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."

Louisiana lawmakers on Thursday approved legislation making the possession of abortion pills without a prescription a crime punishable by up to 10 years in prison.--News item.
 



A TRAFFIC STOP IN BATON ROUGE
 
POLICE OFFICER: (To WOMAN DRIVER) License and registration, please. Hey, is that an open bottle of MD 20/20 between your legs?
 
WOMAN DRIVER: Yes, officer, but it’s not mine. I was just holding it between my legs so my friend (indicates FEMALE PASSENGER) could look in her purse for her tabs of fentanyl.
 
POLICE OFFICER (sternly): And did she find any?
 
FEMALE PASSENGER: No, sir. I must have left them at home.
 
POLICE OFFICER: Good thing. You could get in trouble for that. (to WOMAN DRIVER) Do you know why I pulled you over?
 
WOMAN DRIVER: (Guessing) Because the car I’m driving looks like the getaway car from a bank robbery and kidnapping in Slidell that happened at 10.08 this morning?
 
POLICE OFFICER: (Frowning) No, it was because you have a burnt-out taillight. Do you mind if I look in the trunk? (Without waiting, he pops the trunk open) Is this a hostage in here?
 
FEMALE PASSENGER: (quickly) No sir, that’s my boyfriend. He likes to be taped up in the dark. It’s a kink thing. Ain’t no harm in it.
 
POLICE OFFICER: (suspiciously) Boyfriend, huh? Either of you girls trying to get a medically induced abortion?
 
BOTH WOMEN, TALKING OVER EACH OTHER: No, sir… Never, officer… That’s against the law. If I was pregnant...I love babies, Mr. Policeman.
 
POLICE OFFICER: (Sticks head in car. Loudly) DO I SMELL MIFEPRISTONE?
 
WOMAN DRIVER: No, sir. Ain’t no illegal abortifacients in this car.
 
POLICE OFFICER: Out of the car! (Pats WOMAN DRIVER down. Comes up with a handful of pills) What’s this?
 
WOMAN DRIVER: That’s just some Ecstasy, officer, except for the blue ones—they’re ‘ludes. Ain’t no morning after pills, I swear.
 
POLICE OFFICER (sneering) Really? They look like Mifeprex to me. You’re going downtown. We’ll find out which one of you is pregnant at the police station. Put your hands behind your backs.
 
FEMALE PASSENGER: But, officer…
 
POLICE OFFICER: Okay, now you’re resisting arrest. (Whips out Taser)
 
WOMAN DRIVER: Okay, I admit it, sir. I was chugging that MD 20/20 and listening to Nikki Minaj while driving. Just give me a breathalyzer. Please?
 
POLICE OFFICER (Grinning sadistically): Not today, lady. You’re not blowing on a tube. You’re in Louisiana. You’re peeing on a stick.

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. 

One of the tales told by Katie Britt during her rebuttal to the State of the Union was a particularly grisly one—a young woman being sex-trafficked in Texas, where she was raped every day by a parade of sex-trafficking rapists.
 
How this poor victim got some time off from being raped to have a little chat with a US Senator about her predicament was not made clear in the story. What was made clear was that the raping was entirely the fault of Joe Biden.
 
Immediately, the leftists started chirping about how the Senator from a Kitchen in Alabama has sworn fealty to a guy who has been found legally liable for one rape, and been accused of sexual assault by at least twenty other women, so shouldn’t the Senate’s top homemaker be opposed to him as well, instead of having her moist lips pressed to his pale hiney?
 
A top Republican spokesman was willing to comment anonymously. “You obviously don’t know the difference between Democratic and Republican rape. Democratic rapes are performed by filthy immigrants, who are automatically allowed into this country by Biden if they just tell the Border Patrol they’re here for the raping. Then they find a cheap motel, where the mattresses are dirty enough to rape on. They paw at their victims with brown hands callused by working in the fentanyl mines. All the time they are grunting dirty words in Spanish. They use English only when a US Senator pops by to aske a few questions. After the rape, the victim is forced to have their baby, because they are in Texas.
 
“A Republican rape is completely different. Not that every Republican rapist has the same style—some Republicans get tongue-tied in the presence of women they want to rape. Those guys are masters of the roofie arts. But other Republicans aren’t so shy. They don’t babble in Spanish. They speak clear, precise English when they say endearing things to their victims, things like, “My God, you’ve got big boobs for a fourteen-year-old.”
 
“And to speak the language of commerce, the important thing for Republicans when they rape is location, location, location. A Republican doesn’t rape in a smelly little hotel room that doesn't even have HBO. He rapes in a bright, clean, spacious department store dressing room. He paws at his victim with clean, recently manicured hands. It’s completely different than being penetrated by filthy, bitten-down Mexican fingernails. This department store is in New York, so if the woman, who obviously was dressed so that anybody could see she was begging for sex, can get a quick and easy legal abortion and keep her mouth shut about it forever afterwards, so her rapist can ascend to the highest office in the land without being bothered by a lot of ugly rumors and expensive lawsuits. It doesn’t always work out that way, of course, but it should.
 
“That’s why the women of America prefer to be raped by Republicans instead of migrants, so, when we win the election and close the border, they’ll get exactly what they want.”

Pastor Stewart-Allen Clark of Missouri's Malden First General Baptist Church said in his Sunday sermon that women should look to maintain their figures and lose weight in order to keep their husband's attention. He also used a photo of former first Lady Melania Trump as an example of what women should aspire to--News Item.
 
To say that Padre Clark got a little off-topic in his sermon the other day would the be understatement of the year in Malden, a bustling town of 4,000 or so located in the Missouri Bootheel, which sounds like a place you would rather risk hitchhiking out of carrying a severed human head in a gym bag rather than be stuck in overnight.
 
This man of the cloth apparently looked out before him on a Sunday, at the faithful women of his congregation, made portly with the products of the many bake sales they had held to pay his salary, and no doubt rendered additionally plump in appearance by their winter outwear, and decided he had had enough. Maybe someone burped, or the pews were making loud creaking noises as the faithful shifted their weight. Anyway, the Rev started in on the fluffy females in his flock, advising them to start going to gyms and cutting out the calories in order to become trophy wives for their husbands, or at least “participation trophy” wives, as he so sensitively put it, and cited the example of Melania Trump.
 
Now, not all women can look like Melania, simply because they cannot afford the plastic surgery involved, or just don’t care to have their faces botoxed into immobility. And she is an excellent example of a woman whose looks are vastly superior to her husband’s, a fox married to a warthog. What inspired the pastor to drag Melania into his recriminations against his flock cannot be known. Perhaps he had recently committed the sin of Onan while contemplating her famous nude pics. Maybe his own partner in matrimony had fluffed out, over the pandemic and the Missouri winter, and he was lashing out secondhandedly at that long-suffering woman by attacking the big gals gathered under his steeple.
 
The first thing you notice about Stewart-Allen Clark, though, besides that the hyphen in his name seems to be in the wrong place, is that he’s a bit of a pork chop himself. It is highly doubtful that the Christian men of Malden all sport six-pack abs and tight, muscular buttocks. No, they, like the cleric himself, likely look like they have finished off a plate of loaded nachos or two in their time. The quest for physical perfection is one they want their wives alone to undertake.
 
This is a time-honored tradition among human males. Who among us has not listened to an intoxicated, overweight friend with a bad complexion sneer at the alleged physical flaws of the contestants in a wet t-shirt contest or a Miss Universe pageant, as few as they may be, especially comparatively?

What this has to do with God or Jesus is not readily apparent. There were no fat people in the Bible. I mean, if there were, God would probably have fat-shamed them, as He was constantly concerned about even more pointless things, like people having tattoos or not being virgins when they were married, to the point of ordering them stoned to death. People in the Bible were usually starving, except for the Romans, and those guys had bulimia parties to keep their weight down.
 
So, Clark has probably ascertained the will of God, but unfortunately fell afoul of the Baptist powers-that-be, as he has been ordered to forsake his pulpit and contemplate offending the women that fill his collection plates.
 
Or, as the Baptist honchos probably put it, “Good time to wander in the wilderness, bro.” 

Tara McCarthy, who describes herself as an “ethno-nationalist,” which is a euphemism for white supremacist, was caught complaining on the Internet the other day about being harassed by trolls from her own side for being a woman.
 
You might have suspected that men who shoot paintballs at protesters or carry automatic weapons into Hallmark when buying their Christmas cards might not be the most supportive of bros when it comes to female equality, but it was a revelation to our girl Tara, who apparently has never made a sandwich and brought it, along with an ice-cold beer and slippers to her man after he’s spent a hot afternoon chanting “Blue Lives Matter!” and shooting pepper spray at social justice warriors downtown.
 
When Tara is on the Internet, complaining about rap music and advocating for a separate white homeland, or at least a return to segregation, she is attacked by trolls who believe in exactly the same thing, except that they also believe she should shut up, get married, and start raising some little blonde stormtroopers of her own.
 
“It’s the Proud Bois, not the Proud Bois and Girlz. It’s the Boogaloo Bois, not the Boogaloo Chicks,” she is constantly reminded when she’s spewing racial hatred on the ‘Net. “Can you even bake a pie?”
 
Tara gives as good as she gets, or so she claims, fiercely defending her right to add a woman’s voice when it comes to calling out race traitors and cukservatives. She can Jew-bait and noose-make as well as any man, she notes. Why can’t she be treated equally by those whose bizarre beliefs she shares?
 
Tara, if you think about it, it’s almost as though all professional racists are sordid little dicks who are all misogynists to the bone as well.
 
There’s your answer, girl. But you go on. Maybe you’ll find your perfect man someday—a Nazi in the streets and a freak in the sheets.
 
When you do, make him a sandwich.

In what might be a fatal blow to his Presidential campaign, this column has obtained secret recordings of former Vice President Joe Biden describing how he used his celebrity to get what he wanted from women.
 
In the recordings, Biden can be heard to say, shockingly, “You can touch them on the shoulder. You can kiss them lightly on top of their heads. When you’re a Vice President, they let you do anything.
 
“A lot of times I’ll run across a little girl when I’m campaigning, and just on a whim, I’ll tell her she’s pretty and smart. Why? I don’t know. There’s nothing in it for me.  I’ll probably be dead by the time she’s old enough to vote. Call me a sexist, call me old-fashioned, but I still think little girls like to be told they’re pretty and smart.
 
“The married ones? I move right in on them, like a bitch. Sometimes I’ll reach across their backs and touch them lightly right above the kidney with all four fingertips. (Emphasis mine) If their husbands object, I wink and tell them, ‘Don’t worry. She’s not my type.”
 
Since these recordings have already been shared with other media outlets, the cries for Biden to quit the race have been almost unanimous from the other Democratic candidates. “Anybody who lightly touches a woman and then immediately removes his hand is not fit to sit in the White House,” said soon-to-be-ex-candidate Kirsten Gillibrand. “It would totally repudiate my successful effort to send Al Franken ice-fishing in Minnesota for good just for goofing around on a comedy tour.”
 
Bernie Sanders said, “This is bad news for Joe. I never touch women myself. When I’m in front of a woman voter, I just make a little sign of the cross, like the Pope, even though I’m Jewish, and say, 'Your student loan debt is forgiven. They seem to appreciate that much more.”
 
Amy Klobuchar commented, “I’m Amy Klobuchar. Have you heard of me? I’m Amy Klobuchar.”
 
Pete Buttigieg went on the record by saying, “Don’t believe Bernie when he says he’s never touched a woman. You can believe me when I say it, though.”
 

​After passing the nation’s most restrictive abortion law, Alabama’s legislators are not sitting on their laurels.
 
“After making certain we have honored human life by giving Alabama women the joy of birthing their rapist’s or step-daddies’ babies, we need to focus on the other side of the reproductive coin—the sperm rights of our male citizens,” said one of its Republican members, who wished to remain anonymous because the pending bill has not been finalized. “An Alabama male has an average of a hundred million  sperm in his testes at any time—that’s one hundred million one-half fetuses. If a blastocyst has all the rights of a born human, how can we ignore the rights of the potential ½ human that God might make out of that sturdy little wiggler?
 
“Just as any pregnant woman carrying merely one baby should be able to use the car-pool lane in Alabama, any male with at least one testicle remaining, who is potentially the father of a hundred million Alabama citizens, should be able to do likewise. And he will be able to, once we build some carpool lanes in this state.
 
“Too little attention is spent on these other sacred creations of our Lord, just left to bounce around on the seats of pickup trucks in their hairy casings. Just because God has chosen to place these potential lives in men who lack teeth or don’t have enough crystal meth left to attract an Alabama woman does not mean their sperm does not deserve a chance at life. Alabama women are too demanding when it comes to things like meals, wedding bands, Netflix subscriptions and child support before allowing an Alabama man to fill her with his tiny, slippery creations of God.  ‘I need to put my sperm in you,’ is all a man should have to say to get a girl to admit him into the chamber of childbirth that the Almighty has created. Even if that man has the unfortunate habit of grunting ‘Roll Tide!’ when he ejaculates, his sperm rights need to be respected.
 
“If a man is absolutely too shy or too gay to make this simple request, the state will set up medically safe settings with comfortable recliners and HD porn where he can induce a discharge, which will then be immediately frozen and stored for future use or possibly even export, as long as we can settle this trade war thing. In Alabama, crusty socks and soggy tissues will no longer be the final repository of the will of God.
 
“We’ll put them where those abortion clinics used to be. All right, we might need a few more locations. We can’t have guys lined up outside like it was a woman’s bathroom—that would be too embarrassing for them.
 
“And it will be absolutely forbidden to call these sacred places spank banks. Just putting that out there.”

​Back in 2005, someone named Cliff Arnall, who bills himself as a Life Coach and Happiness Consultant, discovered that the third Monday in January is the worst day of the year.
 
He did not say it was the worst day of the year for him personally, because for a Life Coach and Happiness Consultant, there are no bad days—it would hurt business—and your job is merely to distract people from the fact that life is a slow process towards a painful, aging death. Or contracting a fatal illness in your prime. Or a quick, unexpected sign-out that can happen at any time.
 
Most people want to be distracted from this, so Cliff’s job is a piece of cake. No wonder he’s so fucking happy all the time. Let’s take a look at the situation of someone who might decide he needs a happiness coach. He wakes up alone in a hotel room, surrounded by empty whiskey bottles. He has no memory of the night before. He cannot find his wallet containing his cash and credit cards, because it was in his pants, which he also cannot find. Instead of realizing that he needs to start going to AA meetings, he decides he is desperately unhappy. He calls Cliff. For a couple hundred bucks, Cliff tells him he needs to start going to AA meetings.
 
This is way easier work than coal mining or selling insurance, and Cliff’s happy that he’s got the gig and you don’t. But let’s give him the benefit of the doubt and examine his reasoning behind his theory that today is the worst day of the year, and this column’s thoughts on how to make it better. Cliff’s excuses for January depression are in italics.
 
The holidays are truly over, and you’re broke from splurging on Christmas. Yeah, so what? There are plenty of other ways to go broke during the year. Congratulate yourself for waiting until the twelfth month to make it happen.
 
The weather is terrible, and there’s still lots of winter to come. Live in Australia until July, which is their January.
 
Most people have abandoned their New Year’s resolutions by now. Avoid this by not making any resolutions. Chances are, you’re never going to be thinner, richer, or get laid more than you are now, so wall off depression by not thinking you can change that.
 
If you’re doing Dry January, it has amazing health benefits, but it doesn’t exactly lend itself to going out. The answer to this problem is completely obvious. Dry January wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t for social media’s habit of promoting really shitty ideas, and Dry January is the worst one since Trump being President. If God wanted us to sit in the cold and dark sober, He would not have invented winter ales, or liquor stores that deliver. We don’t do Dry January here because it would mean waking up with a massive hangover on February 2nd, which would ruin one of our favorite holidays, Groundhog Day.

Arnall doesn't even mention the most plausible reason for being depressed on the third Monday in January, which is that it is Martin Luther King Day and you don't get it off.
 
Arnall offers solutions. Plan a fun fitness vacation to someplace exotic and warm. Strike the word “fitness” from that and it describes the cruise along the Mexican Riviera we just got back from exactly. So, we don’t always disagree with Arnall.
 
The whole fakey nature of the article is exposed by the picture accompanying it, which we have conveniently cribbed off the Internet, an elegantly dressed model sitting in a window well pretending to be sad. What’s she got to be depressed about? She has a house big enough to have window wells and a pair of boots that’s worth more than our Mexico car (2003 Dodge Neon, 158,000 miles).  Now put a picture of a real depressed person there, sitting in a lawn chair in her kitchen because one of her regular chairs is being repaired but she can’t afford to get it out of the shop, in a worn bathrobe, amid a clutter of unwashed dishes, with a pile of collection notices, losing lottery tickets and a parking violation sitting in front of her, crying softly. There’s a lady who needs a life coach.
 
But Arnall wouldn’t take her case. Probably bum him out too much, and it's already the worst day of the year.

​Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh clarified the remarks he made in his grilling by Fox News a few nights ago by saying that while he might have lost his virginity in high school, college, or any weekend or vacation in between, he doesn’t actually recall doing so, so it didn't count.
 
“It’s what I call ‘sober virginity,’ he explained. “I didn’t lose mine until I was on Ken Starr’s team in ’95, trying to link Hillary to murders the wingnuts still think she did. We were staying at a hotel that Vince Foster once stayed at, looking in the trash bins for discarded napkins on which he might have written, “Hey, I think the Clintons are trying to kill me,” when Ken—he could be such a card, we called him “the Joker” behind his back—sent a professional entertainer named Sugar Melons to my room before I had even started drinking the mini-bar dry.

“Ken thought I would freeze up at confronting my personal demon—sex with a woman when I wasn’t drunk myself—but I was ready to lose my sober cherry. I made some pleasant small talk—I remember asking her ‘Sugar Melons—is that your real name?’ but she wasn’t much of a talker. She was already squeezing me through my tighty-whities and muttering, ‘Honey I hope the tip you leave me is bigger than this one.’
 
“After that, of course, I had sex with my wife sober many times. Not on our honeymoon, of course—that was such an epic binge I was still hung over when our oldest was born. Or our first Halloween together, when I was so wasted I thought it would be funny to cut a little hole in the back of our jack-o-lantern and have sex with it on the front porch. Which my wife forgave me for, even though she pointed out that a normal-sized man would have burnt his tip on the candle. I just have to remember never to address her as ‘Pumpkin’ again.
 
“So, I hope that clears everything up and you’re ready to put me on the Supreme Court, because I’m ready to go. Ruth Bader Ginsburg told me they have super crunk Happy Hours.”