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."

Crushed Cowboy cupcake Melissa Kellerman

It was a bad weekend for women on Twitter over Thanksgiving. After being tackled by fellow Dallas Cowboy Jason Witten on the sidelines of  Thursday's win over the Miami Dolphins, Cowboy cheerleader Melissa Kellerman let out a couple of not particularly suggestive tweets about the incident, after which her Twitter account was deleted. The assumption is that either the National Football League or Jerry Jones, the owner of the Cowboys and a man known informally as the Bashar Assad of the NFL, ordered Kellerman to relinquish her account.

The Cowboys pioneered the pro football cheerleading program, but most of the NFL teams now have a squad, invariably formed of the most insanely delectable young women in the municipality, dressed in the skimpiest possible outfits that may legally be worn in public, and trained to bounce up and down vigorously on the sidelines. This place on the field proved more than potentially hazardous for Ms. Kellerman when the 6-6, 265 pound Witten hurdled out of bounds and landed on top of her.

Despite Witten's wearing full protective gear, including steel mesh crotch cup and helmet and Kellerman wearing only underwear and cowboy boots, the cheerleader emerged unscathed, at least until she started tweeting about the incident. Despite restraining herself from any off-color tweets, which I would have happily ghost-written for her, such as "bet u gurls want 2 kno how J is on top," or "the fastr the pouncin, th bttr the bouncin" Kellerman is a non-Tweeter today.

It is hard to imagine how the NFL could be frightened by the possibility of further scandal in this completely unplanned coupling, already witnessed by millions live and on TV, but the league takes no chances when it comes to people believing that there could be any sexual attraction between healthy young male athletes and twenty-something women who model team-colored lingerie every Sunday. Likewise, the NFL would have us believe all of the men and boys in the stands regard the cheerleaders as merely fellow staunch supporters of the home team, not as objects of ultimate lascivious fantasy with whom they would happily trade a decade of Super Bowl wins in order to spend an hour.

I predict Ms. Kellerman will be put on waivers at the end of the season or sooner, as a warning to the rest of the Cowboy cheerleaders to keep their Twitter fingers still the next time one of them gets upended by a tight end.

Emma Sullivan, of Shawnee Mission, Kansas, is also lip-deep in virtual alligators this Monday as a result of her Twitter comment during a meeting with Governor Sam Brownback of her home state, part of which stated the Governor "sucked."

I am only vaguely familiar with Governor Brownback and by vaguely I mean that I have only noticed his name several times and thought that it should be the first part of a bird's name (i.e., "brownback warbler" or "brownback least tern") rather than a politician's surname, so I have no idea what his politics are like or of his proclivity for or talent at oral sex. I suspect that Emma doesn't, either. She was taking part in a Youth in Government meeting with the Guv at the time she twittered, so is a potential future politician herself. Her comment does not bode well for the future of political discourse but, frankly, what does? Asserting that one's political opponents excel at fellatio is hardly original with Emma. Check out barackobamasucks.net or bachmannsucks.us or just buy a "Joe Biden Sucks" t-shirt if you need to be convinced of this.

Emma made the mistake of still being in high school when she Twittered her low opinion of Brownback, though, so she has a principal to whom she must answer. That principal, Karl R. Kravitz, the Jerry Jones of Shawnee Mission, demanded she write a letter of apology to the Governor after the Governor's staff, which routinely checks Twitter for references to Brownback, notified Kravitz of Emma's vilification of their boss.

So far Emma has refused to write the letter, standing up for all Americans' right to say their least-favored politicians engage in sex acts that deviate from standard intercourse. It's not exactly Patrick Henry-like, but today's moral issues always seem a tad more clouded than those in the history books, don't they? The real problem here is that Emma's comment, thanks to the efforts of state and local government employees in Kansas, instead of being viewed by maybe twelve people, is now a national story and Emma herself, by merely making an unimaginative comment that likely nearly half the Kansas voting public or more would likely echo, has now made herself the most famous Kansas teenage girl since Dorothy.

The taxpayers of Kansas (The Flat State) are hardly to be blamed for thinking that blows.

"Cooking a turkey is easy." We've all heard that. It's not tremendously difficult, like building a suspension bridge or figuring out what cuts Lady Gaga is using on her latest meat dress, but it does require advance planning, doing things in a certain order, and anticipating bottlenecks in the process. In other words, it's not as easy as other traditional Thanksgiving activities, like watching football in a tryptophan haze or falling off the roof putting up the Christmas lights.

First, select a turkey at the supermarket. The author, like all cheap Americans, selects one that the market will sell you for next to nothing as long as you buy a certain dollar amount of other items. This can usually be accomplished in the author's case by stocking up on a weekend's supply of beer and liquor. These bargain turkeys are frozen harder than the Siberian tundra, so it's a good idea to start defrosting them a few days in advance. If you start defrosting your bird the morning of the day you plan to serve it, your Thanksgiving feast will become a midnight snack.

Next, open up the turkey's interior. Today's turkeys are usually equipped with a plastic or metal clip that holds the turkey's legs together. You may pause here to reflect on the number of people you know or have heard of on whom this feature would be useful. The clip holds the turkey's legs together very well, so after exerting fifteen minutes worth of manual effort on it, you have to resort to a "turkey wrench' to get it open. The turkey wrench is a regular wrench that you have taken the time to clean thoroughly before you use it on your family's dinner. We hope.

After the turkey's legs are spread, you have to remove the neck and giblets that have been carefully wrapped in paper and placed in there, for the sole purpose of charging you by the pound for them. Discard. Some people make gravy out of the giblets. The author advises you against eating at their houses.

Now you can see into the turkey's interior. It looks like a tiny set from a Star Wars movie, an icy cave spattered with blood. Time to stuff it! Many items can be used in turkey stuffing, such as bread, cornbread, raisins, rice, sausage, celery, mushrooms and occasionally a wedding ring or measuring spoon. After the bird is stuffed, slip the leg clipping device back on. Use the turkey wrench if needed. Bake at 325 degrees all damn day, or until the smell of cooking turkey drives you into gibbering, drooling insanity.

While your turkey cooks, reminiscence about past Thanksgivings. The author grew up in a family of nine. Our Thanksgivings always featured all of us and at least seven or eight additional hangers-on. The turkeys my mother served, unlike the tidy little bird roasting in my oven, were the missing links to their dinosaur ancestors, behemoths that once shook the ground when they gobbled. The guests were equally memorable. Some insisted on sneaking out into the November cold in order to smoke enough marijuana to make sure they were nearly incoherent with hunger when dinner was served. Others had alcohol as their drug of preference. These guys clamored to say grace. Uncle Denny, in particular, when infused with Thanksgiving piety and booze, could give an extemporaneous grace that oozed a clear-eyed, fervent spirituality for endless minutes, while my mother held her eyes down and hands in prayer and the stoners gazed at him malignantly, which grace he always concluded, in the same humble tone he used to praise the richness of the earth and the forthcoming glories of Heaven, by thanking God that African-Americans hadn't yet moved into his row-house neighborhood, except he didn't use the term African-Americans.

Baste the turkey every hour, or buy a self-basting turkey. The author is too cheap to buy a bird that is willing to assist in its own slow cooking, so let him know how it comes out. Basting the bird keeps it moist and also insures that if you have not cut, frostbitten or bruised your fingers so far in the turkey-cooking process, you can at least burn your knuckles on the sides of the oven while basting.

Finally, when the little plastic deal pops out of the turkey's breast, it is time to remove the bird from the oven and lift it out of the pan. This is the most perilous part of the operation. While roasting, the bird has excreted a substance called "turkey glue," which has caused it to become attached to the roasting pan as closely as Angelina Jolie is attached to her tattoos. Spatulas, knitting needles, knives, forks, and many other sharp instruments may be used in a vain attempt to dislodge Senor Turkey from what seems to be his final resting place. During your efforts, you are exposed to countless hazards. Stabbing oneself or accidentally thrusting an unprotected hand into the magma of the stuffing is nearly inevitable. The author owns a pair of so-called "turkey lifters," which leave him longing for something still more effective, like atomic turkey lifters.

Letting either the pan or the turkey itself end up on the floor happens sometimes. Conceal this event from your guests, if possible. Reflect that at least it gives the dog something for which to be thankful.

Serve to a room that swells with well-deserved praise, or, if you are like the author, you can just give it to your kid and his friends. You know you have succeeded if they put down their I-phones long enough to eat it.

Stuck by myself for a day in La Paz, by mid-afternoon I have located a seat at Mariscos El Dorado, a nondescript restaurant facing the bay, with a view of the water and the mountains of the Baja mainland on the other side. The angle of the sun and the slight mist off the Sea of Cortez combine to produce the tranquilizing illusion that the ships anchored far offshore are defying gravity by floating a few meters in the air above the surface of the water rather than directly on it.

I order an Indio, one of the few Mexican dark beers generally available and contemplate the bay. A mariachi band comes in to take a look at the crowd. They are late middle-aged men who nonetheless look far younger than their battered instruments. The bass in particular looks like it has been tossed carelessly into the cargo hold of every bus in North America, its wooden surfaces scarred at every seam.

The old guys look at the crowd. Besides myself, there is only a family gathered at one table and a pair of young guys at another. Mariachis like couples or large parties for their audiences. There are none here, and the band departs without offering their services or playing a note.

I order, camerones la diabla con queso, shrimp in hot cheese sauce. A second mariachi band stops outside, finishing their cigarettes out of respect for el Dorado's non-smoking policy, before marching up the steps to survey the crowd. This band has four members. Two play accordions, one a tuba and one merely sings. Both the tuba and the soloist are unusual for a mariachi band. The men are much younger and they are here to work. They launch into song despite the unpromising audience.

The accordions are fairly new but the tuba appears to have been on the same bus tour as the bass. The tuba player looks older than the rest of the band, but maybe that's just because he is bulkier, a fleshy counterweight to his instrument. I have never been this close to a tuba player in the act of tuba-playing, and I find it interesting. Playing the tuba looks like hard work. His cheeks puff and he bounces rhythmically. His eyes bulge with the effort, and he is just producing a series of similar notes, the equivalent of a bass line. He is the only band member sweating when the song ends.

Another Mexican working hard at a thankless job, like all of the immigrant housepainters, landscapers and tomato pickers that have tiptoed across the border to the United States to take jobs away from all the Americans who want to mow lawns, paint houses or pick tomatoes for a career. Then it strikes me: THE TUBA PLAYERS ARE NEXT!  PRETTY SOON, THERE WON'T BE A MARCHING BAND WITHOUT A MEXICAN TUBA PLAYER IN THE UNITED STATES! THAT'S WHY WE NEED TO BUILD THAT WALL!

Puffing harder and working cheaper, willing to sneak across the trackless deserts of Arizona, risking death by heat stroke or dehydration and carrying some pretty weighty instruments besides, Mexican tubanistas are bound to drive American-born tuba players out of the trade. Our kids will end up as flautists or piccolo players while the sound of Spanish tuba fills the land. Playing tuba, like finishing cement or hot tar roofing, will soon be an impossible dream for American youth.

The band finishes and passes out cards. They are a norteno band, the cards say. Some norteno music is said to glorify the leaders of Mexican drug cartels. Another reason to ban the tuba player! Unlike American popular music, which often glamorizes criminals and crime, norteno music glamorizes criminals and crime in Spanish, a language most of us don't understand. Obviously, that makes it worse.

The camarones a la diabla arrive, twenty or so medium fresh shrimp accompanied by Spanish rice and roasted vegetables with baby potatoes. As I eat, the sun gets lower and the ships in the bay seem to slowly settle back to the surface of the water. The meal and three Indios run about eighteen dollars American, including tip. I recommend the place, if you get down to La Paz before the Mexicans get wise and build a wall of their own.

The following minutes of a secret meeting held in the spring of 2010 were obtained under a Freedom of Information Act request. The names of the principals have been redacted to protect the nation's security.

B****k O**ma: The second term is in danger, ladies and gentleman. The economy won't improve, the wars drag on, and work on forging the second phony birth certificate has stalled out.

J** B***n: Our plans for the future dangle by a thread.

H****y C***ton: And they were such monumental ones! The extension of Obamacare to cover the citizens of Mexico and Kenya! Sharia law to replace all state constitutions! Not only nationwide gay marriage, but an affirmative action plan to allow gay couples to adopt the child of any heterosexual parent anywhere, whether he or she wants to give up the kid or not!

B****k Ob**a: Don't forget confiscating all the handguns and ammunition  in America and donating them to the Muslim Brotherhood!

*oe  Bid**: Or making pedophilia legal! Can't wait for that one! Neither can Joe Paterno!

Sat*n: Fear not. When you sold your souls to me in order to advance the Dem-lib-fem-gay-pederast-Muslim agenda, I guaranteed success. And success you shall have! (Smoke seen coming from nostrils as he chortles mirthlessly) What could possibly lead to victory for us in 2012?

Joe B****: Frankly, I can't think of anything. We're doomed. The end of the world might help, but that's not predicted until after the election.

S*ta*: What about the Republican nominee?

Bar**k Ob**a: Doesn't matter. Any of them could beat me. Barbour, Christie, Huckabee, Giulani, even Palin or Trump.

*atan: None of them will run! I so command it! (The others applaud)

Hi**ry C****on: But who will?

Sata*: How about a guy from Texas who can barely remember his own proposals and advocated abolishing Social Security?

Bara*k *ba*a: Ooooh, I like him!

Sa***: There's others. A guy who thinks heroin should be legalized.

Jo* B*d*n: Definitely beatable.

Sat**: How about a black guy?

*arack *bama (Aloofly) Say what?

Sa**n: A black guy who hates Mexicans, harasses blonde women, and won't be able answer questions about the war in Libya, once we start it to punish Quaddafi for trying to get out of my deal on his soul.

Hi***y *linton: Too good to be true.

S***n: He's all ours. Plus I've got a lady who doesn't even know where Libya is, a guy that used to work for you and another guy who thinks your old buddy McCain doesn't know anything about torture.

B***ck Oba*a: Does McCain know about torture? I know he claims he does…

Sa**n: I was in the next room. Trust me, he knows.

J** B****: Even the Republicans aren't stupid enough to nominate any of those guys. Who's really going to end up with the nomination?

****n: (Pausing for effect) Mitt Romney!

Ba***k Ob*ma: (chuckling) Really? I could run against Romney?

S*t*n: Him or (Pauses dramatically again, then in a voice like a game show host ) would you rather have NEWT GINGRICH?

*****k Obama: Neeeeewt! Give me Newt! Hey, all of a sudden this doesn't sound so bad. (The Hot Line rings. Obama picks it up) Yo! (Covers mouthpiece) It's Osama again. Wants to know when he can come out of hiding in Pakistan.

Sata*: You all know I'm good. Good at being evil, that is. Prince of Darkness and all that, but letting Osama out… (He shrugs) Meh…

Hi**ry Clint*n: Yeah, that's a plan we might have to kill.

Hit Baja for a quick fishing trip and spent nearly a week in Mexico. I was offered what's considered a quintessential Mexican menu item, a burrito, only once. That was on the fishing panga. It was a smallish tortilla rolled over some chunks of smoked marlin, a strictly utilitarian lunch made to fill our stomachs while we tried to lure dorado onto our hooks. It was the least appetizing meal I had in Baja. Not to say the burritos were bad, but you go to Mexico for the amazing food, along with the sun and the fishing and the fact that almost everything costs two-thirds of what it does here.

People think you can go there to get shot or kidnapped too, but that's much more difficult than news reports would make you think.

It's America that has seized on the burrito and made it a universal food item, and why not? The burrito has everything America wants in a foodstuff; it can be made huge, it can contain almost any ingredient, and it can be eaten with one hand, which means it can be consumed while driving.

The proper way to eat a burrito is to hold it perpendicular to gravity, take one bite of the burrito dry, then pour hot sauce into the wound before every subsequent bite. The burrito is held with the left hand, while the right hand holds the packet or cup of hot sauce while simultaneously palming the steering wheel. Turn signals may be operated by the pinkie of the left hand or, more commonly, abstained from for the duration of the meal.

Packets of hot sauce are served by national chains such as Taco Bell, but here in Southern California we have an abundance of independent Mexican drive-thrus and local chains where we find the burritos more appetizing, because they are closer to authentic Mexican and 100% authentic Southern Californian. In these establishments your burrito is served with hot sauce in a Solo cup, which is a plastic cup that holds about the same amount of liquid as a shot glass. It has a lid with "Solo" printed on it, hence the name. Up to four may be needed to properly soak a burrito, depending on taste, the size of the burrito and how much hot sauce one can tolerate before one's final digestive organ becomes the legendary "ring of fire."

When I first began eating at these establishments in the mid 1980's, burrito development was still in its infancy. Beef, chicken, carne asada were the flavors offered. After exiling myself from Southern Calfor fifteen years and returning, I discovered burrito manufacturing had branched out in a Darwinian fashion. Breakfast burritos, containing egg, bacon and hash browns had been launched, to immense public approval. The California Burrito had been invented, which involved adding French fries to the mix and soaking the result in sour cream. Monster burritos, with ingredient lists too long to be detailed here, but made in Jurassic proportions, had begun to dominate the earth.

I envision a future in which not only are burritos manufactured for specific meals, but prepared for specific holidays, especially as holiday traffic becomes more onerous. The necessity to get out of one's car to enjoy a particular holiday's epicurean uniqueness may be eliminated by a carefully constructed burrito. A few suggestions follow:

ST. PATRICK'S DAY BURRITO: In the tortilla, corned beef, cabbage, boiled potatoes. In the Solo cup, whiskey.

EASTER BURRITO; In the tortilla, ham, hard-boiled egg with just a hint of artificial green Easter basket grass, candy rabbit. In the Solo cup, brown sugar glaze.

SUMMER HOLIDAY BURRITO: In the tortilla, chicken, hamburger, hot dog, steak, corn on the cob, potato salad, popsicle. In the Solo cup, ketchup, mustard, relish.

THANKSGIVING BURRITO: On this holiday devoted simply to stuffing oneself, the grandest of burritos must be served. In the tortilla, turkey, white meat and dark, stuffing, cranberries, mashed potatoes, peas, carrots and pearl onions. The Solo cup contains hot gravy.

And pumpkin pie? Bet the house it's in there.

Kevin Gaylor, of Colorado Springs, Colorado, is being nominated here for a Life Achievement Award in the field of being a louse. No matter where the 24 year-old's life path takes him in the future, he is doubtful to ever surpass last week's performance in the area of being a hiney-hole, when, after meeting a woman online, he invited her over to meet him in person at the house he shared with his girlfriend. At the coincidence of his girlfriend coming home unexpectedly early and the arrival of his new cyber-acquaintance, he reported his spur of the moment date to the police as a burglar.

The police, after interviewing all involved, arrested the Kevster for making a false report.

Being a louse is a capacity that comes naturally to many men, but Kevin is starring at it while yet a relative rookie in the arena of relationships. Some of you fans of lousedom may interpret the Kev-man's early breakout success as a portent of many successful seasons of spectacular infidelities. Others may see him as a mere flash in the pan, preferring the long-term body of work turned in by public louses like Bill Clinton, Newt Gingrich and Charlie Sheen.

The fact is, the Kevinator's glory is almost doomed to be ephemeral. He's going to get better at being a world-class creep, which means his fans are never going to find out about it. The next time he's living with a woman (probably not this one) and he invites another female over (probably not that one) and his live-in arrives unexpectedly, Kevarooni is going to have a better story, or a better plan of action. I have a few suggestions. Kevin can thank me later.

Pretend to be your own, previously undisclosed twin, Kenney. Reveal that Kevin has been drafted for a secret mission by the CIA, and you're here so that that Pakistanis don't suspect anything. And you're horny.

Fake a sudden illness. A heart attack works best when you're older. Testicular cancer happens to younger men, so try that. You may receive offers to amputate. Decline.

Reveal that you've slipped a Rohypnol into your own drink.

Tell your girlfriend you heard her talking in her sleep about having a threesome. Surprise!

Tell your new love interest you have an open relationship. Then open the door and run away.

Break down and confess to both women that you're craving the sensation of action because you don't have long to live. The second part of this may very well be true.

Above all, don't call the cops. They come in pairs and many police officers are men on the make like yourself, Killer Kev. What do you think happens when they come upon two women who are guaranteed single?

Probably dating them right now, Kevin. But keep that chin up. Just think of it as another way to clear your browser history.

 A Taco Bell chalupa--worth fire-bombing for?



I believe it was Danny DeVito who once observed You always get screwed at the drive-through. We all have.  Insufficient packets of condiments, cheeseburgers missing cheese, one napkin to service the drippings from twelve tacos. Finally, a Taco Bell customer in Athens, Georgia, had enough. He fire-bombed the local Bell when they refused to rectify his perceived problem of not having enough meat on his chalupa.

Some people might consider not having a meaty enough chalupa a personal problem, but they are not aware of the nature of a chalupa. It is one of the Bell's Mexicanish food items that has no actual opposite number in real Mexican cookery, like the enchirito. Order one in Tijuana and you'll get something entirely different. But they are supposed to have meat, or what at Taco Bell passes for meat, and when an American does not get enough food, he gets angry. In this case, angry enough to follow in the footsteps of Jeremy Coombs, of Missouri, who was arrested last month for pulling a shotgun on a Taco Bell employee who did not give him enough hot sauce. Taco Bell, beware. Can you say Second Amendment solution?

Americans, in these tough times, are clearly getting hungrier. Potato salad is community food. It's usually served in huge bowls at picnics. You can take a spoonful or a plate of it, or merely stick a toothpick in a starchy morsel and raise it to your lips. No wonder Karen Henry grew angry at her 80 year-old dad for refusing to share his. It's only a shade short of being disinherited, being cut off from the family's bowl of russet and mayonnaisey goodness.  Although news reports failed to say whether the salad in question was standard or German potato fare, Karen's anger at being excommunicated from it could not be expressed in mere words. Her resulting assault upon the aged spud-miser landed her in jail.

Likewise jailed overnight were pregnant Nicole Leczcyzynski and her husband, while their three year old daughter Zophia, was placed in protective custody for eighteen hours, when Nicole forgot to pay for a sandwich in Honolulu. The couple, having recently moved to Hawaii, got lost on the way to the supermarket. I moved to Hawaii myself at one point, and while it is ordinarily the happiest of occasions, rookie residents do get lost. There are only thirteen letters in the Hawaiian alphabet, but all five vowels are included, leaving only eight exhausted consonants working overtime to form Hawaiian words. Street signs tend to look similar, and street names look similarly unpronounceable.

Having wandered looking for food for hours for themselves and their three-year-old, the family, upon finally finding a Safeway, opened a couple of those nasty, plastic-wrapped sandwiches that all supermarkets sell before they resumed shopping, intending to pay for the tasteless but filling hunks of baloney and bread upon checking out, but forgot to do so while paying for their $50 worth of groceries at the check stand.

Their story is suspicious here…fifty bucks worth of groceries in Honolulu consists of maybe a gallon of milk, a couple mangoes and a box of sanitary napkins, but even if the Leczcyznskis had entered with sandwich larceny in their hearts, they surely would not have carried out the deed if they had been aware of the Safeway chain's policy regarding shoplifting, i.e., YOU TAKE OUR SANDWICHES—WE TAKE YOUR KID.  

Finally, Crockett Keller, a gun safety instructor in Texas has announced that he will not conduct courses for Muslim-Americans or anyone who voted for Obama, stating that Muslims "cannot be real Americans" and saying of Democrats "You have already proven that you cannot make a knowledgeable and prudent decision as required under the law."

A picture of Keller is included with the news item, in which he states that many of his neighbors support him. From the picture, I infer that he means they support him by letting him attend their barbecues. I may have voted for Obama, but I've at least made the knowledgeable and prudent decision to lay off the chili dogs and peach cobbler before I weighed as much as a sofa bed. Everybody makes mistakes, Crockett, so I'm  begging you to forgive my lapse in 2008 and teach me how to use a gun. I've got a bag full of chalupas and a gigantic bowl of potato salad, and I've vowed that no one's getting any food from me until they pry it from my cold, dead, mayo-stained fingers.