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."

One of the things that makes America great is that almost everybody feels they are a victim of prejudice. In this survey from the Huffington Post, a majority of white Americans stated they feel they are discriminated against, although a much smaller number could provide an example of personally being a victim of hatred toward Caucasians.

Yes, white privilege includes the privilege of thinking you’d do better in life if you weren’t white.

Let us review the history of whites in America. They founded the country by stealing the original real estate for it from the natives. Then they stole the rest of it from the Mexicans. Then, discovering they had imported a bunch of black people to be slaves for them, they engaged in a massive display of white-on-white violence that eventually came to be called the Civil War. After the war, blacks weren’t legally slaves anymore, which is about all they got out of it until pretty recently.

White people legally owned everything, except those black people, going into the last century. Often they felt that other white people weren’t white enough, like the Irish, Italians, Poles and Jews. They discriminated against them for a long time. That died down about the middle of the last century, except for maybe the Jews.

Besides owning everything, whites went to the best schools, had the best jobs, ran the government 100% and controlled all the media. Nobody criticized white people, because all the critics were white.

Now that the needle has moved an eensy bit in the other direction, whites have the chance to wrap themselves in the blanket of victimhood, and they are seizing it. Hey, they’re not stupid. You’re a white guy, living in the same town you grew up in, been unemployed for a few years because they closed the widget plant that everybody in town used to work at. Now you can’t get through the day without a handful of OxyContins. Is that your fault? Remember when black people got thrown in jail for being drug addicts? That was obviously the way to deal with them, but you being strung out while white means there’s an opioid crisis in this country, and you’re a victim of it.

All right, that’s not a great example of anti-white discrimination. Other ethnics have bigger things to complain about, like being accidentally deported or randomly shot by the police. LGBTQ’s get bullied. Muslims get mistaken for terrorists, and Sikhs and Hindus get mistaken for Muslims.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy being Caucasian. I am white, as many of you know, and I have felt the sting of anti-gringoism myself many times. Like getting picked last for a basketball team, or being giggled at when I attempt to speak Spanish, or people complaining about the Caucasian-in-Chief shutting up when they see me, thinking I probably voted for him.

Sure, people ask me how many rounds of ammo I have in my garage or what country-western radio station is my favorite, but I just laugh it off. Secretly I’m grateful, like all whites are. We finally get to bitch like all the rest of America does.

Except for the Asians. Asians don’t bitch.
​
Wonder what those fuckers are up to?

I was born a while ago, not as far back as Jesus or the dinosaurs, but close. Whenever I see one of those Facebook memes that read “Type in something that you remember that a young person wouldn’t,” I put in—well, let’s face it, I hardly ever put in anything. I just think, in my kindly, generous way. “Why the hell would I bother with that?”

But if I were to answer, I would probably say, “Waiting for some other person in my family to get off the phone so I could use it.”

See? Old. I even remember when you had absolutely no idea who was calling until you actually picked up the phone and answered it. The horror, eh?

Then came answering machines. You could listen to the person who was calling you start talking on the machine and then leap up off the couch to grab the call, if it was someone you wanted to talk to. The problem with that was, that person now knew you were monitoring your calls, and the next time they called, when you weren’t in, they would yell stuff like “ARE YOU MONITORING YOUR CALLS AGAIN? PICK UP! PICK UP! I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!” in such an annoying way that eventually you never wanted to talk to them again.

​Then I remember the brief era when your phone, your camera, and your GPS were three different things.

Now I have a smart phone, like everybody else does, and caller ID. When someone calls, I know who they are and whether I want to hear from them, and I have the option of rejecting them by message. These are bland messages like “I’m driving,” or “I’m in the movie theater,” or “I’m in a meeting.” I usually jab at one at random. People can just wonder what I’m doing at the movies at 7 AM.

And I think that’s convenient, but I really wish my rejections were a little punchier. I have six options on my phone now. Here are six better ones:
 
Think of all the things in the world that are more interesting than you. I’m doing one of them.

If I wanted to hear from you, I’d answer, so don’t text me, either.

I’m sorry I can’t pick up right now. Call me back when I need to have the crap bored out of me.

I’m getting laid.

Your mom wants you to call. I’m not your mom.
 
And finally, the one I’d use when I would really hate and regret the fact that the caller has my phone number:

Go intercourse yourself!
​
I'd use it at least once a week. You listening, Samsung?

We* are barely getting this column written today because of the volume of material we had to absorb upon our discovery of raptureready.com, a website devoted to calculating the probability of the Rapture happening soon. Which it thinks is real soon. Next weekend is not out of the question.

At the top of every page in Rapture Ready is emblazoned “Behold, I come quickly,” which sounds like a line from a cheesy porn clip but which actually comes from the Bible, and is purported to have been said by one Jesus Christ (possible middle initial H) 2,000 years ago.

Now, 2,000 years is not quickly in any sense but the geological one. If you have to wait fifteen minutes for a ride from Lyft in this modern age, you start to get a touch browned off. Just relax. A few minutes on Rapture Ready is enough to convince anyone that is that the Rapture will be more complicated than Lyft.

Rapture Ready calculates that the current Rapture index is 185, which wouldn't be shit for the Dow Jones, but the RI has never been higher, indicating that the faithful could at any minute be Hooverized into Heaven by the humming suction of God’s love.

How is the RI figured out with such mathematical precision? There are forty-five separate categories, last updated as of October 16th, which, added together, form the Index. There are obvious ones, like Israel, Volcanoes, False Christs, and the Mark of the Beast, but there are also ones the average person would never think had Apocalyptic significance, like the interest and unemployment rates. I am not sure whether Jesus would prefer to return to a world of full employment or not, but it’s possible. They had full employment back in His day, because then they had slavery, the old-school way to keep the workforce topped off.

There are pages of FAQ’s. Some of them possibly are not so frequently asked, like, Is God still making angels today? (Answer: No) Others are questions that might occur to anybody who was chilling with their End Times homies, like, Is the Pope the Antichrist?  (Probably not, but he and the AC are going to be major, major bros.)

There is The Mr. Antichrist Evil pageant, which provides low-resolution pics of the contenders for that crown, which include Bill Gates, Prince Charles, and Obama (natch).

There are links a-plenty, including Information for Those Left Behind, which all of you are going to need, because you probably will be Left Behind just for reading this, and Rapture Ready Wallpaper for your computer, so that if you are foofed aloft by God’s mercy while surfing the Net, your PC will provide your more sinful contemporaries a clue as to where you’ve gone. There’s also The Tribulation Hour, which sounds like a cozy little podcast about the end of all things.

And, sweet Mother of God, there is an app. Yes, there is now an app for the end of the world. It’s here: http://raptureplanb.com/

I’m downloading it now.

*Really, it’s only me that writes this stuff. Sometimes I’m just a sucker for the editorial "we."

Few people have less appetite for household chores than I do, but, unfortunately for the state of our dwelling, my Significant Other is one of them. The two of us would live in squalor if we didn’t have a cleaning woman who comes in once a week to scrub the place top to bottom. She is as sterling and honest a woman as there is on Earth. The only flaw in her methods is that she spends half her time cleaning, and the other half hiding important items from us, items we have carelessly left in her path. A lot of necessary paperwork and small items disappear this way, sometimes resurfacing later, and sometimes not.

Sometimes she gets so busy hiding things that she doesn’t finish chores like the laundry. But she always starts the laundry, so occasionally we don’t discover a load of wash until it has moldered for several says in the washing machine. There’s almost always unfolded clothes in the dryer. So every cleaning day, we spend the hours before her arrival frantically secreting things we want to find later, and afterwards we have to discover what she hasn’t finished and, in the tradition of our household, I have to finish them.

When the cleaning person folds the clothes, they form compressed, neat little squares that are easily stacked in their drawers. I don’t know how this is accomplished. When I fold things, they end up lumpy and asymmetrical, and have to be wadded into the drawers like stuffing into a turkey. Long-sleeved shirts are a particular chore for me. I ran across a YouTube video the other day that claimed it could teach me how to fold contour sheets. I immediately closed that tab. I already know how to “fold” contour sheets.  1. Bunch the sheet together until it is roughly the size of a basketball. 2. Cram it into the linen closet with your other unfolded sheets, using your fists and possibly elbows to wedge it into place. 3. Quickly close the closet door before the sheet escapes.

When you need fresh sheets, open the door and use the first one that falls out. You save precious seconds by not having to unfold it.

Gardening is not on our cleaning person’s chore list, so our tiny condo yard has fallen into a state of advanced deterioration. She does sweep up the Chihuahua droppings there, and always puts the cover on the barbecue grill, something I only do when rain is in the forecast, and sometimes not even then.

But the task of weeding and trimming the shrubbery is left up to me, and I have better things to do. After our Korean grass experiment, we had my Significant Other’s nephew come over and re-do the yard in stone, carefully placing a barrier of plastic underneath the stone so weeds wouldn’t poke through the rocks.

This only works for so long, we discovered and now we have two-foot tall weeds growing abundantly in several corners. They were luxuriously green. They got to their advanced height because my Significant Other read someplace that my favorite weed killer (the one that actually works) causes cancer, and I can’t pull the weeds because that would damage the plastic weed barrier and admit more weeds.

Eventually I got so sick of the weeds I pulled out the weed-killer when she wasn’t looking, and doused them thoroughly, wearing protective clothing (cargo shorts and flip-flops) to minimize my exposure to carcinogens. Now we have two-foot tall dead weeds in the yards, which is even more aesthetically displeasing, but at least it shows that we’re trying.
​
I really should go out and cut them down, but the cleaning person is coming tomorrow. I need to start concealing things that I want to see again before I do anything else.

Pineapple Crush in print as of last week! Links on the side to buy. If you want a signed copy, I'll be doing book signings that will be publicized here and on Facebook. If we're geographically incompatible, then contact me-arekhill@yahoo--and we can mail a copy back and forth. Website email temporarily not functional.

Just this morning (Sunday) I booted up the computer to news of a huge car-bombing in Somalia. The number of people killed bounced upwards every time I clicked on a new website. It started at 100 on CNN and was up to “at least” 189 by the time I got to Slate.

It’s like the Somalians heard about the Vegas shooter and said to themselves, “Hey, we got the terrorist know-how to top that,” and fired up their car-bombs.

From large scale military actions to private massacres to basic domestic violence, human blood mists the air all over the world. On this AM of mayhem, however, a ray of hope beams at humanity, like a Bat Signal on the clouds of Gotham, and in the middle of that beacon is Timon, the Disney meerkat.

Because people are better than meerkats.

I refer you to the chart at the bottom of the page, the one in which meerkats lead the league. Of all the meerkats that die in the wild, nearly 20% are killed by other meerkats, making the meerkat murder rate the highest in the mammal kingdom.

Following the meerkats are five kinds of monkeys and lemurs, until the monotony is broken by the New Zealand sea lion, the only marine mammal represented in the top 30. Scientists are unable to determine what makes sea lions in New Zealand so mad for murder, while sea lions in other parts of the world co-exist in relative harmony. Is it the climate? The proximity to the southern pole? Or is it being exposed to Steinlager, the shitty national beer of that country?

Some of the animals on the list are well-known (lions, bears, wolves) while some needed extensive Googling. The caracal is a particularly badass-looking kitty, but the diademed sifaka is just another brand of frigging lemur. Sensing a trend, I didn’t bother researching the chacma baboon or the dama gazelle.

Yeah, gazelles. The African version of Bambi. They made the list.

Around the middle of the rankings is the California ground squirrel. These bloody-minded little fuckers scamper around my neighborhood constantly, but until I viewed the chart I did not realize that they were constantly psyching themselves up for squirrelcide. No wonder my dog hates them.

You’re thinking to yourselves “Humans probably just missed the list. We’re probably number thirty-one.” Think again. The percentage of humans killed by other humans is estimated at a paltry 1.2% of all human deaths. Hundreds of species are probably ahead of us, including every other kind of monkey or lemur or sea lion that exists.

Next comes the excuse-making. “We just don’t have efficient teeth and claws like the other mammals. If we could kill each other with just one bite or one swipe, we’d climb the charts.” I call bullshit. The reason we have small teeth, and claws that are far more suited for salons than for swiping is that we use tools. Many of those tools are easily adapted for murder. The big rock, the first tool, is still used today by some killers, although I don’t know if they realize they are paying homage to the original homicider (Cain, according to unconfirmed reports) when they do so. Later we developed air-to-ground missiles and attack submarines.

So, no waivers there. We just have to face the facts. We’re not as murderous as we fancy ourselves. It would suck for Hollywood if this news seeps out, but for the remainder of us, we can rest easy. Easier than the meerkats, anyway.

Until we realize that, unlike the other mammals, we have the gear and the know-how to bump that rate up to fifty, sixty, maybe close to a hundred-percent if they were ever used. Those other critters are mired at their current spots. Any day, we could leave them in the dust.
​
Of course, then, there’ll be no one left to make the chart.

Pineapple Crush in print as of today! Links on the side to buy. If you want a signed copy, I'll be doing book signings that will be publicized here and on Facebook. If we're geographically incompatible, then contact [email protected] we can mail a copy back and forth. 

In the meantime, been busy, so here's a classic for you:


My Significant Other is having surgery this week and needs to put an auto-response on each of her email accounts so people won't wonder why she isn't responding to their cyber-nagging while she is undergoing a major operation and the subsequent excruciating rehab.


Kindly and useful mate that I am, I've composed these suggestions for her. One of them, I am sure, will suit her current mood perfectly: 


10: "I'm lying on an operating table while people look for new places to stick tubes in me, so I've got some fresh ideas on where you can stick your endless whiny emails."

9: "You're worried about the deadline? I'm worried about my flat-line. What a coincidence!"

8: "You want a report? Come look at the chart on my hospital bed. There's your frigging report."

7: "My doctor says it will be at least two weeks before I can look at any kitten videos, so keep them to yourself until then. And, you know, if you quit forwarding them forever nobody would really mind. Especially me. If I live." 

6: "I was just chatting with my dead relatives. They don't give a crap about your emails, and neither do I."

5: "Reading your emails would sap my will to live. I'm sure you understand."

4: "I'm in a medically-induced coma. What's your excuse?"

3: "I'll be taking a quick look up the Tunnel of Light before I get back to you on that."

2: "You forgot I'm having a serious medical problem and put an annoying smiley face on that email like you always do, not realizing that my health is so precarious I could die of exasperation, right? That's why I'm blocking it."

AND THE NUMBER ONE EMAIL AUTO-RESPONSE WHEN YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL HAVING SURGERY IS:

"If this is absolutely urgent, contact my anesthesiologist and tell him to keep me under until you figure it out for yourself."
​

A Trump judicial nominee named Jeff Mateer has been quoted as saying same sex marriage is “disgusting,” and transgendered children are “part of Satan’s plan.”

Makes him a tad questionable when it comes to equal treatment of all that come before him, but it made me wonder what exactly Satan’s plan currently is. I tried to contact judge-to-be Mateer for his opinion, but he wouldn’t return my calls, so I decided to go to the source. I drew a pentangle on the floor of my office with charcoal (the self-lighting kind I always use). My information was that I had to place a burning candle at each point (easy) and then drop a small pinch of dried bat stool into the flame of each one (disgusting).

But when the recipe said to mist the blood of an unbaptized boy over the whole shebang, I discovered I was fresh out. Satan declined to make an in-person appearance on account of this missing crucial ingredient, but he graciously allowed me to Skype with him.

Even on my cell phone, the Prince of Darkness looked weary. “Plan?” he asked blankly. “What makes you think I have a plan?”

Well, the transgendered children, according to Judge Mateer.

“Yeah, but no. I’ve got my hands full down here already. You know how many people die and go to Hell every day? Just processing them and finding them a spot to wait to be tortured for all eternity means we’re working 24-7.”

Wait…you said “wait.” Punishment in Hell is not continuous?

“Originally, is was supposed to be, but my opponent only granted me a certain number of imps. Jesus keeps slow-walking about coming back in glory to judge the living and the dead—you talk to that bro, and you can tell His heart’s not in it—but that keeps more and more souls coming to Hell. Our resources are stretched to the limit. You got a better chance of being mugged in Chicago than you do getting pitchforked down here on the average day.”

Wow…what do most of the souls do, then?

“Some of them keep busy…rapists thrive, but, due to the eternal nature of things down here, murderers are shit out of luck. If you’re feeling randy, the Whore of Babylon is always open for business. But most of the damned think it’s too hot for sex here. We do have the Satan Bowl every year, for American football fans. But most of the souls just stand around, bitching about the temperature and the boredom. It’s torture for me, really, not having the personnel to give them the punishment they deserve.”

You feel tormented? So you’re making Hell all about yourself?

“I was the first customer here, remember? When the human souls started trickling in, it was a good time, I grant you that. My imps were young, then, and filled with sadistic glee. Now they’re just a bunch of clock-punchers. Got themselves unionized when I wasn’t paying attention, too. Between paid time off and mandatory family leave, I can barely get half of them on the floor at the same time.”

I guess that sucks for you.

“It’s totally lacking in fulfillment. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t have taken the fallen angel career path, that’s for sure. Maybe I would have been a professional bodybuilder. I mean, check out these abs.”

Umm…nice, I guess. But back to the main question—do you have a plan for Earth?

“Hell, no. Like that pun? All the things I get blamed for—war, disease, famine, mass shootings—why would they benefit me? Just more souls to burn, and I have plenty already. I shudder at the thought of the Apocalypse, and nearly every soul on Earth getting on the Hell train. Bound to be serious issues then, not the least of which is keeping them all at least a little warm. I mean, the temperature is bound to drop, but, contrary to rumor, IT IS NOT GOING TO FREEZE OVER.”

That’s reassuring, I suppose.
 
“Wish I had retirement to look forward to, but guess what eternal beings don’t get? I got to get back to the floor—that Vegas guy is here, and he gets special attention. I mean, I just let his victims tear him to bits, but then I have to reassemble him so that they can do it again. But what hurts me is I know I’m just going through the motions.”

I was getting fed up with Satan’s little pity party, but an honest journalist like myself just quotes the source, so I kept my mouth shut. It seemed odd to thank him for his time, since he has an eternity of it, so I just said: Well, I guess I’ll catch you later.
​
“Count on it, pal. Count on it.”

A spokesman for the Federal Emergency Management Agency has acknowledged that, due to the damage inflicted by hurricanes Harvey, Irma and Maria, work on building death camps to imprison average Americans has nearly come to a standstill.

“Just when we were bolting the galvanized iron huts into place on dozens of our secret death camps, Harvey hit Houston. We had to leave almost all the giant propaganda speakers in their boxes to rush fresh water and diapers to Texas. Before we had even finished that, Irma laid waste to Florida. More truckloads of tampons and duct tape had to be loaded for there. Now we’re airlifting medicine and blankets to Puerto Rico.

“Morale at the agency is at an all-time low. I mean, what would you rather be doing, building a nice perimeter fence and laying boobytraps outside it, or trying to land a cargo of canned goods on a damaged runway? I mean, FEMA doesn’t mind rescuing communities occasionally—it’s our cover story, after all—but this is just a bit too much. And this after the biggest crisis ever at the agency.”

What was that?

“The election, dunderhead. We all thought Hillary was going to win, too, and follow up on Obama’s plans to incarcerate most of middle America. We even had plans to melt their guns right in front of those yickadoos, in a furnace fueled by burning Bibles. When she lost, you could have heard a gnat fart in here. But Trump surprised us by backing the death camps enthusiastically. We’re just going to have a different customer base, now. Instead of white supremacists and deplorables, we’re going to be rounding up libtards and snowflakes. Doesn’t matter to us. We just like death camps.

“But these hurricanes have put us way behind schedule. And what’s next? The San Andreas Fault is due for a big shaker, and the Yellowstone super-volcano could blow at any minute. Either would ruin yet another day of us peacefully unrolling barbed wire and installing machine guns in guard towers at black sites all over the US.

“So, there’s a lot of grumbling at the agency, and some open threats to quit. After all, NASA is hiring people to fake a Mars landing, and the next Sandy Hook is already in the planning stages. Other opportunities are there. But most of these guys joined up to build death camps, and that’s what they want to get back to. Hauling necessities to needy Americans is something they’re getting plenty weary of.”

But if they don’t rescue them now, they won’t get to imprison them later.
​
“Good point. I’ll bring that up at the next meeting.”

After delaying his entrance into Hell for 91 years, Hugh Hefner arrived at the Place of Eternal Torment and was interviewed by Satan to determine what sort of everlasting punishment he deserved.

“Hugh, Hugh, Hugh,” Satan greeted him, rubbing his clawed hands together. "We've been expecting you. Does that smoking jacket full of wasps fit okay?"

"It's a bit big in the shoulders."

"Perfect. Gives those bugs more room to buzz around. Now, where can we put you down here?”

“I was thinking a nice mansion,” Hefner replied.

“Yeah, but no. We’re a little crowded down here, thanks in no small part to you. The man that revolutionized masturbation! Really built up the population here fast. We had to put in a new sub-development to accommodate all those souls Playboy helped damn. We call it the Circle of Jerks.”

“Oh, wow. So, you really do get eternally punished for masturbation?”

“Damn straight. The Big Guy has a saying, which is ‘Don’t pray to Me with the same hands you’ve been spanking it with, because I ain't listening.”

“Well, there you go. Masturbation has never really been a habit of mine. Are you sure I belong here?”

“Oh, you do, Hugh. You do. How about you concealing the existence of female pubic hair from your readers for the first twenty years of your magazine? A lot of them were really surprised the first time they saw vagina in person. Turned some of them gay as a result, so they ended up down here, too. They have their own section…it’s the most tasteful and well-decorated part of Hell.”

“Do they have mansions there? I really was kind of counting on one.”

“No, it’s more urban than that. Mostly brownstones and cozy view flats. They get light punishment, too. Sure, I send a couple imps through to slash at them once in a while—I have to, it’s in my contract with You Know Who—but mostly they get left alone. They can’t help being what they are.”

“Sounds okay. I’m sure they would love me as a neighbor.”

“Not going to happen, Hugh. Let’s take a little tour.”

Satan and Hefner stroll through Hell, with Satan ruminating on where he might situate Hefner’s soul.

“There’s a couple beach chairs left by the Lake of Boiling Shit…that’s a nice spot in the summertime. I know I’ve got room in the Pit of Pedophiles…technically, you don't deserve that, but a lot of them liked ‘em fifty or sixty years younger, like you did, so I think you could forge a bond. Or I could just stick you in the bleachers in Mortal Sin Stadium, where all the deceased Dallas Cowboys go to blow a lead every week…”

Suddenly Hefner stops. He sees a big house in the distance. Flames are pouring out of the windows, and it’s surrounded by a cloud of mustard gas. A line of imps stretches around the block, eager to pitchfork anyone inside. It’s an entirely intimidating structure, but it appears to be, at least technically, a mansion. Hefner turns to Satan.
​
“What about that one, over there?”

“Fuggetaboutit, Hugh. That one’s reserved for Trump.”