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."

​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.”

Bob Nonini, a state senator from Cour d’Alene, Idaho and a candidate for lieutenant governor of that windswept northern land, has come down in favor of the death penalty for women who get abortions.
 
The pro-lifer’s advocation of the death penalty was met with pushback from some people, most notably his wife, who was heard to mutter under her breath, “What a raging asshole,” when Nonini announced his position in an interview with the Christian podcast Cross Politic.
 
Mrs. Nonini knows best, we imagine. However, devotees of the podcast no doubt agreed with Nonini, because a certain subset of Christians believe that the death penalty is a good solution for any people they don’t care for, which, besides women who get abortions, include doctors who give abortions and gay people. The latter two are sometimes killed on a volunteer basis by eager believers, whom Nonini no doubt has some sympathy for.
 
Idaho does have the death penalty, although there are only nine people on death row in that state. Sociologists agree that the reason for the limited number of individuals waiting for lethal injection in Idaho is that there are very few black people there.

​It is not known how many women get abortions every year in Idaho, so how big of a wing they would have to add to the ladies’ prison if Senator Nonini has his way is not known. People are fucking in Idaho for sure, though—there’s not much else to do there except shovel the snow off of your fields so you can watch your potatoes be ruined by hail—so there’s bound to be some abortions as a result, because some people, even notable Christians like the Senator, end up fucking people they shouldn’t be fucking, like immediate family members or other people’s wives. Or else they are too shy to buy condoms.
 
There’s no doubt that the women involved in illicit affairs deserve death, as does every teenage girl impregnated in the back seat of a car with Idaho plates, because they were having wild sex while the good Christians of Idaho were doing God’s work by eating meat loaf off dinner trays while watching Wheel of Fortune.  The question for Senator Nonini has to be, how far of a look-back period is there going to be? If you had an abortion while it was permitted (which, believe it or not, it still is in Idaho) are you going to be executed for it when the legal tide turns? What if you accidentally wander into the state when you meant to go to Iowa instead (people get the two states mixed up all the time) and have an abortion on your medical records? Are you going to swing for it?
 
Probably yes, because if you don’t think all life is sacred, you deserve to be killed. And what about the men who are not complete cads and cheap asses and cough up the money for an abortion when they have been party to a sex act that was a little too spontaneous? Are they going to get the death penalty too?

Probably not.

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

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

DICTIONARY FOR MEN'S PERSONAL ADS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The resignation of Roger Ailes as CEO of FOX News last week has sent shockwaves through the landscape of young, leggy women willing to have sex with a fat-faced, married, intrinsically dishonest septuagenarian in order to get and keep a job on a cable TV news channel.

“What was the point of sleeping with all of my professors in order to get a degree in broadcast journalism if I can’t offer my willing young body to Ailes in return for a gig at FOX News?” wailed one aspiring anchorperson, who demanded anonymity before agreeing to this interview, and also a chance to change into an extremely short skirt and sit with her knees pressed tightly together. “I was one night of lust with a musty old white guy away from being a national celebrity and now this!”

Well, now you can be sure it’s your talent that’s taken you to the top.

“Intercourse those feces. I mean, I feel sorry for all the girls that held their noses and let Roger rub his flab all over their taut youthful bodies, then went straight out to kill the memory with half a dozen shots of Patron and orgy sex with Chippendale dancers, but I’m even worse off, because nothing turns me on more than sex with a disgraceful old pervert.”

Wow. Do you mean I have a shot with you, then?

“Are you married? And do you operate a major television network?”

Well, technically, no and no.

“Then forget it. I like to feel a guy’s wedding band scraping against my firm young flesh while he’s wheezing into my ear so hard he sounds like he’s an inch from a heart attack. It’s important to me that I show a man who can advance my career a way better time than some woman who’s been faithfully married to him for years and probably bore his children. As long as he doesn’t actually pop a stent before I get my seat behind the evening news desk, it’s all good.”

It seems like you were born to work at FOX News.

“You said it. In 4th grade, all the other little girls in my class were asked their role models. They came up with typical politically correct answers—Susan B. Anthony, Marie Curie, Barbara Walters. I said Monica Lewinsky. The principal had a long talk with my parents about my unnatural taste for old, wrinkled white guys that smelled like stale deodorant. When they confronted me, though, I just shrugged and told them I was born that way.

So you think your taste for saggy pale male physiques is innate?

"I'm certain of it. When I was just a little girl I remember looking at my grandpa sleeping on the porch with his shirt off and thinking the best thing about him was his long, gray armpit hair.”

So, really, any powerful old geezer who was completely deluded about his sexual attractiveness would do for you?

“Yes, but Roger was my ideal. That limp, hanging double chin! Those wiggly jowIs! I imagine them pressed up against…”

Take it easy. This is a family column.

“Sorry. But just thinking about it gets me excited. It’s all for nothing now.”
​
I wouldn’t give up hope yet. You may never sit across the news desk from Megyn Kelly, but a girl with a stomach as strong as yours could sleep her way to the top of any industry.

“I know. But I also know that wherever I end up, when the big boss is groping me, or whispering slimey come-ons in my ear, or telling me that Friday is No Underwear Day at the office, I’ll still tingle all over, especially if he’s old enough to remember when Truman was President. But at the same time, I’ll always wish it was Roger.”

I glanced into our tiny condo yard the other day. My girl often sits there in the evenings, reading, at our patio table. Sometime she is afflicted by insects, which she hates. She hates them when they are utterly harmless, even flapping moths and buzzing beetles, bugs which carry neither Zika nor Nile nor Lyme.

Of course, she hates bugs when they are in the house as well. A single insect trapped between our four walls triggers roughly the same reaction in her as a Stuka preparing to dive-bomb the recliner would, a wail of fear and pain, and a desperate seeking of cover simultaneous with a demand that I squash the invader.

I am happy to do this when possible even though I have a much more phlegmatic attitude towards interior insects, having been raised in the bug-infested East and used to cohabiting with a certain amount of insect life. In particular, spiders. My mother regards spiders as individual pest control agents of the highest order.

“Don’t kill spiders,” she often commanded me in my youth. “They eat other bugs.”

“Not nearly enough of them,” I would reply, as I contemplated the usual throng of moths, stink bugs and ants swarming her living room on a typical summer night.

I try to tell the girl that spiders eat other bugs when one puts in appearance here. “I know that,” she says. Then, after a pause, she says “Does that mean you’re too big of a pussy to kill it?”

Nothing like attacking a guy’s masculinity to get him to do something he doesn’t particularly feel like doing, as the first woman who spotted the first gigantic cave spider crawling towards her favorite hunk of Raquel Welch-like crotch fur discovered, so the spider, despite its admirable appetite for insect flesh, dies.

Flying invaders need to be dispatched, too. I can get only so far with my natural insect-killing instruments, my bare hands, as many insects fly too high for me to reach them or too fast for me to clap them, mid-air, out of existence.

That’s why we acquired the hand-held Electric Bug Zapper. It resembled a tennis racket, but it was battery-powered, and supposed to kill bugs electronically when you swung it at them. I never had any faith in this instrument. I swung it many times at inside bugs, and I never saw the satisfying flash of insect electrocution when I did so. There was nothing like the blue flare that dazzles in the night when you are watching a real bug zapper, the land-based kind, do its work, a spark that briefly illuminates the porch and causes the observer to say, ”Ooooh, that was a big one. Fetch me another beer out of the cooler, wouldya?”

The best I was able to do with the hand-held zapper was knock a bug to the floor, then step on it to end its existence. Hardly high tech.  When you licked the zapper, though, in an exasperated effort to determine whether there was any juice flowing through its grid at all, it hurt. So if you didn’t have any 9-volt batteries around, and you were in the mood for a little tongue pain, you could use it for that.

So when my girl took the zapper outside to deal with the swarms there, I did not complain. I often noticed her using it at her insect enemies, turning, twisting and whacking at the night, like Marina Sharapova trying to deal with a continuous series of wicked serves from both Williams sisters and Roger Federer combined.

But now its career is over. I noticed it sitting in the condition pictured above a few days ago. “Done with that?” I asked, as inoffensively as possible.

“I broke it on a bug,” she said instantly. I tried to suppress any look of disbelief, but one must have leaked down my optic nerve anyway. “It was a moth at least as big as an owl,” she added. “It came flying right at me.”

I glanced at the ground. “It just turned around and flew away after I hit it,” she added. “it’s still out there.”

I looked at the evidence and concluded that the zapper had met its end when she had accidentally smashed it against the umbrella pole, visible in the picture as well, while contorting herself like a martial arts defender, and I mean a martial arts defender with chronic epilepsy, facing off against her enemy.

“I better get you another one, then,” I said.

“Good idea,” she replied briskly, and went back to her book.
​
There was no sense arguing, so I kept my mouth shut. Keeps bugs from flying in there, anyway.

Utah has declared porn a public health crisis. The resolution was passed unanimously by the porn warriors of the Utah Legislature and signed into law by Utah’s governor. State Senator Todd Weiler, the author of the measure, maintains that the bill “is not a ban on porn or an attack on masturbation.”

This is political wisdom, because estimates of porn viewing and masturbation per capita in the Beehive State range as high as every person in it. For certain every male person. Doubly certain every legislator. In fact, the act of operating a legislature has often been compared to masturbation, in terms of actual significant achievements accomplished during a typical session.

The legislation was inspired by the Mormon Church, which views “porn addiction” as a plague that is destroying society. How do you become a porn addict? Just watch porn once (and presumably polish your bayonet while doing so) and you are a full-fledged porn junkie, according to the Latter Day Saints, comparable to a meth head or a heroin addict, except your habit doesn’t cost money, lead to crime or destroy your health. There are actual porn rehabs in Utah, where the faithful can go to get the porn monkey off their backs.  The Twelve Steps to Recovery promoted by Alcoholics Anonymous have been condensed for Wankers Anonymous to one:

Keep your pants on while sitting at your computer.

The state legislature of Utah was no doubt inspired by the Republicans of Congress, who are themselves embroiled in a titanic struggle to keep Planned Parenthood from selling baby parts, which Planned Parenthood doesn’t do.

All the evidence that PP sells baby bits consists of one video faked up by a guy who is now under indictment for it. That didn't stop Republicans in Congress from forming a committee last October to investigate it. How long will it be before Congress stops investigating something that didn’t happen? The answer is, not yet.

The anger at Planned Parenthood selling baby parts grows every day it becomes more obvious that they’ve never sold baby parts, and that rage at something that never happened is being stoked by Committee Chairperson Marsha Blackburn, previously mentioned here for challenging President Obama to a skeet-shooting contest, who knows that if you are not intensely concerned with at least one nonexistent problem, you are not a real American and might as well join ISIS.

There are Democrats on the Select Investigative Panel on Infant Lives. They want to quit and go home, but Marsha won’t let them. Why? “She’s a fucktard,” one of the Democrats explained.

In the meantime, abortion remains legal, but many people, mostly Republicans, want to make it illegal again, except in the cases of pregnancies caused by rape or incest, or if the life of the mother is in danger.

Or if you’re really, really worried your unborn child will grow up to be a porn addict.

In North Carolina, they just passed a law requiring all users of ladies’ rooms in the Tar Heel state to be actual ladies. There are a lot of other facets to this ordinance, but that is the most trenchant one, aimed at keeping transgendered males from sitting to pee among the belles of Carolina.
​
Critics of the law have pointed out that this is not an actual problem in North Carolina, or really, anywhere. Once a transgendered fellow has shaved his legs, done his hair, slipped on a dress and squeezed into a pair of size 10 high heels, he looks to any casual observer as qualified to use the ladies’ room as any genuine female, and since most of the business in the girl’s room is done behind stall doors, any genital discrepancies are hidden from public view.

The Governor and Legislature of North Carolina claim this law is necessary to protect the women of North Carolina from cross-dressing predators slipping into the rest facilities of that state and horrifying them, presumably by flashing their junk from underneath their panties. This legal protection strikes me as unnecessary for two reasons, the first being it never happens, and the second being that women are a lot harder to horrify than men give them credit for. I have seen women use the men’s room, for example, in public facilities where the line for the ladies’ room is just too much for them to bear. Usually they just flash a smile and say a cheery “Hi!” to all of us guys swaying in front of the urinals, trying to dispose of the gallon of beer we have guzzled since the first pitch of the game, before dashing into one of our stalls for their girl biz. These stalls are places where a great deal of haphazard spraying occurs, and where I would not sit unless I was driven to it by extreme physiological necessity.

So these women are braver than me, because men are disgusting. Sharing their sanctuary and possibly their lipstick with some gender-bending individual wouldn’t trouble them a bit is my guess. But they won’t have to worry about that in North Carolina, where the law now clearly states that a restroom user must use the facility reserved for the sex stated on his or her birth certificate. The Governor left transgendered individuals a loophole however--if they want to use the restroom for the gender they have selected, all they need to do is change the sex on their birth certificate.

Because everybody knows how to do that.

There will, however, be no North Carolina Public Bathroom Police Force. Those of you who were hoping that this law represented a job opportunity will be disappointed, but enforcement of the statute will be left to the ordinary citizens of the state. When a gender-suspicious individual presents him or herself at a public bathroom, local wisdom will determine if that person needs to have his or her birth certificate checked, or in cases of deep doubt, publicly pantsed. What could possibly go wrong?

So if you are suffering through a long layover at the airport in Charlotte and need to use the men’s room and while you are doing so, you notice the next stall is occupied by someone wearing nylons and heels, ask for her autograph.

It’s probably Caitlyn Jenner.