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."

Police were called to a home in Point Loma, a San Diego neighborhood, by two women who found that a naked man had broken into the home they shared.
 
The women described the nude man as a white male who was “well-groomed.”
 
We San Diegans are, for the most part, very conscious of our appearance, even when we are breaking into strangers’ homes in the dead of night, so it’s no surprise that the man in question might have put some product in his hair and trimmed his beard before he shucked his threads and got his home invasion act on.
 
Likewise, female San Diegans are prone to judge males, even guys engaged in felonies, by their looks, so if you are bent on taking up a career in breaking, entering and flashing in your fellow citizens’ homes, you’re going to go further down that career path if you can be described as “hung and hunkalicious,” by your victims.
 
It’s not easy to look GQ when you’re starkers, so the suspicion here is that not only facial and head hair was involved in the all-over look, but a certain amount of manscaping was readily apparent. A tan-line-less glow was probably possessed by the buff intruder as well, so he spent a few seshes in a tanning bed before streaking into those girls’ living room, is what I think.
 
The question in everybody’s mind here is: Was that impeccably stylish naked home invader Harrison Butker?
 
Thanks to a commencement speech he gave a couple days ago, Butker’s face is now known to the nation, and it does seem to be an exceptionally well-groomed one. There’s more product in his hair than in a can of Sterno, and more science in the way he trims his hipster beard than there is in the Republican party in most southern states. As for manscaping and tan-bedding, you’ll have to ask his locker room buds about that.
 
The guy must really feel an urge to get out of town, though, after giving that public address, which, if he had given it at a bar, even a bar with nothing but Proud Boys, Catholic priests and Bikers for Trump in attendance, would have resulted in someone tapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Let’s get you an Uber home, pal.”

Butker is against gay as well as women being allowed to do anything except bear children and make sandwiches, and the women whose home was violated were living in a way that gay women often live, which is in the same house. It may be a form of conversion therapy being practiced by the field-goal kicker. Certainly, lesbian women aren’t going to unwrap their loving arms from around each other for some naked, fat, hairy-backed slob who couldn’t hit a chip shot three-pointer with the wind at his back in the first quarter of an exhibition game, but perhaps they could be steered back to the path of wholesomeness by a naked, Super Bowl-winning kicker like Butker.
 
According to the police, the only thing the natty nudist said to his unwilling hostesses was “Everybody in this neighborhood is doing drugs.”
 
Maybe the intruder himself was doing drugs. Strike that—it’s virtually certain he was. But Point Loma is where the fishing docks are here in San Diego. Slurping IPA’s and cracking lobsters open is what the locals can most often be observed doing, which makes the universal drug use claim a fairly stupid generalization. Would Butker utter one of those?
 
The thinking here is that the answer is “Yup.” The bare-assed burglar is still at large, having evaded the cops. And so is Butker.

​I rest my case. 

Global pop sensation Taylor Swift promises to destroy football and democracy in Las Vegas at the Super Bowl.
 
“Football will be easy to ruin,” Swift claims. “Wait until they see an attractive, leggy woman, who is me, jumping around excitedly at the Super Bowl. Football has never been associated with women with great bodies performing acrobatics and acting like they are excited, so when I do it, men will never want to watch the sport again. I’ve been told that on Twitter, so I have to believe it.
 
“Also, I’m going to fuck my boyfriend, who is a football player, afterwards. Getting sex just because they are football players is something that would humiliate most men, so I expect the popularity of the sport to nosedive afterwards, when I reveal that I just have sex with my guy because he looks good in tight pants and smells like a community whirlpool bath after the game.
 
“Destroying democracy will take more than a day, maybe, but I plan to give it a massive shove towards the precipice in Vegas by endorsing all the Democrats in front of my legion of fans and urging them to vote this year. As I understand it, from watching Fox and Newsmax, democracy only continues in the USA if Republicans win elections. When the GOP emerges on top that is when the American way wins out, as envisioned by the Founding Fathers, those musket-waving dudes who made our nation. But it’s not democracy when Democrats get more votes than Republicans. It’s Communism, Marxism, or socialism. Us billionaires love all three. I learned that from my Jewish godfather, George Soros, so when I appear at the Supe, I’ll be shaking democracy off like an old boyfriend.
 
“What will replace football? Not my problem. Kids who want to play jai-alai or quoits instead, go right ahead. Maybe one of those games where the players cut off the heads of domestic animals and kick them around the pasture while wearing turbans, if we can get enough immigrants from those countries. What will replace democracy? Well, there will be a lot of football players out of work, so I think the Kansas City Chiefs should rule the nation, with Andy Reid being the First Coach of the USA. Hey, he’s got the moustache for it. Anyone not wearing a bright red ‘We’re Number One’ foam finger will be deported.”

​Following their latest display of playoff ineptitude, the history of the Dallas Cowboys football franchise will no longer be permitted to be taught in the Texas public school system.
 
“All printed materials, video discs and paraphernalia featuring the Dallas Cowboys will be removed from public school libraries in Texas forthwith,” said the announcement by the governor’s office. “We cannot afford for the schoolchildren of Texas to be emotionally harmed by learning of the actions of some of their ancestors, particularly the coaches, general managers and players of the Cowboys since 1995.
 
“Children do not need to be humiliated, or to be made to feel inadequate or guilty by learning of misdeeds perpetrated in the past that they had nothing to do with. No child now in our school systems ever gave Tony Romo a contract extension, and there is no need for them to be shamed for living in the same state as the people that did.
 
“Parenting is a tough job, and there’s no need for the state to make it tougher by teaching Dallas Cowboy-critical theory in our public schools. Hard-working moms and dads do not need to be vexed by their children asking them, “Why can’t we move to Kansas City? Or Green Bay?”
 
“From now on, Texas public schools will only teach the proud moments of Texas sporting history. Remember the Alamo! Hook ‘em Horns! Beat ‘em Spurs! Cheat ‘em, Astros!
 
“Maybe not that last one, either.”

​Buffalo Bills wide receiver Cole Beasley made what he called a “Public Service Announcement” the other day. Here it is in its entirety:
 
"Everyone — Hi, I'm Cole Beasley and I'm not vaccinated!... I will be outside doing what I do," Beasley added. "I'll be out in the public. If your (sic) scared of me then steer clear, or get vaccinated. Point. Blank. Period. I may die of covid, but I'd rather die actually living."
 
As someone who has been fully vaccinated, and is actually living in the hellscape of being immune to serious Covid, I feel an obligation to reach out to poor frightened Cole, and let him know that, while my life has been rendered a pale shadow of what it was before I was vaccinated, I nonetheless survive, in a vapid, regretful kind of way.
 
Some of the jab’s alleged side effects don’t affect me much, Cole. I’m not magnetized. Silverware doesn’t fly out and stick to me when I walk past the utensil tray at a buffet. I would regret getting the shot much more if steak knives and salad forks attached themselves to me instead of lying placidly on my napkin the way they did before I got immunized, and, thank Jesus, still do.
 
I don’t shed genetic material on other people, either. Unless they buy me a couple drinks first, and make it obvious they want some of my genetic material. I’m sure that happens to you Cole, way more often than it happens to me. Is that why you want other people to get vaccinated, buddy? So they won’t be afraid to have random sex with you when you and the rest of the Buffalo Bills are on the road? I feel you, bro.
 
Yeah, Bill Gates and George Soros now know when I touch myself. I figured Bill Gates did already, by keeping track of when I logged on to Pornhub through Windows, so no big deal.
 
Are you afraid your man-bun might unravel, as a side effect from being vaccinated? I can’t assure you it won’t. I haven’t had enough hair to manage a man-bun since I was your age, but the vaccine hasn’t affected my hair situation one way or another. The most I could manage in the way of a stupid hairstyle would be to let my fringe grow out and put it in a pathetic little ponytail, which is the only male hair arrangement that manages to look dumber than a man-bun. I could do that, to show solidarity with you, my man.
 
I know you’re not a chickenshit, Cole. And I don’t feel superior to you because when I went to college, I managed to learn the difference between “you’re” and “your.” You play a sport where every time you catch the ball, a 240-pound mass of steroided muscle playing linebacker or a swift cornerback brimming with hatred from his abused childhood, or both of them, will try and separate every single one of your vertebrae from each other.
 
No, you’re no coward, Cole, but retiring is probably a good idea.
 
Sounds like you’ve had enough concussions already.
 

It’s been a week since the entire nation was condemned to an eternity of fiery suffering as the result of watching the Super Bowl halftime show, and I, for one, feel pretty good about it. Of course, I was going to Hell already, so watching the halftime booty-fest put on by Shakira, J.Lo and their host of back-up dancers did not affect my eternal fate. Well, maybe a little, because I was putting the finishing touches on a couple of roasted chickens during most of the halftime show and had to deliberately make a speed-date with sin by watching it later on YouTube, so I might eventually end up in a lower circle of Hell because of that. Or not; I could always plead I don't deserve a hotter spot because I can't name a single song by either performer off the top of my head. 
 
It all seems ironic, because almost everyone in the country was just about in heaven about the Supe because there was no possibility the New England Patriots were going to win it. By halftime, it was still obvious that the Patriots were not going to be the eventual champions, so ultra-Christian Ohio resident Dave Daubenmire should have been as happy as the rest of us when Shakira, J. Lo and company went onstage to shake it like a Polaroid picture. He, however, was not. From his Christian podcast:
 
“I think we ought to sue,” (said Daubenmire). “Would that halftime show, would that have been rated PG? Were there any warnings that your 12-year-old son—whose hormones are just starting to operate – was there any warning that what he was going to see might cause him to get sexually excited?”

“Could I go into a courtroom and say, ‘Viewing what you put on that screen put me in danger of hellfire’?”

Now, no one could blame Dave for seething with angst while watching the Super Bowl, because no Ohio team has ever won one. But he had to go and bring sex and Jesus into it. Let's face it, Dave is about as much fun as hitting your shin on a trailer hitch.
 
He mentions suing Pepsi, which sponsored Shakira’s vibrating buns and J. Lo’s sensational splits, for an amount of 867 trillion dollars, which, at 37 times the national debt, seems a tad overmuch, until you consider that 867 trillion divided by an eternity in Hell is still effectively zero.
 
It might be a tough lawsuit to win. If I were one of Pepsi’s defense lawyers, I’d point out that many other female pop stars have danced nearly in the raw at previous Super Bowls, and Dave did not see fit to sue over them. Katie Perry had a Left Shark drooling over her (a Shark that is for sure destined for eternal perdition), Lady Gaga scampered skimpily, Fergie sang about her luscious lady lumps, and Beyoncé even cat-walked across the Super Stage through a special effect calculated to mimic the flames of Hell. Yet Dave did not raise one litigating finger. It took the sultry Latina duo to give Dave a sinful bulge in his trousers, a bump he fears will eighty-six him from the Pearlies and get him a box seat at the Stadium of Eternal Suffering.
 
Yeah, 867 trillion might be a little low, especially if he splits it with that twelve-year-old kid. If he wins, though, you can comfort yourself with the thought that every time you pour yourself a Pepsi at your local taco shop (because no taco shop on the planet ever serves Coke) you’re doing more than preparing to douse the fire of its habanero sauce.
 
You’re helping keep Dave out of Hell.

This subject was briefly debated the other day on Fox and Friends, the morning television show that usually spends its time fawning over Trump’s latest attempt to mangle the Constitution. The entire exchange between hosts Brian Kilmeade and Ainsley Earhardt is reproduced below:
​
Ainsley asked, “You don’t think that God cares who wins the game, right?”

Kilmeade responded “I’m pretty sure God lets the game just play out,” which seemed to surprise Earhardt.

“I think God is in everything,” Earhardt proclaimed, which was followed by an angelic sound effect.

Ainsley is one of Fox’s interchangeable blondes, attractive women who look great in short dresses with their legs crossed and who probably had to have sex with Roger Ailes to get their jobs, but, unlike most people who were forced to have sex with Ailes, that has not cost Ainsley her faith. God is in everything, she says, on America’s fave cable network, including in the hearts and minds of huge professional athletes who merely think they are being managed by burly, stressed-out men wearing headphones who are desperately trying to outwit each other.
 
Kilmeade, on the other hand, is a football atheist who probably belongs on MSNBC.
 
Here, we do not see God having much of an interest in American football, unless He and Jesus bet on it. If they’ve got a little pool going, maybe with Mary, St. Peter, Lucifer and the Holy Ghost, though, all kinds of divine interventions are possible. Was it Jesus who temporarily blinded the referees at the Saints-Rams game, because he had the Rams but the Holy Ghost wouldn’t give him any points? Did Satan arrange for the Patriots to win the coin toss in overtime in their game against the Chiefs? Obviously, because Belichick and Brady long ago sold their souls to him, with Brady driving the harder bargain by getting Gisele Bundchen along with all that Super Bowl hardware.
 
Ordinarily, you would think that Jesus would always take the Saints on account of their name, but Up High He is thoroughly sick of His saints, a bunch of monks and virgins who are about as much fun as a tonsillectomy, and He hates to be reminded of them. There are teams that everyone in Heaven and Hell dislikes, like the Browns and the Chargers, so they never win anything. St. Peter is an Atlanta fan, and the Falcons' epic giveaway of the Super Bowl to the Pats in 2017 was God’s punishment to him for letting Steve Jobs into Heaven.
 
Mary, the original passive-aggressive martyr bitch, likes the Carolina Panthers, just because no one else does, and is always threatening to appear in their locker room, because she’s sick of her contract that says she can only appear to groups of small children who don’t speak English. The Holy Ghost claims not to favor any particular team, but all the others say He’s just a bandwagon-jumper.

All this speculation is fascinating, but Fox is just content with wondering whether God determines the result of football games. Even that is beneath their dignity, because as far as we can tell, Fox has never even debated the biggest question about God, i.e., is He white?
 
You know, like Santa Claus.

Trump “disinvites” Super Bowl champion Philadelphia Eagles to White House--News item.
 
When we look back on this moment fifty years from now, if we are not too dead to do so, we may realize that this was the moment the tide of history turned against Trump. True, although he has made many enemies at this point—nearly everyone in the government, a solid majority of the American people and most of the nations of the world outside of North Korea—he had yet to antagonize the most ruthless private interest group in the country—Philadelphia Eagles fans.
 
Now that he has done so, it is only a matter of time before the White House falls. Eagles fans are one of the most warlike tribes in history. If you pitted three hundred Eagles fans against the legendary three hundred Spartans that died defending Thermopylae, the Eagles fans would probably win two times out of three. This would be true even if the Eagles fans were armed only with the squirt bottles of mustard they usually use on their soft pretzels.
 
Trump fears “nasty women.” Eagles fans are nasty women. They are also nasty men, children and household pets. They dress in green clothing with "Eagles" emblazoned on them, from head, where they wear knitted caps that can easily be converted into weapons by doffing them and putting rocks inside, to toe, midnight green boots that they use to kick at the groins of their fallen enemies.
 
Put ten thousand Trump supporters, with their red hats and tough talk about guns and immigrants inside Lincoln Financial Field during an Eagles game and watch all their bravery disintegrate as they face off against the surly mass of green. Now that Trump has insulted the Birds, they wouldn’t last any longer than a group of fools wearing Giants jerseys.
 
Eagles fans aren’t just capable of physical assault. Their wit is legendary as well. Any combination of any variation of the word “fuck,” plus the addition of any subtle modifiers, such as “dumb,” “stupid,” “ass,” “clown,” “dirt” or “in the head,” can be tossed at their bewildered opponents. But the most devastating figure of speech Eagles fans use to crush the spirits of their opponents is a rhetorical question: “ARE YOU SOME KIND OF FUCKIN’ RETARD?” This oratorical device may be employed at will, on any occasion when an Eagles fan feels like criticizing anything about a non-fan, from his choice of socks to his decision to drink a full can of Bud Light instead of hurling it at someone wearing Cowboys gear.
 
Trump was planning to entertain Eagles fans who had traveled to the White House to meet their heroes to an afternoon of the Marine Corps Band playing the Star-Spangled Banner instead. Fortunately for him, no Eagles fans showed up. Only White House interns were on the lawn to watch Trump mangle the lyrics of America's patriotic songbook. That was a lucky break for Trump. Eagles fans are used to hearing the Star-Spangled Banner once. ONCE. After that, the Marines would need to play the team’s fight song, “Fly, Eagles, Fly,” about thirty-six times in a row, because that is the number of times the fans are used to hearing it during a game. If they didn't, Trump would have been better off if  Marines brought a battalion instead of a band.

Trump made this call even though he should have known that nearly every American was at least a nominal Eagles fan for four hours last February, because they were sick of cheaters Bill Belichick and Tom Brady winning Super Bowls. Trump is still a Patriots fan, probably because when you get the Kremlin to help you win the Presidency, deflating a few footballs doesn't look so serious.
 
The mayor of Philadelphia condemned the Trump decision, calling him “a fragile egomaniac,” for his decision to deny the champions their day in the White House sun. But here the feeling is that the Mayor’s criticism fell short of the mark.
 
The guy’s a fuckin’ retard.

Full disclosure--the author is a Philly native.

The nation waited breathlessly for Trump’s nominees for the President’s Council on Sports, Fitness and Nutrition, and we were not disappointed. Many of we politically-minded Americans wondered who a President who subsists on cheeseburgers and exercises less than any President since Roosevelt, who was in a wheelchair, would appoint to advise him on these matters, and the results are in.
 
We’re just going to highlight the worthier of the picks here. First up is Dr. Mehmet Oz, who advocates various supplements which he guarantees will turn you into a slim, middle-aged man with a nice head of hair like him. None of the supplements actually work, which doesn’t stop Oz from discovering more of them. He is the type of doctor who can proclaim on cable TV that cilantro enemas cure colon cancer, and desperate people start shoving tacos up their asses.
 
Dr. Oz has been featured in these pages before, notably here and here.
 
Bill Belichick, the head coach of the New England Patriots, was also picked by Trump for the Council. Belichick has cheated his way, via spy cameras and deflated footballs, to a 5-3 record in Super Bowls. He and his team are so widely hated that they turned the entire nation, with the exception of the New England area and a few soreheads in Minnesota, into Philadelphia Eagles fans for the last SB. Eagles fans are the motliest in the NFL, noted for booing Santa Claus and cracking the skulls of anyone who dares to show up in their stadium wearing an opposing team’s jersey.* They have funny accents, greasy food,  and a fight song no one sober can sing without cringing. The world was surprised that they only overturned a couple of cars during their obligatory celebration riot when the Eagles prevailed over the Pats. You wouldn’t want to be an Eagles fan unless you had to, but disgust with Belichick and his moody, supermodel-screwing quarterback Tom Brady meant that Eagles fans covered the country from sea to shining sea last February.
 
The Incredible Hulk, also known as Lou Ferrigno, will join the Council as well. The Hulk will be able to advise Trump about how to climb the ladder of success by using illegal steroids instead of inheriting hundreds of millions of dollars from your dad. Also the benefits of spraying your skin green instead of orange.
 
The rest of the appointees are retired jocks without anything better to do than have lunch at the taxpayer’s expense, which may lead you to say Why do we need a President’s Council on Sports, Fitness and Nutrition at all?
 
The answer is, we don’t. The Council has been around since 1963 and hasn’t done a damn thing in those fifty-odd years to keep us from becoming a nation of couch-squatting diabetics, hopelessly addicted to deep-fried anything and two-for-one pizza deals. But with Trump in the Oval Office, it now has a purpose.
 
It gives him a chance to use the word “Council” correctly.

Full disclosure: The author is a native of Philadelphia.

A small-town hotel room, late at night. TIM TEBOW, once a quarterback in the NFL, and now a journeyman minor league outfielder for the New York Mets, is looking for the hotel room Bible. Finding it in a drawer by the musty-smelling bed, he picks it up. He pulls a lighter from his pocket, but as he is about to ignite the Word of God, JESUS appears to him.
 
JESUS: Ix-nay on that, Timmy.
 
TIM TEBOW: My Lord! (hastily puts out flame that was starting to lick up the spine of the Bible with his fingers, burning himself)
 
JESUS: Your faith is being tested, Timmy. By what? (Tebow tries to speak, but Jesus interrupts him) Never mind, Timmy. It’s because the Eagles won the Super Bowl, right?
 
TIM TEBOW: Yes, My Lord. Wow, you do know everything. Why couldn’t the Eagles have won the Super Bowl when I was with them?
 
JESUS: You were cut in September, Timmy. The Super Bowl is in February.
 
TIM TEBOW: But You are All-Powerful, Oh Lord.
 
JESUS: True, Timmy, but even I would have had a tough time straightening out the Eagles secondary in '15. Plus, the o-line was undersized, and the coach thought that he was Me.
 
TIM TEBOW: But now I am forced to wander in the wilderness of minor-league baseball, enduring all sorts of wicked sliders and ungodly curveballs, which I cannot hit. And yet, when the Eagles won the Super Bowl, there were Nick Foles and Doug Pederson praising your name, and all of the rest of the organization, too, except for Jeff Lurie, because he’s a Jew.
 
JESUS: I’m a Jew, too, Timmy. Me, why do I have to keep reminding you people of that? All right, I did let the Eagles win the Super Bowl, because they were begging me to. My Father was against it. “Why make those asshole Philly fans happy for once?” were his exact words. And the Holy Ghost took the Pats and the points, so He’s pretty miffed, too. But the Eagles were beseeching the crap out of me, and I figured a free plug at the Super Bowl couldn’t hurt my brand, especially when Mountain Dew was paying 5 mil a pop and a hefty chunk of change to Morgan Freeman and Peter Dinklage as well.
 
TIM TEBOW: So, it was all about the publicity, oh My Savior?
 
JESUS: That, and to piss off all the atheists that were rooting for Philly. Imagine your team winning the Super Bowl and the first words out of the coach’s mouth are Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Music to my ears, but nothing ticks off the atheists more than athletes giving glory to Me. And it follows the Commandment that was edited out of the original Ten—“Thou shalt make life a shit-pie for the atheists whenever you can.”
 
TEBOW: That’s a good Commandment, oh My Redeemer, and I think I have always obeyed it, even in my days with the Broncos, when I would publicly pray on the sidelines after You had granted me another touchdown even though I threw the football like I was tossing a loaf of pumpernickel. You could just hear all the atheists muttering “Oh, Jesus.”
 
JESUS: And that’s the point, Timmy. When I can get those bastards saying My name, it’s a big-time affirmation. You might have noticed, I’m all about the glory.
 
TIM TEBOW: So, if I promise to praise You when they hand me the microphone after I get called up by the big league club in September and we win the World Series on my home run, you can make that happen?
 
JESUS: We’re talking the Mets here, Timmy. What do you expect, a miracle?