Author Richard Cahill's Website--Living By Our Motto:"There Are No Stupid Questions, Just Stupid People Asking Questions Everybody else already knows the answer to."

This column wishes to extend to all Americans cordial greetings on this day, celebrated by Christians, poultry, lapin animals and transpeople across the breadth of this nation.
 
While Easter has been around for a while, Transgender Visibility Day has only been celebrated for the last 14 years. This is the first time I’ve heard of it at all, and I probably would have remained agnostic regarding it had not the phases of the moon determined that Easter would be celebrated on the same day as TVD this year.
 
I gained this knowledge because the coincidence has all the avatars of the right and Republicanism in a slobbering fury, mostly at Uncle Joe mentioning it, along with the standard Presidential Easter messaging, because the risen Christ hates transgendered people, I guess. The theology is a little murkier than usual on this one, and that is murky, indeed.

The serial adulterer and part-time Bible salesman who will oppose Biden in November called him a blasphemer. Marjorie Taylor Greene, yipper of hate speech and proponent of genital inspection, accused Biden of “thumbing his nose at God,” and Speaker Mike Johnson, whose penis is so small that transitioning to the other sex would be practically effortless for him, said that Biden had betrayed Jesus Christ. Like Judas, I guess, who doesn’t get enough credit for starting the ball rolling for Easter in the first place, in my opinion.
 
The yowling from other members of the reactionary screeching class has nearly crashed the Internet. They are moaning as if someone kicked them in their birth genitals, bewailing the possibility that a transperson somewhere could be using a church bathroom not assigned to their birth sex on Easter, which would be an abomination sufficient to bring on the apocalypse, where it not already scheduled to coincide with the solar eclipse next week.
 
It should at least spell the end of Biden, for hating on Jesus, even though, in Biblical days, being transgender was a snap. Everyone wore robes and relieved themselves behind the same rock. Judas himself may have been a transgender. Who could tell? The only sex reassignment surgery available was performed by the ruling Romans, who would lop off your nuts with a sword if you didn’t pay your taxes.
 
The source of transgender hatred by the followers of Christ is no doubt the fact that hating regular old gays is no longer fashionable. For decades religious people could scorn gays and have public opinion on their side. Some still do, but many have been shamed by their neighbors into no longer bullying gays or showering them with their curses.
 
In transgenders, they have found a much smaller minority to scorch in the name of Jesus, and one with fewer defenders, because few of us know any transgendered people, no matter how eager we may be to share restrooms with them.
 
But it’s all just a gust of windbaggery, calculated to keep the backwoods demographic voting Republican, for fear the Democrats will unleash a flood of he-she’s onto the good people in the holler, begging to use their outhouses and play on their high school basketball teams.
 
Here in California, it’s Cesar Chavez Day too, but we’re not hearing more than the usual peeping about the Hispanic invaders on this occasion.
 
You can thank a transsexual for that.

I was browsing the Net the other day and I came across this delightful meme. It pictures prone men with rifles pointing south for as far as the eye can see. The assumption is that they are ready to blast away at those pesky migrants should any appear. To blow the guts out of tomato-pickers and fentanyl dealers alike; to bullet those anchor babies right out of their mother’s arms.
 
You can’t argue with the deterrence value of a plan like this, so let’s figure out the cost. Our border with Mexico is 1,950 miles long, more or less, depending on the tides in California and Texas. That’s ten million, two-hundred-ninety-six thousand feet. To put an armed man every five feet along it, as the meme suggests, would require approximately two million men. Assuming eight-hour shifts of belly crawling and rifle pointing every day, we’re looking at six million guys with guns.
 
“Guys?” you say. “That’s sexist. Women could do that job, too.” Of course they could. It’s just that the number of women who would like to spend eight hours a day lying on their stomachs, pointing a gun at the horizon and eager for the chance to fill some Venezuelan toddler full of hot lead is far less than the number of guys who want to prevent a political refugee from Honduras from driving a taxi in Sacramento by sending him to the Big Asylum-Seeker Camp in the Sky. Just a guess on my part—I admit that.
 
But six million men would hardly be sufficient in the long run. Inevitably there would be casualties. Rattlesnakes, scorpions and fire ants would take their toll on our brave soldiers. Border defenders could be rendered unfit for duty by a sunburnt belly. Disability pensions would have to be awarded. PTSD would run rampant, as the psychological toll of lying in the desert dust every day, thinking about their wives back home screwing the HVAC guy, would torment the minds of our sharpshooters.
 
I couldn’t imagine a much shittier job. The pay would have to be low, the working conditions near-intolerable, and the career path forward murky. It’s tough to see many Americans abandoning their current job prospects to join the border sniper force.
 
So, there is really only one answer, the same answer the corporate minds of this country come up with anytime there’s anything that needs to be picked, canned, de-boned, or roofed over—LET THE IMMIGRANTS DO IT!!
 
See? Fixed your meme for you.

We all remember when it wasn’t so, because it was not so long ago. Five years ago, we all had a vaguely good opinion of Musk. He was a multi-multi billionaire, sure, but he did good things. He made electric cars, which were good for the planet. He made rockets to go to other planets, just in case the electric cars didn’t save this one. Nobody really knew what a super-size jerk he was, until he made a point of letting us know that, at heart, he was just Joe Rogan with a spaceport.
 
Other billionaires are more circumspect about their flaws, or even try to conceal them under a folksy veneer, like Sam Walton, the founder of Walmart. Sam drove the same old pickup truck for years, in a gesture that suggested his commonality with the people who made him rich by buying easily broken Chinese crap at his stores. Did he ever mention that he would swerve it to attempt to kill any woodland creature that tried to cross the road in front of him? There’s a lot of critters down in Arkansas, and rumor has it that Sam wouldn’t come to work until he had flattened at least one. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up at work until the late afternoon, because it took him that long to squish his toad for the day. But he never talked to Don Lemon about his murderous urges.
 
Or Jeff Bezos. Sure, everybody knows he’s a major prick, but he doesn’t double down on it. His wife left him just so she could take half his money and give it away, because Bezos hoards like a human version of Smaug the Dragon. Yeah, he’s ordered all his bodyguards to kick the crap out of any homeless people he sees, just because he knows they’ll never be able to afford Amazon Prime. But he doesn’t post videos of it on YouTube.
 
There’s Bill Gates, too. Gates is above the fray now, not having written a line of code in thirty years. He just drifts from island to island, with his wife and probably a small coterie of sex slaves. He gives a great deal of money away, mostly in Africa, where, he hopes someday, everyone there will quit dying of tropical diseases, get a good education and a job where they will be driven mad by Microsoft Word, Teams and Outlook, like the rest of us have. He doesn’t even have to design the shitty, overpriced computer programs that office sheeple will be forced to use by middle management everywhere, anymore. He has people to do that for him. Unlike Elon, he keeps all this on the down low.
 
Elon lets it all hang out. He hates immigrants, even though he is one, and DEI and woke and Democrats and mainstream media and anything else that doesn’t really harm anyone but is offensive to the guns ‘n Jesus crowd. He snorts ketamine and goes on rages so unhinged that a neutral observer might suspect that what he’s really cranky about is that everyone still calls the social media platform he lost a fortune buying Twitter, instead of X, like he wants them to and we refuse to just because it sounds stupid compared to Twitter.
 
He’s not going anywhere, either. He might be the first human to seek immortality by uploading his consciousness to a computer when his end is near. He can afford it, and there’s no doubt here he’s working on it.
 
So, our grandchildren and great grand-children will live in a world presided over by the Elon Overmind, babbling nonsense and spewing disgust over the Internet, forever.
 
It’s enough to make you want to move to Mars.

It seems like it’s been ages since there was a good, old-fashioned Rapture scare around here, but it is finally happening. Nowadays, the thinking among Christian sorts is that they are going to get Hoovered out of their sneakers by the thrumming turbine of God’s love and be upwelled into the company of angels on April 8th, the date of the next solar eclipse.
 
Sadly, if you have ordered golden Trump footwear and were looking forward to being foofed into Heaven out of them, they will not be arriving in time for the scheduled Apocalypse.
 
Not all Armageddon fans are thinking this solar eclipse is going to precipitate the Final Shakeout. After all, there have been a couple million* of them since the Earth and Moon took their present orbital positions. Most of them took place long before humans existed to crap in their loincloths over them. The first amphibious creatures ever might have been crawling onto the land during a solar eclipse. They just shrugged their shoulders, if they had any, at it, and kept on evolving. There’s even going to be another solar eclipse this year as well, but it’s only going to visible over the Pacific and Patagonia, so only penguins are likely to get Raptured over it.
 
The world-ending Planet Niburu is sitting this one out, too. It’s definitely not going to emerge from the outer reaches of the solar system and smush us by April 8th. People whose future plans include getting squashed out of existence by a dark sphere from outer space are just going about their business. "If it ain't Niburu, it ain't shit," is their take on the eclipse.
 
The April 8th Rapture does have its proponents, though. Many have noted that the path of totality passes through the hamlet of Rapture, Indiana, which town is eagerly encouraging visitors to go there to view the Eclipse, knowing that there’s a subset of them that are longing to get Raptured from Rapture. They’ll be in a spending mood, knowing that they’re only one eclipse away from ceasing to participate in the American economy forever, and the townspeople are looking forward to an influx of evangelical cash.
 
There’s a nice YouTube video from a pastor named Troy Brewer, who spends 33 minutes detailing the prophetic significance of the eclipse. He finds it important that the phenomenon enters the US at Eagle Pass, Texas, where Trump recently visited to make a strong stand against the ungodly immigrant hordes, goes through someplace called Omega, which means The End, and ends up in Salem, Massachusetts, where witches were burned in better and merrier times gone by. Jesus speaks directly to Troy, which confirms Our Savior’s taste for white men with pricey haircuts, expensive suits and fat asses. Troy touches on Moses, Jonah and Jim Jordan during the course of the video, which leads Democrats to start thinking, “If there’s anybody I’d like to see Raptured, it’s Jim Jordan."

Congressman Jordan is from Ohio, too, where the darkness will be thickest. Another coincidence? Rapture theorists think not.
 
Brewer also goes on about the prophetic importance of the number 24, which is mentioned serially in the Bible, which is the number this year ends in, and the number 4:8, which corresponds to April 8th, in a calendar that was adopted long after those prophets were dead. So, there’s room for a little skepticism there.
 
But I’ll make a prediction based on numerology myself. The Rapture will occur when exactly 24,000 Americans have only 24 dollars left in their checking accounts.
 
So if you're nervous about the Rapture and your place in it, and want to put it off for a while longer, send that money to me. Bless you for that.
 
*Just a guess. Loads, though. Ask your local astronomer for a more exact number.

One of the tales told by Katie Britt during her rebuttal to the State of the Union was a particularly grisly one—a young woman being sex-trafficked in Texas, where she was raped every day by a parade of sex-trafficking rapists.
 
How this poor victim got some time off from being raped to have a little chat with a US Senator about her predicament was not made clear in the story. What was made clear was that the raping was entirely the fault of Joe Biden.
 
Immediately, the leftists started chirping about how the Senator from a Kitchen in Alabama has sworn fealty to a guy who has been found legally liable for one rape, and been accused of sexual assault by at least twenty other women, so shouldn’t the Senate’s top homemaker be opposed to him as well, instead of having her moist lips pressed to his pale hiney?
 
A top Republican spokesman was willing to comment anonymously. “You obviously don’t know the difference between Democratic and Republican rape. Democratic rapes are performed by filthy immigrants, who are automatically allowed into this country by Biden if they just tell the Border Patrol they’re here for the raping. Then they find a cheap motel, where the mattresses are dirty enough to rape on. They paw at their victims with brown hands callused by working in the fentanyl mines. All the time they are grunting dirty words in Spanish. They use English only when a US Senator pops by to aske a few questions. After the rape, the victim is forced to have their baby, because they are in Texas.
 
“A Republican rape is completely different. Not that every Republican rapist has the same style—some Republicans get tongue-tied in the presence of women they want to rape. Those guys are masters of the roofie arts. But other Republicans aren’t so shy. They don’t babble in Spanish. They speak clear, precise English when they say endearing things to their victims, things like, “My God, you’ve got big boobs for a fourteen-year-old.”
 
“And to speak the language of commerce, the important thing for Republicans when they rape is location, location, location. A Republican doesn’t rape in a smelly little hotel room that doesn't even have HBO. He rapes in a bright, clean, spacious department store dressing room. He paws at his victim with clean, recently manicured hands. It’s completely different than being penetrated by filthy, bitten-down Mexican fingernails. This department store is in New York, so if the woman, who obviously was dressed so that anybody could see she was begging for sex, can get a quick and easy legal abortion and keep her mouth shut about it forever afterwards, so her rapist can ascend to the highest office in the land without being bothered by a lot of ugly rumors and expensive lawsuits. It doesn’t always work out that way, of course, but it should.
 
“That’s why the women of America prefer to be raped by Republicans instead of migrants, so, when we win the election and close the border, they’ll get exactly what they want.”

So, you want to find Jesus? Great! Jesus wants to be found. By you. Ideally, before you meet Him as the Long-Haired White Guy meting out your eternal fate from a throne in the clouds while the Apocalypse crackles around you like a great big bag of Orville Redenbacher’s in a world-sized microwave, because by then, His opinion of you is baked in.
 
But, enough of the food metaphors, although, ironically, toast is one of His favorite mediums in which to appear. We’ll start by finding ways to meet Jesus.
 
You don’t find Jesus by having a nice, fat 401(k) and being on a glide path to an easy retirement on a coral sand beach in the Caribbean, with a compliant wife twenty years younger than you, so that she still looks pretty hot in the bikini that is all she mostly wears every day. If you find yourself in this situation, you are as close to Hell as you can get and still have a cocktail in your hand. What you want to do is lose that IRA in an obvious pyramid scam, the wife to a cabana boy, and your drink to a rogue wave. Destitute and sober, you have to relocate to someplace like Buffalo, where, amid the snows of winter and the mosquito-clouds of summer, Jesus will come to you. You will realize that having your life turned to shit was part of His divine Plan, and join a particularly annoying church, the kind full of white people who can’t sing but do so constantly anyway. You are on the way to eternal glory. Isn’t that a relief?
 
You won’t find Jesus by being a young hunk with a perfect head of hair, great clothes sense and a lucrative job with a vague title like “Investment Banker.” You are a magnet for attractive young girls who just want to have sex with you. Jesus is avoiding you like the plague, brother. What you need to do is develop a crack habit that ruins your skin and melts away all those muscles you spent years at the gym acquiring. You lose your condo and your ability to sustain an erection. Bottoming out by being arrested in homeless sweep at the park, you get clean at taxpayer’s expense and spend the rest of your days boring the crap out of people at Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Those people, at least, will be happy when you get Raptured.
 
Ladies, you won’t find Jesus by being a sexy young Instagram influencer, or wriggling in lingerie or less on My Fans. Flashing your uniquely attractive booty on the Internet, and basking in the waves of approval it draws from men all over the world, may be fun—strike that, it is fun—but you’re looking for Jesus in all the wrong places. Fall in love with a jealous guy who makes you suspend all your accounts, then breaks his back in an accident so that you have to support him by working at a Rite-Aid while he tries to get approved for disability. Have a child. Discover your toddler is on the spectrum. At this point, Jesus will come to you, although it is likely that the married manager at the Rite Aid will come to you as well, not necessarily wearing his pants. Pray.
 
There are countless other ways to find your Savior. A book could be written, but I haven’t had breakfast yet, so I’m not writing it now. The important thing to remember is you don’t have to endure tragedy or deadly disease to get closer to God. Just reflect, when things are going fine and your life seems to be working out as well as it possibly can on Earth, Jesus is waiting.
 
For you to make some poor decisions. They’re the highway to Him.