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."

A family dinner in Heaven. JESUS is eating with His parents, GOD and MOTHER MARY. GOD is nagging him about going back to Earth to judge the living and the dead, which JESUS has been putting off for a few thousand years.

GOD: How about You quit playing with Your cell phone while We’re trying to eat?

JESUS: Just Googling a few things.

GOD: How about you ask Me instead? Haven’t I told You, I know everything?

JESUS: Yes, You have, Dad. More times than I can count.

MOTHER MARY: Can’t we just eat in peace for once? I spent all afternoon on this meat loaf.

JESUS: You know I don’t like meat loaf. I told you that, when We had it the last time, right after Lincoln was assassinated. Ran into Abe the other day, by the way. Told Me he doesn’t like meat loaf, either. It’s right down there with slavery, in his opinion.

GOD: Leave Your Mother alone. Planning meals for all eternity is rough. Speaking of eternity, when are You going to get around to Your Final Judgement?

JESUS: Not this weekend, for sure. Going to Alpha Centauri with My main squeeze.

GOD: You go there almost every weekend.

MOTHER MARY: With that same little tramp, I might add.

JESUS: (heatedly) You lay off her, okay?

GOD: Your mother is right. We don’t mind the way she dresses. I mean, she used to be a prostitute, so We get it. It’s just that after two thousand years, We think maybe You could find Yourself someone who doesn’t add the phrase “and shit,” at the end of every sentence.

MOTHER MARY: What about that nice Joan girl?

JESUS: Of Arc? Don’t be ridiculous. She still smells like smoke.

GOD: If You’d get down to business, there would be plenty of girls to choose from. 31/2 billion of them, and that’s just the ones that are still alive. You could have Kate Upton.

MOTHER MARY: (sarcastically) Oh, Kate Upton’s going to Heaven? When did You make that decision? Are we going to start having wet t-shirt contests next?

GOD: It was just a for example. So, appearing in glory to judge the living and the dead? Can You put that on Your calendar? How’s Monday sound?

JESUS: Not Monday. I’m not just jumping into this. I need to collect myself.

GOD: You’ve been collecting yourself for millenniums!

JESUS: It’s not like I had the greatest experience there. Me Christ! You try getting crucified. It frigging hurts, man! And lying in some dark, itchy tomb for three days. And coming back from the dead is no picnic. It’s, like, a hundred times more painful than waking up with the worst Jägermeister hangover ever!

MOTHER MARY: I told You it was too much. You could have just let Him stub his toe a few times to redeem all of mankind. But no, it’s all about the show with You.

GOD: (sternly) Don’t play into His crybaby antics. If He's so afraid of pain, why did He get that stupid tattoo? Besides, He goes back there all the time. He appears to Tim Tebow on a regular basis.

JESUS: Hey, I just like fucking with that guy.

GOD: How about when You materialized to Oral Roberts?

JESUS: Seemed a shame to wear that 900-foot tall costume just on Halloween.

GOD: What I’m saying is, quit playing the PTSD card with me! I know when You’re just sandbagging, Mister!

JESUS: (sarcastically) Yeah. Because You know everything, right?

MOTHER MARY: Show some respect for Your Father!

GOD: I give up! I’m going to shitcan the whole thing! Sell the blood for the moon and cancel the lakes of fire! The whole human race can just go on festering forever!

JESUS: Sounds like a plan to Me. (His fingers dart across the surface of His cell phone) I just texted Satan that the whole thing’s off.

GOD: (Yelling) YOU DID WHAT?

JESUS: Just messing with you, Dad. Hey, I got to dig out. Me and MM are heading over to the opening of Gilda Radnor’s new restaurant and…

MOTHER MARY: And what?

JESUS: And shit. (Exits)

MOTHER MARY: No wonder he didn’t want his meat loaf. What are we going to do with that boy?

GOD: I don’t know.

MOTHER MARY: I thought You knew…

GOD: Shut up and pass me His meatloaf.

If the average American hadn’t suspected it before, Trump’s tweet that he does not, in fact, have any secret recordings of his meeting with former FBI big cheese James Comey, tapes that would reveal the truth about what Comey says, that the Big Tangerine leaned on him to stop investigating whether the National Security Advisor was a Russian spy, should make us all finally realize that we are in the midst of the first attempt to rule our country by complete bullshit.

From the size of the inaugural crowds to the secret plan to defeat Isis to the claim that millions of illegal voters that denied him a popular vote victory, the Prevaricator-In-Chief cannot open his mouth without spouting self-serving bullshit. He is utterly stuffed with the substance, a fetid core of crap, enclosed by a thin layer of human skin, kind of like a bullshit Terminator.

All Presidents lie. It’s in the nature of the job. Daddy Bush said he wouldn’t raise taxes, Bubba Clinton said he didn’t have sex with that woman, Dubya told us invading Iraq would cure terrorism and Obama said we could keep our health plans. The President knows that sometimes it is his job not to tell us stuff we don’t won’t to hear, or, less admirably, stuff that won’t help him get re-elected. But all previous Presidents have at least told the truth some of the time. Well, maybe not Dubya, but at least he thought he was telling us the truth, when, really, he was just repeating what Darth Cheney was telling him.

But we are now being presided over not by a navel orange filled with juicy segments, but a citrus object stuffed with pieces of meadow muffin. He is the loudmouth at the country club who never gets tired of bragging that he has the most money, gets the most sex and has the best house of all the members. Everybody who listens to him figures he’s miles in debt, gets laid only by hookers because his wife saves herself for the club tennis pro, and that his home is an architectural nightmare filled with tasteless crap. But nobody calls him on his bullshit.

This does not bode well. History does not speak kindly of leaders who ruled by bullshit. Whether they wrote the bullshit themselves (Hitler and Mao) or followed somebody else’s bullshit (Lenin and Stalin), it always ended in murder, as they frantically tried to kill everybody who didn’t believe their bullshit. History actually treats guys like Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan more generously, guys who had no ideology other than thinking to themselves, “Hey, I know a lot of dudes with swords. I can conquer the world.”

Will we find ourselves in the same boat as other nations that have foundered upon the shoals of bullshit?  I don’t know. Trump’s bullshit is pretty disorganized. Nobody’s going to climb into a foxhole to save the chocolate cake at Mar al Lago, or toss a grenade at Nordstrom’s because they quit carrying Ivanka’s underwear line. And, thanks to the Internet, building FEMA concentration camps for everybody who’s ever seen a nude pic of the First Lady would be an engineering undertaking that would dwarf building that bullshit wall.

So, we might escape, except for all the people that might die because they don’t have healthcare anymore. The rest of us will just stay here, and silently think what the people who have to listen to that drunk braggart at the country club bar are silently thinking, which is, When the fuck are you going to shut up and go home?
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Because any time now would be good.

​Spending the week at the beach in beautiful Avon, NC. It’s a great spot, although somewhat remote. And it is, surprisingly, the true strikepoint of Russia’s multifaceted incursion to control  the Mango Mussolini’s US ofA.

Sure I know what you’re thinking, between the  Attorney general, first nephew “Kush’s” bro meetings in Moscow, and ‘Holmes” Comey getting fired, combined with widespread hacking into the election process, there are so many fronts to tweet on the menace that is Russia that poor 45 can barely get a round in. NOTE TO RUSSIA–outsource your hacking to India like everyone else does. They’re simply better at it.

But in fact the most insidious incursion is here in this sleepy little beach burgh. I have been coming here for 20 plus years and over the past few there has been a disturbing change. Instead of every service employee at each restaurant, kite surfing lesson, bike rental, etc., being a local, year-round, unmistakably American redneck, they are now Russian.

That’s right, the Russians have taken over the food chain, especially at the Food Lion grocery. It is packed with tall, blond, strikingly beautiful Svetlanas (not exaggerating--read two Svetlana name tags yesterday). Since Agent Orange has a penchant for scooping up eastern European beauties, I fear this has gone unnoticed, perhaps even encouraged, by Papaya Pinochet.

The Russians seem incredibly hard working and REALLY improve beach viewing for sunburned tourists from PA, NJ, and OH (full disclosure--I used to be a PA tourist myself, but have lived in NC for a dozen years now so I can mock their mini-vanned fat selves with impunity).

I haven’t seen any propaganda as yet but you know it’s coming. By the time Putin can do 150 pushups without pause, his influence will have spider-webbed  throughout the East Coast.

Saw some of Comey’s testimony and he is clearly gunning for the presidential gig next time round. Maybe he can save my vacation spot.

Just please let Svetlana and her friends stay on the beach. 

We Americans are no longer the fattest people on the planet. True, one survey a few years back had Mexico overtaking us in the global chunk-o-meter, but it was neck-and-neck, and it depended on whether you held the weigh-in after Thanksgiving or after Mexico had won a World Cup Soccer game.

Now a new study is out, and both the US and Mexico are being left in the dust by…EGYPT!

Yes, the land of the Pharaohs now boasts of the biggest bellies and the jiggliest thighs on the planet. When you stop building pyramids, you're bound to put on a little weight is what I figure.

True believers in American exceptionalism are aghast, and the more determined among them are already planning weekends that consist of watching My 600 Pound Life with while drinking a 30-pack of PBR and ordering stuffed-crust pizza for every meal, just to put American back in front.

But it may already be too late. Planetary lardassedness is spreading into every continent. Fat Frenchmen, round Russians, porky Poles and beefy Brazilians are straining the scales in both hemispheres. Knock-offs of American fat reality shows are already popular on the Continent (Mein 272.155 Kilo Leben) and foreign fat people are swallowing strudel and downing those huge, 15-pound mugs of beer with the stupid hinged lids on top as fast as they can just so they can get on TV.

Meanwhile, Australians are getting so large that their whole continent is in danger of slipping south towards Antarctica. You hardly ever used to see a fat Asian, but now they’re chunking out to emulate the fat Asian, Kim Jong-un, in hopes that their dads will leave them a desperately impoverished little nation that they can rule with an iron fist, too.

It’s not too late, America. We can still come out on top. For one thing, we still have the fattest kids on earth, and, like the late Whitney Houston, I believe the children are the future. Teach them well, and feed them hot fudge sundaes.

Until they grow into their adult weight, though, it’s up to us. We are the country that invented deep-fried butter and chocolate-covered bacon, after all. We pioneered the concept of the doughnut cheeseburger. American ingenuity has won a lot of these international competitions already. The space race, the arms race, America’s cup races (sure, not so many of them lately) all ended up in the win column for the USA.

It just requires national commitment and inspirational leadership. Let’s start with our national motto. Nobody remembers what e pluribus unum means, anyway, because we’re way to busy pouring syrup on our hotcakes to be studying Latin. Let’s replace it with a phrase everybody can get behind:

“Sure, I’ll have fries with that.”

That belongs on the money.

It’s taken for granted by the Breitbart set that the profound clusterfuckery of the Trump Administration is not caused by the Orange One’s tanning gel leaching through to his brain and torching his neurons, as the Left would have it, but by a vast, omnipotent adversary they call the Deep State.

I felt it was my duty as a journalist to investigate the Deep State, so I made an appointment to meet with a representative of the DS in an underground garage in Washington, DC. He was, as I suspected he would be, a faceless bureaucrat, to the extent that he had had his face removed surgically and was forced to wear an Ace bandage wrapped around where it had been. His mummy-like appearance gave the interview a certain Marvel Comics atmosphere, which I appreciated.

“All hail Comey!” I began, thinking the former FBI director to be a hero of the Deep State.

“Screw Comey,” Deep State replied. “The head of the FBI should know when he should be wearing a wire.”

“You think Comey should have bugged the President of the United States?”

“Make our job easier. It’s not all sitting around, watching the pee tapes and passing the popcorn, you know.”

“So, you admit you’re trying to mess with Trump?”

“He forces us into it, man! Just this week, Trump finally said he would abide by NATO’s self-defense pledge.”

“Well, at least he did say it.”

“Two weeks late! What if your wife told you she loved you and you waited two weeks to say it back? Believe me, we’ve been cut off from any NATO nookie for a while. It’ll take months of kissing smelly European ass to get back to where we were with the Continent. And it’s up to us to do it. Trump’s not going to be saying sorry to anybody.”

“Yeah, we’ve all kind of noticed that.”

“Who knows who he’s going to go after next? I mean besides Australia, the Pope and a couple billion Muslims? I mean, who’s left?

“Umm…South America?”

“That’s only because he thinks Mexico is in South America so he’s done there. We work day and night to keep him from finding out it’s not.”

“He just kicked Cuba in the teeth, too. People say it’s just to spite Obama.”

“Wrong. He hates Cuba because Fidel nationalized all the golf courses there. Trump has nothing against dictators, as you probably know. But don’t mess with golf.”

“So you spend every day wondering who Trump is going to brown off next?”

Deep State sighed. “Pretty much. There’s only one thing we know for sure.”

“What’s that?”
​
“It ain’t gonna be the Russians.”

This weekend saw anti-Sharia law protests erupt all over the country. Many of the participants carried guns, seeking to prove that armed people hate Muslims as much as armed Muslims hate people. A Georgia parade attracted much attention because a state senator posed for a picture with some of his constituents, who appeared to be automatic weapon-packing Third Reichers.

This, despite the fact that Georgia enforcing Sharia law is a pretty remote possibility. Even if it was enacted, many male Georgians would be reluctant to stone their close female relatives for being promiscuous, because then who would have sex with them?

To make it easy for my readers to see how distant the chance that Georgians will be forced to eat halal and wear hijabs, here is a thoughtful compilation of ten laws Georgia will be more likely to pass before Sharia:

Make college football illegal.

Replace all Confederate monuments with statues of Puff Diddy.

Confiscate everybody’s guns. Give them free birth control instead.

Make Philly cheesesteaks the state sandwich.

Invade Florida and annex Jacksonville.

Ban barbecue, unless you spell it “barbecue” instead of “bar-b-q.”

Pass a law requiring everybody to say "pardon me" after using the expression "y'all."

Close that goddam airport before EVERY PERSON IN THE WORLD has had a layover there.

Build a fortified wall along the Alabama border, which actually would probably be a pretty good idea.

Country music only allowed to be played on weekends

I was wondering if God approved of Trump backing America’s ass out of the Paris climate accords when lo, He appeared to me.

Some people are skeptical about the fact that God makes regular revelations to me, and ask pointed questions about it, like how He manifests Himself. The answer is sometimes in Person, sometimes by cell phone. His latest appearance was made on Skype.

My critics also ask if I can call Him anytime I want. Sure, but I don’t. His number always goes straight to voicemail, and if you think He’s going to act on my message or yours, try praying to win the lottery and see what doesn’t happen.

“My Lord,” I exclaimed, when His image appeared on my tablet after that weird Skype ringtone.

“I get that a lot,” He replied. “I’m kind of a big thing.”

“Have you come to proclaim your Word on planetary warming?”

“Not really. I’m a little undecided about it.”

“I didn’t realize You were capable of indecision, Lord.”

“Oh, hell yeah. Can’t make up My mind about lots of stuff. Runs in the family. Why do you think Jesus is taking so long to come back?

“I would think you’d be against us slow-cooking the globe.”

“Remember what I said. I did give you guys dominion over it. Which the dolphins bitch about EVERY SINGLE DAY, by the way.”

“What about low-lying island nations and swampy places where millions of people live, like Bangladesh? How are those people going to escape the rising oceans?”

“Meh. Did I ask anybody to row a couple thousand miles just to get away from their neighbors? And don’t bother Me about Bangladesh. Haven’t I wapped it with enough cyclones? Those people need to get a clue and move to higher ground. Like Filipinos need to stay off ferries, before I capsize another one.”

“I didn’t realize there were particular peoples you favored more than others, Oh Lord.”

“BLASPHEMY! I LOVE EVERYBODY, which, frankly, is one of the most harrowing things about this job. But some people appeal to Me more than others. Like coal miners. They pray a lot, believe Me. And they look so cute when they’re covered in coal dust. And they write great folk songs (Here the Almighty paused to hum a few bars of “Down Deep in the Mine”).

“So, You’re going to let us torch the planet to save a few coal-mining jobs? You’re on the same page as Trump!”

“Well, when you put it that way, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. But remember, whatever happens, it’s My will, even if I haven’t put much thought into it. That’s the way I roll.”

The Almighty seemed poised on the cusp of self-discovery, but just then the connection started to fuzz out.

“Me-damn Skype!” were the last of His Words.

How did there get to be almost 5,000 of you? That was a rhetorical question—I’ve got a novel being published by Black Rose Writing in October, and they want me to have as big a social media presence as possible, so I can use it to nag you into buying my book. It’s titled Pineapple Crush. Consider yourself nagged.

So, it’s my fault. I knew that.

Before I began the big push to 5,000, which is nearly done, I lingered at around a hundred FB friends for years, mostly people I knew IRL. Yeah, go ahead and Google that if you need to. I had to, the first time I ran across it. I found many of my friends I hadn’t been in touch with for decades, like everybody does. Mostly guy friends, because you girls like to change your surnames, some of you repeatedly.

Some of you guys I never found, either, because you have a name that a lot of other guys have. Are you out there, Dave Thompson and Bill Burke? I don’t know. A couple friends of friends climbed aboard my Facebook train, and I would acquire a new girlfriend occasionally and she would take her seat. They're still there, but I don’t hear much from my exes on FB. They may think I’m a major shitbird. I don’t really want to know that, though, so I’m grateful for their silence.

And I’ve made some new FB friends I consider thoughtful and amusing people, or amusingly deranged, even though I have never met them in real life. I re-post their memes and comment on their posts. The vast majority of you I barely know, however. This column is an effort to explain some of my surlier behaviors to you guys.

First off, if you are not in one of the above two factions and message me with something along the lines of “How are you today?” don’t expect an answer, because my reaction to that is, inevitably, Why the fuck do you care? When I pursue these conversations, I generally find out that you want me to go to your porn site, send money to Africa, or find love from the Philippines. This means that I generally ignore friend requests from attractive young women (especially when I look at our mutual friends and discover they are all male) and any woman with a Filipino name. Also, any guy with an African name. If you’re really starving, sell your smartphone for food. This means I may miss out on attractive girls, Filipino women and African guys who are witty and entertaining and should be on my list. I don’t know how to fix this.

I do not want to play Candy Crush Saga, Pirate Kings, or Sugar Smash. I do not want a free spin on anything. When you request me to help you in Farm Hero, you are requesting the wrong person. I am neither a farmer nor a hero, and have no active plans to become either.

If you message me that the government is giving away free money, you've earned a place on my ex-friends list. If I like and re-post something, it's because I liked it and wanted to re-post it, not because you asked me to. Don't even ask me to like something. I don't like it when you do that. 

I also don't participate in "Share If You Know What This Is" memes. I know how old I am. You don't have to.

But if you ask me to like your page, I usually do. I’m sorry I don’t have time to send you all birthday greetings. Consider this birthday regards to all of you whose birthdays I missed and will miss in the future.

A shout out here to my two biggest friend groups—anti-Trumpers and atheists. Many of you are both. I am sincerely anti-Trump. I’m more of an agnostic than an atheist. There could be a God, like maybe in the real universe in which this one is just a computer simulation. There could be, but then He’s not going to be of much help here, and, sure enough, He’s not. And I commit sins against atheism (which is a great concept for another column) like just saying “Thanks,” when someone offers the sneeze-blessing, and saying “God rest his soul,” to those in bereavement, because saying “He (or she) is decomposing in the ground, or possibly having his or her ashes nibbled on by fish in the ocean if you went that way with the remains,” is a bit wordy and not particularly comforting.  

But I love you guys, really.
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Pretty soon, though, when you ask to be my friend, you’re going to get that message that I’ve reached the friend limit, and possibly experience that as a slight. Get over it, because for sure I’m going to start another page.
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And you can be my friend there.