Guess what?  Scientists think that in the next 30 years we will no longer be having sex to make babies.  This isn’t all that concerning for me.  I already have two kids.  Plus, two step-kids.  That’s four, more or less.  I have met my quota.  For the rest of you, however, this news should be a bit alarming.

It seems that technology will have advanced enough in 30 years that designer babies will become the norm.  Instead of getting your wife drunk, all you will need to do is head to the lab, leave some sperm and skin cells and they will do the rest.  No fuss, no muss.  And you get an engineered kid!  Woohoo.  No more morons.  No people who run funny.  Everyone has blue eyes.  It is a procreative utopia if ever there was one.

Unless you are Catholic.  Catholic doctrine dictates that the sex act is only for procreation.  In the Brave New World to come, there will be no need for procreative sex.  Ergo, Catholic repression will reach new heights.  Assuming everyone follows church doctrine, that is.

Anyway, the way that it will work is that you give the lab your genetic material and they create dozens of embryos.  The prospective parents will then be given a synopsis of the genetic makeup of each embryo and then can decide on one or two for implantation, gestation, and birth.  Parents will know how attractive, smart and healthy each embryo is likely to be.  Thus, you can’t screw up.  The ugly, dumb ones with psoriasis and a short left arm will be a thing of the past.  You will no longer have to face your own shortcomings every time you look at little Johnny or Susie.  On the contrary.  Your little superstar is guaranteed to make you feel better about yourself.  And isn’t that what life is all about?  America, the beautiful (literally).

Of course, this technology won’t be available in developing countries or for poor people in this country.  Life ain’t fair.  Ask the Republicans.  They will tell you.  Besides, if everyone was perfect, then no one would be.  It would be like socialism- just smarter and better looking.  In Capitalism, there are winners and losers.  Now we will know who they are right from the start (in case that wasn’t already clear).  Another problem solved in life.

Unfortunately, I am too old to be part of this revolution of genetics.  Sorry kids.  However, if I live long enough, I can see all of this perfect little people running around.  That will be reward enough.

But they still better stay the hell off my lawn.  I don’t care how cute they are.

 

Jerry Jones, bombastic owner of the Dallas Cowboys, says there is no link between CTE and professional football.  He says this because doctors and medical researchers are stupid.  Really dumb.  I think it is amazing that doctors can find their keys in the morning.  And they let these people operate?  Scary.  They might be book smart, but when it comes to common sense, well….

Speaking of book smart, I detest the phrase “book smart.”  Every time I hear somebody use it I want to punch them in the liver (I could start with Jerry Jones).  And throw Picante sauce in their face.  In reality, my liver punching is completely impractical.  I would be punching people all day long.

One thing I do notice is that people who throw around the phrase “book smart” often aren’t.  But it doesn’t bother them.  They may not be able to understand computers, but they sure as hell can fix a toilet.  Not that I am complaining.  The world needs working toilets.  I think we can all agree on that.

Anyway, the problem with the phrase “book smart” is that it bears no resemblance to logic.  While I know that logic isn’t in regular use nowadays, I ask the reader to bear with me a moment.  The notion is that while a climatologist may be able to understand high level statistics, they are unable to accomplish even the most mundane tasks and thus their conclusions about climate change are suspect.

Let me dispel this myth now.  Though there are some exceptions, nearly every scientist is perfectly capable of understanding how a furnace works (for example).  Furnaces aren’t complex.  That is why you can go to technical college to learn to fix them.  If a guy with a Ph.D spent two months studying furnaces, he would know more about furnaces than you do.  Not only that, he would actually understand the science behind its operation.  And he wouldn’t have to come back three times with that dumb look on his face.  Also, lose some weight.  Jesus.

But a lot of smart people don’t learn to repair furnaces.  They don’t have to.  Because anybody can do it.  I know guys who can repair carburetors who read at a fifth grade level.  If I need a carburetor repaired, I’ll listen to what they have to say.  Otherwise, they can pretty much keep their opinions to themselves.  Because they are wrong.  Why?  Because they can’t learn anything from books.  And that is where most of the world’s information resides (or on the Internet- which was created by “Book Smart” people you know).

In conclusion, being “book smart” isn’t a bad thing.  In fact, all of the technology that makes your life easier was created by “book smart” people.  The Book Smart brings you your music, your tv, your IPad, your Kim and Kanye updates.  The Book Smart are your gods.  Without them, you would be wallowing in the dirt and using your common sense medical knowledge to try and combat the plague.  (Here’s a clue to get you started.  You don’t have the plague because your neighbor’s wife is a witch.)  Without the Book Smart, you would all be dead or at the very least be covered in lesions.  You would also have few if any teeth (ok maybe that is a bad example).

Anyway, the Book Smart are your masters.  Bow to your masters!  All hail the Book Smart!!! They are the wellspring from which you flow.  Without them, you would cease to exist.  They are your god.

Important Disclaimer:  If Trump wins, I want everyone to know that my account was hacked by some elitist, blaspheming egghead.  Who probably can’t even fix his own lawnmower.

And if the climate is warming, how come we got a foot of snow last night?  It is March 24 for crying out loud.  Those scientists can’t explain everything.  It’s just their Liberal Agenda talking.

One of them probably is the hacker.  They know all about that computer stuff.

 

 

 

 

Anecdotally speaking, it seems as if the number of bumper stickers is at an all time high.  Certainly, they are more annoying than they have ever been.  I remember a kinder, gentler time when bumper stickers were meant to amuse and titillate.

“Honk If You Are Horny.”  Hahaha.  Who can forget that gem?  “Grass, Gas, or Ass.  Nobody Rides for Free.”  Hahaha.  Wonderful.  And rhythmic.  “They Will Get My Gun When They Pry it From My Cold, Dead Hands.”  (If you watched the video of the demise of the Yeehawd member, you could see the poignancy within this bumper sticker).  Anyway, bumper stickers were a bit of fun- part graffiti, part dirty joke, All-American.  “Freedom Ain’t Free.”  Bitch.

But then somebody decided to make bumper stickers political.  “NoBama.”  “Obama Sucks.”  “A Vote for Obama is a Vote for Mephistopheles.”  “I Like Trump’s Hair.”  I mean, is this necessary.  Does having a Mitt Romney 2012 bumper sticker really make a political statement?  Or does it just say you are too lazy to peel the sticker away?  I don’t know.  I’m just brainstorming here.  Boooooommmm!  That is the sound of thunder in my brain.  Booooommmmmm!!!  “Barack Hussein Obama is a Damned Muslim Who Wants Us to Worship the Koran and Quit Eating Pork and Cover Up Our Womenfolk.”

One particularly obnoxious bumper sticker (though it also serves as a rear window obscurer) is the Confederate flag.  There are two things you can guarantee about these bumper stickers.  The first is that the vehicle they are attached to is a truck and it is beginning to rust.  The second is that the driver is a white male wearing a baseball cap.  Actually, there is a third thing.  Whoever slapped that sticker on that bumper can’t find Richmond on a map.  They also don’t know who in the hell won the Civil War.

So, I was cut off this morning by a truck with an NRA bumper sticker.  If I had a gun with me, I probably would have shot him.  “Stand My Ground.”  “When Guns Are Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Have Guns.”  “Save the Earth.  Kill a Hillbilly.”  I made that last one up because I am still angry.  Sometimes I struggle with my anger.  I probably have some deep-seated issues from childhood.  Or I am just not a morning person.  Read a few more blogs and you can be the judge.  On the other hand, it doesn’t really matter so long as I have repentance in my heart.

“Jesus Saves.”  Also, “Jesus Hates Homos.”  Unless they are reconditioned at one of those camps they have.

Anyway, despite everything I just wrote, I do have a great idea for a new bumper sticker.

“WhoaBama.  I Think Your Wife Likes Me.”

And then have a picture of a winking Obama.  Boooommmmmm!!!!  It’s a veritable brain hurricane I’m having here.

I did have a much more vulgar idea in mind.  It was super funny.  But there has to be a line somewhere.

At a local grocery store that I sometimes frequent, they have a cart policy.  The policy is thus.  If you want to use a cart, you need to put a quarter in the slot at the head of the cart.  This quarter doesn’t do anything.  It just stays there- immobile, unfeeling, unrepentant.  Anyway, attached to the quarter slot apparatus is a key that opens the apparatus and allows you to retrieve your quarter.  Because they are pretty certain you will want your quarter back.  There is a catch, however.  The chain from your key is too short to open the lock on your cart’s apparatus.  Thus, you must go to the cart area and use the key on one of the other carts to retrieve your ungrateful quarter.

While I am sure you find this story riveting, the upshot is this.  This grocery chain doesn’t pay people to retrieve carts from the parking lot.  To ensure their carts are returned, they count on the fact that people will push their cart all the way back to the store to get their quarter.  It is a fascinating study in human psychology.  I would break it down as “Mine, mine, mine.  Mine quarter.”

Whenever I am at this store, I do not succumb to their mind games.  I return the cart, but I leave the quarter in the slot.  In your buccaneer face.  You can have my damn quarter.  I am not a Pavlovian subject pushing carts around for your amusement.  Pow Pow Pow…er to the people.

If you haven’t noticed, people tend to bitch about their taxes.  A lot and constantly.  Apparently, they feel as if they shouldn’t be paying any.  Something about government overreach and a snake on a flag and the Second Amendment.   Anyway, whenever I hear these tax complaints, I think of quarters in carts.  Because taxes and cart quarters are designed to do the same thing.  That is, to make people do what they ought to do but won’t if they are not compelled to do so.  I mean, is it really necessary for someone to trick you with a quarter in order for you to push your damn cart back into the rack?

The answer, of course, is yes.  A thousand times, Yes.  Why else go through the expense of outfitting every cart with a quarter carrier?  And have you seen how overweight people are?  They are only exercising for cash.  Now, if only we can somehow find a quarter- metaphorical or literal- that will make people pay their taxes without thinking about it.

I have it.  Everyone has to overpay their taxes by one dollar.  No exceptions.  The only way to get your dollar back- your hard earned dollar that is definitely yours and no one else’s- is to sign a tax oath.  This tax oath not only states that you didn’t cheat, but also that you will not at any point in the upcoming year complain to anyone, anywhere about your taxes.  If you do…Pooof!  There goes your dollar.

And that dollar is yours.  Yours, yours, yours.  Don’t forget that.  The government does not have any right to it.  At all.  It is yours.

You probably think this won’t work because people will renege.  But MO is way ahead of you.  Again.  And forever.  What we do is create a Tax Reneger Hotline.  Hear somebody complain- call it in.  Then you get their dollar.

Because if greed is good, then tattling and greed is even better.  Throw in some sex and violence and you have American Nirvana.  If there was such a thing.  But there isn’t.  This is a Christian Heaven Only Country, like the Founding Fathers intended.

Don’t tread on me with your ridiculous Buddhist references.

 

I hate selfies.  More specifically, I hate selfie takers.  If you are one of these people, I don’t apologize.  I hate you.  Not only are you narcissistic in the extreme, you also have reading comprehension problems.  Everything is not about you.  (Yes, this post is about you…but not specifically you, just the annoying, collective you).

Anyway, while these people clog up my Facebook page and corrupt the Internet, I plot their demise.  Well, not exactly plot.  It’s more like I curse them.  You know, like Voodoo or the Evil Eye or a plain old witches’ hex.  They post their selfies and I wish for their death and dismemberment.  And you know what?  My plan is working!  Pow Pow Pow – Eye of Newt and Bat’s wings Pow.  Already this year, seven people have died while taking selfies.  Seven!  We are on pace to beat last year’s record of twenty seven.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  Twenty-seven people met their demise while self- aggrandizing last year.  My curse is working.

It is especially working in India.  So many people have died in Mumbai that they now have six Selfie-Free zones.  While this sounds like fiction, it is absolutely true.  I am killing Indians like a 19th century Cavalryman.  I know, wrong Indians.  And poor taste.  I, like Coach Dale, apologize for nothing.  Because unlike those blood thirsty blue-eyed racist devils, I am on the side of decency.  And I have brown eyes.  Anyway, I think any sane person would agree that if somebody dies while taking a Selfie, they pretty much deserved their fate.  Except we know it’s not fate.  It is the Curse of Muffet’s Orange.

Of course, sometimes the curse only results in injury and not death.  It’s a curse, not a computer program.  The other day, five people were taking a selfie.  Next to a cliff.  You don’t have to be Nostradamus to know the end of this story.  They backed right off the cliff and were all badly injured.  If only we had the picture of all of them plummeting to their near doom.  There is a picture I would post one hundred times out of a hundred.  (You don’t know who Coach Dale is?  Is this a serious comment?  Because if it is, you look like a complete idiot.  “Cedar knob, they got no head-toppers.  Bunch of mites.  Run you off the boards…Watch that purgatory they call a gym.  No drive, twelve foot in.”)  That’ll do.

I hope the story of my curse is inspirational to you.  Because, in the end, that is what this blog is all about.  Inspiring others to do what they might have considered impossible.  You probably thought that stopping Selfies was a pipe dream.  But it isn’t.  I’m dropping these people like flies.  In traffic, over cliffs, off the boat.  The MO is an avenging angel, hell bent on reintroducing humility and reserve to an obnoxious world.  And that, my friends, is a message of hope and change that I think we can all get behind.

Except for you clowns that keep taking pictures of yourself in the mirror.  Real artsy.  414 million people have beaten you to this particular idea.  And, just so you know, a mirror can be dangerous.  Hex, hex, hex.

And a pin to the solar plexus.

 

The whole time I was thinking I had seen Trump somewhere.  I couldn’t remember where it was, however.  Surely, it wasn’t a personal experience.  Trump would never come to Wisconsin and I would never be allowed in a Country Club.  That would be outside of protocol.  I thought and thought, but finally it came to me.  Spaulding Smails, Judge Smails’  (played expertly by Ted Knight) grandson in Caddyshack.  You know, the kid with the long hair and the stupid expression on his face.  The one who the caddies were betting would pick his nose.  Yes, that kid.  See the resemblance now?  Anyway, if Judge Smails was still alive I can just imagine the conversation.

Spaulding/Trump (looking bewildered and angry at the same time):  “Grandpa, why do I have to go golfing today?”  (Spaulding/Trump stamps his foot)

“Spaullll-dinngggg.  Spaulding!  All winners play golf.  You want to be a winner, don’t you?”

Spaulding/Trump.  “I am a winner.  I have billions of dollars and an Eastern European trophy wife.  I don’t want to play golf, though.  I have a campaign to run.”

“Spaullll-dinnggggg!  Quit whining and grab my clubs.”

Spaulding/Trump stares down at his hands in dismay.  “I can’t grab your clubs, Grandpa.  My hands are too small.”

Judge Smails shakes his head.  “What?”  (he examines his grandson’s hands with obvious disapproval)  “You have the hands of your mother’s side.  It’s a genetic defect.  Just put them in your pockets.  I’ll call over some of the help.”  (Judge Smails motions towards the lingering caddies)  “Boy, come grab my bags.  Chop, chop.  Winners wait for no man.”

Suddenly, from the side, a winded and flushed Marco Rubio enters the scene.  “I want to play golf, too.”

Judge Smails shakes his head.  “No, no.  You aren’t a winner.  And you’re not big enough.”

Marco stands on his tiptoes.  “Am too.”  (He points at Spaulding/Trump’s hands)  “My hands are bigger than his.”

Judge Smails shakes his head and pushes Marco aside while Spaulding/Trump smirks.

“Too bad, Little Marco,” Spaulding/Trump says.  (he looks around, frowning)  “Where’s your egghead pal, Cruz?”

Marco rolls his eyes.  “He can’t come out in the daylight, remember?”

Spaulding/Trump nods.  “Or he will be fired?”  he says and he and Marco dissolve into laughter.

Over at the bar, Jeb Bush looks on longingly.  He likes golf.

They started it.