead on his giant ocean-going yacht. A person about whom someone right now is thinking "What possibly can we get Pater next Christmas?"

And here is what SJ Shrubsole, hopes the answer will be for that spoiled, selfish, incredibly rich fat bastard on your gift list. The pot was originally made for the Earl of Warrington, and presumably used by him when said noblesse was obliged to take a leak. If you buy it, you can mingle your personal urine, whether it is the strapping young liquid waste of a masterful junk bond trader in his prime or the diabetic dribble of a member of the landed gentry in his dotage, with the trace micturations of that expired blueblood. Whether you want the pot cleaned immaculately before delivery or you prefer to piddle in the must of history is up to you, I expect—for one hundred twenty five large, Shrubsole will no doubt honor your wishes, although if my job was cleaning out chamber pots for gazillionaires, I wouldn't neglect any opportunity for sabotage. Fair warning.

I'm not saying that the Earl's honeybucket is not a good investment. You can't urinate on a fur coat or a stack of paychecks for your minimum-wage employees and expect them to hold their value, but your solid gold piss pot, whether empty or full, retains and maybe even increases in worth. Sure, you could say the same about whizzing in your wife's jewelry collection or on a pile of Krugerands. Maybe you've even done that when you were plastered on Kristal or the Bordeaux you suck up like it was Pabst Blue Ribbon because you're so rich there's no point in not being continuously drunk, but you noticed you kept spraying on your Gucci loafers when you did so. Hence the services of Shrubsole.

When gifted with the pot, you could do the right thing and donate it to charity, if you haven't secreted most of your wealth away in numbered accounts and actually need a deduction. Or you could melt it down and sell it to a dentist who specializes in grillz for rappers, so that the next time some rap music offends, you can fantasize that the rapper is singing through the same gold that some long-dead British lord has tinkled upon.

Of course, you have no need to actually use the pot. You already have a solid gold toilet with a mother of pearl seat for doing two of the few things you can't pay someone else to do for you. But once you've got it, you figure you've got to use it at least once. The best thing that can happen afterwards is that you order the illegal Filipino maid the King of Dubai gave you on your last birthday to empty it into your regular toilet, then buff it up and put it back on the mantelpiece. Or (and this will surely be a temptation) you could emulate medieval kings and simply dump the bucket out the window, murmuring "Occupy this, a-holes," as you do so, and let passersby fend for themselves. You live in the penthouse, of course, so by the time your liquid waste reaches the earth, it's just a brief, smelly vapor that the plebeians walking there barely notice wetting their clothes.

Subtly peeing on the rest of us--probably your usual business model, anyway.

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Most Dangerous 700 Days in American History Are Now Says NRA

2/2/2015

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The 5,197th most dangerous day in US history

Wayne LaPierre, the head honcho of the National Rifle Association, has proclaimed the last two years of the Obama Administration "the most dangerous 700 days America has ever faced."

Why a lame duck President, sworn to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, with both houses of Congress controlled by the opposition party in case he changes his mind, would constitute an existential threat to the existence of the nation above all others is not something Wayne cares to be specific about. In the face of this alleged threat, however, he does not urge his fellow members of the NRA to build ammunition dumps in the woods, or dig gun-smuggling tunnels to each others basements, or even to buy gas masks and crates of ammo. No, the only way to keep the nation intact is to—and this is an exact quote from the man—"renew or upgrade your NRA membership now."

I caught up to Wayne via his celly and had a few questions for him.

I'm not going to argue about these upcoming two years being the most dangerous for America in its history, Wayne, but....

"Good. Because they are. I'm about to have lunch with a thousand people who agree with me. That's how I defend the rights of all Americans, by having lunch. You do it by paying your NRA dues."

But America has faced other dangerous days before, Wayne, with and without the NRA. What about the Revolutionary War? If America hadn't survived those 3075 days, it wouldn't even have become a nation.

"True. I shudder to think. We wouldn't even have a Second Amendment if we hadn't made it through those dangerous days. I'm going to say they were the 701st to the 3,775th most dangerous days America has ever faced. The NRA didn't exist then..."

Sure, it would have been the National Musket Association back then. The NMA.

"But if we had, I'm sure people would have been much happier paying their NRA dues than tea taxes to rotten old England."

Then there was the Civil War, which threatened to tear the nation apart. That lasted 1,406 days.

"The 3,776th to the 5,182nd most dangerous days America has ever faced. With a bullet!"

No NRA then, either.

"Speaking of bullets, which I always love to do, the NRA dodged one by not existing in the 1860's. We probably would have stayed neutral in the Civil War. I mean, brother fought against brother, but at least NRA member didn't fight against NRA member. That would have been a real tragedy."

Turning to a time within living memory, what about the Cuban missile crisis? That lasted thirteen days and not only threatened the existence of America, but the whole world.

"Dangerous days number 5,183 through 5,196. No doubt about it. We only survived it because NRA members were all paid up on their dues. One look at our books convinced the Soviets they could only have our thermonuclear weapons if they pried them from our cold, dead fingers."

How about single days instead of whole wars or crisis? Say, December 7th, 1941? Pearl Harbor?

"Number 5,197. It's true the Japanese attacked Hawaii, but it wasn't a state or even a well-known resort back then. You notice they didn't attack Los Angeles? They knew the mainland was sturdily defended not only by the US military, but by thousands who knew the best way to keep the US strong was not to go into arrears on their NRA memberships."

What about 9-11?

"We dues-paying NRA members acknowledge it was the 5,198th most dangerous day in US history. Did the terrorists know that NRA members had an unusually high number of bounced checks and declined debit cards that month, and chose to attack when the we were weak? It could very well be. We'll never know for sure until we kill Bin Laden and decipher Al Qaeda's secret records."

Um...we already did that, Wayne.

"Yes, I remember that now. When the Obama quits hiding the NRA's part in winning the war on terror in the CIA's secret archives is what I meant to say. The man just can't be trusted. Now, how about coughing up those dues?"

Not right now, Wayne. I need my money for lunch.