richardcahill.net

Miley Celebrates Her Bad-Ass Pansexuality

8/31/2015

My favorite girl besides my own, Miley Cyrus, is back in the news for announcing that she is pansexual, which most people think means she will have sex with anything.

Nobody found this hard to believe. When she was a pubescent TV star who called herself Hannah Montana, many of her down-home fans watching the show used to cluck at their TV's and say "That little girl has a libido the size of Texas." When she later crossed over the country music line and started swinging naked on wrecking balls she pretty much removed any doubt that her sex drive was stuck in hyper, but the horny men and panting boys of America still cherished hopes that her hormones only surged to stratospheric heights for males.

The Milester demolished their fantasies by starting a relationship with aVictoria's Secret model. Even then, some of her fans chose to believe it was a mistake, that Miley merely thought that any young, attractive, rich person with access to New York was obliged to date a Victoria's secret model, but now she has removed all doubt.

Miley's announcement came with caveats, however. As quoted in Elle UK:

"I am literally open to every single thing that is consenting and doesn't involve an animal and everyone is of age," she told Paper magazine. "Everything that's legal, I'm down with. Yo, I'm down with any adult -- anyone over the age of 18 who is down to love me. I don't relate to being boy or girl, and I don't have to have my partner relate to boy or girl."

Miley's critics might sneer at the hypocrisy in that line, figuring that the lithe young warbler probably had more partners before she was eighteen than there are ATM's in Vegas. Even her fans must be a little disappointed. I can hear them saying, "Wait a second—only men and women who are of age? Even with throwing in the occasionally transgendered fling, and allowing for the requisite orgies and the passionate weekends with only a case of wine and a crate of sex toys, this doesn't sound like pansexuality to me. It just sounds like plain old bisexuality."

And that's true. What's also true is that America is bored with bisexuality. Bisexual celebrities abound--Megan Fox, Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Bill and Hilary Clinton—and nobody cares anymore, especially about Travolta.

So the opinion here is that Miley better start doing a little more to wind our stems, or she'll end up just like him.

Speaking of bisexuals, Johnny Depp's daughter Lily Rose also just announced that she was "sexually fluid."

This is the Aladdin's lamp of sexuality, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the condition. You just rub on her and see what happens.

Unfortunately for Miley, she's still only sixteen.

Flying Like A Non-Boss

8/27/2015

The interactive flight map lets you know its cold outside and you're high up

I recently flew back from my ancestral homeland, which is just outside of Philadelphia, where I had made my annual visit. I had already flown to Seattle and back this summer. For that trip, I flew first class, during which the biggest inconvenience was the plane running out of Sam Adams due to my overuse of that beverage, forcing me to switch to Heineken.

For Philly I bit the bullet and flew coach. I lucked out for three of the four legs of the flight, having an empty seat next to me in two and a diminutive person in one. In the last leg back, from O'Hare to San Diego, my luck ran out and I was seated in the same row as two other good-sized men. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, though, because I had aisle and the guy next to me had served in Afghanistan. He was used to flying for thousands of miles in a coach seat on a plane packed with nothing but 200-pound men. He compacted his body as much a possible, forgoing the use of both armrests, recognizing the inherently indefensible position of the person in the middle seat. We chatted pleasantly about San Diego, where he was making his first visit, and where I live, and compared it to Flint Michigan, where he lived, and where I have never visited and definitely don't want to. When we got off the plane, I thanked him for his service, and also for keeping his elbow out of my ribs.

So it wasn't the realization of my worst airborne nightmare, which has nothing to do with the wings icing over, or hijackings, or crazy co-pilots flying my aircraft into one of the Alps. It is to be seated next to an obese man. I say man, not women, because an overweight woman is self-conscious about it and will attempt to shrink into her seat. Not so the fat man. Fat guys just billow. And they all seem pretty smug about it, too. You imagine they are laughing internally. "Yeah, I know that's my pancreas in your armpit. Deal with it. Har, har, har."

Because my carry-on had been confiscated by the airline for bulging dangerously over the carry-on limit, I was stuck with the entertainment choices the airline offered on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I could pay to watch movies I had already seen, watch TV I had already seen for free, or check out the interactive flight map. I chose the map. I don't know whether that made the flight more interminable or less. You could touch-screen the map to shrink or enlarge it relative to the digital plane on the screen. You could see the whole route, where the digital plane's nose appeared to be in Kansas as soon as you took off from Chicago, or you could shrink it down so you could see how long crossing the country actually takes, even at 471 miles an hour ground speed.

The map gave you that information, along with altitude, time to destination, time at destination and outside temperature if you pushed the right button. You could amuse yourself by thinking "Hah! The pilot promised us a cruising altitude of 36,000 feet and she leveled off at 35, 955 feet and she's keeping it there. Liar, liar, cockpit on fire!" or note that outside the plane's skin it was minus 53 Fahrenheit. "That's brisk," you think, and wish they would turn up the heat.

The map would give you a simulated view out of the left side of the aircraft, the right side of the aircraft, or the cockpit. Towns like North Platte, Nebraska and Independence, Missouri simulated on by. Having only ever lived on the Right or Left Coasts my whole life, I have a natural disdain for the flyover states, for two reasons. First, I've been to most of them and second, it's one of the few nasty prejudices left that it's still socially acceptable to harbor. I narrated the map to myself. "On the right side of the aircraft we have A Big Mess of Nothing. On the left, A Big Mess of Nothing With Confederate Flags."

The cockpit view was ridiculously optimistic. Even from 35, 955 feet, I doubt you can see San Diego from the Arizona—New Mexico border, but the simulation promised you could, just to remind you we were getting there.

I found another button that would make the map give you the distances to the closest two towns. This provided another scant second or so of amusement. "Look, we're 122 miles away from Silver City, New Mexico. Just where I've always dreamed of being at this point in my life."

But eventually, we arrived. I untangled myself from the ex-military guy, grabbed the twenty Philly soft pretzels my beloved demands as the price for not taking her along on my trip to the Big Cheesesteak from the overhead compartment and—bonus—my forcibly checked bag slid down the baggage claim first.

Good to be home.

Anchor Baby Go Back

8/24/2015

I was tweaking the car radio dials while I was stuck in traffic the other day, and paused on a station that was playing what seemed at first to be Sir Mix-A-Lot's rap classic, "Baby Got Back." Then I realized that someone had re-written the lyrics for the upcoming election. This is how it went:

I like babies and I can not lie,
You other politicians can't deny,
That when a baby gets in your face
No matter what the race,
You wanna kiss her, not diss her,
'Cause her mama's gotta vote with yer
But if dat baby's Spanish
My love for it gone vanish
Anchor Baby go back!
Anchor Baby go back!

Ask my homie Trumpie
Or Teddy Cruz, or Chrissie Dumpty,
Dat baby's got dat brown skin,
Dat child's kiss gone do you in,
If dat rugrat is Latino,
It just another bean-o
With the bathwater throw it out,
'Cause white folks like to shout
Anchor Baby go back!
Anchor Baby go back!

You say that makes me meana
Than Paul or Fiorina
I don't care what you say,
Give that chile the boo-tay
Give that nino the heave-ho
Back across the Grande Rio
We ain't gonna let you in
Least till you learn to swim,
Anchor Baby go back!
Anchor Baby go back!

Yer mom's from Tijuana
That means we don't want ya
Just cause you were born here
Don't mean you belong here,
All us love America a lot,
Get out that Home Depot parking lot
I know you used to own it
But guess what—we rezoned it!
Anchor Baby go back!
Anchor Baby go back!

Yer pappy's work ain't crappy
He makes his bosses happy
Yer mama cleans my shower
Fer just eight bucks an hour
But your stay here ain't permanent
When it my turn at President
And I'll be getting cracker votes
When your brown ass waves us "Adios!"
Anchor Baby go back!
Anchor Baby go back!
Anchor Baby go back!

Bass line continues, while other voices say "Get out!' "Beat it!" and "Amscray" in the background. The DJ samples the Beatles "Get Back" (Back to where you once belonged) and the song fades out.

Top Ten Ways to Answer the Phone When People Think You Are a Doctor

8/20/2015

But I don't. Click on image to be taken to the web site of someone who does, even though they apparently don't care anything about the rules of capitalization.

The women in my life have had a talent for getting phone numbers that are just one digit away from other, more popular numbers. My mother has had the same phone number ever since phone numbers began with letters. It is only one digit away from a local waste management company's, and at least once a week she gets a call from someone who is irate about their trash not being picked up, the way their trash was picked up, or an abundance of trash that instead of being picked up was distributed all over their lawn.

My girl's number is one digit away from that of a local Urgent Care. When they dial us by mistake and she answers, the question she always gets is "Is this Urgent Care?"

She just says "No, you have the wrong number," and hangs up. When they get me, though, they get one of life's cruel lessons, which is that even the smallest, most inadvertent error seldom goes unpunished. I, like Danny DeVito, love wrong numbers. So when you call me, and I say "Hello," and then you ask "Is this Urgent Care?" you are liable to hear me reply cheerfully with one of the phrases below:

"Yes, but I picked up the phone by mistake. I was reaching for a bone saw."

"No, we're an abortion clinic now. We're just in the process of re-branding."

"Yes, but everybody who works here just won Powerball on a group ticket. Go bleed on someone else's old magazines and cheap plastic furniture."

"Yes, but the doctors asked me to answer the phone because they're all tripping on shrooms."

"Yes it is! Ask about our Happy Hour Specials!"

"Yes, but we close on all Nicaraguan national holidays because that's where we get our doctors from. I should have said Hola!"

"Yes, but I don't work here...everybody who does suddenly threw on haz-mat suits and left the building."

"Yes, but if you're another one of those people who woke up in a bathtub full of ice with your kidneys missing, our lawyer said to assure you our medical record-keeping is completely secure. 100%. Those people didn't get your address and blood type from us. Honest."

"Stitches? You don't need no stinking stitches."

"Yes, but I get tired of talking to sick people all day. Do you want to have phone sex?"

This column is in lieu of two others I started to write, one inspired by Trump again, on whether it is Presidential to assess women's looks on a numeric scale, and the other on the question of how much weight Jared Fogle will gain in prison, unless somebody smuggles in Subway sandwiches to him. And if they smuggled them in baked inside of a cake, that would be pointless.

Subject matter for this post suggested by Nancy Federman, PhD

Boobs and Toys in the Headlines

8/17/2015

Don't tell this woman what to do with her breasts

The department store Target, which has previously enraged conservatives by forbidding gun enthusiasts to "open carry" in its aisles, has sparked new controversy by eliminating gender labeling in its children's departments.

Henceforth, when you are buying a blank-groined doll for your child to play with at Target, you will have to figure out whether it is for a girl (Barbie) or a boy (GI Joe) on your own. While this task may not seem all that daunting to you as a toy shopper, Fox News for one, feels thatrefusing to designate toys as specifically for little males or little females launches the nation down a slippery slope in which a youngster's future sexuality will not be determined not by nature or nurture, God or Darwin, but by whether the tyke was forced to sleep on Buzz Lightyear or Hello Kitty sheets.

Toys have always been rigidly sexually segregated in America, according to these pundits. In Revolutionary America, boys were given sticks and told to pretend to shoot the natural enemies of colonial Americans, bears and Redcoats, while girls were given rocks and told to pretend that they were baking fresh loaves of hardtack bread. During the Civil War boys on both sides were given make-believe Gatling guns and girls blue or gray-clad dolls covered with little blood-soaked bandages.

The Depression brought the first era of unisex toys to America, as both little boys and little girls were told to go play in the dirt, as it was the only entertainment their parents could afford.

As someone who neither buys toys or shops at Target (my sentiment being that if you want to furnish your life with cheap Chinese crap, you might as well go to Walmart, where the Chinese have shipped goods that are even cheaper and crappier) this controversy leaves me unmoved, as does the other dust-up of the week, a photo of a woman breast-feeding two boys simultaneously, one her own and one a neighbor's little lad, one on each of her mammaries or, as we laymen refer to them, "funbags."

This photo, of a perky, attractive young mom with two perky, attractive young boobs with a perky, attractive tot perched on each of them, has ignited the proverbial firestorm on social media. Many critics feel it is "icky," on the unspoken principle that up to a certain age, a male should only have his mom's breast in his mouth, then after a certain breast-free interval, is allowed to suck on anybody's breasts but his mom's, in an activity customarily referred to as "getting to second base.".

Others have defended the Double Breast-Feeding Mom, including Salma Hayek, the actress, who once was criticized herself for snatching up a starving African child and letting him slurp some of her own milky goodness while she was lactating. Yes, her detractors felt she should have let this kid malnourish away, instead of letting him slake his hunger at one of her A-list mammaries.

Now that she is as famous as Salma, at least this week, the Double Breast-Feeding Mom is on course to be enshrined in the pantheon of American Moms along with the Naked Breastfeeding Yoga Mom, the Tanorexic Mom and the Octomom. I wish her happiness in her fifteen minutes of notoriety.

I know those little lads in that pic look happy. And because they are little males, we know exactly what both of them are thinking:

"Mine is bigger than yours."

Women and Crabs on Mars

8/13/2015

Look close enough and you can see them

Science marches on, and in many people's opinion, lies big-time while it is doing so. The latest controversy between scientists and their critics is about photos taken by the Mars Rover Curiosity, which is currently rolling around the Red Planet taking photos of everything it sees, like a hyperactive Asian tourist with a camera that costs more than an in-ground pool.

These photos are sent back to Earth, where they are published by NASA, and science-minded amateur researchers, sometimes referred to as "UFO nuts," go over them with magnifying glasses every night, presumably because they are people who have not yet discovered sex, drinking or cable television.

What these people have discovered is that NASA is either ignoring or lying about things they have found on Mars. Interestingly enough, many of these people also feel that NASA may have faked the moon landings back in the last century. So, in their minds, the space agency couldn't land people on the moon, so they prevaricated about doing that, but they can send spacecraft to Mars, which is about a hundred times further away, but once they get there, they promptly started lying to us about what they are discovering.

First, there was the crab. This is a six or seven legged crab, with two or three claws, depending on how you differentiate between legs and claws on Martian crabs. We don't want to hear any superior smirking from the critics out there on this issue, because Martian crab science is admittedly in its infancy. The crab is crawling up a rock, which many Earth crabs like to do, probably because they are sick of being immersed in salt water all the time, and want to see if they can get a little sun before they get picked off by a seagull.

This is not a worry for the Martian crab, because the closest ocean, not to mention seagull, is here on Earth. Which ocean and which seagull exactly is the nearest to the Martian crab at any given time depends on the rotation of the earth and the cruising altitude of said seagull, but you get my drift. Why the crab is bothering to crawl up a rock at all, then, remains one of the mysteries of space exploration.

A yet more exciting discovery is the woman on Mars. This is a fairly busty humanoid who has apparently thrown on a robe and a push-up bra to rush outside to see Curiosity trundle on by. Curiosity has a top speed of two centimeters per second, which is well short of Earth's informal standard for going fast, i.e., "hauling ass." Moreover, the rover stops every ten seconds to look around to see if it can proceed safely, like a 92-year old driver in a Walmart parking lot.

What can we infer from this? The Martian woman is bored out of her mind. She has been dusting and vacuuming her whole existence, because Mars is mostly dust and its atmosphere borders on a vacuum. Any break in the tedium of her life is an excuse to rush out of the house barely dressed.

Why is NASA lying to us about this? Obviously, they don't want us to realize that Mars is a planet rich with big-breasted women and free seafood, a virtual Indian casino in the sky, because then they would have to build a big fleet of space buses to haul us there, and that would break their budget.

Why? They're still paying Hollywood for faking that moon landing is my bet.

Murder of HitchBot in Philly a Warning to Pope?

8/10/2015

Guess what major East Coast city lies between Baltimore and New York? You're not going to get a clue from the signs on I-95.

The destruction of a hitchhiking robot from Canada on the midnight streets of Philadelphia has so far not caused the cancellation of the Papal visit to that city later this year.

The robot was not wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey at the time of its trashing, which all reasonable Philadelphians would agree would have been just cause for its destruction.

The robot had hitchhiked unmolested through Canada and parts of Europe before it met its untimely end in the City of Brotherly Love. Apparently local hatred for outside robots does not burn as brightly in these corners of the world as it does in Philly.

Philadelphians have long been noted for their seething resentments and hostility. The fact that they boo Santa Claus and cheer life-threatening injuries on their sports fields has been well-documented. The city's four major league sports teams, chronic cellar-dwellers all, are a major source of its discontent, but there are others. Philly is not one of those cities like Boston, San Francisco or Austin where the inhabitants feel that they are better human beings than most just because they have their mail delivered there. Quite the opposite. Philadelphians know they live in the worst big city in the country apart from Cleveland, a place ignored by reality TV and the Interstate Highway system alike. A TV program called Buying Philadelphia would last about two episodes on the Real Estate Channel, and while the mileage signs on I-95 will cheerfully tell you how far you are from New York as soon as you get past the Miami suburbs, Philadelphia is not noted by them until you almost get to Wilmington. That's Delaware, not North Carolina.

Philadelphia's greatest achievement was the founding of our nation there in 1776. This was a high point from which the city never recovered. As soon as we had a Constitution, the federal government schlepped on out of there, never to return, leaving only Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell behind, to be honored by an endless parade of sniffling local schoolchildren on field trips.

Because of its history, Philly is on track to be named a World Heritage City, like Paris and Barcelona. This signal honor should make Philadelphians swell with civic pride, but they will probably just point out cynically that Aleppo, Syria is also a World Heritage city. Most Philadelphians would gladly give up the World Heritage spot to any city that would assume Ryan Howard's contract.

Why is the Pope coming to Philly, anyway, instead of some city that shines brighter in the eyes of the world and itself? I can only think it is because there are a crap-ton of Catholics there. When I was a young Catholic Philadelphian, we were barely aware that there were other kinds of people. Sure, there were some, but we outnumbered them by far, hard-sexing, non-birth-control utilizing Catholic parents having provided some of the most powerful fissile material in the population explosion, aka the Baby Boom. Everyone had between seven and twelve or so Catholic children. We all went to Catholic school. Non-Catholics went to public school, so we referred to those kids by the handy expression "publics."

There are still a lot of Catholics there, though not nearly so many as back then, many of us having taken a long look at Catholic doctrine when we reached the age of reason and said to ourselves "You've got to be kidding me." Others abandoned the Church rather than have their children groped by an unfortunate abundance of bad priests getting their mortal sin on in the privacy of the confessional.

Still, they are expecting about a million people to show up for the Pope's mass in Philly. Already non-Catholics are complaining about security measures so draconian that most Philadelphians will find it infinitely more convenient to just leave town when the Pope arrives. Catholics are thinking to themselves that these people are just a bunch of whiny publics.

These security measures also mean the Pope will probably fare better in Philly than the hitchBOT did. As long as he wears one of his regular Pope hats instead of a Mets cap, that is.

GOP Hopefuls Try to Trump the Donald

8/6/2015

Vote for them all. Let God sort them out.

The Republican competition for the Presidential nod in 2016 has reached frenzied heights in advance of the cut-off for Fox News' Top Ten List, i.e., the main stage at the first GOP debate of the campaign season. Donald Trump, the self-regarding billionaire who leads the field, has set the bar high, but many in the rest of the field are adapting courageously to the standards set by The Donald.

Ted Cruz probably took first place by frying bacon with a machine gun over the weekend. After wrapping a piece of bacon around the muzzle of an automatic weapon, he then fired enough rounds through the barrel to cook it to a nice crisp. Ted said it took two clips of bullets to complete the process.

Assuming that Ted was talking about forty round clips, the minimum size a man needs to attach to his AK-47 in order to avoid being branded a wussie or a Democrat, that's eighty rounds of firepower per slice of bacon. Also assuming that Ted doesn't get his ammunition any cheaper than I can get it by buying it in bulk online, it costs him a minimum of 22 cents a round. That means it costs $17.60 per slice to fry bacon for his family. I am pretty sure my George Foreman grill can do it cheaper than that. I'm not saying that those who serve in our Armed Forces don't deserve to machine-gun their bacon if they prefer it prepared that way, and with Ted in charge of the Pentagon budget if elected, it's certain they'll have the extra money in hand to do so.

But he'll have to fork out a few R&D bucks if he wants to serve a complete breakfast that has been cooked by small-arms fire, because so far even Cruz has found it impossible to fry an egg with a machine gun.

Second place went to Rand Paul, who tore up a copy of the federal Tax Code with a chainsaw. Killing things with a chain saw is generally considered even more butch than killing things with a machine gun, but Paul knows he screwed up by wearing safety goggles while doing it. "I know, I know," the chagrined candidate admitted. "I should have worn a hockey mask."

Chris Christie tried to get in on the macho posturing by saying "Teacher's unions need to get punched in the mouth." When his standing in the polls didn't increase, he announced that he was going to start punching individual teachers in the mouth. "I'm not going to spare old lady teachers working past retirement because they love their jobs, either," he added. "They're the ones that have been begging for the same wages as a construction worker or a bartender the longest. They get my fist right in their chops. Then, maybe for laughs, I drop-kick them right where their saggy panty hose comes together."

Scott Walker had the Wisconsin governor's residence in Madison surrounded by barrels of pitch and then set them afire, producing smoke and flame that could be seen as far away as Fond du Lac, to express his contempt for global warming proponents. "I know it makes the place look perhaps a shade too much like the mouth of Hell," he admitted, "but I trust Republican primary voters are sophisticated enough to know the difference. If it really disturbs you, imagine illegal immigrants trying to jump through the flames."

Other candidates were making less of a splash. John Kasich's campaign's attempt to differentiate the Ohio pol from the rest of the pack with the slogan "Hey, I'm a Governor, too," was reported falling on deaf ears. Bobby Jindal said something stupid, but nobody even bothered to write it down. Ben Carson tried to talk his way out of saying that the "Black Lives Matter" movement didn't make any sense by saying that he thought people were saying "Black Wives Matter."

"They sure do," he agreed. "And mine wants to live in the White House."

Lions vs Dentists

8/3/2015

Drilled by a dentist. RIP

In this world riddled through with conflict and injustice, the most hated person in it is suddenly a dentist from Minnesota.

Rising far above the competition of cruel dictators, mass murderers, government sanctioned torturers, ISIS, Boko Haram, cop killers, killer cops and all the other evildoers running amuck even as this is being typed is Dr. Walter Palmer, a general dental practitioner from Minneapolis.

Palmer's crime is that he went to Africa and killed a lion named Cecil. Cecil was a popular lion. He had a human name, which many lions don't, and a distinguished mane. He wore a stylish radio color. Apart from that, there was little to distinguish him from other male lions, who generally let their females feed them, sleep up to twenty hours a day and are really only keenly interested in fighting with other males and then killing their cubs afterwards. Most of them have ancestors who dined on Christians.

That's all true, I hear you saying. But there are plenty of human males like that, and while they may not be the most well-regarded members of the population, nobody advocates doing away with them, unless they actually carry out the offspring-killing bit, or do in fact eat Christians.

Plenty of people are advocating killing Dr. Palmer, however, including many people who otherwise regard themselves, and are regarded by their friends, as sweet, kind, loving and generous. His Facebook page filled up with death threats. Already over 100,000 people have signed a White House petition to have him extradited back to Zimbabwe, where the killing took place.

And Zimbabwe wants him. They are seeking that extradition. Nobody who has ever been served papers really enjoys the process, but when you suspect that crisp knock on the door is from someone who wants to haul you back to Zimbabwe for some bush justice, you're damn straight you don't answer.

Why are lions so much more popular than dentists? Make no mistake about it, they are. Otherwise, there would currently be a Broadway hit called "The Dentist King," a medieval hero remembered as "Richard the Endodontist-Hearted," and a beloved classic movie featuring a character known as "The Cowardly Dentist."

You never hear people singing "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the maxillofacial surgeon sleeps tonight," because it doesn't scan and nobody cares.

Nobody likes going to see the dentist, but going to see the lions is regarded as a general good time, because we usually do it at the zoo and cram ourselves full of overpriced junk food while we're doing it.

The question is, why are huge predatory cats that kill mercilessly only when they can't steal food from other animals or snack on a rotting corpse generally regarded as more benevolent than dentists? It's true that lions don't kill people very often, but then, neither do dentists.

The answer is that while people don't often feel they are being preyed on by lions, they often feel that they are being preyed on by dentists, as anyone who has ever had to pay cash for a root canal can attest. "It's going to cost WHAT?" they splutter, spitting the contents of the little sucky tube all over their dental bibs.

And when the dentist replies with something in four figures, they have to repress a strong urge to spring on him from ambush and sink their fangs into his neck. Only the fact that they have such bad teeth no doubt keeps some of them from doing so.

It's a PR problem, as so many things are. Dentists of America, Dr. Palmer is paying for your sins as well as his own. You owe him.

And you can pay him back by letting him hide in your tool shed.

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