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."

Country music has been in the news recently, which means that someone like me can feel on top of the country music scene, without actually listening to country music. So that’s a good thing.
 
I’m not saying that country music doesn’t have its uses. If you walk into a diner and hear a country song playing in the background, you can order grits with pork chops and eggs confidently, without even glancing at the menu. If you go on a first date with a woman that switches your car radio to a country station the minute the engine starts, she has already decided to have sex with you. I don’t eat grits and there is only one woman in my dating pool, so this info is not relevant to me, but feel free to use it if you need it.
 
There are about three country songs I like, and Dolly Parton is a national treasure. Apart from that, I didn’t have much use for the genre, until country went Republican. Country has always been a little bit Republican, of course, being listened to primarily by white guys who can’t dance, but are lured onto the dance floor anyway by leggy white girls who favor short-shorts and cowgirl boots. Often these types are staunch Republicans, until one of those cowgirls needs an abortion.
 
The serious Republicanation of country, though, started with Jason Aldean’s “Try That in a Small Town,” a song which threatens anybody from a bigger town who wants to attempt a carjacking or mugging in some mythical tiny burg. Of course, committing these crimes is a shitty idea in some hamlet where everybody knows everybody else. “Gollee, Clem, I ain’t seen you since you dropped out of fifth grade. And you grew up to be a carjacker! Wonders never cease!”
 
If you want to commit crime in a small town, it’s better to stick to small-town type criminal activities, like niece-fucking or being a closeted gay phys-ed coach who eventually gets busted for patting the wrong boy on the rump. Jason Aldean could have written a whole other verse about crimes you can get away with in a one-stoplight town, like smacking your woman around or embezzling money from your congregation. He didn’t, though.
 
Then came “Rich Men North of Richmond,” a song by former nobody Oliver Anthony that got to be number 1 on the country charts, which complains vaguely about wealthy snots who control the lives of poor, honest people like Oliver Anthony and his kin. Of course, this relationship between the haves and the have-nots has existed since about 6,000 BC, so Anthony is a bit late to this party.
 
Republicans seized on this ditty, and even played it at their debate in Milwaukee. That pissed even Oliver Anthony off, because while he and his friends bitch about shadowy forces that control their lives, the Republicans that were onstage in Milwaukee are those shadowy forces, trying to get Anthony and his ilk to worry about bilingual signs in Walmart and transgender hootenannies in the holler while their bridges rot and their healthcare gets ripped away.
 
Also, Milwaukee is well north of Richmond. You don’t believe me, get out your Mercator and a straightedge and see for yourself.
 
John Cougar Mellencamp, who really grew up in a small town, wrote a song about small town life that was neither racist, vaguely threatening or whiny, back in 1985. You can listen to it here.
 
Or not. I don’t blame you. Fucker sounds like a Democrat.

The indicting is done, the convicting is yet to happen, but already professional prognosticators are examining the question of what future President could accumulate at least 92 formal legal accusations of felonious behavior.

Some, of course, scoff at the idea that any President, no matter how far in the future, could top Trump for sheer criminality. "He or she would have to sell the moon to man-eating aliens and rule the Earth from an orbiting White House to even come close," said one distinguished future foreseer. "There will never be anyone like Trump for unparalleled venality."

Others are not so sure. "The US is full of criminals," said another. "Prior to Trump, none of them had even considered then Presidency as a vessel for their crimes. But, for sure, their eyes are open now."

"Certainly Trump's record can be beaten," asserted a third. "Just look to his kids. Who's more of a slippery, teeny-peeny grifter than Jared Kushner? All he needs is Ivanka in the Oval Office and he'll be renting out Rhode Island to the House of Saud. Eric is obviously oblivious to nearly everything, unless he can feel it in his underwear, and the law is no exception. Junior, though, is the heavy hitter of the trio. Utterly soulless, murderous, and self-centered. If he ever gets 270 electoral votes, the United States is a frog and he's the blender. And, bonus, his girlfriend, Kimberly Guilfoyle, would have a real shot at being a worse First Lady than Melania.

"And nobody knows how Barron will turn out, but his background just drips with potential."

Of course, the panel had to include at least one Republican clairvoyant, but when it was his turn to predict, he didn't elaborate. "Two words," he said. "Hunter. Biden."

It’s no secret Trump’s in big legal trouble. I saw somewhere on the Internet that, if you take all the crimes he’s been accused of, and add up the maximum sentences for each, it totals 541 years in prison.
 
The evidence against him seems strong, as it’s mostly of Trump committing crimes on a recorded line, or videos that he tried to erase but didn’t have minions technically competent enough to do so, or even innocently inquiring if he could get his swimming pool emptied into his servers.
 
Inevitably, during the course of one or more of his trials, Jack Smith or the Atlanta DA is going to offer a plea bargain, and Trump’s lawyers are bound to listen to it and present it to him.
 
What kind of a deal would Trump accept? Obviously, one with no prison time. Trump wants to hang out with people like Hannity and Maria Bartiromo, not guys with nicknames like Sweaty Ben, the Redneck Rammer, or other lifer types that have acquired a taste for big butts, especially old and pimply ones.
 
He’d have to go to a prison big enough to house his Secret Service crew.  Boy, would those guys hate to pull that duty, instead of accompanying Biden to party countries like Belgium and Bora Bora.
 
The Big House for Trump would probably be Mar al Lago, with some modifications. First, a name change for the length of Trump’s sentence. Slammer Por El Mar would be nice. Then, an ankle bracelet. It would have to be the biggest, best ankle monitor ever, so he could brag about it on social media. Maybe one for each ankle, so they wouldn’t knock his golf swing off balance.
 
Conjugal visits? Does Melania want to have to slap his hand away once a month? Will others be permitted to service the mushroom? I foresee tense, disgustingly intimate legal wrangling before this issue is settled.
 
Staff? The most important felon in US history can’t be expected to handle the burdens of his office alone. How about an Unindicted Co-Conspirators Wing, just south of the pool shed at el Slammer, where Rudy Giuliani, Roger Stone and random gardeners and valets can try and overturn the results of his criminal convictions. At least they can help him add up the days left in his sentence, by Magic Markering four vertical strokes with one slash on his cell wall for every five days served, the traditional hard-timekeeping method.
 
Food? Prison food is part of the punishment. He might have to eat Burger King, or even Wendy’s, instead of McDonald’s. The sogginess of his fries, the flatness of his Diet Cokes will only fuel the bitterness of his confinement.
 
He could still brag on polls showing that at least 50% of Republicans still think that he would be the best choice, if they had to pick a convicted traitor for President.
 
He could still call into Fox News, but it would have to be collect. And there would be that little recording, telling whoever answered the phone that the caller was incarcerated, and would they accept the charges?
 
And Rupert Murdoch would have to say yes.

"If you're coming after me, I'm coming after you!" Donald Trump, last Friday.

This terrifying threat, issued by the Tangerine Drama Queen himself, has all of us shaking in our flip-flops out here in Libtard Land. Should we be constantly looking over our shoulders, fearing for a glimpse of his enraged orange visage, or at least wary of hearing the rumble of the mighty wheels of the Golf Cart of Vengeance?

Being "come after" by Trump seems like an idle threat to the most insouciant of us. How can an obese 77-year-old, a man who looks like running a hundred feet would give him a brain aneurysm, catch up to us comparatively fleet-footed Democrats? The answer is, of course, that Trump himself does not have to chase us down. His army of supporters, men armed with automatic weapons and powerful trucks flying anywhere from ten to fifteen Trump and "Don't Tread on Me" flags, depending on bed size, are standing by, waiting for his command to blast away at our treacherous bodies or run our pitiful Priuses off the highway.

These men, people with birth names like Lew, or Booney, or Cled, are willing to leave their loved ones and their catfish ponds behind to respond to the clarion of Trump's voice, echoing over hill and holler, commanding them to save real 'Murica' from Marxists, transgender athletes competing in any sport from track to pickleball to cornhole, pregnant immigrants and little old lady Democrats harvesting ballots.

Except maybe not. The specter of the last citizen army Trump tried to raise sitting in DC jails, awaiting long prison sentences, deprived of all human companionship besides Marjorie Taylor Greene's, is causing a drop in numbers of MAGA's willing to physically fight for Trump. That's the speculation, anyway. But when Trump calls, and people who bought hats and flags and yard signs from him sigh and say, "Love to be out there with my gun and pepper spray for our real President, but my catfish look hungry and my old lady took the keys to my truck away," who is going to come after Jack Smith and the rest of us?

Trump has even begged the Supreme Court to "intercede" for him. Nobody knows what that means, but, rest assured, it's nothing Brett Kavanaugh is going to put down his beer to do.

So, who will come after Trump's enemies? Possibly nobody. Lock him up.