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."

​The first thing we did in Alaska was take the train to Denali. Denali is a huge national park surrounding the tallest mountain on the North American continent. The Alaskan Railroad runs by it, and offers the tourist an opportunity to pay a lot of money to sit in a dome car and watch bears and moose scamper by the tracks during the journey north, which we did.

We wanted to take an airplane fight around the mountain, but the tour company said all we would see there was fog, so mostly we ate, drank and souvenir-shopped. For two days, we tried to get a glimpse of the mountain, to no result. The souvenir shops were full of t-shirts that read “I Saw Denali.” They weren’t selling particularly well.

Denali was called Mt. McKinley when I was young, but its name was changed by both the state and the federal governments some time back to the original Native Alaskan name for it, which literally means “The Great One,” or “The Tall One.” Giving stuff creative names is one area where indigenous peoples fall short, obviously.

I settled for buying a t-shirt that read "Alaska--The Great Land," because most of the other ones read "Alaska--Founded 1959," and I don't like to be reminded that I am older than some states.

We hopped another dome car back to Anchorage, where we planned to rent a car and drive down to Seward. Renting the car was the most annoying experience of the trip. I had booked a room right by the airport, where the rental cars live, but after a quick Uber jaunt there, I discovered the line at the Avis counter was a dozen deep and there was only one clerk processing the rental agreements. She was tied up with a middle-aged gay couple who apparently viewed the car-rental process with deep suspicion, because there were a great many time-consuming questions asked and several consultative phone calls made by them before they reluctantly agreed to take a car. Seriously, I have watched people get legally married in less time.

When it was finally my turn at the counter, I tossed my license and credit card on the counter briskly, intending to impress the counter person with the fact that I was intimately familiar with the car rental process and wanted it to proceed quickly. This did not cut me much slack with Avis. I was informed that because I was early for my appointment, I would not get the cozy little economy car I had reserved, but would have to be upgraded to a full-size sedan, for a few hundred dollars more. Knowing my credit cards were already radiating from the first four days of the trip, I agreed without much argument, and went down into the Avis basement to procure my wheels.

They brought up a brand-new Chevy Impala, which unfortunately was not full of gas. Anyone who has ever rented a car knows that accepting one that doesn’t have a full tank of gas is a bigger mistake than test-firing your pepper spray indoors.

“Hey,” I said to the basement counter guy, “This car is only three-quarters full.”

He looked to be a Native Alaskan, as was the other guy behind the counter. They immediately agreed the car needed filling up, and cheerfully informed me they wouldn’t be doing it—I would have to wait for the “detailer,” who was no doubt responsible for failing to gas up my ride in the first place, to do it. “Five minutes,” they lied.

Forty-five minutes later I was still standing on the curb, thinking to myself “I’ve only been here four days, and already I hate these goddamn Eskimos.”

Which only proves that my default mode, like most other people’s, is racism.

When my car was finally filled and ready, I got behind the wheel and realized that it had way more bells and whistles than you could find at a Bells and Whistles R Us outlet store. It was like me getting a brand-new and extremely more complicated cell phone than my last one, except I had to drive it. An alarm tone kept going off, causing me to stop and check the doors and trunk several times before I realized that the tone was sounding every time the car crossed a line on the road. It had a little camera that spotted the wheels touching any line, from the shoulder to the center divider. It bonged every time I changed lanes.

I don't need a car that tells me I’m swerving all over the road—I have a woman for that—but I didn’t want to waste precious vacation moments trying to figure out how disable the feature, so the car just bonged all the way to Seward, which was a pretty ride to a pretty town where you can get delicious if somewhat pricey seafood for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Unfortunately, we had both been exposed to a nasty upper-respiratory virus in Denali, which eventually landed my Significant Other in the hospital with pneumonia, because she likes to max out every illness she contracts. It hit us pretty hard on the last day of our trip, so we were mighty feverish when our flight took off from Anchorage the next morning. The pilot warned us that we might see Denali after we climbed to cruising altitude, and sure enough, after a few minutes, he babbled excitedly, “There it is! There’s Denali! On the left side of the plane!”

We were on the right side of the plane, of course, and had to look for the mountain across the cabin and out the windows of the passengers on the other side, who were not being helpful by whipping out their cell phones for pics of the Great One. It’s also a snow-capped mountain situated in a mass of white clouds, not making it the easiest thing to pick out of the background.

And I was sick. But I guess I saw it. Should have bought the other t-shirt.

We went to Alaska this summer. It was my Significant Other’s idea. We had cruised Alaska before, but this time we decided to go it alone, not wanting to be herded down the gangplanks again with a horde of other tourists so stuffed with cruise ship food that they were barely able to walk to the bar on the dock. We wanted to see the real Alaska.

Real Alaska is really beautiful, but Alaska is really serious about three things: 1. Prices for stuff that border on the whimsical. 2. Booze. 3. Bears.

I saw a sign at Exit Glacier, which, summarized, said “If you are attacked by a black bear, fight back. If you are attacked by a grizzly bear, play dead, unless the bear starts to eat you, then fight back.”

That’s a lot of stuff to remember in those trenchant moments when you are being attacked by a bear, in my opinion. First off, you have to decide what species the angry mass of teeth and claws that is rushing out of the pines to devour you belongs to. Second, if you are being attacked by a grizzly bear, you have to be sensitive to the moment when it decides you are not just an intruder that needs to be pulped, but a tasty treat that happened to be wandering in the woods, at which point you need to become the snack that fights back.

How you “fight” a thousand-pound animal is left deliberately vague, in my opinion, by bear warning signs. You are left to your own martial arts preferences in a bear fight. Possibly you have MME caliber skills. Conversely, maybe you are just barely capable of looking for an opening to kick your opponent in the genitals. Fortunately for you, the attackee, your personal fighting skills are not likely to have much effect on the decision, which is always made by the bear.

If you are worried about bears attacking you to the point of anxiety, there is always alcohol to ease your dread, provided you don’t give any to minors. The penalty for doing so on the Last Frontier is 5 years in state prison. So, for giving a can of beer to a twenty-year-old in Alaska, you can serve a prison term that many states would regard as adequate for manslaughter.

Fortunately, we didn’t know any minors in Alaska, but I still got in trouble buying beer. First, no matter how old you appear to be, anytime you buy alcohol there, you get carded. I can assure you that liquor store clerks in Anchorage do not appreciate it if you respond “You’re shitting me, right?” when they ask for ID.  Also, there is a special counter where you must purchase your beer, due to the hushed, sinful nature of the transaction. Simply dumping your sixer on the regular counter where you buy jerky and Doritos will earn you some stinkeye from the convenience store worker.

All this is because Alaska has a problem with Native Alaskans drinking too much because they have an inherited disposition toward severe alcoholism. How carding people nearly old enough for Medicare, and putting guys who give wine coolers to their underaged dates in the slam for five years, solves this problem is something you’ll have to ask Juneau.

I thought I was ready for Alaska prices, because I lived in Hawaii for nine years, where gouging tourists is how we made our living, but the price of stuff in Alaska is even more random. If you are not fully awake by the time you finish your bacon and eggs in Alaska, you will be jolted to full alertness when you realize you are going to pay fifty bucks for them. Alaskans only have about four months a year to clean out tourist’s wallets, whereas in Hawaii we had all year round. Alaskans have to be more serious about it. And they are.

In Hawaii, if you live there, you are considered kama’aina, which is a beautiful old Hawaiian word which means “Fuck the tourists,” and you get lower prices on everything than malahinis, or visitors. As far as I could tell, Alaska does not have a similar practice. If it does, the locals kept it on the down-low from me.
​
Looks like I’ve reached my word limit for the day, and I haven’t even gotten out of Anchorage, so this column will have to have a Part II.

​*Not to be confused with the Final Frontier. That's Star Trek.

​More excerpts from Bannon's recently uncovered confidential journal. For Part One, click here.
​
JULY 13TH: Donny Jr’s in the woodshed, for spilling the emails about meeting with the Russians. The Boss ordered that Junior’s collection of preserved animal heads be tossed off the top floor of Trump Tower. Jared the Jew is in trouble too, even though he claimed he stumbled into the meeting “accidentally” when he had really just left his office to grab an Orange Julius. Prebunk was found in a closet he had locked from the inside. Turned out he had been there three days, licking the polish off his shoes for nourishment.

JULY 21ST: The Mooch is coming! The Boss says he wants someone who looks good on TV to be his communications director. Was that a personal shot at me? Sean Spicer has already left the building—he’s never forgiven Scaramucci for that time the Mooch got wasted on ‘ludes and tried out his moves on Mrs. Spicer. I gave the Mooch a “welcome” present of half an ounce of Peruvian snow and a bottle of Fireball, and told him a friend of mine at the New Yorker would love to have a phone chat with him. After he railed out most of the bag on my desk and snorted it, he took a couple swigs of Fireball and wrote down the number. Doubt he’ll last a week.

JULY 25TH: The Boss left his Twitter phone on my desk, so I banned transgendered troops. He’ll never notice.

JULY 26TH: Suck my own WHAT? If I could do that, I probably wouldn’t have had time to invent the alt-right.

JULY 27TH: Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Rinse has gone down the drain. I just wish he could take McConnell and McCain with him. The new Chief of Staff is John Kelly. First thing he did was shitcan the Mooch. The Boss let him get away with it, although he confided to me that he liked having the Mooch around because he was a “bigger public embarrassment than almost anybody.” I think he meant himself. Tried to show him how to work spellcheck on Twitter again, but he lost interest when Hope Hicks came in wearing nothing but heels and holding a folder marked “Top Secret” over her hoochie.

I can handle this guy Kelly. Screw his years of service, his air of command, and the fact he always talks in complete sentences. I’m Steve Bannon. The Boss wouldn’t have won the election without me. And don’t mention the Russians or Comey. They wouldn’t have made any difference if I hadn’t masterminded my way into the scared hearts of white America. It was my special genius that made me realize they were just like me--they don’t like colored people.

AUGUST 7TH: The Boss bravely sticks up for my storm troopers in Charlotte. It took guts for him to equate Nazis and Klansmen with the counter protesters. Guts, and perhaps the realization that 100% of the tiki-torch crowd had voted for him, while 100% of the femmies and gays on the other side hadn’t. It’s my political acumen that’s made me indispensable. Kelly’s just fantasizing when he points his finger at me and makes that “pew-pew-pew” sound. Just to piss him off, I made Fridays Baggy Shorts and Mismatched Hawaiian Shirt Day for my crew. Maybe Kelly will at least unbutton his jacket.

AUGUST 10TH: War with Venezuela? Me likee. Let’s face it, where are we standing in our wars against Asians? I think it’s one win, one loss, and one tie. Contrast that to our uninterrupted record of military glory against Spanish-speaking nations. And it would distract people from The Boss thanking the Russians for 86-ing all our diplomats. Of course he was joking! Can’t people tell when he’s making a funny? Al Franken called over here, offering to give The Boss sarcasm lessons. I think he was being sarcastic.

AUGUST 17TH: It’s come to this. Everybody is bailing on The Boss, including all his country-club pals on his advisory boards, so why fire me? I’ve always been willing to stick around. I won’t say comparing Robert E. Lee to George Washington was my idea, because it wasn’t. I suggested that The Boss tweet something like “What would make those femgays happy? Tearing down every statue of a white man in this country, including Jesus?”

It’s Kelly, of course. Well, not everybody can have a perfect complexion, or a spotless war record, asshole. I’m going back to my perch at Breitbart, loosen my belt, maybe smoke a sherm, and get to work making sure you don’t last until the end of the year. Got a couple pics of your uniformed ass with Clinton and Obama right here in the old file drawer.

What comes around, goes around.

Found! He left it in his desk when he got fired! The most titillating excerpts right here!

JANUARY 20TH: The big day! Got a plaque that says White House Chief Strategist on my desk. Reince Priebus comes by to wave an even bigger plaque that says “Chief of Staff.” Says to me “I can’t decide if your office ought to be this close to the Oval one.” I say, “I can’t decide whether to make fun of your stupid first name or your ridiculous surname, Preeby-Boy.”

JANUARY 21ST: Spicer gets himself in trouble by chopping short the line I gave him about the size of The Boss’s Inauguration crowd, which was “It was way bigger than Obama’s if you don’t count the black people.”

FEBRUARY 13th: Mikey Flynn is gone, for lying to Pence. A pall settles over the West Wing, since we’ve all been lying to Pence. That holy roller still thinks The Boss doesn’t keep three abortionists on speed dial, just in case. The Boss has our back, says he’ll fire Pence.  Preebuncus is the one who has to tell him he can’t. I let The Boss know Rinse was the one responsible for not telling him that before Pence was hired. Later, see him slinking back from the Oval Office spitting soap into his hankie.

MARCH 21st: First day of spring, so I’m working barefoot. Just so people don’t accuse me of goofing off, I write “Fuck NATO” on my toes with a Sharpie.

APRIL 22ND: A sturdy, hetero, white nationalist male like myself naturally gravitates to thoughts of love when the trees start to bud, and I’ve managed to keep my hands off Kellyanne, even though everybody knows she’s into “alternative dick,” because I hear the only thing she is ever truthful about is comparative penis size. Waited until I thought Ivanka might be in the mood, and whispered, “You know, you’re not really a Jew,” in her ear, thinking she might appreciate that, but no dice. Settled for a booty call from Sarah Huckabee Sanders. The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin,’ as my Boy Scout leader used to tell us back when I belonged to Troop 88. Pulled out of her like she was the Paris Climate Agreement at the last second, so if she’s missed any periods, blame ol’ Preebung.

MAY 9TH: The Boss finally takes my advice and fires that prick Comey. Never mind that he practically won the election for you, I always said. You can’t trust a guy that only owns shirts in one color.

MAY 17TH: And now we’ve got Comey’s clone on our asses! The only difference between the two is that Mueller more closely resembles a basset hound! The Boss went ballistic—literally, as he started punching random buttons on the nuclear "football" while foaming at the mouth. Luckily, someone distracted him by waving a pair of “Melania’s panties,” in front of his nose, and grabbed the "football" away from him. Jeffie Sessions is up to his Spock ears in doo-doo. The reason the Sesh hates black guys so much is that he’s hung like a roll of Tums himself, according to Kellyanne. Later The Boss remembered that Melania doesn’t wear panties, and he broke all four TV’s in his bedroom.

MAY 18TH: Mueller calls me up to introduce himself, referring to himself as “Special Counsel Mueller.” “Isn’t ‘special’ another word for ‘retarded?” I said back. Humor is so important in maintaining relationships. “By the way,” I added, “I always start my fireplace log burning using shredded documents for kindling. You know, for the sake of the environment. So don’t send any subpoenas to me, 'cause you know what I'll do with them."

Hope I don't have to carry out that threat. I don't think they print subpoenas on very soft paper.

To be continued…

Well, you think I'd have plenty to write about this week, and with Guam under the gun, Venezuela on the national to-invade list and Trump refusing to endorse regular folk over regular Nazis, you're right. However, myself and my S.O. came back from vacation with the flu, and she chose to max it out by getting pneumonia and getting herself tossed in the hospital, so not today. Hope you enjoy this bit of old fake news.

Hello, Internet surfers and welcome to the fact-checking page of rightwingnut.org, where all political statements are checked ruthlessly for rigid adherence to the truth.

Today we review Facebook posts by Mary Lou Bruner, who is poised to become a member of the Texas State Board of Education. We were proud to support Mary Lou’s campaign, and still endorse her, but after checking some of her Facebook posts for strict accuracy, we noticed several misstatements.

For example, in one post, Mary Lou claims “Obama has a soft spot for homosexuals because of the years he spent as a male prostitute in his twenties... That is how he paid for his drugs.”

We rate this statement as half-true. Obama worked his way through Harvard as a male prostitute, performing unnatural acts for cash with members of the liberal elite who had graduated and started writing the gay agenda. He in fact supported his drug habit by dealing drugs in elementary schoolyards in Chicago.

Mary Lou also said “Many people believe the Democrat Party had JFK killed because the socialists and Communists in the party did not want a conservative president.”

This is unquestionably true, but what Mary Lou failed to reveal is that the mysterious second gunman, generally referred to as “the man on the grassy knoll” on that fateful Dallas day was none other than former Democratic Presidential candidate Bernie Sanders. At the time, the young Sanders was known to be a decent shot. For a Jew.

In her reading of history, Mary Lou was spot on. “Slavery is not the Reason for the Civil War…Historians waited until all of the people who were alive during the Civil War and the Restoration were dead of old age. THEN HISTORIANS WROTE THE HISTORY BOOKS TO TELL THE STORY THE WAY THEY WANTED IT TOLD.”

We rate this statement true. To this day, few people are aware that all of the Confederate states were preparing to free their slaves and give them all cash, land and farm animals or else a free boat ride back to Africa, when the Union brutally invaded Dixie on a quest to prevent emancipation. It is also not generally known that the Gettysburg Address was originally composed by General Robert E. Lee. A copy of it was found by Union soldiers on the battlefield. They gave it to the scoundrel Lincoln, and he promptly plagiarized it.

Mary Lou weighs in on the biggest lie ever told but again, disappoints when she fails to reveal the whole story: “Climate change has nothing to do with weather or climate, it is all about system change from capitalism (free enterprise) to Socialism-Communism. The Climate Change HOAX was Karl Marx’s idea.”

Those who have read Das Kapital in the original German (which rightwingnut.org has not, believing it unpatriotic to understand any language but English) assure us that a passage that is generally not reprinted in the English versions of Kapital goes as follows:

Machen Sie die herrschenden Klassen glauben, dass sie die Erde zerstören , indem Sie etwas Scheiße überEisbären ertrinken bilden. Die Menschen werden etwas für die Eisbären zu tun *

Also Mary Lou does not sufficiently discredit the biggest climate change phony around, Al Gore, who invented the Internet just so he could start lying about climate change on it. He also grew a beard, which proves he is a Marxist.

But, hey, you all already knew that.
 
*“Make the ruling classes believe they are destroying the Earth by making up some shit about polar bears drowning. People will do anything for polar bears.”

The Cheeto-in-Chief, not content with threatening war with North Korea and, as a merry aside, with Venezuela as well, finished off the weekend by refusing to assign moral error in violence ending in death, sparked by Nazi protesters in Charlottesville, Virginia. He simply sorrowed over the ruckus stirred by “many sides,” in the college town.

It must be noted here that we used to give medals to people for fighting Nazis. That policy has changed under Trump. Now, even if you end up run over by a white supremacist barreling into a crowd in a speeding car, you merely get sorrowed over in a generic way. Standing up for equality, freedom and justice entitled you to accolades and ticker-tape parades back in the day. Being a Nazi meant getting tried and hung at Nuremberg. No longer the case, as we have a President who is more comfortable with Aryan supremacists than with the noisy lefties, feminists and Democrats who think the alt-right ought to move to Russia, where they belong, and where he does, too.

Leave it to Mike Pence, el consigliere, to clarify the situation. The VP did call out the Nazis for being repugnant scum, but was quick to blame the press for the whole situation. “I take issue with the fact that many in the national media spent more time criticizing the president’s words than they did criticizing those that perpetrated the violence to begin with,” said Pence, who continues to style his hair to resemble a small animal flattened on the highway.

It is true that the mainstream media has so far refrained from detailed attacks on modern-day Nazis, thinking perhaps that merely noting that they were Nazis, or pined for Aryan overlordship, or advocated racial war was sufficient criticism in and of itself. Obviously not, so let’s do our duty here—they are spoiled bed-wetters who couldn’t get laid in a Bangkok whorehouse on National Free Ass Day, carrying tiki torches they bought at Home Depot, the same kind your Aunt Zeldie falls asleep under at the family barbecue, and that probably keeps her from getting too bit up by mosquitos, because they are too lazy to dip stakes in pitch like their spiritual ancestors in the Klan did.

Some of them carry guns, but they attack their opponents with Chrysler products, since they don’t have tanks, Stukas or gas chambers as of this writing. They do have a leader, though.
​
He’s Mike Pence’s boss, so Mike has to be careful what he says about them.

Science marches on, and it takes no prisoners. Apparently we’re all being hit by bullets from space all the time in the form of cosmic rays, and now they’ve discovered ones that are high-caliber enough to mess us up:

In 2012 it (Ice Cube, not the rapper, but a cosmic ray detector buried at the South Pole) detected a whopper of a neutrino (nicknamed Big Bird; all these events are named after Sesame Street characters to make it easier to keep track of them). The energy in that single neutrino was staggering beyond staggering: It contained 1000 trillion times as much energy as a photon of visible light. If that neutrino had hit someone they would have felt it. A blow from a single subatomic particle. Egads.

From Phil Plait’s “Bad Astronomy” column in Slate.

Egads indeed, but now that we know we’re being pummeled by invisible tiny uppercuts from outer space at all times (kind of like a Chinese water torture from God) it explains a hell of a lot about human behavior, particularly mine. The series of horrible personal and financial decisions that form the map of my life were heretofore thought to be the result of poor judgement, or drinking, or both. Now I realize that all along it’s been being bombarded by bruiser neutrinos named after Sesame Street characters that has kept me from scaling the lofty peaks of success.

My decision to become a widely ignored writer instead of a successful solar energy salesman, or an Uber driver, or a social media star or otherwise to make some cutting-edge career choice was something I laid to the reality that it’s much easier to pretend you’re writing while suffering from a seismic hangover than to pretend you’re selling, driving or starring in anything. Now I realize that alcohol had nothing to do with it—Bert and Ernie from outer space were zipping through my defenseless neurons the whole time, fuzzing up my brain and drying out my throat.

But let’s not just talk about me, much as I enjoy that subject. The whole history of human intercourse-ups can be viewed in an entirely new light, now that we realize all of our ancestors, along with ourselves, have had Cookie Monster neutrinos from black holes burrowing through our otherwise capable gray matter since we dropped out of the trees. From the architect who designed the walls of Jericho to the emperor who presided over the fall of Rome to the skipper who steered the Titanic into the iceberg, every lapse of judgement in history could be ascribed to high-energy neutrinos twerking in the lapser’s gray matter.
 
Even as I write this, every person on Earth who got up resolving to make today the day they got their act together is getting whammed by neutrinos named Kermit, Beaker and the Swedish Chef. That’s why, in spite of their best intentions, they left their lunch on the counter, the door unlocked, accidentally parked in their boss’s parking space and spent the rest of the day frantically trying to recover files they unintentionally erased. It’s a wonder anyone has enough self-regard left at quitting time to drag him or herself into a bar. And it's all the fault of powerful Muppet neutrinos.

And it’s not just humans these subatomic bullies are roughing up. You know who just made your dog poop on the rug? Fozzie Bear.  

The question is, how high-energy do these neutrinos get? Can science tell us? Do we have to add neutrinos to the list of threats to Earth from outer space, along with comets, asteroids, gamma-ray bursts and uncomfortably close supernovas?  Is there a killer quark out there capable of ending life on Earth?
​
Could be. Apocalypse, your name is Miss Piggy. 

I currently live, as I have previously said here, in the dullest, safest neighborhood I have ever inhabited. I’ve lived around some—from the slums of West Philly to Mission Beach in San Diego to Waikiki Beach in Hawaii. I’ve lived in ethnic neighborhoods where I was just about the only gringo, where the chickens crowed at dawn and the pit bulls barked all day.

Here it is so quiet that the automatic sprinkler system switching itself on after a downpour sounds like thunder. Mainly this is a function of the age of my neighbors. They range from well past retirement age to completely superannuated, not because it is one of those 55-and-up communities but because they bought here when the place was built in the 80’s and slowly fossilized into it.

We did have a crime here recently. Somebody broke into the community mailboxes. I can only think it was the most heartless and diabolical of criminals, because that is hitting old people where they hurt the most. If there is one thing my ancient neighbors love besides their grandchildren and going to Heaven, it is their mail.

The mail comes fairly early here, usually before 10, and no sooner has the mail truck putt-putted off than my neighbors descend on their boxes, eagerly yanking out the same useless supermarket flyers and coupon cards that me and my girl get nearly every day. Sometimes I get checks, which makes getting my mail extremely gratifying. I know their Social Security checks are automatically deposited, so I don’t think that my neighbors are getting any money in the mail, so why, if the mail is late, do they wander in the vicinity of the mailboxes, with looks of bleak puzzlement on their faces, like earthquake survivors stumbling around in the rubble?

My girl gets more mail here than me, because she has lived here longer and I have a separate PO box in which I get mail I don’t want her to see. Hah! Just kidding, sweetie. At this address, besides the checks, I usually just get letters from my health insurance company, at least two or three a week because I have Obamacare (for now) and mailing out useless, repetitive notices must be one of its provisions.

She also gets more interesting mail than me, having belonged at one point to both the NRA and the Southern Poverty Law Center. Possibly there is no one else in this vast nation that has contributed to both of these widely disparate non-profits, but there is a simple explanation—she teaches sociology at a local university and joined the NRA to piss off the kumbaya liberals in the sociology department, and she gives to the Southern Poverty Law Center because, at heart, she is a kumbaya liberal herself.

The SPLC has been begging for funds hard since the election, since they figure Trump will stomp all over civil rights, because that was one of his campaign promises, but the NRA is truly desperate, and for good reason. Without Democrats in office, NRA members are no longer frightened that the government will confiscate their guns and ammo, and weapons sales are grinding to a halt. People quite sensibly are figuring that the twelve assault rifles and the six crates of ammo they already bought because they were sure Obama was going to take their guns away, will hold them through the Apocalypse or until the Dems win an election, whichever comes first.

But none of these mail items are more than momentarily interesting, causing me to wonder just what it is my neighbors expect in the mail that makes them stalk the post-person so relentlessly? Do they look forward to endearing, hand-written letters and cards from their loving grandchildren? I hope not, because their grandchildren belong to a generation that figures if you can’t text it, it’s not worth saying.

Are they betting in lotteries in distant countries, and figuring it’s only a matter of time before a fortune in pounds, pesos or guineas is mailed to them in a letter covered with ugly-looking foreign stamps? Maybe that’s the answer.

Or are they treasuring those flyers because they, like my own aged mother, are determined to stock up on enough toilet paper, canned soup, shaving cream and mouthwash so that no matter how long they live, there’s going to be enough left over so that attendees can shave, gargle, eat and go to the bathroom after their funeral?
​
I could speculate more, but I think I hear the mail truck.

​Still on vacation, so here's another blast from the past.

Florida state representative Brad Drake has introduced legislation to re-institute execution by firing squad as a death penalty option in the Sunshine State because he overheard the idea at a Waffle House restaurant.

Immediately this reporter contacted a spokesperson for the Waffle House chain. He was wildly enthusiastic about the idea. "Bringing back firing squads is just the latest example of a great concept being first floated at a Waffle House," he said.

I didn't know Waffle Houses were such hotbeds of intellectual ferment.

"You just haven't been paying attention. Syrup, hotcakes and bacon are known natural brain foods. Every single waffle, whether square or round, contains in its lines and rectangles an intellectually stimulating natural geometry lesson. Pythagoras was staring at a waffle when he came up with his famous theorem, believe it or not."

The ancient Greeks made waffles?

"Tons of 'em. Ate 'em by the plateful while they were braining up to invent Western civilization. Aristotle, Plato, Demosthenes, Bucephalus…all of them could wreak havoc on a stack of waffley goodness before you could say "I think, therefore I want more syrup."

You're aware Bucephalus was a horse?

"And a smart beast indeed. But let's get back to the death penalty issue. The Waffle House is fully behind the restoration of firing squads. We're prepared to sponsor."

I didn't know Florida was looking for sponsors for its executions.

"Why not? Privatization of public services is the wave of the future. The trouble with lethal injection is that it's  dull, dull, dull. The condemned's eyes just close like he was watching the School Board Channel. If you're lucky, he poops himself. Big whoop. With firing squads, private enterprise is going to want in on the action.

But what do waffles have to do with the death penalty?

"Try and follow me here. We're not going to try to ace our fellow corporate citizens out of the execution action. There's a drama to death by firing squad that lends itself to sponsorship. What about the blindfold? What do you think Nike's going to pay to have "Just Do It" printed on that?"

Possibly you've been eating too many waffles.

"And if Nike won't cough up with the big bucks, we've got Kellog's waiting in the wings. Snap, Crackle and Pop! Ammunition makers will fall all over themselves to supply the rounds. "Teflon Bullets—They're Not Just for Killing Cops Anymore." There's a message, my friend.

Representative Drake has suggested employees of the Florida Department of Corrections will carry out the executions. Do you think they should be wearing Waffle House uniforms?

"We'll go better than that. We will supply the actual executioners. We'll make more loot by filming a reality show about them. Long, intense conversations in a Jacuzzi about who gets the gun with the blank in it this time. We'll have at least one smokin' hot girl who always complains that the recoil from the rifles keeps bruising her enormous garbanzos."

Waffle House sounds like they're all in with the firing squad idea. You realize it hasn't become law yet?

"Yes, but we're prepared for that. If Florida won't do the sensible thing and bring back the firing squad, we're ready to build a heavy-duty waffle-maker."

You mean…

"Yes. A waffle maker capable of carrying out the will of the people of Florida."

Wouldn't that be cruel and unusual punishment?

"Cruelty is in the eye of the beholder. I have it admit, though, it would be damn unusual."Florida state representative Brad Drake has introduced legislation to re-institute execution by firing squad as a death penalty option in the Sunshine State because he overheard the idea at a Waffle House restaurant.

Immediately this reporter contacted a spokesperson for the Waffle House chain. He was wildly enthusiastic about the idea. "Bringing back firing squads is just the latest example of a great concept being first floated at a Waffle House," he said.

I didn't know Waffle Houses were such hotbeds of intellectual ferment.

"You just haven't been paying attention. Syrup, hotcakes and bacon are known natural brain foods. Every single waffle, whether square or round, contains in its lines and rectangles an intellectually stimulating natural geometry lesson. Pythagoras was staring at a waffle when he came up with his famous theorem, believe it or not."

The ancient Greeks made waffles?

"Tons of 'em. Ate 'em by the plateful while they were braining up to invent Western civilization. Aristotle, Plato, Demosthenes, Bucephalus…all of them could wreak havoc on a stack of waffley goodness before you could say "I think, therefore I want more syrup."

You're aware Bucephalus was a horse?

"And a smart beast indeed. But let's get back to the death penalty issue. The Waffle House is fully behind the restoration of firing squads. We're prepared to sponsor."

I didn't know Florida was looking for sponsors for its executions.

"Why not? Privatization of public services is the wave of the future. The trouble with lethal injection is that it's  dull, dull, dull. The condemned's eyes just close like he was watching the School Board Channel. If you're lucky, he poops himself. Big whoop. With firing squads, private enterprise is going to want in on the action.

But what do waffles have to do with the death penalty?

"Try and follow me here. We're not going to try to ace our fellow corporate citizens out of the execution action. There's a drama to death by firing squad that lends itself to sponsorship. What about the blindfold? What do you think Nike's going to pay to have "Just Do It" printed on that?"

Possibly you've been eating too many waffles.

"And if Nike won't cough up with the big bucks, we've got Kellog's waiting in the wings. Snap, Crackle and Pop! Ammunition makers will fall all over themselves to supply the rounds. "Teflon Bullets—They're Not Just for Killing Cops Anymore." There's a message, my friend.

Representative Drake has suggested employees of the Florida Department of Corrections will carry out the executions. Do you think they should be wearing Waffle House uniforms?

"We'll go better than that. We will supply the actual executioners. We'll make more loot by filming a reality show about them. Long, intense conversations in a Jacuzzi about who gets the gun with the blank in it this time. We'll have at least one smokin' hot girl who always complains that the recoil from the rifles keeps bruising her enormous garbanzos."

Waffle House sounds like they're all in with the firing squad idea. You realize it hasn't become law yet?

"Yes, but we're prepared for that. If Florida won't do the sensible thing and bring back the firing squad, we're ready to build a heavy-duty waffle-maker."

You mean…

"Yes. A waffle maker capable of carrying out the will of the people of Florida."

Wouldn't that be cruel and unusual punishment?

"Cruelty is in the eye of the beholder. I have it admit, though, it would be damn unusual."
Florida state representative Brad Drake has introduced legislation to re-institute execution by firing squad as a death penalty option in the Sunshine State because he overheard the idea at a Waffle House restaurant.

Immediately this reporter contacted a spokesperson for the Waffle House chain. He was wildly enthusiastic about the idea. "Bringing back firing squads is just the latest example of a great concept being first floated at a Waffle House," he said.

I didn't know Waffle Houses were such hotbeds of intellectual ferment.

"You just haven't been paying attention. Syrup, hotcakes and bacon are known natural brain foods. Every single waffle, whether square or round, contains in its lines and rectangles an intellectually stimulating natural geometry lesson. Pythagoras was staring at a waffle when he came up with his famous theorem, believe it or not."

The ancient Greeks made waffles?

"Tons of 'em. Ate 'em by the plateful while they were braining up to invent Western civilization. Aristotle, Plato, Demosthenes, Bucephalus…all of them could wreak havoc on a stack of waffley goodness before you could say "I think, therefore I want more syrup."

You're aware Bucephalus was a horse?

"And a smart beast indeed. But let's get back to the death penalty issue. The Waffle House is fully behind the restoration of firing squads. We're prepared to sponsor."

I didn't know Florida was looking for sponsors for its executions.

"Why not? Privatization of public services is the wave of the future. The trouble with lethal injection is that it's  dull, dull, dull. The condemned's eyes just close like he was watching the School Board Channel. If you're lucky, he poops himself. Big whoop. With firing squads, private enterprise is going to want in on the action.

But what do waffles have to do with the death penalty?

"Try and follow me here. We're not going to try to ace our fellow corporate citizens out of the execution action. There's a drama to death by firing squad that lends itself to sponsorship. What about the blindfold? What do you think Nike's going to pay to have "Just Do It" printed on that?"

Possibly you've been eating too many waffles.

"And if Nike won't cough up with the big bucks, we've got Kellog's waiting in the wings. Snap, Crackle and Pop! Ammunition makers will fall all over themselves to supply the rounds. "Teflon Bullets—They're Not Just for Killing Cops Anymore." There's a message, my friend.

Representative Drake has suggested employees of the Florida Department of Corrections will carry out the executions. Do you think they should be wearing Waffle House uniforms?

"We'll go better than that. We will supply the actual executioners. We'll make more loot by filming a reality show about them. Long, intense conversations in a Jacuzzi about who gets the gun with the blank in it this time. We'll have at least one smokin' hot girl who always complains that the recoil from the rifles keeps bruising her enormous garbanzos."

Waffle House sounds like they're all in with the firing squad idea. You realize it hasn't become law yet?

"Yes, but we're prepared for that. If Florida won't do the sensible thing and bring back the firing squad, we're ready to build a heavy-duty waffle-maker."

You mean…

"Yes. A waffle maker capable of carrying out the will of the people of Florida."

Wouldn't that be cruel and unusual punishment?

"Cruelty is in the eye of the beholder. I have it admit, though, it would be damn unusual."

Florida state representative Brad Drake has introduced legislation to re-institute execution by firing squad as a death penalty option in the Sunshine State because he overheard the idea at a Waffle House restaurant.

Immediately this reporter contacted a spokesperson for the Waffle House chain. He was wildly enthusiastic about the idea. "Bringing back firing squads is just the latest example of a great concept being first floated at a Waffle House," he said.

I didn't know Waffle Houses were such hotbeds of intellectual ferment.

"You just haven't been paying attention. Syrup, hotcakes and bacon are known natural brain foods. Every single waffle, whether square or round, contains in its lines and rectangles an intellectually stimulating natural geometry lesson. Pythagoras was staring at a waffle when he came up with his famous theorem, believe it or not."

The ancient Greeks made waffles?

"Tons of 'em. Ate 'em by the plateful while they were braining up to invent Western civilization. Aristotle, Plato, Demosthenes, Bucephalus…all of them could wreak havoc on a stack of waffley goodness before you could say "I think, therefore I want more syrup."

You're aware Bucephalus was a horse?

"And a smart beast indeed. But let's get back to the death penalty issue. The Waffle House is fully behind the restoration of firing squads. We're prepared to sponsor."

I didn't know Florida was looking for sponsors for its executions.

"Why not? Privatization of public services is the wave of the future. The trouble with lethal injection is that it's  dull, dull, dull. The condemned's eyes just close like he was watching the School Board Channel. If you're lucky, he poops himself. Big whoop. With firing squads, private enterprise is going to want in on the action.

But what do waffles have to do with the death penalty?

"Try and follow me here. We're not going to try to ace our fellow corporate citizens out of the execution action. There's a drama to death by firing squad that lends itself to sponsorship. What about the blindfold? What do you think Nike's going to pay to have "Just Do It" printed on that?"

Possibly you've been eating too many waffles.

"And if Nike won't cough up with the big bucks, we've got Kellog's waiting in the wings. Snap, Crackle and Pop! Ammunition makers will fall all over themselves to supply the rounds. "Teflon Bullets—They're Not Just for Killing Cops Anymore." There's a message, my friend.

Representative Drake has suggested employees of the Florida Department of Corrections will carry out the executions. Do you think they should be wearing Waffle House uniforms?

"We'll go better than that. We will supply the actual executioners. We'll make more loot by filming a reality show about them. Long, intense conversations in a Jacuzzi about who gets the gun with the blank in it this time. We'll have at least one smokin' hot girl who always complains that the recoil from the rifles keeps bruising her enormous garbanzos."

Waffle House sounds like they're all in with the firing squad idea. You realize it hasn't become law yet?

"Yes, but we're prepared for that. If Florida won't do the sensible thing and bring back the firing squad, we're ready to build a heavy-duty waffle-maker."

You mean…

"Yes. A waffle maker capable of carrying out the will of the people of Florida."

Wouldn't that be cruel and unusual punishment?

"Cruelty is in the eye of the beholder. I have it admit, though, it would be damn unusual."