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 news last week that the FBI has a bunch of Hillary Clinton’s emails and won’t tell us what’s in them, or if in fact if they are allowed to read the emails themselves, has send followers of the 2016 election into a tizzy, in an electoral event that already had achieved stratospheric heights of tizziness.

The emails were not found on Clinton’s server but on a device that former Congressman Anthony Weiner used to send penis portraits to underage girls.

How the possibly classified emails turned up next to Weiner’s collection of underwear selfies is assumed to be the fault of his estranged wife and Hillary's bottom lady, Huma Abedin, who communicates with Weiner by email because, like everybody else Weiner wants to have sex with, she doesn’t want to be in the same room as him.

What worries me is that the FBI might have my emails, too, because I’ve sent a few to Huma. Yeah, I admit it. I think she’s hot. What attracts me most to her is that she is an empowered woman, a major player on the world stage, who still has an absolutely despicable snot for a husband. I always feel that I have a shot at any woman with those kind of low standards, so I might have sent her an email or two hinting that I was available for hookup purposes.

Now the FBI may have them, and I’m worried. I don’t need the Feds to know “I’ve never slept with a Muslim girl,” which I may have written to Huma. Also, I might have typed, “Now that you’ve secretly founded ISIS, I bet you’re thinking about kicking back in San Diego,” at one point in our relationship.

That doesn’t sound too stalky, does it? I don’t need the FBI on my case. I’m still trying to repair my relationship with the local police, after I “accidentally” rear-ended the jitney belonging to the meter maid who wrote me that chickenshit ticket about not having my wheels turned sufficiently towards the curb.
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But that’s neither here nor there. I did cc Huma on an order to my local liquor store, pointing out to her that in addition to my regular weekend stock-up on beer and Jägermeister, I had added a couple bottles of Lebanese wine, in case she wanted to swing by.

In my opinion, that’s just being thoughtful.

When I asked her if she was bisexual, it wasn’t to pry—a couple of my friends just wanted to know. The FBI probably does, too, so if she had answered that email, they would. I’m already cooperating with the investigation, see?

Well, it’s time to bite the bullet, and see what’s really there, before I have to read about it on the news…

Wow! I just checked my sent mail folder, and it turns out that all this time I haven’t been writing to Huma at all. I’ve been writing to George Clooney’s wife, Amal.
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Sorry about the mix-up, George.

My household voted yesterday. We vote by mail around here, because the person who makes decisions around here votes by mail.

This is my first Presidential election voting by mail. Previously, I always voted in person. I like the feel of democracy in action—your neighbors, whom you always regarded as extremely boring people, suddenly appear in front of the polls, jabbing pamphlets in your face excitedly, trying to convince you that electing their candidate for the Sewer, Drain and Other Big Rusty Pipes Authority is the most important political decision of your life. Then you solemnly sign the Big Book of Voters, after which you get to pull the curtain of the voting booth behind you and, for a moment, feel yourself enveloped by the power of representative government. Or merely claustrophobic. 

It’s a somber, almost religious experience, but much more enjoyable than attending church because it doesn’t last nearly as long. That’s the problem with attending religious services, in this column’s opinion—they are exercises in pious tedium. If church consisted of just breezing into a booth and pulling either a “Sin” or “No Sin” lever, more people would go.

But that’s a digression, so let’s get to the point. I’m glad I voted by mail this year because between the state and the city and county of San Diego there were thirty-one separate propositions on the ballot, and sitting at the kitchen table sorting them out was a lot more comfortable than standing in a voting booth squinting at them for forever.

This is direct democracy, which some other states don’t have and for which they should be grateful, because it consists of barely informed people making important governmental decisions, which leaves our politicians free to make speeches, strike poses, and run for re-election instead of making these decisions themselves. When the propositions turn out badly, they are free to say, “Hey, you idiots voted for it, so deal with it. And send me a campaign contribution.”

A lot of the ballot measures were an invitation to instant ennui, but several stood out for their candor. We got to vote on whether we wanted to build a new stadium for our football team to disappoint us in. Our football team has been browned off ever since the city built a new stadium for our baseball team to lose in, while they still have to blow fourth quarter leads in a 70’s style concrete bowl.

I don’t even watch football anymore, because ignoring it is a big timesaver on Sundays, Mondays and Thursdays and we don’t even have to pay for a cable package that includes ESPN, which during football season consists of nothing but husky men barking at each other about football. I voted for the stadium anyway, just because a lot of my friends are football fans and I want them to be happy.

Likewise, weed! Legal weed is coming here, according to the polls. If the pot proposition passes, we Californians won’t have to drive to Oregon or Colorado to light up our blunts legally. Of course, our legislature could have legalized bud on its own, but that would have meant taking responsibility for all of us being stoned out of our gourds, so that wasn’t happening.

I don’t smoke pot, either, because I don’t want to be hungry and paranoid all the time, but a lot of my friends do, and like my football-watching friends, I want them to be happy.  And believe me, there is plenty of overlap between those groups. Even though I won’t start smoking it again, I intend to grow a few marijuana plants in my tiny condo yard, just to piss off the HOA, which I consider a moral obligation.

Condoms were on the ballot as well, as we Californians were given the opportunity to vote on whether our in-state porn performers should be required to wear condoms on the job. This struck me as putting the California porn industry at a serious disadvantage, as it would make dozens of the wetter porn categories impossible to film here. Plus, my partner informed me that she prefers her views of large erect penises to be unencumbered by latex, so I bowed to her wishes and voted no.

Oh, yeah, and I voted for Hillary. I suppose the Blessed Virgin could miraculously appear at Trump Tower and endorse The Donald, amid a wondrous display of angels and saints, in a blaze of Heavenly glory that would make the Olympic opening ceremonies look like a wet paper match struck in a root cellar, in which case I might regret having cast my ballot so early, but I’ll risk that.
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Don’t think Mother Mary would take a chance on standing that close to him. 

I need to buy a gun before November 9th.

Formerly, as a Democrat, I didn’t need to own a gun.  We Democrats don’t believe in FEMA concentration camps, the New World Order or the United Nations Army or anything else us owning a gun would prevent.
We don’t shoot at chemtrails.

Likewise, we don’t own guns because we believe that the government wants to take them away, a position that is logically akin to keeping bales of marijuana in your garage to keep from being arrested for drugs.

Some Democrats hunt, and those lucky Dems already have guns, but I don’t, because I fish when I want to kill and eat one of God’s perfect creatures. Hunting involves too much lying in a freezing, muddy blind before the sun comes up for my taste.

Now that Donald Trump is threatening to dispute the election results, though, the next logical step is for him is to send his followers into the streets if the numbers come out badly for him on Election Day.

“Aw, that’s never going to happen,” I hear you saying. “White people aren’t going to burn down their own neighborhoods, because they own them.”

I’m not taking that chance. I look at the throngs of Trumpeters at Trump rallies, thousands of crazy old women wearing “Grab My Pussy” t-shirts and throngs of bellowing, over-fed men with "Trump That Bitch" stickers on their RV's and I think “Better safe than sorry. I don’t want these people having diabetes all over my front lawn.”

This despite the fact that I currently live in the safest, most boring neighborhood I have ever inhabited in my life. We actually had a crime the other day. Somebody vandalized our community mailbox, looking for checks or trying to steal identities. This happened at night, and so it was possibly one of the most pointless crimes ever committed, because most of my neighbors are pushing 80 and, like all old people, collect their mail eagerly no more than four minutes after it is deposited in their box. The thieves gave up after crow-barring six or seven boxes open.

And there are no Trump yard signs, here or almost anywhere in California. That doesn’t mean Trumpies aren’t hidden among us, ready to wreak havoc if Trump loses, is what I figure. My second closest neighbor is a middle-aged white guy who could stand to lose a few pounds. He rides a motorcycle. He also hang-glides, but I don’t know if that has any political significance. He has a bald roommate. When the roommate showed up, I said to my girl, “Bob must have noticed how well your bald guy was working out for you, so he got one of his own.”

But the time for kidding around could well be past. He could be a Trumper. I’ve never talked politics with him, but if he overturns my car and sets it on fire after the election, I need to be ready with an armed response.

The only way to stop a Trumpkin with a gun is to be a Democrat with a gun.
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Where do I sign up for the NRA?

As someone who toiled in the computer dating swamps for years, I am well aware that those online profiles aren't always scrupulously accurate. The list of adjectives and their definitions in the Facebook meme below was obviously compiled by a bitter bachelor male who was losing in the cyberdating wars:

But the girls aren't the only ones out there trying to brush over their less than utterly charming qualities, so this column, in the interests of gender equality, is willing to reveal what men mean when they use the exact same words:

DICTIONARY FOR MEN'S PERSONAL ADS

40-ISH.........60
Adventurous.....Figures sex on the first date is a given, with anal a possibility.
Athletic......Gets up at 5 AM every day to run. Wants you to go. 
Average-looking........$5 haircut
Handsome........Playuh
Contagious Smile.........Prone to cold sores
Emotionally Secure.......Self-indulgent narcissist and proud of it
Feminist......Politically correct but still won't load the dishwasher
Free Spirit.........Bong on the coffee table
Friendship first........Wait until my Viagra kicks in
Fun.......Bipolar
Gentle........Expects sex after three-minute massage
New Age......Bisexual
Open-minded.......Bisexual
Outgoing......Swinger
Passionate.......Has at least one outstanding restraining order
Poet........Stony broke
Professional........Salesman
Romantic........Horny
Voluptuous.......Drawer full of man-bras
Large Frame........Keep digging for his penis. It's in there somewhere.
​Wants Soul Mate.......Needs caregiver

I don’t kick dogs. I admit I was caught on tape saying “I kick dogs. Dogs come running up to me, because I always keep a sandwich in my pocket, and I just kick them. Sometimes I pull their tails, too.”

I did say that. I was caught on tape saying that, so I can’t deny it. But I do deny ever really kicking a dog. When I said those words, I was talking to Michael Vick, the pro football quarterback who served a prison term for abusing animals. I was just trying to make myself more like my newfound bro. It was just “kennel banter” with a man who ran a Bates Motel for puppies.

I didn’t know the mic was hot.

Now I have all these people coming forward saying I kicked their dogs. They are all publicity-seeking liars. They’re just nasty. Disgusting. Most of their dogs were too ugly to kick. If I were to kick a dog it would be a cute dog. And a small dog, because who’s stupid enough to kick a large dog? Think about it.
But the media publishes these lies, meant to poison the minds of my neighbors, who wish I would move away. But I won’t. I’ll never quit until I make my neighborhood great again.

The ninety-year-old woman who lives catty-corner from the mailbox claims I kicked her dog back in 2013. I categorically deny that. I have never punted her Pomeranian. Her description of the incident, in which her dog sailed into her recycle bin, like a last second, game-winning field goal, after being thumped by my admittedly strong right leg—yes, I have strong legs. Probably the strongest legs of anybody you know—is entirely fictional. An invention of her nasty old mind.

And here’s proof. Here is an email from her daughter in Florida, asking me to watch the disgusting old woman’s dog while she was in rehab. Rehab for what? People tell me it was for heroin addiction, that her “broken hip” was just a cover story. I don’t know, but some people are saying that. But who would ask me to watch a dog I supposedly kicked? Now, this email isn’t actually from her daughter, I know. It’s from her next-door neighbor. Who happens to be Michael Vick.

The tale of me booting a Bichon Frise against a garage door so hard it set off someone’s security alarm is just another 100% percent fabricated lie by my HOA and its political allies, who admit they just want me to go away. That Bichon Frise came onto me. It was jumping all over me, trying to get at my sandwich. It may have made accidental contact with one of my steel-toed boots, which I wear around the house at all times for safety, NOT TO KICK DOGS!

It’s true I said “Look, a dog. I need to put my steel-toed boots on in case I want to kick it,” over the hot mic. I was just joking with a new-found pal who I knew was into major animal cruelty. The part where I added “The ones I polish with bacon grease,” was meant in jest. I make a lot of jokes. I’m just a funny guy. Probably funnier than anyone else you know.

Why didn’t any of these people come forward until that tape came out and I denied it? They could have complained ages ago about me walloping their wiener dogs left and right. All right, some of them did, but just to my other neighbors, the Homeowner’s Association, and the police. Which makes it a conspiracy, right? Think about it.

And here’s even more proof. I have a dog myself, a nine-pound Chihuahua. Perfect kicking size. People who kick dogs say to me, “Man, I’d like to put my foot into your dog. That is one hot, kickable dog.” So I have a perfectly good dog to kick already. Why would I kick other dogs?

All of these accusations are being spread by my opponents, the neighbors, the cops and the SPCA. They want my block to descend into darkness. They know I alone can save it. From dogs.
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Hey, you want a bite of this sandwich?

This document was found on long-time Republican political operative Joe Redstate’s computer desktop. Mr. Redstate’s present whereabouts are unknown, but the contents of the document certainly give us great cause to fear that Mr. Redstate may well have carried out the act threatened in the following:
 
I am sorry it has come to this, but I can no longer live in a country where there is no hope of a future Republican President. What will become of a nation that has no possibility of being led by a middle-aged, wealthy white man with a perfect smile and shave, a man who makes its citizens proud just by the way he wears a suit? I don’t want to live to see that.

A Republican President has always, to me, meant a combination of sturdy gentleman combatant and national Boy Scout Troop leader, although not a gay Boy Scout troop leader, a man who fights and inspires others at the same time. Ronald Reagan was such a man, as was George H W Bush, even though he didn’t inspire enough people to vote for him to win re-election. George W was also such a man, although I admit that he was way better at looking good in a suit than with the rest of the President stuff.

When a man like that was President I walked tall and felt my own Americanness down to the red, white and blue mitochondria in my body cells. When the Democrats elected a cheeseburger-munching sex fiend as President, I felt called to battle. Likewise, when they chose a black community leader, a guy who practically went from giving out free lunches in the ghetto to the Oval Office I immediately knew that the American people had made a choice that was weak, stupid and wrong, just like the man they elected, and I and my fellow Republicans moved heaven and earth to make sure he wouldn’t save the economy, give people health insurance, kill Osama bin Laden and preside over years of boring job growth. We failed, but we fought the good fight.  The guy’s going out of office with approval ratings that make Republicans ill, I admit that, but the terrible racial divide that exists in this country should be enough to convince people never to vote for a black man for President again. But maybe not--they seem ready to vote for a female President, which will probably cause a monstrous increase in misogyny. Don't we ever learn?

Over the years my positions evolved along with my party’s. I decided that letting women decide on their own whether they should have babies or not was utterly wrong. I realized that global warming was a fraud perpetuated by a bunch of scaredy-cat scientists, and the only people you could trust on climate change were oil companies. I realized that the only thing minority people did better than making white people afraid to go downtown was voter fraud. I grew to believe that those science, which gave us every technology and modern convenience that allows Republicans able to live comfortably in reassuringly gated communities, was dead wrong about human evolution, and a book of old Jewish legends was right.

But none of that turned out to have mattered—on this day, when our nominee for President is having a spitting contest with the noblest Republican of all, Paul Ryan, the man who is favor of paring back Social Security so that old people are forced to eat dog food once again, which some liberal crybabies think is a bad idea but which would provide a welcome boost to the pet food industry, I can no longer go on.

I should use one of my guns. I never had a gun until 2008, but now I have eight of them, along with a crate of ammo for each one, polished and ready for when the government tries to take them away or FEMA comes to stick me in a concentration camp. It's seven more than I need to whisk me out of this sad existence, but I hesitate. As a loyal Republican, I don’t want to help inflate those crap Democratic statistics that say a gun owner is about seven times more likely to kill himself, or his wife, kids or brother in law, than he is to kill a criminal.

But the deed must be done, anyway. I apologize to those I will pain by my final act, my friends, my family, Ted Cruz and the bartender at the Des Moines International Airport. What I am going to do is pull on this “Hillary 2016” t-shirt that was probably illegally paid for by the Clinton Foundation. I'm putting it on now. OH, IT BURNS! IT BURNS! My skin shrivels underneath it, but wear it I must. And now I am going to go to a Donald Trump rally.

Goodbye, cruel world.

In the aftermath of the p-grab episode of his run for the Presidency, Donald Trump has decided to un-apologize for the remarks he was recorded making in 2005, when he was trying to impress a relative of Jeb Bush’s with how irresistible to women he was.

The Siren of Spin, Trump campaign director Kellyanne Conway, made the announcement at a hastily called press conference. “Mr. Trump has realized his error in apologizing for his direct approach to picking up women, and would like to announce that he will not be saying he’s sorry for anything he has ever done or said to any woman ever, as long as Bill Clinton is alive.”

When pressed to explain her remarks, Conway said, “While Bill Clinton is out there, doing whatever he wants to unsuspecting females, Mr. Trump feels that his serial mauling of the odd babelicious honey here and there represents a necessary counterweight to Clinton’s predations. Think of it as being like Russia and the US. Both have nuclear weapons in their national trousers, but    neither one chooses to use them.”

When a reporter from the Washington Post pointed out that analogy didn’t make any more sense than the lyrics from the pop song “Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls,” Conway snapped back, “That’s the trouble with you liberal media types. Mr. Trump is trying to make a point about the serious problem of nuclear war, and all you clowns want to talk about is poon.”

Going on, Conway said, “The only regret the candidate has about the incident is that he employed a standard slang term for the object in question. Going forward, Mr. Trump would like to assure the American people that he not only can use  the word ‘pussy’ correctly, but is also familiar with related expressions such as ‘clam,’ ‘beaver,’ and ‘love taco.’ A strong President needs to know what people mean when they say ‘snatch,’ ‘muff’ or ‘furburger.’ Furthermore, nothing exudes strength like a well-executed assault  on a hair pie. President Trump will bring America back from the brink of international candyassedness, where the present weak Obama administration has left us, by demonstrating his resolve to deftly hit America’s foes, and also any stray tang wandering around the White House grounds.”

One reporter shouted out, “Is Donald Trump familiar with the expression ‘yoni?”

“Of course,” Conway replied. “But he would never use that term, because it sounds like something Chinese, and Mr. Trump does not like Chinese people, although he does not like them in the most non-racist way possible. He would probably use a sturdy American term such as ‘coochie’ or ‘wazoo.’

Conway then concluded the press conference despite a chorus of shouted questions, pausing only to give a grinning thumbs up to one reporter’s inquiry as to whether Trump had ever massaged her own vajayjay.

Meghann Foye, a 31-year old woman with a job, has come up with the latest thing that is never going to happen, and in a year where some people think we are going to build a gigantic wall with Mexico so Mexicans can’t drive armed taco trucks across the border, that is saying something.

That thing is “meternity,” which, as Foye explains it, is “a sabbatical-like break that allows women and, to a lesser degree, men to shift their focus to the part of their lives that doesn’t revolve around their jobs.”

Foye is childless by choice. Nobody here is saying that’s the wrong choice. She is deliberately forgoing one of the opportunities afforded women in life, which is to host a parasitic organism inside herself for nine months, then continue to support that organism for as much as thirty-five or forty years afterwards.

But our girl Meghann, apparently having grown tired of complaining about having too many letters in her name, is getting all whiny over the privileges of parenthood, of which she writes, “I couldn’t help but feel envious when parents on staff left the office at 6 p.m. to tend to their children, while it was assumed co-workers without kids would stay behind to pick up the slack.”

This jealousy might be justified if all those parents went home to sweet bundles of joy, were greeted at the door by childish kisses, fed their tender offspring a healthy, eagerly awaited dinner, read them an inspiring bedtime story, and had them in dreamland so they could log on to Netflix by 9 PM.  However, in reality, parents open the door to a moody black hole of needs and wants who hates all nutrition except French fries, thinks of nothing except overcoming the barriers his mom and dad frantically erect to keep him from hurting himself daily, and no more wants to go to bed than he wants to eat the broccoli he flung all over the wall, which stuck there because a whole Velveeta brick was melted over them in an effort to make the him ingest something the color green.

In the nanoseconds between the time the squalling of his little voice stops and right before they start thinking “That damn kid’s been quiet for too long,” parents usually reflect on how much they would rather be at working late at the office, chugging Five Hour Energy’s until their blood pressure was higher than Stephen Hawking’s IQ, in a frazzled effort to meet some odious deadline.

Guys might also feel slighted by the phrase “to a lesser degree, men,” until they realize they have been working crap jobs since the dawn of time. “Since you can’t push a baby out of your body, you can help me push this mastodon off a cliff,’ the first prehistoric asshole boss once said, and it’s been that way ever since. We’re used to it. Besides, nobody is going to give us something called “peternity leave,” because of the way it’s pronounced and the inevitability of us spending it binge-drinking.

Meghann did eventually get her meternity leave, although she did it by quitting one job and taking her sweet time about finding another, giving herself the opportunity to do nothing but guzzle frappuccinos and counsel her single friends about their relationship problems and bitch about their husband problems with her married ones.  She came out of this feeling whole and refreshed—it was like winning the lottery, except she idled at home instead of in Biarritz. And she allows that she might yet have children, in which case she might well think of buying back every one of her books and burning it out of sheer embarrassment.

Because you can get old enough to collect Social Security, but you’ll always be a child until you have a kid of your own. Trust me on that.

The news that Donald Trump took a loss of nearly a billion dollars in 1995, resulting in him likely paying no Federal income tax since then, was viewed by many as a fatal blow to the Human Cheezit’s Presidential hopes, since the man was running as a savvy businessman who took a humble loan of 14 million from his dad and turned it into a vast, tasteless real estate empire, not some stooge who left a billion bucks on a bus seat.

To which this column says: Just hold on there, pard. Blowing up a billion large is something any practical business man would be reluctant to do, even for a tax break, but that and more is what the Federal government does every day.

So, far from disqualifying Trump, the news that he can’t keep track of how a billion bucks went south should encourage Americans who currently think that putting a macaque monkey in a JCPenney dress suit in the White House would be a better idea than giving Trump the job. Trump campaign chairperson Kellyanne Conway couldn’t agree more. The sultry spin artist immediately came out firing:

“Anybody who can urinate away a billion a year out of his personal funds can certainly blow through the estimated 3.8 trillion dollars contained in the Federal Budget far better than a miserly old biddy like Hillary Clinton. The Democratic candidate freely admits that she and her husband, the former serial rapist and government official Bill Clinton, were dead broke when her husband lost his job in 2001 and now she’s worth 31 million bucks. How do you do that? I’m guessing major-league penny-pinching. That broad’s tighter than Kim Kardashian’s Spanx,” said Conway, in an abrupt departure from her usual custom of lying through her clenched teeth.

“How are we going to entrust her with siphoning money off the top of the American economy and spending it on overpriced destroyers and no-bid contracts with Halliburton when she’s never, ever in her life had a billion dollars and suddenly turned around and said ‘Whoa, where did that go?”

The sloe-eyed slattern of fabrication went on, “Donald Trump has proven he is the far superior candidate when it comes to hemorrhaging cash, something he would be responsible for doing in the Oval Office. Whether it’s decorative hookers for parties, large gold letters spelling out his name, buying airlines that have no actual planes or routes, or hiring someone to train Melania to keep her clothes on sometimes, Mr. Trump has no problem putting his money where his mouth is, and then abruptly choking it into the wind. The country needs a President who’s not afraid to breeze through the nation’s cheese like Sandy went through Perth Amboy.”

Ms. Conway then rotated her head several times a full 180 degrees and said in an abruptly altered, sepulchral, deeply masculine voice, “Ivanka needs me,” and concluded the press conference.