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 shocking act of vandalism occurred over the weekend in my own library. My personal religious icon, Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus, was pushed over on its side, possibly by an angry mob of social justice warriors.
 
Maybe this was a result of BLM activist Shaun King’s call to topple statues of “white Jesus” as symbols of racial oppression. I was cool with this, since, even though I am white, statues of Jesus had had been omnipresent during my childhood, when, despite my European-Americaness, I was regularly oppressed by ruler-wielding nuns belonging to the Order of St. Theresa the Not Even Remotely Attractive Sadist.
 
Or maybe it was a result of the Cantaloupe Dope’s threats against statue-topplers, in which he claimed that people, most notably Shaun King, were threatening to yank down statues of the Savior in which he was depicted with Caucasian features. Intimidated by Trump’s threat to imprison anyone who toppled a statue for thirty years or so, his enemies decided to start small by toppling DSCJ, because He is only about seven inches tall, base included.
 
Ironically, Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus cannot be 100% percent confirmed as white. Although His features are Caucasian, his skin color can be described as a light caramel. His knife, automatic weapon and combat boots are the same as an American soldier of any race, patrolling the parched corners of the Middle East, drawing a bead on Muslim children and keeping a wary eye out for IEDs, set to suppress any threat to American freedoms with a withering burst of small-arms fire, even while holding the Dove of Peace in His hand.
 
My head spun when I saw Him lying there. While we have a couple menorahs lying around the house and a mezuzah on our doorway because my Significant Other is Jewish, DSCJ is the only reminder of my Catholic boyhood that I keep in our home. The only other representation of the Christ that means anything to me is a huge statue of Him on a peak above the toll road to Ensenada, which I reverently refer to as Great Big Fucking Jesus (GBFJ).  A feeling of numinous joy always envelopes me at the sight of Great Big Fucking Jesus, because that means that I am halfway to that picturesque seaside town, brimming with cold, creamy cervezas, excellent restaurants, and abundant sportfishing opportunities.
 
How the angry mob got in my front door without waking me up remains a mystery, although it was a weekend night, and I am prone to spend those sampling craft brews. They even made it past my Chihuahua, Cujo, who ordinarily is whipped into a barking frenzy if the Amazon person so much as rustles a package on the doorstep. He’s getting old, though, and I might have slipped some CBD oil into his kibble for his arthritis.

Or maybe it was just an earthquake. It remains a divine mystery at this writing. I just propped Him upright again and went to make the coffee.

The Caucasian-in-Chief swung into action this week, swiftly defending the Confederate memorials all over the country, but in particular, the statue of Albert Pike, the only Confederate general memorialized in Washington, DC, whose statue had been pulled down by protesters over the weekend. Trump vowed it would be restored, and assigned US Marshals to protect all statues that those antifas and Biden voters might be targeting in the future.
 
The US Marshals are particularly important to me, because my last name is Cahill and there is an ancient John Wayne movie titled “Cahill—US Marshal,” so when I introduce myself to people circling the drain of dementia, they sometimes call me “US Marshall,” or “John Wayne.” I reply that that is a shitty joke that, had they reflected on it for even a nanosecond before they let it drool out of their mouths, might have realized I must have heard it already more times than I can count.
 
It is not really possible to do this very politely, but I work on it every chance I get.
 
Apart from that I don’t know much about the US Marshals, but I expect they think of themselves as steely-eyed, tough law enforcement professionals and are not wildly enthusiastic about safeguarding hunks of rebel marble from people armed only with placards and slogans, and are currently using the legally mandated portraits of Trump in their offices as dartboards, if they weren’t already.
 
In the meantime, the coronavirus cannonballed into the summer waters of Florida, Texas and Arizona like the fattest kid at the pool, laughing at all the people he soaked by its edge, then running off to get another Nutty Buddy. Trump’s response was to cancel federal funding for virus testing, on his oft-repeated theory that it’s testing, not the fact that you can’t cure disease on Twitter, that’s making him look bad.
 
I intend to use this reasoning myself, the next time the cops pull me over. I mean, first I’m going to say, “How can you smell my breath through this facemask?” but then, if they persist, I’ll say, “You know, if you guys wouldn’t do so many field sobriety tests, there wouldn’t be such a drunk-driving problem.”
 
In the meantime, in Albert Pike, Trump has picked a strange hill to die on. Pike was one of the Confederacy’s shittiest generals. He resigned in 1862, while the Confederacy still looked like it might win the war, rather than send his troops into battle, and ran away into the boonies of Arkansas rather than face charges of embezzlement.
 
What Pike was better at, and why his statue was in Washington, was being the Grand Hoopadoodle of the Order of the Masonic Lodge, or something like that, and he wrote a book about Masonry that all young Masonic recruits think is more important than lesbian porn. His statue depicted him geared up in Masonic duff, not in a Confederate uniform, which shows you, among other things, that those antifas do their research.
 
The Masons, as everybody knows, are in league with the Illuminati, who are trying to bring about the New World Order at the behest of George Soros. Soros was just a young man when the Civil War began, but was no doubt behind enticing the innocent Pike into joining his conspiracy.
 
So, I say don’t put that statue back up. I'm serious. It’s probably loaded with 5G.

Oh, yeah, we got an advance copy here. And Bolton has written a truly searing expose. Beside Trump praising China’s concentration camps and not knowing Great Britain was a nuclear power, Bolton slathers on even more astonishing insights into the Trumpian character. Here are our faves:


Bolton reveals that Trump was constantly pissed that Uruguay and Paraguay were two separate countries.
 
Wanted to have a trade war with the Bahamas because he blamed the casinos there for putting his Atlantic City casinos out of business.
 
Claimed he first heard the term “Kung Flu” from the Pope.
 
Offered to make the “My Pillow” guy Ambassador to the United Nations if he would shave off that nasty little stash. “Yours looks like shit, too,” he told Bolton.
 
Refers to Secretary of State Mike Pompeo and Attorney General Bill Barr as “Thing One” and “Thing Two.”
 
Constantly torments “Squad” member Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez by reminding her he likes porn featuring women who wear glasses.
 
Confessed at one point to a horrible fear of ramps.
 
Passed nude pictures of Kim Jong Un, secretly obtained by the CIA, to Vice-President Mike Pence while saying, “I know you’re a chubby chaser.”
 
Said of new press secretary Kayleigh McEnany, “If she does good, I might buy her some boobs.”
 
Offered any nation willing to help his re-election a pass on being called a “shithole.” He added, "And I mean any nation, even if they have zero white people there. I want to go down in history as the President who did the most to help shithole countries."

We Apocalypse fans are always ready for the world to end, and there’s no better time than now, what with a world-wide epidemic, depression, racial unrest and locusts, locusts, locusts all roiling merrily along. There’s no question that the human race deserves to come to a full stop. Like a deer that’s been hit by a timber truck and is lying in the road gasping to force some air into its punctured lungs, we deserve to be put out of our misery.
 
Sadly, the there has been a dearth of world-ending news at this moment we need it most. All the asteroids seem to be missing us by a million miles. Biblical prophesies predicted a plague, natch, but nobody in the Bible punched each other out over facemasks. Likewise, white supremacy is not mentioned in the Good Book, because there are no white people in the Bible. And Jesus is not coming back. Let’s face it, Jesus is the Cleveland Browns of world-ending, always rumored to be on the verge of a good season, but never fulfilling His promise. Likewise, Nibiru, the Death Planet. Fuck Nibiru.
 
There’s always global warming, but let’s face it, there will always be global warming, but right now even that’s on hold, as tons of people are still staying inside and resisting the pull of two-buck-a-gallon gas.
 
That’s why it’s so heartwarming to see the Mayans make their comeback. Sure, we left them for dead in 2012, when they predicted, in a fashion we have always deemed to be cowardly, the end of the world after their civilization had safely vanished, but now a drunk astrologer has figured out that they really meant 2020 instead of 2012, and in fact meant this week in 2020, which leaves us tingling with excitement, because it's already Thursday.

The error occurred because of the difference between the Julian and Gregorian calendars, which means we have to add an extra eight years to the original Mayan prediction.
 
It’s very complicated, especially since the original prediction was based on neither the Julian or Gregorian calendars, but on the Mayan calendar, but here we are perfectly willing to grasp at straws. This is a world which deserves to end. The Mayans weren’t very specific about how it is supposed to happen. Probably a huge rocking worldwide earthquake which causes the Indian Ocean to slosh over the Himalayas, as depicted in the movie, will do the trick. But the Sun blowing up, or us getting all fried from a gamma-ray blast from deep space, will work as well.
 
Of course, some people are not ready for the world to end. People with lots of cheese in their 401(k)’s, for example, or kids who haven’t had their birthdays yet this year. It’s kind of unfair to black people, too, because white people just figured out black lives do matter, but black people are used to getting over unfair, and everybody being dead will only accelerate that process.
 
But most of us are just thinking, “Hot damn! Bring it on!” and will be content with whatever flavor Apocalypse we are treated to, as long as it wipes out every locust, covid and bad-tempered cop as well as the rest of us.
 
Everybody except Jesus. You just know He’s not going to show.

The haj, that pilgrimage to Mecca that every Muslim is obliged to take once in his life if he can scrape up airfare for it, may be cancelled, or at least limited this year, out of coronavirus fears.
 
So says Saudi Arabia, which sponsors the haj and makes serious coin off of it. The haj usually draws about 2.5 million pilgrims for a week of fun and bone-crushing stampedes in 110-degree sunshine, but not this year, because of the virus.
 
Now no one, especially Republicans, ever accuses Muslims of not being serious about their religion. Many Republicans consider Islam savage, with punishments like cutting off a hand for stealing, even though in some Republican states you can get twelve years in prison for shoplifting, which makes it more of an even deal. A Muslim might have to honor kill his sister if she has sex before marriage, whereas with a Christian evangelical, if his sister has sex before marriage, it’s probably with him. Different strokes, y’all.
 
And certainly, Christians do not require members of their faith to meet in, say, Jacksonville in the summer, turn off the AC, and stampede all over each other. But they may be required to attend the Republican convention there.
 
Yep, a religion that believes its founder flew off to Heaven on a winged horse when he was finished dictating its interminable holy book is willing to make more accommodation for science than the party of Trump. The Caucasian-in-Chief, whose demand for worship puts most of mankind’s 3,000 or so deities to shame, will not accept his coronation by the GOP unless it’s done shoulder-to-shoulder in a sea of red, each delegate yowling virus-infected spittle into the air.
 
Not only the GOP convention is going to be done by a big, sweaty crowd, but Trump is going to resume campaign rallies before the big show. This will give random yicklanders a chance to get together and sneeze on each other, creating a pyramid of infection that will top out at the convention and bubble through other rallies clear to November.
 
This may strike you as being dumber than a bucket of shucked clams, which is why you won’t see many of the cleverer Republican crooks at the convention. Mitch McConnell won’t be there, and neither will Rush Limbaugh. The coronavirus will have to take its chances with Louie Gohmert, Matt Gaetz and Scott Baiao.
 
Of course, precautions will be taken, although facemasks will not be worn. Temperature checks will be mandatory—in fact, the new MAGA hats will probably have built-in thermometers. Black-market hydroquinone dealers will be nearly as ubiquitous as gay escorts, and occasionally you might smell bleach on someone’s breath instead of booze.
 
On the night when Trump takes the floor, and bellows out whatever slogan he’s conjured for this election—I’ve heard “I alone can fix what I’ve fucked up,” and I think that has a nice ring to it, and 15,000 delegates cough their approval, you might pause to reflect that Islam, a religion that wants everybody to go back to the Middle Ages, believes in a pandemic that will have killed three-quarters of a million people by then, and the Republican Party, which holds American First In Everything as one of its commandments, does not.
 
Doesn’t Allah love irony?

​The importance of coolness in a national election can never be over-estimated. The cooler of the two candidates usually wins, especially in recent years. Carter, the pious peanut farmer was cooler than Ford, who kept hitting his head on the doorway of Air Force One. Reagan the movie star was cooler than Carter. Daddy Bush coolly portrayed Dukakis as soft on crime and looking shitty in a tank, and Clinton played H W into history with his saxophone. No musical instrument is cooler than a sax.
 
Dubya was sort of cool, in a Texas preppie I’ll-give-ya-a-nickname-that-sticks kind of way. At least he was marginally cooler than the earnest Al Gore, and he only marginally won. The Dems found the least cool Senator on their roster, John Kerry, to match up with him in ’04 so they could lose.
 
Then came 2008. As was proven shortly after that election, America wasn’t really ready for a black President. We were, however, ready for a really cool President and Obama had that going on. From playing with the skins in a basketball game to telling a few jokes at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner, then getting up from the table and coolly killing Bin Laden, to the tan suit, to Amazing Grace, the man could not be out-cooled. McCain never had a chance.
 
Come to 2016, and the cool pendulum swung as far as it could in the other direction. Both parties decided to go with candidates that were hideously uncool. Fox News had been painting Hillary as a cold, power-hungry bitch who didn’t even know which end of a saxophone to pick up ever since her hubby had been President. Every white guy sitting in a hunting blind in Wisconsin said to himself, “That see-you-next-Tuesday is not gonna be the boss of me,” and their votes managed to push the skeezy real-estate developer from New York over the Electoral College finish line.
 
January of 2017 was Trump’s chance to go cool, and he proved totally incapable of it. All he had to do was occasionally be noble about something. But he never has. From his inauguration crowd of that year being on the small side, to his discovering that the average age of a bloodied antifa sprawled on the sidewalk was 75, which was a few days ago, the man has never learned to let anything slide. From squawking raw insults at Democrats to intramural mud-wrestling with his fellow Republicans, the Cantaloupe Dope has shown that his one enduring quality is that he can’t take even the tiniest dis in stride.
 
Which is not cool. But the death knell came the other day, when Pat Robertson told him, speaking of Trump tear-gassing protesters so he could waltz around Lafayette Square with a Bible, “That’s not cool.”
​
Now, Pat Robertson is definitely not cool. He is the Anti-Cool, which is similar to the Anti-Christ, except instead of leading the forces of Satan, he leads the forces of Zip Up Your Pants, Join Me in Prayer and Give Me Some Money. He has been against every form of fun since his birth in 1892. He can get his sweaty, browned-out undies in a wad over just about anything, but even he noticed that Jesus never had to pepper-spray anybody to get into Jerusalem. When the leader of the Gay Cakes Mean the Apocalypse squad says you’re not cool, that’s a death sentence to your cool. You have fallen into the Well of Uncool so far even Lassie can’t get you out.
 
“Well, Joe Biden isn’t that cool,” I hear you saying, and that’s true. Uncle Joe has a spotty public record that goes back to the Korean War, and a proven penchant for sniffing anybody's niece’s hair. But here’s a picture of Obama laughing at one of his jokes.
 
That’s cool enough to beat Trump. 

Donald Trump said he hoped George Floyd was “looking down right now” as he trumpeted a surprise decline in the nation's unemployment rate, saying "this is a great day for him, this is a great day for everybody".—News Item
 
There has been criticism of Trump from some quarters for this remark, ranging from it being insensitive, tone deaf and utterly loathsome to ‘holy fuck, did he really say that? REALLY? He is such a consistent shitbird.”
 
This column doesn’t go anywhere without the facts in its pocket, however, so I promptly got out the old Ouija board and a half-bottle of whiskey and started interviewing other people suspected of being in Heaven, and surprisingly, found the cheering for Trump from the afterlife to be nearly unanimous.
 
AHMAUD ARBERY, recently arrived at the Pearlies after being shot to death by wanna-be cops in Georgia, said, “Of course, I can take a jog around Heaven any time I want to without worrying about being gunned down by some peckerhead redneck looking for any excuse to kill a black guy, but I really had to stop and applaud those unemployment numbers. It’s hard to enjoy eternal glory when you’re worried about white people being out of work.”
 
BREONNA TAYLOR, another newbie in Paradise, courtesy of a no-knock raid by the Louisville PD, replied, “You know, I was pretty surprised by being filled full of hot lead while I was lying in my bed, but not nearly as surprised as I was by those jobs coming back. How many Presidents could raise the jobless rate back from bottom of the Depression levels to barely above the bottom of the Depression levels in just a few months? That boy Trump really knows how to run an economy.”
 
ERIC GARNER, a five-year veteran of working the streets paved with gold, said, “Sales of loose cigarettes always soared when the economy rebounded, so I’d probably be selling tons of them today, thanks to Trump, if I hadn’t been choked to death by the NYPD.”
 
LORI KLAUSUTIS, who’s been hanging in eternity since 2001, when she suffered an accidental death in MSNBC host Joe Scarborough’s Congressional office in Florida, and whom Trump accused of murdering her despite Scarborough being in DC at the time, said, “Initially, I was kind of get-my-name-out-of-your-mouth about Trump. But now that he’s performed this economic miracle, of getting all these poorly-paid service workers back on the job so both the economy and coronavirus can rebound, it’s hard not to forgive him for making my family suffer yet again years after my death.”
 
JOHN MCCAIN, deceased US Senator who started his term in Heaven in 2018, was the only soul in eternity that my Ouija board could locate, before I spilled my last shot of whiskey on it and had to quit, that had anything negative to convey about Trump.  All he said was, “I like Presidents that don’t hide in bunkers.” 

The Journal has recently published a sweet little essay entitled “The Science of Prayer,” during the course of which it acknowledges that there is no such thing, almost.
 
The body of evidence of prayer’s efficacy in the article is mostly provided by people who testify, “Praying makes me feel gooder.” Also, there are studies that show that people who pray have more positive self-images than people who watch porn while they are driving.
 
The psychological boost of having a nice chat with the Creator of All Things is not to be denied, despite the overwhelming evidence that if there is such a Being, He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about humanity. Maybe the transactional nature of most prayers is why He can’t be bothered with them. “Oh Lord, cure me of cancer.” “Oh God, let me win the lottery.” “Oh, Jesus, would you move this motherfucker out of the fast lane before I’m late to work again?”
 
It’s no wonder that God, instead of listening to such petitions, just turns up the radio in the Wheelhouse of the Universe and keeps on setting the quasars just precisely right.
 
But what about unselfish prayer? What about when you ask God to make you a better person? Of course, when you pray for that, the corollary question of why God didn’t make me a better person in the first place? is bound to pop into your head. Why did He make you such a bottomless pit of eating disorders and horny cravings? It was His Will in the first place that made you such an inadequate, roiling mass of conflicting emotions that you are forced to try and soothe them daily with a nearly poisonous level of substance abuse. You’re basically asking Him to acknowledge His mistake at making you such a mess from the get-go. Are you surprised when He replies, “Talk to My Hand?”
 
Having the Pope or a televangelist with his own private jet advising us to pray is one thing, but having the Journal advising us to do the same is certainly a bad sign. The WSJ has, in the past, spoken highly of junk bonds, leveraged buyouts, derivatives and Enron, some or all of which have caused Wall Street to occasionally suck up all of America’s cash, feed it into a paper shredder and blow it out of corporate windows like confetti. This has happened several times in my lifetime. Now, in this summer of depression, rioting and covid despair, the best advice that capitalism can offer to the seething masses is pray?
 
No wonder people are trying to burn the country down. And what better time? They all already had masks on, anyway.