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."

If you think the Brexit is the only problem in rotty old England, think again. The city of London, as of tomorrow, in a move that may open up new career opportunities in the modeling field for people who look ordinary with their clothes off, will no longer allow advertisements “that conform to unrealistic or unhealthy body images” to be viewed by passengers on its public transportation system.

This action was inspired by this ad, which asked the pale, huddled masses crammed into London’s dangerous-looking, two-story buses, “Are you beach-body ready?”

This apparently offended a lot of flabby Brits, who don’t like to be reminded that that don’t have nice bodies. They don’t have nice beaches, either, or nice weather to enjoy them in, just a lot of ocean-washed gravel adjacent to sheep farms and plagued by cold and damp year-round. Plus, they can’t understand each other’s accents, and they can’t just turn up the volume on the TV to help like we do when we’re watching something British.

But everything British eventually migrates over here to escape the constant rain and socialism of the UK, so It is up to Americans to make sure this practice stays an ocean away from the land of the free and the home of the supermodel gobbling a cheeseburger on TV. Although not formally on the law books as a constitutional amendment, the right of Americans to have products pitched to them by attractive people is taken for granted by we the people, and, frankly, the only reason we don’t fast forward through every commercial ever produced.

Handsome men, svelte women, cute children and talking animals are the only creatures we Americans will tolerate trying to sell us something. There have been exceptions through the years, but thankfully, I can’t think of any examples—I’ve blocked them out, I expect. Even commercials where the attractive young women remain fully clothed, like the Verizon person in the tight dress shirt or the credit score girl who wants us to monitor our credit so we can constantly go out and pile on debt are a low-calorie form of eye-candy, and when Kate Upton walks her cleavage through a series of explosions and attacks by dragons to encourage us to play a video game, we immediately go out and buy that game.

Uh, sorry, no. I still don’t play any video games. I also don’t worry about my credit score.  I understand people who do. They think their credit score is like a batting average for their life, which may be important to the vast majority of people who don’t have real batting averages. Paying your electric bill on time is like a sacrifice bunt, and paying off your car loan is like hitting one out of the park, and the satisfaction of watching your credit rating go up as you inch your way through your drab, responsible existence may be the only joy you have in it, but I’m not playing that game. Score me any way you want for now, because someday my credit will be equal to everybody else's in the graveyard.

But I digressed, and rather morbidly, too. Back to the main subject of cheesecake in advertising! Here in San Diego we have been enjoying a series of billboards advertising one of the local casinos. Along with the name of the casino, they feature luscious young women in minimal dress, gazing out at traffic with a look of barely being able to keep their knees together. What these billboards are saying to me is that if I should go to that casino, I will be a winner, and finally able to financially justify the company of the willing, enthusiastic, attractive and affordable prostitutes who are thronging the premises.

I still haven’t gone, though, because I suspect that when I get there, it will be just the usual casino crowd of wrinkled geriatrics pulling away at slot machines and puffing away on cigarettes they should have quit years ago, and I will piss away a hundred dollars before I get sick of losing and leave.

Rather go to London. 

Like many people who are from a place very near a well-known city, I always tell others that I’m originally from Philadelphia if I’m asked. Or I claim Philly ancestry after one of the many wearying times people have noticed my accent and said “You’re from Boston, aren’t you?”

I was actually born in Delaware County, PA (unofficial motto—“Claiming to be part of Philadelphia since 1789”) about 600 feet from the Philadelphia municipal line, so it’s not much of an exaggeration to say I was born there. When I was a lad of 8, my parents decided to move to the country. The country spot they chose was known as Lenni, named after the Lenni-Lenape Indians, a proud tribe of Native Americans. Like many others of their kind, unfortunately, they were not proud enough to keep themselves from utterly vanishing from the earth. In the case of Lenni, however, they were replaced by a tribe equally proud. The area became industrialized around the turn of the last century when several textile mills were built along the main waterway of Lenni, the Chester Creek. The working class of Philly was still far away then, there being only country roads that meandered through pastures and thickets connecting here and the big town, and they also probably wanted higher wages than the mill owners wanted to pay. The carpet makers decided to import experienced textile workers from the South to weave their rugs for them.

Their descendants still live there today. About half the population shares three surnames. You can’t drive through the place without seeing a couple Confederate flags flying. Guns, drinking, and driving fast cars and motorcycles are still admired skills locally. The residents refer to themselves as “millbillies” proudly, although other locals use the term derisively. It’s just like Deliverance sometimes, except you can get here on the bus. But like the Indians, they are in danger of vanishing.

There was a lot of open land here when I was a kid. It’s mostly gone now, given over to Philly’s remorseless suburban expansion. None of the people that bought the new homes are millbillies. They are standard suburban Philadelphians. They think they live in a place called Aston, which is the actual municipality in which most of Lenni is located. Aston is a very ordinary place, with very ordinary rules and regulations, which Lenni obeys only fitfully, if at all. For example, Aston forbids its residents from shooting guns out of their bedroom windows. This is also frowned upon in Lenni, except on New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July, when it is regarded as a happy supplement to the fireworks smuggled up from North Carolina for the occasion.

Drinking and driving is punishable in Aston, whereas in Lenni it is regarded as inevitable. A person who is drinking at one of Lenni’s two taverns or, on Sunday, the VFW hall, and wishes to drive home or to one of the other locations to drink some more is free to do so no matter how inebriated he or she is, provided that person stays within the accepted borders of Lenni. Even the Aston cops, on which Lenni relies for its law enforcement needs, seem oddly to respect this principle. If you bring unavoidable police attention to your unfit driving state by crashing into a tree or creek and get busted anyway, as long as it is a Lenni tree or creek, you will at least have the sympathy of your neighbors.

If that driver foolishly decides to dart into Aston for a bag of cheese doodles at the Wawa after pounding shots and beers all evening, he or she is on their own as far as being forced to do the Breathalyzer Two-Step, and no slack will be cut him or her in the court of public opinion.

Open fires are allowed in Aston only every other Saturday. In Lenni you build can build a bonfire big enough to be visible from space any time you want. Aston forbids its residents from keeping chickens. Lenni’s sneakier citizens keep them anyway. Aston has strict recycling laws. Lenni-ites regard themselves as environmentally conscious if they refrain from throwing their empties in the creek.

Lenni has its peculiar cultural values. Lenni’s women go barefoot in the summer. Men can do the same, or wear any kind of footgear except flip-flops. If you wear flip-flops you’re a fag.  This reflexive, unthinking homophobia is the standard form of insult in Lenni. If you’re not from there, you’re a fag. If you’re a fan of the Giants or the Redskins instead of the Eagles, you’re a fag. If you’re drinking at O’Flaherty’s, were Astonians drink and Lenni-ites most assuredly do not, even though it’s only about a half-mile away from Lenni’s favorite watering hole, you are drinking at O’Faggerty’s.

All this happens cheek by jowl. Whether you are an Astonian or a Lenni-ite depends on the house you live in (built before 1965, Lenni, after, Aston) and your attitude, although all that is adjustable. My ancestral home is old (Lenni) while the house next door is part of a sub-development built in the seventies (Aston). The guy next door, however, leaves a couple extra cars to rust in his yard, which makes him Lenni. And if some yuppie buys one of the old brick duplexes down by the creek and starts gentrifying it, he's never going to be Lenni. He will remain always a fag.  But they all live peacefully together, in spite of profound mutual contempt, as neighbors all over the world often do.

Whether I’m Lenni or not is open to debate. Having lived in Hawaii, I wear flip-flops, because in Hawaii they are the state shoe, and I've spent more of my adult life in California, which is regarded around these parts as a fag state, than anywhere else, and I drink anywhere I feel like when I’m back there.  

But I’m from there. Make no mistake about that.

There’s been a change in the gut-factor in American politics over the last few years. Since as long ago as the sixties, conservatives have always advocated meatier solutions to pressing problems. They have always held the edge in perceived bravery and manliness. Even as liberals mocked them for being macho and simplistic, they knew in their faint lefty hearts that anytime a Republican opened a can of whup-ass on them, they were going to get a beatdown.

Liberals had “Kumbaya.” Conservatives had “The Ballad of the Green Beret.” Liberals had Earth Day. Conservatives had Agent Orange. Conservatives had Reagan. Liberals had Michael Dukakis. Conservatives had the War on Drugs. Liberals used drugs.

But all this has changed.  You can blame Obama for it, and you probably will, but now the cajones of America definitely hang to the left in the national tighty-whities. Democrats are the studs and Gop-ers are the wuss-cakes. Don’t try to deny it—the party that gave us Shock and Awe now wants us to attend fetus funerals.

Just consider the boldness of the Dems on the pressing issues of the day:

We walk around unarmed. We are not afraid to go about our daily business even though we’re not strapping. We laugh off the possibility that we will encounter a hail of hostile gunfire while we are hitting the bank, the mall and the Pancake House, while cowering conservatives won’t go out to their tool sheds without a Glock and a couple spare clips in their pocket.

We do this mindful of the fact that people who own heat are far more likely to shoot themselves or a family member than to get a chance to bullet a terrorist. So we have to admit that conservatives are not afraid to shoot themselves to advance the cause of public safety. So maybe a bit of a wash there.

But for sure we are not afraid God will send us to hell for baking gay wedding cakes. This is theoretical for me, since I don’t bake cakes. If I did bake you a cake, you might well be excused for being afraid to eat it. But it has nothing to do with gay. Or God.

We don’t lie awake at night worrying about illegal immigrants picking their way through our lawn sprinklers to rape us unless we build a wall between us and Mexico. We’re good with Mexico.

We’re not afraid of Iran, either.

We don’t whine about being persecuted for our religion because we don’t get to put up big religious murals and monuments in the courthouse, and then have to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples anyway. And we don’t think that Christians are persecuting us, even when the constant bonging of their church bells keeps us from sleeping off our hangovers on Sunday.

We aren't afraid of transgender rapists in ladies' rooms. We're not afraid of closet monsters, either. Not being afraid of things that don't exist is easy, and we recommend you guys try it sometime. Think of it as a baby step towards recovering your missing huevos.

We kidnap bison because they look cold. Can you fit a baby bison into a Prius, you right-wing pansies?

This, it turns out, was not a good idea. I didn’t say we were all smart. In fact, a recent survey regarding the bombing of Agrobah had some bad news for the left side. In the original study, Republicans were asked if we should bomb Agrobah, which happens to be a Disney cartoon city. Forty-one percent of the respondents answered with a clear-cut “Yes!”

In a follow-up, Democrats were asked if we should let in refugees from Agrobah, and forty-four percent of them said “You bet!”

It is a comfort that a majority on both sides of the political spectrum either knew that Agrobah was the Disney place where Aladdin got crunk with his homies, or had the sense to ask “Where the hell is Agrobah?” before answering the question.

To my critics who rush to point out that the survey at least proves that liberals are 3% dumber than conservatives, I say “Within the range of statistical error, obviously.”

So we may not be any smarter. But nowadays we’re braver.

I glanced into our tiny condo yard the other day. My girl often sits there in the evenings, reading, at our patio table. Sometime she is afflicted by insects, which she hates. She hates them when they are utterly harmless, even flapping moths and buzzing beetles, bugs which carry neither Zika nor Nile nor Lyme.

Of course, she hates bugs when they are in the house as well. A single insect trapped between our four walls triggers roughly the same reaction in her as a Stuka preparing to dive-bomb the recliner would, a wail of fear and pain, and a desperate seeking of cover simultaneous with a demand that I squash the invader.

I am happy to do this when possible even though I have a much more phlegmatic attitude towards interior insects, having been raised in the bug-infested East and used to cohabiting with a certain amount of insect life. In particular, spiders. My mother regards spiders as individual pest control agents of the highest order.

“Don’t kill spiders,” she often commanded me in my youth. “They eat other bugs.”

“Not nearly enough of them,” I would reply, as I contemplated the usual throng of moths, stink bugs and ants swarming her living room on a typical summer night.

I try to tell the girl that spiders eat other bugs when one puts in appearance here. “I know that,” she says. Then, after a pause, she says “Does that mean you’re too big of a pussy to kill it?”

Nothing like attacking a guy’s masculinity to get him to do something he doesn’t particularly feel like doing, as the first woman who spotted the first gigantic cave spider crawling towards her favorite hunk of Raquel Welch-like crotch fur discovered, so the spider, despite its admirable appetite for insect flesh, dies.

Flying invaders need to be dispatched, too. I can get only so far with my natural insect-killing instruments, my bare hands, as many insects fly too high for me to reach them or too fast for me to clap them, mid-air, out of existence.

That’s why we acquired the hand-held Electric Bug Zapper. It resembled a tennis racket, but it was battery-powered, and supposed to kill bugs electronically when you swung it at them. I never had any faith in this instrument. I swung it many times at inside bugs, and I never saw the satisfying flash of insect electrocution when I did so. There was nothing like the blue flare that dazzles in the night when you are watching a real bug zapper, the land-based kind, do its work, a spark that briefly illuminates the porch and causes the observer to say, ”Ooooh, that was a big one. Fetch me another beer out of the cooler, wouldya?”

The best I was able to do with the hand-held zapper was knock a bug to the floor, then step on it to end its existence. Hardly high tech.  When you licked the zapper, though, in an exasperated effort to determine whether there was any juice flowing through its grid at all, it hurt. So if you didn’t have any 9-volt batteries around, and you were in the mood for a little tongue pain, you could use it for that.

So when my girl took the zapper outside to deal with the swarms there, I did not complain. I often noticed her using it at her insect enemies, turning, twisting and whacking at the night, like Marina Sharapova trying to deal with a continuous series of wicked serves from both Williams sisters and Roger Federer combined.

But now its career is over. I noticed it sitting in the condition pictured above a few days ago. “Done with that?” I asked, as inoffensively as possible.

“I broke it on a bug,” she said instantly. I tried to suppress any look of disbelief, but one must have leaked down my optic nerve anyway. “It was a moth at least as big as an owl,” she added. “It came flying right at me.”

I glanced at the ground. “It just turned around and flew away after I hit it,” she added. “it’s still out there.”

I looked at the evidence and concluded that the zapper had met its end when she had accidentally smashed it against the umbrella pole, visible in the picture as well, while contorting herself like a martial arts defender, and I mean a martial arts defender with chronic epilepsy, facing off against her enemy.

“I better get you another one, then,” I said.

“Good idea,” she replied briskly, and went back to her book.
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There was no sense arguing, so I kept my mouth shut. Keeps bugs from flying in there, anyway.

Noted theoretical physicist Michio Kaku has said he has found definitive proof that God exists.

Mr. Kaku, whose face you may recognize because he appears on one of those science shows on which people with advanced degrees babble on with great enthusiasm about stuff you can barely begin to understand, says the proof of God’s existence lies in the study of “primitive semi-radius tachyons.”

We are going to take his word for that here. The important thing for most religious people, now that God has been discovered to definitely exist, is what religion does he belong to? People have been squabbling and stabbing each other over what God wants them to do since the dawn of the religious era, but now that a scientific determination can be made, there’s no reason not to point the Hubble in the direction of Heaven, and have the Large Hadron Collider pump out as many God particles as possible in the interest of finding out.

There’s a lot of people with skin in this game. Take the Catholics, a personal favorite of this column because we used to be one. Will Papal researchers be able to ascertain that holy water contains, besides small quantities of feces, a bunch of primitive semi-radius tachyons doing a little synchronized swimming in the fount? If so, does this mean that everything Sister told you about sin was true? If so, better make a big list and trip on down to the confessional.

But there’s no scientific reason to think science will find the One True Church to be aptly named, not with so many other contenders out there. Perhaps the tachyons will tap the Mormons on the shoulder, meaning Kaku and his cohorts will discover that God sent an angel to a known con man in upstate New York in the 1840’s and told him it was His will that he be able to marry as many fifteen-year-old girls as he wanted. It doesn’t seem likely, but if that’s what the science says, the next time a couple of twenty-somethings wearing black suits and neckties knock on our door and ask us if we’ve ever heard of Joseph Smith, we’re not letting our Chihuahua bite their pants legs anymore while we laugh and, afterwards, give him treats.

Or maybe God decided 1300 years ago to dictate an extremely boring book to a guy named Mohammed, and then told him to make other people read it, which he discovered they would only do if they had swords pointed at them. This means that both scantily-clad supermodels and pulled pork sandwiches have been taken off the menu of life, and that Heaven is mostly populated by martyrs and virgins. No martyrs or virgins live here, so we’re hoping science doesn’t come down on the side of Islam.

The discovery that Judaism is the faith that the tachyons favor would only benefit 50% of us at this address, so feelings are mixed here concerning this possible development.

What about the Hindus, you say? Well, what about them? Could it be that God has an elephant head? The answer is sure, if He wants to. So don’t count them out, and maybe you ought to quit swearing at the guy who answers the phone at tech support, just to be on the safe side.

Of course, nothing Kaku says disqualifies the Video Game Theory of Existence, explained here, in which God is a hormonal teenage boy angrily cursing the cosmos because he can’t finish the level he’s on because His mom is really on His hiney about doing his homework before dinner.

Nobody wants to see that. All in all it would be safer for everybody if God turned out to belong to some bland Protestant religion that nobody really objects to or really believes in, like Presbyterianism.

Pray for it. 

One of the great things about the Internet is that buried in its trillion or so pages are instances of bullshittery so audacious that they are nearly worthy of admiration. Or conversely, kindling worthy of being mashed by satire, set on fire by sarcasm and stomped into the fine ash of ridicule. I’m better at that than I am at admiration, so that’s what we’re going to do here.

I refer to “15 Ancient Hindu Predictions That Have Come True,” a post on the web site detechtor.com, another mash-up on the Web that is composed entirely of clickbait, and is one of those posts that try to convince the average mouse potato that people who lived 5,000 years ago and had to find time to get clairvoyant between being snacked on by tigers (or jaguars, if we’re talking Mayans, or crocodiles if we’re speaking of Egyptians), eerily predicted the exact sad, Doomsday-looking circumstances that we find our civilization in today.

First off, we are told we are living in the Age of Kali Yuga. Kali is the Hindu god of death, sexuality, violence and motherly love (Like all beings with extra arms, Kali is good at multi-tasking). The first thing we ought to notice about ourselves, according to these ancient snobs, is that “Religion, truthfulness, cleanliness, tolerance, mercy, duration of life, physical strength, and memory will all diminish day by day because of the powerful influence of the age of Kali.”

To that this column says “Mega-churches, Google, antibacterial soap, political correctness, food stamps, 117-year-old Japanese women, steroids and Adderall. These things are all going strong over here in Kali Yuga, so stay dead if you want to avoid being wrong.”

Just kidding. You can be wrong and dead at the same time, as many people over the course of history have proven.

Another prediction for Kali Yuga is: “Harassed by famine...people will resort to eating leaves, roots, flesh, wild honey, fruits, flowers, and seeds. Struck by drought, they will become completely ruined.”

We don’t have famines worth a damn anymore. I haven’t seen a picture of a tribal child with its belly distended by starvation in years. Famine is so last century we had to invent anorexia to replace it. Yeah, we do eat all that stuff listed above, but not because we have to—we eat it because it’s gluten-free. Drought struck, but the only thing it completely ruined were the owners of ski resorts.

“The maximum duration of life for human beings in Kali Yuga will become 50 years.” Yeah, right. Never has society been plagued by more old farts than it is now, me included. I should have been dead by that standard a while back and sadly, most of the women who still find me sexually attractive should be, too. Between the AARP and Centrum Silver and a horde of medical professionals sworn to keep us alive as long as our health insurance will pay for it, a future of spending years being hooked to tubes while our organs slowly dissolve into pink slime is assured for most Americans.

“Uncultured men will accept charity on behalf of the Lord and will earn their livelihood by making a show of austerity and wearing a mendicant’s dress.” All right, when you throw a bunch of predictions on the wall, some of them are bound to stick. For sure all those guys you avoid eye contact with at major intersections aren’t veterans. One for the ancient Hindus.

You can bad-mouth the future accurately by saying stuff like “Men and women will live together merely because of superficial attraction, and success in business will depend on deceit. Womanliness and manliness will be judged according to one’s expertise in sex.” Or “A person’s propriety will be seriously questioned if he does not earn a good living.” You are certainly going to be correct about all those things, but I wouldn’t get all smug about it, dead prophet guys, if I was you.
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Because I bet it was exactly the same back then.

Came across an article on the Internet a while back in which fashionable writer Simon Doonan identified the Five Tribes of current male fashion, which he identified as the Perverse Prepster, the Arty Ninja, the Dedicated Follower of Satin, the Statham, and the subject of this piece, the Schlub. Schlubs, according to Noonan, are “a significant and growing number of today’s men (who) remain willfully indifferent to the siren call of la mode."

Not to put too fine a point on it, Simon, but “significant and growing” are the wrong adjectives here. Try “the vast majority of males since the dawn of prehistory” and you’ll come quite a bit closer to the actual number of men indifferent to the call of fashion.

Guys think they look good the way they are, and always have. From the first Neanderthal who thought to wipe his mouth on his furs instead of his forearm, through loin-clothed Egyptians building pyramids, to knights squeezing into armor, to modern, cutting-edge slobs in sweats and holey t-shirts, men have always looked at their image in the surface of the pond, or a mirror after it was invented, and thought to themselves “You’re rockin’ it, bro.”

I am not going to argue with Doonan about actual fashion here, since I am certain that he is right about everything fashionable, along with knowing everything and being right about furniture, clubbing, dining and gossip as well. I am also certain that he, in the annoying way of gay men, is utterly indifferent to subjects straight guys might be better versed on--fixing things, killing animals for food and disarming nuclear warheads. Especially disarming nuclear warheads while a glowing clock that is easily visible to the movie audience ticks down to zero—FYI, It’s always cutting the red wire. I pass this along just in case someone plants a nuclear warhead someplace where there are no straight men to be found, like the set of Project Runway.

But we schlubs can easily be divided in sub-tribes as well. We’re not just a bunch of guys who refuse to wear skinny jeans because they defeat the purpose of real jeans—giving your cajones a comfortable place to hang out. All our clothes are not interchangeable. Here are the Five Tribes of Schlubs, along with my reasons for not belonging to four of them, and also an estimate of whether or not they ever get sex.

GUYS WHO WEAR SPORTS JERSEYS AND TEAM BASEBALL CAPS AT ALL TIMES

These guys are generally found in sports bars, and their main activity is arguing about which multi-millionaire All Star with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model for a girlfriend is the biggest loser. I don’t fit in here, because I realize that no matter how many times I wear a Justin Verlander jersey out in public, Kate Upton is not going to screw me by mistake.

​How often do these guys get laid? More often than they deserve.

GUYS WHO WEAR CAMOUFLAGE WHEN THEY ARE NOT HUNTING

The purpose of this style is to let other people know that these guys own at least twelve firearms and a composite hunting bow, along with ten years’ supply of bullets, arrows and drinking water. Also, camouflage guys always wish they were in a freezing hunting blind, sipping whiskey and waiting for the sun to come up. We wish they were there, too.

When do these guys get laid? When they quit trying to make their women eat venison.

GUYS WHO WEAR JEAN SHORTS CUT OFF SO HIGH THEIR POCKETS HANG OUT OF THEM, LEAVING THEIR CAR KEYS AND SPARE BULLETS CLEARLY VISIBLE AS LUMPS AGAINST THEIR HAIRY, SPOTTED LEGS

These men are disgusting. You don’t need any gay sensibility whatsoever to notice that. Just back off slowly if you see any. Leave them to their entertainment, which is usually polishing off an eighteen pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and watching a bug zapper.

How often do these guys get laid? Surprisingly often. By their female relatives.

GUYS WHO WEAR THE SAME CLOTHES EVERY DAY

There’s a reason for this. It could be the wearer has been awake and playing World of Warcraft since he graduated high school. Or he’s just too stoned to remember the laundromat where he left the rest of his clothes. In either case he doesn’t smell good. The clothes reek of dried sweat and the breath smells of Hot Pockets. A subcategory of this group are the guys who wear pants in the same waist size as they wore when they were 18, even though they’re sixty pounds heavier now.

How often? Never.

GUYS WHO KNOW NOTHING ABOUT FASHION BUT TRY TO AVOID WEARING UGLY STUFF ANYWAY

This is my group. Sure, we can't remember the difference between a cravat and a cummerbund and yeah, we wear bland shit all the time. Our uniform in the summer is shorts and a t-shirt, but it’s not running shorts (unless we’re running) and a T-shirt that says “Tijuana Pussy Posse.” Even though Casual Friday comes but once a week, we own a closet full of polo shirts in boring solids to wear on it. We don’t wear hats with more than one thing printed on them. We don’t wear plaids and stripes together. We don’t buy clothes at either Walmart or Spencer’s Gifts. We blend in.
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How often do we get laid? Whenever our wives and girlfriends have been drinking. Just as God intended.

The following internal communication was leaked from the Trump campaign to this reporter. It is reprinted here, unedited, in its entirety.

Memo to The Boss:

THE NEXT STEPS

We need to make the rallies even more off the hook. From now on, after the applause lines, start grabbing your crotch like Michael Jackson. You can moonwalk, too, but only if the Secret Service will moonwalk with you, for security reasons.

“Crooked Hillary” is wearing thin. Emphasize that her husband cheated on her, and rhetorically ask “Why?” Then you start calling her “Bad Lay Hillary.”

You know Steven Hawking dissed you the other day, right? Time to start mocking that gimp. Hold your hand up under your chin and pretend it’s trembling while you talk in a funny machine voice and call him out for being “disgusting.” “Diseased” and “dying” work, too. This will solidify our support among voters who would cover their children’s eyes from any mathematical genius in a wheelchair, a key constituency for us.

We picked up Putin’s endorsement, so he gets that weekend with Melania he’s been begging for.  Kim Jong Un is on board, too, but he’s easy—he’ll work for food. We open that make-your-own nachos buffet in Pyongyang.

We got Paul Ryan’s support, finally, so we have to re-open Trump University and make him the President of it if he loses the Speakership of the House.

You always brag that you could buy and sell Mitt Romney. Well, just do it. Buy out Mitt Romney. Make him change his name to Mitt Trump. Sell all Ann’s horses and replace them with goats. Sell all his houses and replace them with Trump Miniature Golf Courses. Make his nine or so kids start waiting tables at Mar-a-Lago.

It’s not enough just to crap on Hispanic people. Go after Mexican beer, too. Bankrupt Dos Equis by suing them for claiming some second-rate actor was The Most Interesting Man in the World, when it was you all along.

Vice-Presidential Short List: Male—Hulk Hogan, Dog the Bounty Hunter, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Female—Marco Rubio, Chris Christie, Ben Carson. Just kidding, Boss—I know they’re guys too. At least they used to be, before you sliced off their "huevos" in the primaries.

Don’t worry about that abortion clinic on Long Island you used to have on retainer in the 70’s and 80’s—it was burned to the ground by “religious zealots,” okay? And the former director died of old age when he was sleeping around. With the fishes, if you know what I mean.

An answer for America’s opioid addiction epidemic, which nobody cared about when America’s opioid addicts were 90% black people. Let's make it that way again by sending all your junkie supporters  to max out their credit cards at Trump Rehab! 

You just threatened to dismember the PGA for moving a golf tournament to Mexico. It’s time to put the other major sports on notice, too. Baseball—anybody with a Latin surname only gets two strikes. That ought to thin out their ranks. Basketball and hockey are okay the way they are, and so is football, mostly, but no Super Bowl halftime shows by Mexicans, or Mexican-like people. Jennifer Lopez, Christina Aguilera and Shakira can all watch it at home like everybody else in the barrio.

Or, you could start talking about problems that aren’t imaginary or come up with a serious plan for anything. Ha! Just checking if you were still reading this, Mr. Trump, sir.

Ok, I know, I’m fired.

Paul Manafort, campaign chairman for The Donald The Republican Nominee, revealed how he planned to win the Presidency for his boss a few days ago. FOX News Latino reported the chairman’s views as follows:

“Manafort called the national polls “distorted” because they rely “too much” on Hispanics from New York and California where, he said, “most of the radical Hispanics are.”

In the true swing states, Manafort claims, are big numbers of non-radical Hispanics, by which Manafort means “Hispanics who don’t mind being called criminals and threatened with deportation.”

Manafort’s optimism that Trumpism with survive the general election gives us all pause, but his identification of Radical Hispanicism has to make us wonder--is that a thing?

In a word, yes. The existence of Radical Hispanicism, and the fact that we Californians live in a hotbed of it, has long been suspected here in the south end of the Golden State. Radical Hispanics cleverly occupied the state before Anglos did, and littered the place with Spanish place names, names that freshly arrived gringos can comically mispronounce when they try. El Cajon. La Jolla. Jamacha. Just try and say them phonetically, and listen to Hispanics laugh, in their snickering Latin way. “Ha ha,” they mock us, or in Spanish, “Ha ha.”

They make us eat their food. There’s a taco shop in every strip mall here, so we can fill ourselves with Radical Hispanic chow. The aromas of warm, soft tortillas and spicy meat overlaid with the addictive smell of chopped onion and jalapeno waft along our southern breezes, meaning we victims of Radical Hispanicism ignore natural American food like canned string beans and shepherd’s pie in favor of digging into chile rellenos and camarones a la diabla. Which plays right into their clever brown hands.

They keep our lawns and gardens neat and tidy. Radical Hispanics know that they are weakening the moral fiber of white Americans by making sure we never get to mulch, mow or trim our own properties. They deny us the opportunity for personal growth afforded by sweating through the underbrush where our dogs poop and an occasional rattlesnake lurks. The whine of the power blower in his hands is the Radical Hispanic’s trumpet blare of revolution.

They clean our homes, too. Woe to us if they cease—most of us can’t even remember which end of a bottle of Tilex to point at bathroom scum anymore.

If you call someone to fix your refrigerator or your air conditioner, it’s a cinch a Radical Hispanic will show up and solve your problem for a reasonable price, which takes away your inclination to build some character by trying to fix it personally, even though that usually consists of watching a YouTube video in which an expert demonstrates how and then electrocuting yourself anyway.

As I write these words I am filled with a sense of self-loathing, because I know I personally have fallen for the Radical Hispanic agenda hook, line and sinker, for I am planning to vacation in Mexico in just two short weeks. I’ve opted once again for the lure of Baja sun, of traipsing through a peaceful land where the people are friendly, the fishing is good, the beer is cold, the beach hotels are cheap and you have to work really hard to find a bad restaurant.

No, no more. Actually, I was going to write “no mas,” which shows what a grip Radical Hispanicism already has on my mind, weakened by the countless plates of carne asada I’ve consumed and the mariachi bands I’ve listened to. I’m going to cancel those plans so I can spend $120 bucks a night at an Econolodge and eat breakfast for a week at a Denny’s in a state of the United States as far away from Radical Hispanicism as possible, Idaho maybe, or North Dakota, where I can breathe the bracing air of freedom instead of having my nose clogged with the scent of fresh cilantro.

I’m making my reservations now. Just as soon as I finish these fish tacos.