Undoubtedly, you have heard of Joe Rogan. He was the guy on Fear Factor who said “fear is not a factor for you.” If you don’t recall the show, the premise was that people had to do stupid shit that scares most people in order to win. I’m talking things like get into a tub with a bunch of snakes or hang from a helicopter or eat bison testicles. In other words, the kind of stupid shit that you see at any drunken party (except with waivers). Once a saw a guy eat 42 minnows at a frat party. I wasn’t a frat member, I was just crashing their party. No asinine handshakes for me. Anyway, that is a lot of minnows. Spoiler alert. He yakked them up in the yard about an hour later. Minnow’s Revenge. Minnow eating bastard. The guy is probably a CPA now with his first grandchild on the way. I’m betting he never tells that story now.

Anyway, back to Rogan. When Joe was a young person he went to college for a while. Then he dropped out. According to him, college was “pointless.” In my experience, when someone says that college is pointless it means one of two things. Number 1: They come from money and there will always be someone there to bail them out in life. Number 2: They are too stupid or lazy to pass college courses. Of course, there are plenty of smart people who haven’t gone to college. And you know what they do with their own children? They send them to college.

In lieu of getting an education Rogan became a comedian. Because being a comedian is one of those jobs you get when you can’t get through college. Apparently, he did pretty well. I can’t personally attest to that as I have never seen his comedy act. After all, Joe Rogan sucks goat balls. And if there is one thing that I don’t do it is that I don’t support goat ball suckers. Everyone has a line.

Eventually, Rogan parlayed his comedic genius into acting gigs (and Fear Factor host) and, eventually, into a highly successful podcast. If you are not familiar with this podcast, Rogan essentially bullshits and passes himself off as someone who knows something. However, if you were paying attention earlier you know that Rogan dropped out of college because it was “pointless.” Regardless, legions of men with their hats on backwards hang on Joe’s every word. Apparently, the adoration of all of these meatheads has given Joe the impression that he actually does know something (as opposed to just being a professional bullshitter).

To whit, Rogan is famous for questioning the validity of the Covid vaccine. Because Joe is a doctor. Ooops. No, he isn’t. Joe couldn’t finish college. Which, if you’ll recall, is the first step to medical school. Apparently, being a comedian and hosting a moron game show is another way to gain medical expertise. I should add that he has been aided in his attack on the medical establishment by that other stable genius, Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. Because, as you know, the Kennedys are famous doctors. Well, JFK knew a lot about penicillin. So that’s something.

One thing you hear a lot these days is what is wrong with the United States. “You know what’s wrong with the United States?” the fat barfly asks you.

“People don’t mind their own damn business,” you say.

And you are partly right. Though the barfly didn’t even hear what you said. Because he wants to complain about the dangers of vaccines (as learned from Joe Rogan). Keep in mind this guy is seventy pounds overweight and shit-faced drunk. He obviously knows a lot about health and medicine. But I digress.

The US has a long history of anti-intellectualism and Rogan is just another spear carrier for the idiot brigade. The country is littered with people who can’t be bothered to read a book but who are experts on every subject. After all, it is a lot easier to mouth off about something you don’t know than to actually put the time and effort into becoming an expert. I mean, what do those nuclear physicists know? The more misinformation, the better.

Speaking of misinformation, Rogan claims he is 5’7 1/2. But really he is about 5’4. Maybe. Not that he can do anything about how tall he is. Well, I guess he wears lifts all the time. And if there is anything that serves as a metaphor for guys like Rogan, it is that. Plus, he sucks goat balls. Which was really the point here all along.

Ironically, while I was reading the news I came across yet another story of book banning. Right-wing parents, buoyed by grandstanding politicians, have combed the libraries of their local schools and found them wanting. The libraries are filled with vile trash- or stories about gay people- depending on your point of view. And these books must be stopped at all costs. Otherwise, children might become gay in droves. As everyone knows, even the merest suggestion of homosexuality is enough to convince adolescents to abandon straightness for the darker realm.

Interestingly, it appears that these same parents have not actually read the books that they want banned. Reading, as you no doubt are aware, is highly difficult. It takes time and, more ominously, thinking. Better just to get a list from some conservative firebrand and go from there. Precious seconds and brain cells can be saved.

Book banning has a long and storied history. In the early 200’s BC the Chinese emperor Shih Huang Ti buried alive 460 Confucian scholars and then burned all books (saving one copy each for his own library). When he died, those copies were destroyed as well. Apparently, Shih felt that without any books that history would be said to start with him. Unfortunately, for Shih this did not work. And he is dead.

In AD 8 (the Great Eight) Ovid was banished from Rome for writing Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love). Sex once again rears its ugly head. His books were later burned in Florence in 1497. And, to top this once off, the English translation of Ars Amatoria was banned by U.S. Customs in 1928. USA, USA, USA.

Savonarola, a Florentine religious fanatic with a large following, was one of the most notorious and powerful of all censors. In these years, he instigated great “bonfires of the vanities” which destroyed books and paintings by some of the greatest artists of Florence. He persuaded the artists themselves to bring their works—including drawings of nudes—to the bonfires. Some poets decided they should no longer write in verse because they were persuaded that their lines were wicked and impure. Popular songs were denounced, and some were turned into hymns with new pious lyrics. Ironically, in May of 1498 another great bonfire was lit—this time under Savonarola who hung from a cross. With him were burned all his writings, sermons, essays, and pamphlets (from Freedom to Read “Bannings and Burnings in History”).

Burnabout is fair play. Play with fire etc.

Moving along in history, Mickey Mouse comics were banned in East Berlin in 1954. Why? Because Mickey was seen as an “anti-red rebel.”

In 1959, The Rabbit’s Wedding was put onto reserve shelves in Alabama’s public libraries. Apparently, the White Citizens’ Council believed it promoted racial integration.

In 1973 the school board in Drake, North Dakota, ordered the burning of 32 copies of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five and 60 copies of James Dickey’s Deliverance for, respectively, the use of profanity and references to homosexuality. “This here’s a sow,” you’ll recall. “Wheeeeeee. Wheeeeeeee.”

Terrible. I feel I should burn this blog. But I can’t. Because it doesn’t exist on paper. Stupid science.

The London County Council in England banned the use of Beatrix Potter’s children’s classics The Tale of Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny from all London schools. The reason: the stories portrayed only “middle-class rabbits.”

In 1983, Alabama State Textbook Committee called for the rejection of The Diary of Anne Frank because it was “a real downer.” And, who can argue? Reading about some Jew girl hiding from Nazis is not exactly uplifting. Then she dies at the end. Though we don’t really get that far in the book because it is a diary. In fairness.

Of course, I could rail on, though I feel now is the time to summarize. Nobody likes uppity rabbits or capitalist mice. Anne Frank should have thought more about the happiness of others. If you are a prisoner of war in Dresden you need to watch your mouth. Hillbilly rape isn’t funny nor should ever be spoken of. Ovid was a pervert. Shih Huang Ti was the first emperor in all of the world. Time actually started with him. In fact, I am surprised that any of us are allowed to live. Especially uppity rabbits.

Recently, books like The Handmaid’s Tale and Harry Potter have also been challenged. THT for “vulgarity and sexual overtones” and Harry Potter because it celebrates magic and witchcraft. Maybe this protest was brought by actual witches who felt it was historically inaccurate. I don’t know.

While I am being snarky, perhaps you have developed some anger. Who are these people to tell others what they can and cannot read? Well, they are religious people, mostly. Though, ironically, the bible has also been banned a time or two. Probably for the incest. But maybe for the magic. Loaves and fish don’t keep appearing in the real world. Just pointing this out.

Anyway, I digress. Because this blog is the polar opposite of Anne Frank’s glum diaries. The MO means to uplift his readers and send them singing and dancing into a new day. In this spirit, I will point out that book banning as a pretty fatal flaw nowadays. It is known as the internet.

While I am sure my readers are unfamiliar with the sordid side of the World Wide Web, there are some pretty, er, flamboyant websites out there. And these websites are available to children everywhere. Pretty much anybody with a smart phone has Hot Asian Teens at their fingertips. They also have a lot of things objectively seamier than this. Nobody needs books any more to get bad ideas. Bad ideas are ubiquitous!!! If you thought your child might become gay because of books, you really have a problem now. And every one of them can become witches by watching YouTube. It’s anarchy I tell you.

Even more to the point, banning books doesn’t matter because few people, especially young ones, read books. A teacher couldn’t indoctrinate her students if she tried.

Teacher: I will create this indoctrinating lesson so that the children of my class think that slavery was bad.

Students: Look at this dancing dog clip. Hahahahaha. The dog is dancing! Like a real person. Kourtney Kardashian is pregnant? Whoa. Look at those Asian teens. God, school sucks.

Crisis averted.

Oui. This is what it sounds like. Napoleon’s penis is still in circulation. Well, sort of. Let me just tell the story.

It seems that when Napoleon died, the doctor conducting the autopsy cut his dick off. Le Lop. My French is not that good. Anyway, the reason that he chopped off Napoleon’s member is a bit hazy. However, the most credible story is that the chaplain bribed the doctor to Bobbitt Napoleon because Napoleon had called the chaplain “impotent.” Apparently, this aspersion made the chaplain so angry.

“Catholic chaplains aren’t impotent!” he shouted to the heavens. “Think of the altar boys!”

He probably did not shout that to the heavens. Even so, this chaplain had revenge in his heart. The chaplain smuggled Napoleon’s dick out of St. Helena and to his home in Corsica. It remained in the priest’s family until 1916. Yes, you read that correctly. His family kept Napoleon’s lopped off pecker for 95 years. I’m sure it was quite a conversation piece.

“What is that in the jar?” says the curious guest.

“That? Oh, that is Napoleon’s dick,” says the owner.

“My, that is interesting,” replies the guest. “If you don’t mind me asking, why would you have Napoleon’s dick on your mantelpiece?”

“Eh, the little bastard called my grandpa impotent.”

“Your grandfather must have been a very angry man.”

“Yes. And he also had an extraordinarily small penis himself. He was very sensitive about it.”

Anyway, the penis was bought by a London bookseller and then sold to guy named Rosenbach who was from Philadelphia. Napoleon’s pecker went on display at the Museum of French Art in New York City in 1927. There it was described as a “maltreated piece of leather shoelace.” Apparently, the century had not been kind to the Dick Le Napoleon.

I think maybe it would be a good time to recap, keeping in mind that this is a completely true story. In fairness, who in the hell would make something like this up? Do I look like some sore of weirdo?

Anyway, Napoleon died and the doctor performed an autopsy. The same doctor cut off Napoleon’s dick. This amputation came at the request of a chaplain who desired revenge against Napoleon because Napoleon had apparently insulted his honor. The chaplain then smuggled the cut-off dick to Corsica and his family kept it as an heirloom for nearly a century. Then they sold the dick. And then the dick was sold again and put on display in Phildelphia. As art.

In 1977, after a couple of other exchanges, the French dick was purchased by an urologist and French pecker collector by the name of Lattimer. Apparently, his daughter still owns it. Though she has also reportedly been offered up to $100,000 for a shriveled-up, 200 year-old French dick. I don’t know what the market is for penises, but this seems a little steep. Then again, not every dismembered member used to belong to Napoleon.

Have I mentioned lately that this is a true story? I mean, like this is all stuff that really happened. I just feel like I need to drive that point home.

It seems that the penis in question is only about an inch long now. However, in defense of Napoleon, I don’t really think that it is a fair representation of the size of living Napoleon’s penis. Most likely, his pecker was average for the time that he lived in. It’s hard to say. Heh heh. Hard to say. You knew something like that was coming. Heh heh again. This is a eighth grade boy’s dream.

In fairness to the strange people who want to have Napoleon’s old penis, I think it should be mentioned that the Catholic church says they have Jesus’ foreskin. Or at least they used to have it. During the Middle Ages at least a dozen Catholic churches claimed the holiest of holy foreskins, though it appeared to have landed in the village of Calcata in Italy. Even though the church had decreed in 1900 that anyone writing about the foreskin would be excommunicated, the church allowed the villagers to have a procession every year with Jesus’ foreskin as the star of the parade. The name of this event? The Feast of the Holy Circumcision. Of course.

Unfortunately, the foreskin of the Lord was reported stolen in 1983. Perhaps by Satanists. Or it was sold on the black market. Which, before you read the Napoleon story, might have seemed far-fetched. That there is a black market for foreskin. But there assuredly is.

Regardless, the mystery remains unsolved. Though I might start looking in Lattimer’s daughter’s house if I were Vatican investigators. I mean, it sort of seems obvious. Though I do not claim to be a discarded dick detective. Nor would I, even if I was.

I was watching the Lakers/Nuggets game last night when I noticed something highly disturbing. In the front row there was a kid- a boy of perhaps 12 years of age- whose head was down every time the camera panned over him. The reason, as I am sure you have surmised, was because he was looking at his damned phone.

While I am not usually an advocate for child murder, I found myself overwhelmed with the desire to choke this annoying Little Lord Fauntleroy into oblivion. Each time his face, or, more accurately, the top of his head, came into view this emotion returned. What rage I felt toward this half-grown Spaulding, this floppy-haired embodiment of the abuses of privilege. A ticket for the seat he occupied surely ran into the thousands of dollars. But, no matter. Mommy and Daddy (or perhaps some famous grandparent) was footing the bill. Besides, there would be other times to watch LeBron James- one of the two greatest basketball players ever- to ply his trade. Instagram, or maybe Candy Crush, needed his immediate and undivided attention. Temporarily thwarted by the thousands of miles between us, I sent silent curses from pagan gods toward this ungrateful child. But to no avail.

That is the problem with curses. They so seldom work. If only I were of Gypsy stock. Then I could drive to Los Angeles, touch this youthful jackanapes, and hiss the word “thinner.” How delightful it would be to watch this overindulged brat wasting away to nothing. Since he is nowhere near as fat as the lawyer in the Stephen King novella, his demise would be near enough to immediate for me not to have to extend my vacation. I could spend some time in Yosemite or in Sequoia National Forest, appreciating the majesty of the mighty Redwoods. The Ungrateful Punk, meanwhile, would be slowly diminishing at Cedar-Sinai, his doctors flummoxed by the ailment contracted by the “Boy from Town.” Hahahahaha, I would laugh, and then twist my mustache in a most sinister manner.

Of course, in real life these well-heeled delinquents rarely get their comeuppance. They go through life, not paying attention to anything, their every desire satiated post haste. They screw up often, but even this is of no consequence. A phalanx of lawyers in Italian suits need only be summoned to solve any and all problems. If an elderly Gypsy comes after them, these lawyers contact the local authorities to apprehend the vagrant and send him summarily to jail. Then they find a different Gypsy and pay him off to counter-curse the “thinner” curse. After that, they use their connections to Republican politicians and Fox News to beat the drum against the immigration crisis surrounding Gypsies. Not long after that, a wall. A wall symbolic of the entitlement of some kid who can’t be bothered to watch the best basketball players in the world from his court side seat.

It makes me extremely angry. On the other hand, I did see Andy Garcia at the game. He looks quite a bit older than the last time I saw him. The last time was probably when I watched The Untouchables for the seventh time. It’s a good movie. Sean Connery is in it. But he gets killed, like how he gets killed in Highlander. Another Immortal lops off his head. That really isn’t how he gets killed, but it would be an interesting twist. He couldn’t be named Ramirez, though. But Andy Garcia could. Easily. Because he is Cuban. Sean Connery was a Scotsman, thus an odd choice for a Spainard. On the other hand, Sean Connery played an Asian in one of the James Bond movies. It might have been in Dr. No, but I can’t remember. Anyway, it didn’t make much sense. They should have introduced a Gypsy character to touch Bond on the arm and say “Asian.” That still wouldn’t have made much sense, but at least it would have been a plot twist.

With all this meandering, I almost forgot my death wish for the kid at the basketball game. Though, maybe it isn’t a good thing for a fifty some year old man to wish death upon a child that he has never met and who is only spoiled because of his asshole parents.

Which is a good point, no that I think of it. It would be better if I could see his parents, perhaps walking through the Minneapolis airport on their way to some exotic and expensive location. I would walk right between them, putting a hand on both of their shoulders.

“Thinner Asian,” I’d say. And then walk mysteriously away, chuckling at my good fortune.

Or I could turn and kick the kid square in the balls. Then do the mysterious walk thing.

I was watching “The Mummy” last night (the one from 1999, not the tripe that Tom Cruise is trying to pass off) and was enjoying it immensely. I have seen “The Mummy” at least forty times, probably more if you count watching a few minutes here and there while waiting for the soup to warm up. It’s a good movie. Not Oscar Best Picture winner good, but a solid “B/Bplus” in the annals of cinema. Anyway, O’Connell is fighting off the skeleton guards and my 17 year-old-stepson says something terrible.

No. Nobody is pregnant and he isn’t dealing Methamphetamine out of the back of Burger King. Worse. He said “The Mummy” was a crappy movie and that “American Sniper” is way better.

It is times like this when I weep for the future of our country. The only good thing about “American Sniper” is what really happened to the sniper guy in real life. Pow Pow Pow makes the world go around. Nutshell, the kid doesn’t know shit about movies. He also thinks that “Days of Thunder” is a great movie. Horrible. Cole Trickle? No. Who wrote that movie? They should be sent to the Gulag. Or at least Oklahoma. Same, same.

Speaking of Oklahoma, it was the ten year anniversary of the F-5 tornado that devastated the town of Moore. Or “No Moore” after the twister was done with them. I watched it over and over on the Weather Channel. Oddly enough, many people in Moore were caught unaware by the giant tornado. Not to criticize, but I was watching the Weather Channel the day it happened and they had plenty of warning. Plus, Oklahoma is the place “where the big winds blow.” What does that tell you, Oklahomans? That’s no train.Tornado on the way. Big one. I enjoy the Weather Channel.

Other than “School Ties,” I can’t really think of another good Brendan Fraser movie. The word “legend” is probably a bit hyperbolic, given this reality. Maybe just Brendan Fraser: Still Kicking. Brendan Fraser: Tarzan, Caveman, Everyman? Brendan Fraser: I Used to be Younger. Eh. So did I. Sorry, Brendan Fraser.

I said “eh” because Brendan Fraser is Canadian. Sort of. He was born in Indianapolis. Some people die because they are from Indianapolis. That probably would have been better than dying because you are from Minneapolis. Minneapolis is a nice city. Maybe the writer of “In the Line of Fire” picked up a case of gonorrhea from a hooker in Minneapolis. Even so, I don’t understand why that guy is picking on Minneapolis. Nobody said, “Hey, bro, you really need to pick up a hooker in Minneapolis. They never have gonorrhea.”

If somebody had done that, I would completely see why he killed a woman from Minneapolis in his movie. It’s why I kill hedge fund managers in my posts. Somehow that didn’t come out right.

Anyway, the hooker from Minneapolis probably grew up in Iowa. Iowans are notorious for that kind of behavior. That and corn shucking. I suppose a person might connect those two things, but I am not that vulgar kind of person.

Anyway, all’s well that end’s well. Penicillin.

My stepson also thinks that the new “Top Gun” movie is awesome. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it is essentially the same story as the first one. Except the lead character is way too old to fly a jet now. I’m lying. I definitely told him that. And then I told him how bad “Days of Thunder” is. Because it stinks. Dick Trickle (not Cole Trickle) was a real person. This information is a segue from the whole gonorrhea thing. But maybe that is best left in the past.

The only Tom Cruise picture I really like is “The Color of Money.” And that is because Paul Newman is in it. Paul Newman was also a real race car driver, unlike Tom Cruise. So, was Dick Trickle. I would like to blame Dick Trickle’s name on his being from the South. Alas, he was actually from Wisconsin. Wisconsin Rapids, to be exact. If you have ever been there, it will make more sense. Sadly, Dick Trickle committed suicide. Probably because somebody named him Dick Trickle. (Not really. Though it seems plausible.)

That’s why my stepson doesn’t like “The Mummy.” Because it could never happen in real life. No kidding, dumb shit. Supernatural beings don’t exist. What are you, Catholic? It’s easy to take shots at Catholics now. Most of them are really old and slow.

Rachel Weisz is also in “The Mummy.” Let’s just say that she has aged a little better than Brendan Fraser. Probably because she isn’t Canadian.

No Moore. Heh heh. I make myself laugh. At the expense of traumatized Oklahomans.

Heh heh. Get it? I just continued the title theme from last week. “Frau Blucher!” Whinny whinny whinny.

I hate horses. Or rather I hate horses who are close enough to inflict harm on me. As you might surmise, I had a couple of bad experiences as a child- one rapid dismounting, one painful bite- that contributed to my hatred of the animal. Though, as noted, I am fine with horses in the field. They can frolic all they want out there. Swat flies with their tail. Make little horses. Just so long as they maintain their distance. Get too close and it’s glue time. Of course, we need glue. It’s what keep us together. Unless you’re a horse. Of course.

Speaking of togetherness, Vladimir Putin is a mighty rider of horses. Who can forget the photos of Putin, shirtless and inscrutable, looking fearlessly into the future? And who knew what the future would be? Surely not the Ukrainian people. Though I am sure that somebody saw this one coming. No matter what the disaster, there are always people who point out that destruction is imminent. All sorts of Germans tried to warn the world (or at least the German people) about Hitler. But Hitler had lots of parades and a cool flag and he was Making Germany Great Again. Until the Red Army came through the Eastern Front and laid waste to the countryside. No Horst Wessel song after that. Those were the days for the Red Army.

Now look at them. Back to the half-assed forces that got Nick 2 stood up against a wall. In Yekaterinburg. Pow Pow Pow. And then several more pows. And then the executioners had to bayonet the royal family. And then that didn’t work, so they finally shot the still living kids right in the bean. That worked. Gruesome. Plus, it really didn’t make a difference. Back to strongman leadership as soon as possible. Those damned Russians. At least they gave us vodka. That’s something.

As the Ukrainians stave off naked Russian aggression, some politicians in the US question whether supporting the Ukraine is the right choice. Oddly, these politicians are mostly Republican. Which is definitely a switch. Because I can distinctly remember Republicans being adamantly anti-Russian for quite some time. Reagan sure didn’t care for them. However, Reagan showed significant signs of dementia his last term in office. So, maybe we can’t always rely on Reagan for our universal truths. He was good with animals, though. Bedtime for Bonzo and all. That chimp probably got Reagan to the White House.

Speaking of chimps (angry ones, in this case), Putin seems like he isn’t willing to quit anytime soon. Never say die, a saying that is most easily used by those who won’t be doing the dying. Kind of like when you go to a youth football game and the dad keeps yelling at his son to “get in there” and “get tough.” In this scenario, the kid weighs 100 pounds and the kid who he can’t tackle weighs 190.
“You’ve got to get in there!” screams dad.

Dad is, predictably, five nine and a half and weighs 165 soaking wet. It is highly doubtful that he could tackle the other team’s running back. Certainly, if he had to tackle one of the 250 pound fathers standing around, he would be a bit less enthusiastic about “getting tough.” Then discretion would be the better part of valor. Anyway, the story ends by the little kid going low and taking a knee to the head, killing him. What? Too harsh? Ok. The little kid gets concussed and never plays football again. He runs cross country instead.

The next fall his dad is screaming at him as he hits the last half mile, “Catch that guy! You’ve got to run!” The kid bears down and falls dead from an unknown heart condition. I did warn you that this post was related to the last one.

I work in mysterious ways. Like when I killed the kid twice in two paragraphs. He’s dead now for real. You wouldn’t have liked him. His name was Nicholas Putin and he would have grown up to be a hedge fund manager. First, we kill all the hedge fund managers. There you go, Shakespeare. Fixed it for you.

Shakespeare. When are English departments going to retire that guy? Read some Russian literature or something. Bulgakov, perhaps. Dostoevsky. Tolstoy. Lermontov. Nikolai Gogol. Technically, Gogol is Ukrainian. He often satirized Russian political corruption. He’s probably not on Putin’s reading list.

Republicans hate that guy. Gogol, I mean. Not Putin. Putin reminds them of someone.

Also, I’m kidding. Republicans have no idea who Gogol is. They think he’s the guy who gets them onto the internet. Yep. There’s a little, extremely old Ukrainian running a switchboard in there.

“Hey, Nikolai! Why aren’t you writing anymore?”

Nikolai pokes his wizened head out of the room. “I’m running the damn internet!”

That could be some kind of meme. I should see if I kind find a picture of Gogol laying around. Or I could just draw my own picture. It’s not like anybody knows the face of an old Ukrainian writer. Well, Tsar Nicholas 1 did. TN1 is dead now. Like his son.

As an interesting sidebar, Gogol was not well-loved in school. The other kids called him the “mysterious dwarf.” I think we can all agree that Gogol would have been horrible at football.

It has come to my attention that there has been a bit of a lull in posts from the Orange. I apologize to my faithful readers.

No, I don’t. I almost died! Kicked the bucket. Jumped the shark into eternity. Fell into the black depths of oblivion.

Let’s see you have open heart surgery and write something. But now I am all patched up. Of course, I am now a post-modern human with a mechanical heart valve and a prosthetic aorta.

Not a man. Not a machine. Just something in between. Whooooaaaaaoooooo.

Putting on the ritz!

I’ll be back.

I can’t recall Robocop saying anything memorable, but it has been a while since I have seen that movie. I just remember it was in Detroit. And Detroit was a giant dumpster fire in the future. Apparently, the future is now.

Speaking of science and dumpster fires, I see the Republicans are continuing their assault on education, particularly education that comes in these antiquated little squares known as books. Like the leaders of Gilead, they appear to want to make sure that nobody knows nothing. Just a nation of Sergeant Schultz’s from sea to shining sea. With bad German accents.

If you’ll recall, Bob Crane is the actor who played Hogan in Hogan’s Heroes. He was a fellow with eclectic interests. One of these interests was videotaping and photographing his many sexual escapades. Believe it or not, that interest turned out badly for Bob. His partner in these escapades allegedly ended up bludgeoning Bob to death with a camera tripod. It was never proved. In fairness, when you videotape sex acts, you tend to make a lot of potential enemies. Something about kissing and telling. Who knows? Luckily, we now have access to any kind of pornography that one can imagine. If only Bob would have been born later. Then he would still be alive. So would the guy who played Sergeant Schultz. And Beethoven. Beethoven was another German. Though he died in Austria, where Hitler was born.

Hitler was a guy who enjoyed burning books. Except for Mein Kampf. That one was okey dokey. He wrote Mein Kampf while in prison for trying to overthrow the government. It makes me wonder if the QAnon Shaman has any literary aspirations. Rage of the Buffalo by QA Shaman. What a dummy. It’s a bison, not a damned buffalo.

Speaking of Buffalo, why are they called the Bills? But have a bison on their helmet. Shouldn’t the mascot be a letter from the electric company? Or a fat guy from the suburbs? (A guy named Bill.A plumber, perhaps. Then the helmet could have a fat guy bending over and showing the crack in his ass).

As a sidebar, I see I have already outlived Bob Crane. And I am closing fast on Beethoven. It appears Beethoven died from liver damage caused by heavy alcohol consumption. Only a few more years and I’ll defeat him. Do you hear me, Ludwig?!!

Sadly, Beethoven could not hear me.

Anyway, I continue on in my present form, this leg of my atomic cosmic journey elongated by the powers of science. (There is an elongated leg and Bob Crane joke in there somewhere, but I prefer to refrain from any vulgarities). Of course, this incarnation of the Orange must eventually end. On the other hand, if they can keep my heart going with spare parts, perhaps this ending can be extended a bit. I am not opposed to being more cyborg than man. Better yet, scientists are now growing biological parts in the lab. Maybe I will be able to swap out failing parts for new and improved models, grown from my own DNA.

Some of you might also take advantage of this nascent technology. Just imagine living to 184, telling Bob Crane jokes to people who have never even heard of Beethoven. How you will smirk at their ignorance.

Weakling biological fools. Bow to your cyborg masters.

“Drop it! You’re coming with me, dead or alive.”

“I know you! We killed you!”

Heh heh heh. And then you say “you don’t even know who Bob Crane is, do ya punk?” And shoot down the bad guy with your laser hands.

Unless the Republicans find a way to keep everyone from going to school. Then we will all just be Amish and smell of body odor and cow shit. Though, if you are a man, women will have to bow before you. You will be the cyborg of Amish-land. Elijah Cyborgia can be your Amish name. Or Bob Crane. Up to you.

February is a dour month. On the heels of sad January, it languishes in winter, sometimes cold, sometimes snowy, seldom pleasant. It is a month that dashes hope.

We all deal with winter despair differently. Some of us take up drink. Others lie in bed with the shades drawn. Amy Bishop decided to take a RugerP95 handgun to a biology department meeting on February 12, 2010. Amy, who had already been informed that she would not be receiving tenure, was apparently feeling a trifle aggrieved. Pow pow pow- three dead. Pow pow pow- three shot. The affluent child of an art professor, Amy had earned her PhD in genetics from Harvard. In fairness to Amy, academic department meetings do suck.

To properly appreciate this episode, it is important to have a bit of Amy Bishop’s history. When she was 21, she fatally shot her 18 year-old brother with a shotgun. Bishop and her mother told police that the shooting was an accident. Strangely, a live round was found in the shotgun, meaning that Bishop had to have racked the slide after the incident. Perhaps that was just a reflex. We don’t know. What we do know is that Amy’s mother was a big political supporter of the police chief in town. As per normal police protocols, the police chief shut down the investigation and ordered that Amy be released into the custody of her mother.

But there’s more. Amy also allegedly held up a car dealership at gunpoint demanding a car. And then there’s something about Patrick Duffy’s parents (the guy from Dallas) being killed in Montana. But that was really ever followed up on. And then Amy and her husband were suspected in 1993 of sending two letter bombs to a Harvard medical school professor. Furthermore, Bishop assaulted a woman who had taken the last booster seat at an International House of Pancakes. Bishop demanded the seat and the woman would not give it up, Bishop punched her in the head while yelling “I am Dr. Amy Bishop!” Bishop pleaded guilty and received probation. Prosecutors recommended that Bishop attend anger management classes. But she didn’t.

But there’s more. After her tenure was denied, a colleague of Amy’s described her as crazy. Amy complained, alleging sex discrimination. The colleague was unmoved.

“I said she was crazy multiple times and I stand by that. This woman has a pattern of erratic behavior. She did things that weren’t normal- she was out of touch with reality.”

Additionally, her students hated her and said she was a poor instructor. They also said she had “odd, unsettling ways.” Anyway, eventually she was denied tenure which, as we have seen, did not sit well with Amy.

Did I mention that Amy is the second cousin of John Irving, the famous novelist? (He wrote The World According to Garp and A Prayer for Owen Meany). Maybe he is a semi-famous novelist. Literary people have heard of him. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t read any of his books. I’m reading one right now. I am just pointing out an interesting fact.

In the end, Amy ended up in prison. It’s sort of like the story of Ethel Kennedy’s nephew, Michael Skakel. He killed a girl and then got away with it for a long time and then finally he was brought to justice in spite of the Kennedy’s best efforts to keep him from prosecution. Well, actually the Connecticut Supreme Court eventually ordered that Michael be given a new trial. And then they said he wouldn’t be tried again.

So, he’s out. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. blamed the murder on the live-in tutor at the time. You can never trust the help.

In the book I am reading, John Irving describes a rich girl who can do what she wants because she can always fall back on her family’s money. While a semi-famous author, it appears clear that John is not overly familiar with irony. At least personal irony. He is pretty good at pointing about the irony in his character’s lives.

There are some lessons here.

1- Always get your mom on your side if you shoot your brother.

2- Make sure your mom knows the police chief if you shoot your brother.

3- Pipe-bombs aren’t that dangerous. They don’t even go off some of the time.

4- Michael Skakel is walking around in public.

5- Harvard graduates are the best people and should tell everybody else what to do.

6- The Connecticut Supreme Court likes money.

7- Always bring a weapon to your department meetings.

8- Even if everybody knows somebody is crazy, it doesn’t matter if they fulfill lesson number 5. And they are related to John Irving. Though I am in no way intimating that John Irving approves of Amy’s behavior or really even knows her that well. I do think that he went to Harvard as well.

9- Biology department people are not fast moving.

10- This is just another reason why Americans hate science.

11-Even Dominick Dunne can’t ensure justice in this country.

12- Most Americans don’t know who John Irving or Dominick Dunne are.

13- Nothing will happen to Prince Andrew, either.

14- And, most importantly, always keep your hands up at IHOP, especially if you just grabbed the last booster seat.

Today, my workplace took away the mask mandate. No longer must I walk around, visage concealed, plotting my next armed robbery. It is quite a liberating feeling. Oh, sweet, sweet normalcy that I had taken for granted for 50 blissful years. You have returned like a lost paramour, enveloping me in your warm embrace. Of course, the pandemic is not necessarily over. But I am not in the business of quibbling over minor details. Freedom once again triumphs over all.

Having removed my mask (theoretically for good), I am inclined to review what I have learned from this most inconvenient of pandemics. Reflection, after all, is good for the soul. What follows is a laundry list of the many lessons I have learned from this once in a lifetime experience- those over the age of 102 excepted.

The first lesson I learned is that people don’t pay attention in science class. It is clearly too difficult and ought, I believe, to be stricken from the public school curriculum. Clearly, any lessons about disease and the purpose of vaccinations were lost sometime after polio was eliminated. Prior to that, people were overjoyed to be vaccinated. Nobody wanted polio. That was terrible. Enthusiasm for vaccination began to wane sometime after. Well, unless we are talking about cattle. Cattle are vaccinated for everything. Even Coronavirus. The bovine brain cannot comprehend the dangers of vaccination. Or so I assume. Regardless, while many of the local farmers remain adamantly anti-vaccination, they jab their dairy herd as if the lives of these animals depend on it. Eh. Maybe there is no lesson here. Cows aren’t people. They have udders. And they moo incessantly. At least my neighbors cows do. Two in the morning. “Mooooo. Moooooo. Mooooo.”

Ridiculous. Insomniac, bovine bastards. I can’t sleep as it is. And what in the holy hell are they mooing at? Aren’t cows diurnal creatures? You know what I think it is? All those damn vaccinations.

As noted, science is difficult. And you can’t even see a lot of it. Take germs, for example. I can’t see them. I know they can use microscopes to look at them. But how many of us have a microscope laying around? More importantly, and I am sure this is true of most people, I wouldn’t even be able to tell if I was looking at the coronavirus. It could be a dust mite, for all I knew. Or a water bear. There are some ugly, little bastards. They kind of look like the creatures in Tremors. Except that they are microscopic. And they don’t kill people like Graboids or coronavirus. At least I think they don’t. I am not an expert in water bears. Which is really my point. How do we know that anyone is an expert in anything that we can’t see? It’s unverifiable.

While microscopic entities remain largely unknown to the general public, capitalism remains front and center. We might not care about dying in this country, but we sure as hell care about making a buck. There were people hoarding toilet paper and cleaning supplies and everything else others need, and then price gouging them like JP Morgan on steroids. JP Morgan, there was a nice fellow. But that is history. And Americans hate history class nearly as much as they hate science class. I don’t know why. History actually happened. Unlike the Big Bang and polio. Speaking of history, do you know that Columbus left a kid to watch the Santa Maria and this resulted in the Santa Maria being sunk? Then we named a day after that guy.

Another lesson, and related to the Santa Maria story, is that Americans love to celebrate stupidity. If it is not their own stupidity, then the stupidity of others. The dumber, the better. Inject myself with horse steroids? Why not? Dewormer? Awesome. Protest the medical community trying to keep people dying? Yeeeehawwww!!! That’s the Cowboy Way. It was also the Cowboy Way to not take a shower for a month and then contract syphilis in Abilene after the cattle drive was over. In those days, there was no cure for syphilis. It was either a slow, horrible death spiral or put a bullet in the brain pan. That was why whores were often known as “Brain Pan Bettys.” Another little known fact lost to the annals of time.

Anyway, we made it through. Well, most of us made it through. Or most of us have made it most of the way through. It’s not important. What is important is that it’s not whether you care about anyone else, but how much toilet paper you have in your garage. Or it isn’t whether you die or not from a preventable ailment, but whether you never admit you have it. Maybe it is bleach is good for killing lots of things. It could be that Cows Lives Matter. Masks are Nazis? If only Nazis wear masks, then only Nazis will have masks? That one didn’t make much sense.

I guess I didn’t learn any lessons. It was a pretty good Super Bowl, though. Super Bowl 56. I can remember watching Super Bowl 11. Raiders over the Vikings, 32-14. Sammy White got his head knocked off his body by Jack Tatum. I loved football when I was a kid. That was before the halftime shows. Now they have Snoop Dogg and Mary J. Blige and Eminem. Think of the money that went into that halftime show. Incredible.

Assuming you are not paying attention, January 6 was the anniversary of an ignominious event. No, not that event. I heard that really didn’t happen. Antifa. Or the FBI. Perhaps Ewoks dressed up as inbred hillbillies. Really, no one knows, so let’s just quit talking about it. The event I am referring to is when Nancy Kerrigan got whacked in the knee by a pipe. By Jeff Gillooly. Gillooly’s Pipe. Another great band name. Or a pornography reference. Maybe both.

If there was one thing we learned from that event, it is that Tonya Harding had the eye of the tiger. She was willing to do anything to win. It’s a true American story of someone pulling themselves up from the trailer park to be a champion, only to have their dream stolen by an oppressive legal system. It reminds me of another great American. That Tucker guy who made the cool cars. There was a movie made about him. The guy who played Starman also played Tucker. Jeff Bridges. Speaking of Jeff Bridges, he is in one of the greatest movies ever made, The Big Lebowski. Nihilists.

For those of you who are anti-nihilism, since I bring it up, consider that nihilists never have to waste a Sunday listening to some 58 year-old virgin prattle on about how to live life. I don’t know much, but lifelong virginity sounds like an exceedingly bad life choice. Also, it is important to point out that nihilists generally think that society’s political and social institutions are so bad that they should be destroyed. If you think this is somehow radical, consider that our representatives recently agreed to spend 778 billion on the military next year, but can’t agree on spending money for bridges and daycare. It all makes me want to piss on someone’s rug. The unfeeling universe does not care either way.

Gillooly. That’s a funny name. If the universe did care, having a guy named Gillooly hit a figure skater in the knee with a pipe would be the highest order of humor. But it was all random.

“Whyyyy? Whyyy?” cried Nancy.

“No reason,” replied the universe. “Gillooly! Hahahahaha.”

Tonya Harding was fined 160K, given five years of probation, and was stripped of her 1994 US Figure Skating Championship title. She should have just rushed the capital building and threatened to hang the vice president. If you can’t remember who that was, it was Al Gore. He was later hanged by some Floridian chads.

Floridian Chad by Gillooly Lebowski.

Chad’s head still hurt. He’d hit the windowsill on the way into the building, pushed by a guy who called himself Paul Revere Heston. Heston was from West Virginia, an out of work coal miner and part-time Proud Boy. Chad liked Heston. At least until he’d pushed him through the window. On the bright side, Chad’s lawyer thought the push proved Chad had never intended to enter the capital. He was a victim of circumstance. And the snake charmers at Fox News.

Chad was sitting in a lawn chair in front of his trailer. He took a drink from his now warm beer and considered existence. What did any of it matter? The .45 was in his lap, pointing towards his kneecap. The last thing he needed was to blow his own balls off. The gun was for cottonmouths. They sometimes crawled up from the swamp to sun themselves on Chad’s gravel driveway. Chad hated snakes. It was a snake, after all, who had ruined everything. Well, a snake and a woman.

I hear that Jeff Gillooly changed his name. To Monica Lewinsky. Just kidding, though that would be some kind of twist. Sort of like me voting for a starved, stumbling Skeletor and feeling good about it. “Good” is a strong word. More like relieved to stave off being carted away to a gulag in Texas. Because that’s where the gulags will be. In Texas. They can just use all those materials that were supposed to go into the wall. “A Day in the Life of Muffet Orangeanicovich.”

If you have read Dostoevsky, you would have laughed out loud there. And called for some vodka. Ironically, I used to drink a lot of vodka. That is when I thought the world was on fire. POW! POW! POW!!! The universe sure gillollied me on that one.

If you were curious, Nancy Kerrigan is married with three children. I don’t know if she skates any more. Since she is older than I am, I doubt it. It would be funny if she found where Jeff Gillooly lived and hit him with a tire iron. If she is curious, Jeff Gillooly lives in a small town in Oregon and has shaved his mustache.

However, all Nancy has to do is to hide behind a building and yell “Gillooly!” at likely passersby. Somebody will turn their head sooner or later. Then Pow! Kneecap Surprise.

They could turn that into a drink. Kneecap Surprise. Two shots vodka, ice shavings, some glitter and a whisper of hair spray.

Aqua Net. If you have any.