I spread out my well-worn Hudson Bay blanket under the broad branches of the coast redwood in the front yard, a tree teeming with birds, the occasional red-shouldered hawk perched on the crown. The sky was thick with clouds broken and scattered by bullying gusts of wind, which encouraged everything around me to dance — the trees, the tall and tender new grass, and the wildflowers, whose delicate beauty belied their tenacity. At the top of the mountain, air rushing through the thick boughs of the redwoods imitated the sound of massive waves, and expelled the scent of the ocean (though it was nearly an hour west), as it mingled with the spicy, sweet fragrance of cypress.

It was really too cool to be outdoors and lying in the open air, shoes off — at least for a Californian. But my roots were in Michigan, and this crisp, moist air felt exactly like end-of-winter melt-off, a cue to throw on some Bermuda shorts and stoke up the charcoal grill. I wanted to soak up every bit of the ocean’s wetted, briny breath, even at the cost of my comfort. I had traveled a long way to live in this place, to imbibe this life-sustaining mist. After all these years, it was familiar and soothing, and the cool of it permeated my soft tissues and settled deep into my bones. I could barely smile, so cold were my cheeks — the muscles numb, my amalgam fillings aching.

Back indoors, I thawed out, dense tingling unfurling from the tips of my ears down to my toes. Stripping down to my underwear, I buried myself deep under my duvet, then drifted off to dreams of the ocean, its primordial perfume lighting up my brain with calming imagery — places known, yet unknown. For a good long while, I lingered in this preconscious state, trying to wake myself so I wouldn’t miss my usual dinner hour. But my head was heavy, and I hadn’t the strength to lift it from my pillow. Then there was a loud thud, so strong it rattled the bookshelf next to my bed. Strong winds had thrown a heavy branch across the side of the house. Now I was awake.

Though it was early evening, I put on a pot of coffee as I had a long night of work ahead. I sipped a first cup as I warmed up my dinner: matzo ball soup and a slice of toast slathered with butter and honey — my honey. I devoured this concoction as I planned out my setup for the following day’s farmers market and applied labels to jars. The market was held each Saturday, and the one before Easter was typically the busiest of the year. Ironically, late winter and early spring were the least productive time for the bees, which meant I was often short on product. Every jar of my honey would get sold in the first two hours of the market, the last hour bringing disappointment to all but those looking for bee pollen and honeycomb.

My winter honey, harvested in early spring, was popular for its intense flavor, the dark amber liquid tasting strongly of buckwheat, with hints of the redwood and manzanita blossoms near my hives. Though too heavy-handed for high tea, winter honey was perfect on a hot, crispy slice of sprouted multigrain bread or on almond-flour pancakes just off the griddle. If Northern California had a flavor, this would be it. The chaparral ecosystem on the ranch defined the head and bass notes of this nearly opaque honey’s perfume.

After working well past midnight, I enjoyed a short but deep slumber, awaking around 4:00 a.m. to the sound of barred owls duetting in the redwoods outside my bedroom window, their extended bel canto nudging me to consciousness and bringing a smile to my face. I made my way to the bathroom in the dark and did my usual ablutions, then it was on to the kitchen, where I chugged down a large mug of the cold brew I’d made the night prior, adding a generous pour of half-and-half to soften the acrid flavor resulting from its oxidation. Amped up, I headed down to the storage room, hand truck in tow, to gather my products of the hive: jars of winter honey, as well as star thistle and black sage from the previous fall, stacks of boxed honeycomb, and packets of bee pollen. Then, a few framed recipes and a stack of my cookbooks. All else resided in my crusty old SUV — tent, tables, cash box, and linens. I loved that vehicle, whose once bright paint was now a matte pear green. Mine was one of those early SUVs, equipped with manual window and seat adjustments, an analog radio, and a rear-mounted spare. It still had spunk, and in its rustic state, one might have imagined it had seen its share of rugged terrain. Reality was a bit different, as the vehicle was prone to rollovers, like all the SUVs of its day, so it had been relegated to transporting my products of the hive to farmers’ markets throughout the Bay Area and taking the occasional camping trip with friends.

Off I set for my local market, which was held in a vacant parking lot across from the courthouse. I arrived to a flurry of vendors setting out overflowing crates of fruits and vegetables, pantry products, baked goods, yogurt, eggs, butter and cheese, and assorted Mediterranean dips. There were always a few vendors with hot food items who had arrived an hour earlier. They served up everything from rotisserie chicken, pupusas, and breakfast burritos to dim sum, fresh pasta, and fruit smoothies. Within an hour, it was showtime, with hundreds of locals arriving promptly by bus, bike, and car, and on foot.

I cued up some Edith Piaf on my mini Bose speaker and struck up conversations with passersby, many of them familiar faces. Those who frequented the market were loyal to their farmers and purveyors. They came every week, rain or shine. I had my own set of regulars — folks who stopped by weekly for a jar, apparently enjoying honey on their oatmeal every morning. Others told me that they kept a large jar in the pantry for cooking or tea, or in the medicine cabinet for allergies. In the fall, many bought in bulk, packing their larders with honey for the upcoming months of hibernation. There was an understanding that cold weather sparked a craving for sweets, and since the supply of honey in the hives would dwindle in the cold months, it was best to stock up, right? Add to that the fact that I had to hold honey back as the solstice approached, as much of it would be needed for the bees themselves. They formed winter clusters to keep warm and stayed in their hives for nearly four months to be near their main source of sustenance: their honey.

Of all the regulars at the market, none intrigued me more than an elegant older couple, who, like clockwork, appeared at nine each Saturday. Both husband and wife spoke with elegant Parisian accents and dressed with the effortless precision of people for whom appearances were less vanity than courtesy. Arm in arm, they would swing by their favorite booths (mine among them), offering a bit of polite conversation, then tasting the seasonal offerings. They sampled each of my honeys with liturgical seriousness. Eyes closed, lips pursed, they murmured quiet notes of approval, lingering over each spoonful as if coaxing out a familiar melody from an exotic reharmonization.

Invariably, the couple would purchase large jars of every varietal available that week. Lèa Lelouch and Samuel Lelouch were the names on the credit cards — both true honey connoisseurs, and by far my best customers. I did wonder how this very fit couple, who appeared to be in their late 70s, could consume some 96 ounces of honey from one week to the next. It was a lot of calories, and you’d have to be putting honey on or in just about everything. Where exactly was all this honey going? My curiosity was getting the best of me, so I decided to put the question to them. Politely, of course.

That Saturday, when Lèa and Samuel approached the table, I greeted them cheerfully, engaged in a bit of chitchat, and as usual, admired their attire. Samuel favored impeccably pressed shirts in cheerful Mediterranean colors; that morning it was a blue-striped linen shirt from Façonnable. Lèa wore a silk-and-linen dress in soft taupe and periwinkle, her auburn hair gathered into a loose chignon, bangs gently held back by a pair of oversized Vuarnet sunglasses. Together they looked less dressed for a farmers’ market than for lunch on the Left Bank.

As a couple, they stood out, though not in a flamboyant way. Their well-considered choices drew attention, especially at a farmers’ market where sweaty customers swung by after a long run or early morning bike ride, attired in athletic wear, and where families with little ones showed up in quasi-PJ ensembles. I applauded the effort the Lelouches put in — they were a beautiful and distinguished-looking pair. I imagined that the effort they made daily to dress attractively and stay in shape was surely a factor in their enduring relationship. They clearly revered one another, and as I would soon discover, had been married fifty-eight years.

Today, the Lelouches brought a red Radio Flyer wagon, the old-fashioned kind with wooden-slat sides. This particular wagon was raggedy and had clearly seen a few trips around the block. Though many of the market-goers brought wagons, this was unusual for the Lelouches. They simply weren’t the type of people to have accumulated the cheerful clutter of having raised children. Something about their demeanor, their fastidiousness, and the methodical way they went about their shopping led one to believe they’d never experienced the chaos and messiness of parenthood.

It was these characteristics that pleased everyone with whom they came into contact — their quiet and polite ways, their patience, their graciousness, and their enthusiasm, and, as I would soon discover, their generosity. Children, usually shy around unfamiliar accents, gravitated toward the Lelouches. Samuel spoke to them as though they were peers, asking thoughtful questions, then offering them small tastes of honey on birchwood spoons, if their parents were amenable. Samuel was keen to know their opinion on the flavor — did they like it? Was this something to put in their oatmeal or on their toast, or perhaps on some vanilla ice cream? The children would try the samples with solemn concentration, then offer frank impressions. This delighted Samuel — honey tasting was serious business, and he carefully considered their opinions.

Many wondered, as I did, how the Lelouches had come to be in our small town—what path had carried them from France to northern California. Whatever their journey, Samuel and Lèa possessed a quiet genius for belonging, weaving themselves like bright threads into the fabric of our community.

Judging by their ages and accents, one could reasonably surmise that the Lelouches had grown up in postwar France, though their impeccable English and effortless ease with American ways suggested they had lived in the United States for most of their adult lives. And though they were clearly more affluent than many at the market — their tailored clothes and well-kept Land Rover hinting as much — they wore their prosperity lightly, treating everyone they encountered — farmers, artisans, fellow shoppers, and me, the beekeeper — with warmth and considered respect.

On that particular Saturday, when Lèa and Samuel arrived at my booth with their rickety old wagon, they were especially animated and talkative — something was in the works. For starters, they wanted to try all the honey varietals I had in stock, and since there was no one else in line, I allowed them to sample everything. The winter honey fascinated them most. Dense as molasses, almost mahogany in color, it tasted of cold mornings and evergreen hillsides. Where was this terroir, they wondered. Then out came my phone — together we wandered through photographs of the ranch, tracing the bees’ winter foraging from chaparral shrubs with subtle blooms, to vast wind-swept hillsides with colorful waves of wildflowers.

We then worked our way through the star thistle and black sage honeys, accompanied by more pictures — one of the cow pasture, another of my flower garden full of herbs, with a huge patch of black sage. Rounding out the tasting was a crystal-clear clover honey — perfect for high tea. It was a sweet synthesis of nearly a dozen types of clover, all of which grew on the ranch. Its delicate, flowery essence darted from the palate as swiftly as a hummingbird, leaving a pure sweetness in its wake.

“Are there any other, more unusual varietals we could try?” they inquired. Why yes. Blackberry, lavender, and avocado. Each spoonful seemed to carry the Lelouches to a place far away. No longer were they standing beneath my white canopy, but wandering, instead, through a Provençal village, a place visited in their childhood — a gustatory memory mingling with the dopamine rush from the sugar.

Aiming to bring this leisurely tasting to a close, I offered the Lelouches a bit of hot Earl Grey, poured into small paper cups from my insulated carafe. As they drifted back to earth, the sugar buzz replaced by a hit of caffeine, it was decided, by Samuel, that they would purchase all of the honey I had on hand. Yes, every last jar.

This was not a small purchase, as you might imagine — larger, in fact, than most of my bulk orders. Under my tent were 48 large jars of the winter honey and 336 small jars of assorted varietals. The grand total: $7800. I offered the Lelouches a 10% volume discount, but Lèa insisted on paying the full price. “Whatever will this honey be for?” I inquired, surprised both by the size of their purchase and their insistence on paying full retail. Lèa, smiling, said simply, “We take joy in sharing what we love with those we love — our neighbors, and everyone in our community. No discount, please. You’ve earned every cent.” Without hesitation, Samuel pulled out his Platinum card. The deal was done.

I helped the Lelouches take the first two batches of honey to their car, then we returned to the booth to fill the wagon a third time. On this go-around, the Lelouches requested I unseal all the boxes containing small jars. Once everything was situated in the wagon to their satisfaction, off they went to resume their usual shopping.

The Lelouches quickly became the day’s curiosity as they wandered the market, their red wagon piled high with jars of honey, a magnificent spray of dahlias tucked in between boxes. As they wove their way up and down the aisles, their bountiful haul drew curious glances from fellow shoppers. What on earth was all that honey for?

The Lelouches stopped to purchase their usual fruits and vegetables from favorite vendors, all the while chatting with young couples and their children, a group of ladies who’d just finished a game of pickleball, and an indigent man pushing a well-worn bicycle, all his worldly possessions piled into its jerry-rigged trailer. Samuel studied everyone with quiet attentiveness, discreetly noting what they had purchased and their attire and demeanor, as if to ascertain which honey they would most enjoy. He would then reach down into one of his many boxes and pull out a jar, offering it up with enthusiasm — a precious gift, he noted — nectar collected by so many bees, from this very region. A place all of us were lucky to call home.

“So happy you’re my neighbor,” he would say.

Lèa, her hand resting lightly in the crook of Samuel’s arm, delighted in watching faces brighten with surprise.

The quiet labor of the bees, the sweet nectar they gathered, and the aromas they assembled — these gifts were meant to be free.

So what, exactly, is the GOP-1 Program?

It’s a curated collection of Republican policies inspired by Project 2025’s “Mandate for Leadership,” purportedly designed to help Americans slim down — not through diet and exercise, but through the radical simplicity of having less food.

Can’t afford expensive GLP-1 weight-loss injections? No problem. The GOP-1 Program is absolutely free. No prescription required.

Simply lose your food assistance, or your mind, when you discover that your paycheck no longer stretches to the end of your grocery list because household items, produce and meat, gas, cars, computers, phones, housing, mortgages and auto loans, utilities, and health insurance continue to climb in cost. Involuntary calorie restriction, resulting from not being able to afford food, does all the hard work of dieting — pounds (and muscle tissue) melting away like soft-serve ice cream on an August day in Alabama.

“GOP-1” is an innovative wellness plan that replaces Ozempic with empty cupboards and refrigerators.

Let’s take a look at these groundbreaking public health initiatives…

The SNAP Diet™

The SNAP Diet™ and Benefit Reduction Cleanse debuted shortly after the passage of the One Big Beautiful Bill Act. Unlike overpriced GLP-1 injections, the SNAP Diet is a refreshingly simple, one-step program:

Step 1: MAKE FOOD HARDER TO AFFORD!

H.R.1 — the expansive U.S. federal budget reconciliation act — was used to justify throwing roughly 4.7 to 5 million Americans to the wolves (i.e., taking away their SNAP benefits). Nearly half of the households affected by changes to SNAP included children, and among the 20 states that track age-specific enrollment, it was determined 776,000 children had lost food assistance — suggesting the nationwide total (with all 50 states considered) was now close to 2 million children.

Wow! That’s a lot of kids who won’t be obese! Impressive.

Another statistic that’s interesting, yet perplexing: roughly 80% of the Republicans who back these GOP-1 programs identify as Christian, which brings us to that awkward passage in the GOP instruction manual (Matthew 25:42–45):

“For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.”

“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did I not help you?’”

“He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of us, you did not do for me.’”

Though this passage may seem unambiguous to a well-educated theologian, Mike Johnson is quick to point out that Jesus forgot to include an important qualifier at the end of his proselytizing, namely, “…unless, of course, we are talking about the balancing of the United States budget.”

Everywhere, these days, one hears the self-righteous prattle of the MAGA faithful regarding the new SNAP work requirements: “Those lazy freeloaders who refuse to work… they deserve to lose their SNAP benefits. Everybody knows that.”

Absolutely.

That’s why the GOP is kicking all sorts of people off the dole: children, disabled Americans, vets, senior citizens, unpaid family caregivers, people with severe mental illness, single moms, pregnant women, the terminally ill, and the unhoused. Our country has become a nation overrun with itinerant loafers of all ages; that is abundantly clear.

As it turns out, America’s greatest untapped workforce is first graders and hospice patients. Who knew.

Things have a way of working out for the best, don’t they?

Nothing encourages “economic opportunity” quite like an empty refrigerator. Hunger is the foundation of the Trump administration’s new workforce development program, though saying that out loud might lose the GOP a few seats in Congress. Seeing how tight things are right now, probably best for the boys to keep that on the down-low.

Once someone actually lands a job per the new SNAP requirements, there’s that pesky detail of having to fend off starvation long enough to collect the first paycheck, which could be two to four weeks out.

And if, by some miracle, the newly employed, minimum-wage worker still qualifies for SNAP, well, that’s more good news! The U.S. government, which we all know operates with lightning-fast efficiency, suggests there is typically a 30-day period for benefit approval, followed by a week or two for the EBT card to arrive by mail. That’s if you’ve not made any errors on their online form and have to start the application process from scratch.

Hopefully, the to-be SNAP recipient will be able to power through Phase 5 of prolonged calorie deprivation: Critical Organ Failure. While working, of course.

Operation Portion Control™

The meals above were recently served to American troops deployed in the Iran war courtesy of the Trump administration. Go ahead and confirm for yourself the authenticity of the photos in Newsweek’s article, “Photos Show Shocking Meals Being Served to US Troops in Iran War.”

What’s on the menu for our troops these days? Apparently not much food, but large servings of supply-chain disruptions, naval blockades, closed airspace, and suspended U.S. mail with a side of “Thank you for your service.”

And nothing boosts troop morale quite like wondering whether the entrée is a hamburger, meatloaf, or insulation foam. At least Hegseth can say he’s serving his men a balanced meal: one protein, three carrots, and all-you-can-stomach thoughts and prayers.

On the bright side, the Pentagon may finally hit its weight standards without making anyone do physical training.

Welcome to Operation Portion Control™— where caloric content is classified.

Little Losers Intermittent Fasting™

America’s youngest also need to catch a ride on the dieting bandwagon, whether they’re living on the street, in subsidized housing, in foster homes, or missing a parent. As we all know, being skinny means having a much lower risk of Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, arthritis, osteoporosis, dementia, and heart disease. Oops! Those are diseases of the old.

Skinny kids, the ones who purportedly don’t get enough food, apparently suffer from things like stunted growth, chronic exhaustion, a weakened immune system, muscle deterioration, and delays in brain development. Ya gotta question the source on that claim: the World Health Organization. WHO also claims that childhood malnutrition — we’re talking not getting enough calories — can lead to obesity. Huh?! That does not make any sense whatsoever.

According to WHO, not getting enough food alters a child’s metabolism (whatever that is), which in turn causes them to store fat more efficiently. Yeah, well, believe who you want to believe — either those rich doctors who went to boarding school and Harvard, or RFK Jr. Oh yeah — he went to boarding school and Harvard. Whatever.

Common sense would dictate that childhood obesity thing is more likely caused by kids subsisting on Flamin' Hot Cheetos and lying around all day on cardboard mattresses playing Fortnite and Rocket League on their donated phones.

Thanks to the generous efforts of Donald Trump, Mike Johnson, and the evangelical Christian right (which now has a stronghold on all government policy), parents alone are responsible for the care, education, and upbringing (as well as the abuse and neglect) of their children. The government should have zero influence over what fathers and mothers decide is right for their children. This is as God intended.

The Little Losers weight-loss program has been bolstered by generous cuts to SNAP, under which kids who are no longer eligible for food benefits are also automatically removed from the school lunch program rolls. Yes, you read that right. This second (and much-deserved) serving of cruelty is intended to get their parents (if they have any) off the couch and out working. Now that makes total sense. 100%.

In some states, SNAP-free kids have only to jump through a few hoops to qualify for the government-sponsored lunch programs — it just requires their drug- or alcohol-addicted caretakers to sober up long enough to fill out the applications, find their REAL ID-compliant state driver's license under the piles of unwashed laundry, and then get those applications in by deadline to the school administration offices, which are on the outskirts of town and not accessible by bus. If this “event” were on one of those prediction gambling markets, it might be categorized as a “long shot” or “odds-against underdog.”

Hoop jumping — that’s a fun exercise, right? Exercise is good! And for kids that still don’t qualify for free food, which is likely going to be the case in the mostly red states of Texas, Florida, Ohio, Georgia, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania — those kids will reap the benefits of a 7-hour fast (i.e., school drop-off to end-of-school-day), or a 9-hour fast, if they are enrolled in an after-school program.

Other initiatives designed to enhance the Little Losers program, and contribute to malnutrition generally, are the USDA’s cancellation of over $1 billion in federal cooperative agreements that provided local, fresh, and regional foods to school cafeterias (and food banks), and the huge reductions in WIC (Women, Infants, Children) — cash-value benefits that allowed low-income families to purchase fruits and vegetables, which ironically factor high on RFK Jr.’s recommendations for childrens’ diets.

WIC benefits are slated for the chopping block in September of 2026. Woo hoo! The Christian-right’s Project 2025 agenda stays on track!

The Farm-To-Famine Diet™

There is a reason Trump is the perfect leader for these times we live in. He is not an eater of fruits and vegetables, setting an example for those of us who can no longer afford to buy them. His motto: “Get over it! They taste yucky.”

Many folks have been baffled by the soaring price of grocery staples. “How is this happening?” — the MAGA faithful ask. They watch FOX religiously, where every economic report is a victory lap, and every hardship someone else’s fault — usually someone with brown skin. Yet every month, when their credit card SMS payment reminder crosses their screens, it somehow feels more like a ransom note than a bill. POTUS tells his followers that the economy is booming and the job market improving. So why does a bag of groceries now qualify as a luxury purchase?

Of course, absolutely none of this has anything to do with tariffs driving up the cost of fertilizer, farm equipment, packaging, and other essentials, nor with former trade partners no longer willing to buy American agricultural products because we’ve tariffed the shit out of their products.

And there is no way these crazy prices are caused by the rising cost of fuel, which the liberal media has suggested is making it more expensive to plant, harvest, refrigerate, and haul food across the country.

Don’t forget that issue of thousands of experienced farmworkers being rounded up, then holed up indefinitely in detention centers. Who’s going to pick all the crops before they become expensive compost, you ask? Duh… all those white kids who hang out at the local pool hall, who’ve not been able to secure jobs ever, have zero competencies and who know nothing about farming. They are just chomping at the bit to spend July bent over a 108-degree asparagus field for 8 hours a day. Ask any guidance counselor — “What is the dream career of today’s youth?” Seasonal lettuce harvester is the number one response.

This we know: America's farmers will love Trump’s new business model.

Grow less, earn less, pay more, compete with imports

Welcome to The Farm-to-Famine Diet™, America’s hottest involuntary wellness program. This revolutionary diet plan is all about skipping overpriced nuisances like fresh produce, lean proteins, and nutritious prepared meals. Why waste money on blueberries when you can survive on patriotic carbohydrates? Broccoli is for globalists. Lettuce is elitist. Avocados? Those sound suspiciously foreign. If fruits and vegetables were so important, wouldn’t they be charging less? Hmm… not really sure who “they” is.

The Farm-to-Famine Diet™ doesn’t just trim your waistline — it slashes your grocery bill by eliminating the majority of your groceries altogether. Nutrition is replaced by optimism, balanced meals by talking points, and food security by comforting reassurances from the Agriculture Secretary that everything is actually better than ever.

So the next time you find yourself wincing as you work your way down the produce aisle, remember: you’re not being priced out of healthy eating. You’re participating in a bold new American health initiative.

Warning: Side effects may include weight loss, vitamin deficiencies, and constipation due to a lack of dietary fiber.

The America First Fasting Plan™

"America First," parrots populist political platforms prioritizing protectionism, pedophilia, pro-life, pro-guns, paranoia of outsiders, the patriarchy, PACs, patronage, a plutocracy, profiteering, payoffs, persecution of minorities, proscription, purging of immigrants, prejudice, promiscuity, Protestantism, and other policies that begin with the letter “P.”

POTUS is, of course, the leader of this program. Mike Johnson is God’s pilot in implementing these Christ-inspired policies.

You are likely wondering, “How exactly does America First impact the food industry, the AFFORDABILITY of groceries, and finding a diet plan that is right for me?” Good run-on question.

Here’s exactly how Trump’s America First policies have affected grocery prices and other important things in a single year:

Meat, poultry, fish ⬆️ 6.2%
Beef ⬆️ 16%
Pork ⬆️ 2.3%
Farm-raised salmon ⬆️ 17%
Seafood ⬆️ 7.5%
Fruits and vegetables ⬆️ 7.5%
Bananas ⬆️ 8.6%
Tomatoes ⬆️ 32%
Strawberries ⬆️ 12%
Lettuce ⬆️ 25%
Coffee ⬆️ 19%
Rice ⬆️ 11%
Italian pasta brands ⬆️ 107%
Cheese & dairy ⬆️ 5%
Olive oil ⬆️ 18%
Bread ⬆️ 3.1%

Health insurance premiums ⬆️ 22%
Health insurance deductibles ⬆️ 37%
Used cars ⬆️ 6%
Fuel ⬆️ 40%
Housing ⬆️ 3.4%

This 👆👆👆. In one year! Gotta give Trump credit for inspiring big changes, and so quickly driving up the cost of food!

And it’s no wonder AFFORDABILITY is the word of the day.

“Affordability” = the race between income and prices. Right now, inflation is leaving any increases in personal income in the dust.

Damn. We’ve got to put some spin on this bowling ball, or we’re going to end up with a split. Oops. Too late—we’ve already got one. In both political parties.

And if we don’t change the narrative right now, I could be looking at 30 to 50 years in a federal penitentiary somewhere in Texas for inciting a riot by suggesting that groceries cost more than a car payment.

The reality is this: that tiny raise you just got isn’t going to keep pace with the exploding cost of living — or your spouse’s government job getting bullDOGEd into oblivion. We need a solution. One that also makes the White House look like it’s playing four-dimensional chess instead of Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Good news! We’ve got one. Introducing: Calibrated Fasting.

You’ll save a shit ton of money, you’ll almost certainly lose weight, and you’ll never have to worry about what’s for dinner because there won’t be any dinner. Kill two birds with one kidney stone. Speaking of which, fun fact: crash dieting and high-protein diets can contribute to kidney stones. Someone needs to tap RFK Jr. on the shoulder. His inverted food pyramid is a recipe for kidney stones.

Now grab a calculator. You’re going to need it.

Take your monthly income. Subtract your rent, utilities, insurance, gas, car payment, medical bills, student loans, subscriptions you forgot to cancel, and every other expense required to remain technically alive. Whatever’s left is your grocery budget.

Is it a terrifying number? Yeah... I figured.

Let’s say you have $325 left for food this month. That’s about $81.25 per week, or roughly $11.60 per day. If you live in one of the states that still taxes groceries — Alabama, Idaho, Mississippi, Missouri, South Dakota, Tennessee, or Utah — you can knock off another 50¢. Hey! Freedom to open-carry isn’t free.

About six bucks per meal is technically possible if you’re cooking everything from scratch and living on eggs, tortillas, beans, rice, generic cheese, bargain vegetables, seasonal fruit, and the occasional chicken that wandered too close to the clearance rack. The catch? That’s only two meals a day.

This is where your fasting schedule becomes a financial planning tool.

Working mornings? Eat breakfast and lunch. Dinner — now just a cherished childhood memory. Working nights? Skip breakfast. Forget that adage about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. Working two jobs? You’ll likely be dead in a month.

Our billionaire friends in Silicon Valley — and the AI models they trained while paying fewer taxes than your grandma who lives in a double wide — they recommend the following nutrition plans based on income:

Tight Budget / Low Income: OMAD (One Meal a Day)

Moderate Income: 16:8 Intermittent Fasting (Two Meals a Day)

Comfortable Income: The Circadian Rhythm Diet (eat whatever you like, whenever you like)

And, of course, there’s Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins’ famous quote:”It can cost around $3 a meal for a piece of chicken, a piece of broccoli, a corn tortilla, and one other thing." If you follow her plan and budget carefully, you may be able to splurge once a month on a Beefy 5-Layer Burrito at Taco Bell. Cost: $3.49.

Hey folks, don’t get all sad on us. It’s just food. There are so many great things in this world left to focus on — free speech, due process, the Constitution, birthright citizenship, human rights, fair elections, and all those other quaint relics of democracy we used to take for granted.

Time to celebrate America’s 250th anniversary!!

Gather friends and family for a rousing rendition of "America, the Food Desert"— complete with karaoke accompaniment. Don't worry, everyone already knows the tune.

AMERICA, THE FOOD DESERT
sung to America, the Beautiful
(with revised lyrics by Chris Andrews)

O beautiful for shrinking meals,
For fewer eggs and grain,
For watching every grocery trip
Become a budget game.
America! America!
We solved obesity!
Make food unaffordable—
What brilliant policy!

O beautiful for grocery lines,
Where weary, wornout stress
Still winds through crowded checkout aisles
With carts of emptiness.
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw;
Confirm thy soul in empathy,
And mercy in the law.

O beautiful for those who serve,
Whose sacrifice runs deep,
Who more than self their country love,
Yet struggle now to eat.
America! America!
May conscience be our guide,
Till every child has food enough,
And none are cast aside.

O beautiful for amber waves
That ripple, full and free;
How strange that hunger lingers still
Where plenty ought to be.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
May every harvest feed us all,
In shared prosperity.

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose faith the wilderness crossed;
Who dreamed that every soul had worth,
Not measured by its cost.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
May mercy walk beside the law,
And strengthen liberty.

O beautiful for heroes proved
Who gave their youth and more,
Yet found at home that sacrifice
Was asked of them once more.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
May those who bore the nation’s weight
Find bread, and dignity.

O beautiful for patriot dreams
Still reaching through the years;
May gleaming cities earn their light
By drying human tears.
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee;
For greatness lives not in our wealth,
But in humanity.

At this point in history, I think we can assuredly rename the United States “Moronica” — you know the place, that fictional dictatorship featured in the Three Stooges' political spoofs, You Nazty Spy! and I'll Never Heil Again. What was once parody is now starting to feel uncomfortably like reality.

The plots of both Three Stooges shorts, released in 1940 and 1941, were unmistakeably parodies of the events leading up to the rise of Hitler and the Third Reich: a king is deposed, and a group of wealthy oligarchs — eager to preserve their profits and influence — elevate a lowly wallpaper hanger, Moe Hailstone, to the position of dictator, effectively making him their “stooge.” Raise your hand if this plot sounds vaguely familiar.

Wow. Every hand. Up.

Remarkably, The Three Stooges were satirizing one of the most feared and dangerous figures in the world, well before renowned political activist Charlie Chaplin released his anti-Hitler classic, The Great Dictator. Both the Stooges and Chaplin were bravely mocking fascism at a time when others in Hollywood remained cautious — no, make that chickenshit.

Does anyone else think this sounds a wee bit like our current-day Democratic Party — a completely useless bunch of chickenshits comingling with a few sexual deviant/misconduct types and smarmy self-dealers? The ladies would be wise to steer clear of guys like Swalwell and Brockman (and there are others), while the rest of you had better back away from that Cherfilus-McCormick chick (from Florida, of all places), who stole millions in Covid funds. But I digress.

Whether you are an official Knucklehead (i.e., member of The Three Stooges Fan Club) or not, these shorts are well worth a watch. Belly laughs are good medicine, apparently. Great, in fact, for both your mental health and your jelly belly, though were the latter true, I should have washboard abs by now. Which I do not.

OK, folks. Time to drop the garden trowel and get to it. There’s nothing like a beautiful summer day spent sprawled out on the couch in your basement, watching the Stooges, eating Bugles, and drinking orange Fanta. YES, they still make both of these, can you believe it?

Here you go. Be ready to laugh your ass off. Fair warning to those of you with weak pelvic floor muscles.

You’re gonna love watching three Jewish men (👆), all of whom grew up in Yiddish-speaking IMMIGRANT households, brutally satirize the leaders of the Axis powers — smack in the middle of WW2. The only thing that might be more satisfying would be watching a crowd of former detainees from the Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia, as they witness DJT meeting his demise via firing squad (which he recently reinstated) after being found guilty of treason and war crimes at his much-anticipated tribunal. Can hardly wait for that TikTok video to go viral.

In the Stooges’ Nazi flicks, Moe Howard parodies Hitler, as dictator “Moe Hailstone,” Curly Howard plays “Field Marshal Herring” (Hermann Göring), and Larry Fine is cast as “Minister of Propaganda Pebble” (Josef Goebbels). The Stooges, who in their previous life had been wallpaper hangers, are transformed into a puppet dictator and his cabinet, all of them coached by the oligarchs to run the country of Moronica.

America, Moronica. One can't help wondering: were the Stooges merely joking, or pointing out an enduring truth about the U.S.?

The ruling Nazi-era oligarchs — Hugenberg, Quandt, Krupp, Oetker, and the two Ferdinands, Flick and Porsche — were not so different from today’s American oligarchs. Like Elon Musk, Howard Lutnick, Scott Bessent, Linda McMahon, Doug Burgum, and David Sacks, they enjoyed privileged access to political power while simultaneously benefiting from policies that enriched their sprawling business empires. As they “helped” run the state, regulations inconvenient to their interests mysteriously vanished, favorable policies materialized, and fortunes grew ever larger.

The names and circumstances may differ, but the arrangement is the same: wealthy industrialists and financiers positioning themselves close to the levers of power, all while assuring the public that their accumulating influence is merely an act of patriotic service. History would suggest that such generosity comes with substantial hidden fees. And history would also suggest that all this Arschkriecherein (climbing up someone’s ass) does not, in the end, work out well for these businessmen. The bend-at-the-waist billionaires/trillionaires in Trump’s orbit can expect the same.

Enjoy gloating here: “The Oligarchs Who Came To Regret Supporting Hitler,” from The Atlantic, 2/6/25 (article gifted), and “How Rupert Murdoch helped create a monster – the era of Trumpism – and then lost control of it,” from The Conversation, 8/11/24.

Are you getting this? It’s all the same: Nazi Germany = NotSee America. If you can’t see that, I’ve got an ophthalmologist I can happily refer you to (and a piece of beachfront property in Miami that I promise won’t be affected by climate change sea-level rise).

The oligarchs in the Stooge stories, having bankrolled the trio, assume these idiots will dutifully do their bidding. While Hailstone, Herring, and Pebble are certainly willing, if unwittingly, to play the part of stooges (so to speak), what the oligarchs have failed to anticipate is that the same ineptitude that made the Stooges easy to manipulate also makes them spectacularly incapable of executing “the plan.”

Back to the present day… those of us who don’t don MAGA hats are beginning to feel like unwilling extras in a political farce that never ends. Each morning, a fresh barrage of headlines soils our news feed, the madness escalating. And there is no exit ramp in sight. And while the Three Stooges were able to wrap up their authoritarian buffoonery in a tidy 20-minute comedy short, we’re relegated to several seasons on the remake, with the script writer (most likely Stephen Miller) determined to outdo himself and history with every new episode.

What can be done when White Evangelical Protestants, ideological conservatives, MAGAs, and the GOP (well over half the country) are headed down this road to perdition — on the way, ignoring every red flag that warned us things were vor die Hunde gehen?

Why, pray tell, are people still clinging to this Trump mess? Are they unable to let go? Too embarrassed to admit they failed to buy an extended warranty on a lemon? Too scared to jump off the train? Or are they blithely sailing toward a heavily militarized, police-state version of Amerika — complete with territorial fantasies and the persecution of minorities — because that's the Hantavirus Cruise they eagerly booked and upgraded to first class, convincing themselves that rats were part of the entertainment package?

At times, it feels as though we’re living through a remake of 1930s Europe that somehow got greenlit as a dark comedy. As the plot lurches from one absurd scene to the next, you keep expecting the director — whoever that may be — to lean into an acoustic megaphone and shout, “Cut! This script is ridiculous. Nobody’s going to believe this storyline.”

The trouble is that what begins as satire has a nasty habit of becoming reality. The jokes stop landing. The laughter grows uneasy. And then, as the old saying goes, someone loses an eye — and suddenly things aren’t so funny.

This (👇🏼) is the audience I’m sitting in at this very moment, enjoying a rousing rendition of “Springtime for Hitler” from The Producers — music and lyrics by Mel Brooks, a comedian who bathes daily in Yiddishkeit. All of that confident Jewishness gives Brooks license to satirize Nazis with a ferocity matched by few others.

Mel Brooks is likely the only person on this planet able to pull off a tune so spectacularly tasteless while simultaneously making it irresistibly kitschy and catchy — a brainworm in the public consciousness. His genius lies in turning ridicule into a weapon — a box cutter aimed at Nazi pretensions — stripping them of their self-important mystique and exposing them for what they were (and are): ridiculous, contemptible figures of absurdity, as absurd as the MAGAs who have stepped right into their manure-covered Marschstiefel (jackboots).

If you like “Springtime for Hitler,” you might also enjoy “A Little Peace,” from the flick To Be or Not To Be (1983) — another catchy satirical tune written by Mel Brooks, in conjunction with Ronny Graham. It’s a great ditty about the joys of dictatorial expansionism and imperial exploitation.

If you're down for a brilliant full-length film, the 1942 version of To Be or Not to Be, starring Jack Benny and Carole Lombard, is not to be missed. Directed by Ernst Lubitsch, it is a masterful and sophisticated mix of black comedy, political satire, and spy drama, skewering Hitler and Nazi ideology, pomposity, and self-importance with surgical precision. What's most impressive is Lubitsch and his cast’s fearlessness in transforming fascism into farce, all while World War II was raging.

There is no hesitation in repeatedly calling out the enemy in To Be or Not to Be, though true danger lurks behind every joke. Watch in amazement that none of this movie’s content was censored back in the day, then think about where we are now… major networks being pressured to sack comedians, namely Kimmel and Colbert, who are critical of the fossil fuel fascist, all because they called out his atrocious behavior and policies on their shows.

This 1942 version of To Be or Not to Be is peak “mock fascists, collect laughs,” and it is Carole Lombard’s last movie. She died shortly after its release in a tragic airplane crash — January 16, 1942 — as she was returning from a highly successful war bond rally. President Roosevelt declared her to be Hollywood’s first WW2 casualty.

Hey, wake up! Don't sleep on this 1983 version of To Be or Not to Be. Same story, yes, but a totally different movie. It’s an absolute gem that trades subtlety for high-energy slapstick and Broadway-style musical numbers, delivering a distinctive and equally hilarious experience to the 1942 treasure. The biggest difference between versions one and two of To Be is their proximity to the events they satirize, something to keep in mind as you watch both or either.

If you’re looking to watch the entirety of the 1983 To Be or Not to Be, starring Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, try Apple TV.

More fun can be had at Hitler’s expense from Hal Roach Studios. These films, while not terribly sophisticated (and chock full of ethnic stereotyping), are nonetheless entertaining. Check out The Devil With Hitler (1942) and That Nazty Nuisance (1943).

Bet you didn’t see this one coming: Walt Disney as outspoken critic of Hitler and Nazi Germany. When most people think of Walt Disney, they’re imagining Bambi, Pinocchio, and Fantasia — not anti-fascist propaganda. Ironically, all three of these films struggled at the box office during World War II as overseas markets disappeared and U.S. audiences had more important things on their minds.

By the early 1940s, Disney’s Burbank studio had effectively become an important part of the war effort. The U.S. military occupied a big chunk of their lot, and roughly 90% of the studio’s output was converted to supporting Allied causes: military training films, educational shorts, and features like Victory Through Air Power.

Disney also produced two remarkable animated assaults on Nazism: Der Fuehrer’s Face and Education for Death. One mercilessly lampoons Hitler and fascist ideology; the other delivers a chilling portrayal of how totalitarian regimes indoctrinate children from birth. Together, these films helped sell War Bonds while delivering a powerful message: dictators who thrive on fear and spectacle lose their mystique and power when reduced to figures of ridicule.

Comedy and satire often succeed where reasoned arguments — and sometimes even physical force — fall short. When America was at its best, we understood this. Along with free speech, a dominant economy, and a powerful military, the freedom to mock dangerous ideas and the people promoting them was one of our greatest strengths.

During World War II, American filmmakers, cartoonists, comedians, and journalists relentlessly exposed the absurdity of Nazi ideology, targeting fanaticism, puncturing propaganda, and turning the Third Reich’s self-important strongmen into objects of ridicule. It would seem that when someone is trying so very hard to convince the world he’s a godlike figure, being laughed at hits harder than a bullet grazing an earlobe.

These Disney shorts weren’t trivial entertainment, nor were those put out by other animation houses during the same time period. Their satire weakened the Nazi brand and Hitler’s bravado, chipping away at the aura of invincibility he and his followers worked so hard to cultivate. Ridicule = kryptonite to the Nazis’ manufactured grandeur.

Which brings me to this scene from The Wizard of Oz, which was released just one week before Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. The scene feels remarkably prescient, whether intentionally or not, speaking directly to a timeless truth about power: behind the booming voice, the spectacle, and relentless propaganda, there is often just one smallish man frantically pulling levers behind a curtain.

Dorothy = a hero. 💯 Just for getting them there and pulling back the curtain.

Complete your comedy tour de couch with The Ducktators, Herr Meets Hare, and Daffy the Commando — a triple feature of animated anti-fascism, ninety minutes of dictators getting dunked by waterfowl, rabbits, and a certifiably unhinged duck.

Throughout the 1940s, a remarkable flood of comic books, animated shorts, and satirical films helped Americans make sense of a world gone completely off the rails. These works did more than entertain: they deflated fear, elastrated fascism, exposed dictators as frauds, and made clear what was at stake in a conflict that seemed to be taking over the globe. For many Americans, cartoons and comedies were a down-to-earth civics lesson — a crash course in democracy, delivered with slapstick, satire, and a punchline — by the best teachers, ever: Jack Benny, Bugs Bunny, Curly Howard, Superman, and Charlie Chaplin.

I have said it before and will continue to do so: VOTE NO ON XAVIER BECERRA for California’s governor.

The New York Times has reiterated and bolstered its stance on Becerra's troubling past as Secretary of Health and Human Services under the Biden administration. BECERRA'S POLICIES HURT CHILDREN. Biden gets to take credit for this, too. He turned a blind eye to Becerra’s poor leadership.

If you give a shit about kids, take five minutes to read today’s article. Then, VOTE NO ON BECERRA.

Sadly, I have discovered this week how very many Dems in the State of California have not one concern about the 10's of thousands of children Becerra's HHS put in harm's way. I am ashamed that this is where we are at. I am ashamed of my party. I am ashamed of people who play the racism card and who refuse to look at facts. Disgusted.

Here's a small taste of what I'm talking about in terms of what happened to Becerra's charges, the unaccompanied minors that came through HHS (from “Why the Migrant Child Crisis Is Roiling the California Governor Race,” by Hannah Dreier):

"Andrés Toma, 16, fell to his death three months after being sent to live with an uncle. Antoni Padilla, 15, lost the ability to speak after falling from a roofing job. Marcos Cux, released by H.H.S. at age 13, was working at a chicken plant when a machine tore open his arm. When I met him, it hung limply by his side. It’s unclear whether these children received H.H.S. follow-up calls, or whether a call would have mattered."

"Children and parents both consistently told me they had not imagined how dangerous the work would be, or how relentless."

"Child workers were mostly living adult lives, expected to contribute to rent and pay off debts, allowed to go to school only after working night shifts, or not allowed to go at all. In other words, the kind of situations H.H.S. was supposed to screen out."

"Some sponsors told me they believed that they were doing children a favor by helping them migrate and support their families. But many also kept careful tallies of what the children owed, including for their clothes, meals and lodging, and charged monthly interest."

Under Mr. Becerra’s leadership, HHS quickly released these children they were TASKED WITH PROTECTING, made a cursory follow-up call (or not, as the case may be for 85,000), and then closed their files. They ignored calls and emails from people who raised concerns. Becerra's concern: to please Biden by being efficient. For those of you claiming "misinformation," really? Take two minutes and read up. Hot off the presses: https://www.nytimes.com/2026/05/14/us/politics/xavier-becerra-migrant-children.html?unlocked_article_code=1.iVA.kLp3.xoRxF-zj8DSU&smid=url-share

Becerra is your guy, my fellow Dems? Really?

Well, fuck that.

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

Not going to lie, friends. I am really struggling with fashion. Sadly, this problem of mine seems to go hand-in-hand with another major shortcoming: shopping. And then there’s that trying things on before buying them schtick, which, as a rule, I don’t do. Méthode à moi: I eyeball the item to assess its visual appeal, try to envision how it will look on me (does it cover my big tummy and fat ass), and then I gauge whether there is enough bust ease. I am not going to fucking hold my breath all day for the sake of a fitted look. Life is too short for that shit. If we’re talking a skirt, shorts, or pants, anything other than an elastic waistband is a non-starter. No exceptions. And finally, if the item is in a pastel color, it doesn’t go in the cart.

And while we’re on the subject of carts, I think we can all agree there are a limited number of brick-and-mortar stores that sell clothes and that also offer carts, and they are either mass merchandisers, off-price retailers, or non-profit thrift stores. Not in these categories: Bergdorf Goodman, Neiman Marcus, and Saks Fifth Avenue. We’re looking at Ross Dress for Less, T.J. Maxx, Marshall’s, Target, Walmart, Costco, the Salvation Army, and Goodwill. The vast discount retail ecosystem works like this: most of the shit you buy at the first six stores ends up at the last two stores, often with the original price tags intact.

These retail giants cover the fashion needs of approximately 70% of the United States population, that being the lower class, and lower middle class, with a few stragglers from the higher escalations of the middle class — i.e., those folks for whom old habits die hard and who still love their Dickies from Walmart.

Eh, come to think of it, there are now numerous online clothing retailers with digital carts, and they offer the same filling-your-cart serotonin buzz many of us are striving for. In all fairness, we can’t leave these out, so add Amazon to the pile-up.

Grab a cart (or your keyboard), wipe it down with anti-bacterial sanitizer, and get to work. Maybe pop in your Bose QuietComfort Ultra Earbuds and crank up some 70s Muzak to enhance the experience.

Here’s how putting together a wardrobe works at these retailers: you will need a cart because, in order to find 2, or, if you’re having a really good day, 3 items you can actually wear, you have to gather up at least 7-11 items total. There is a scientifically proven ratio of 3.5:1 (not unlike the Fibonacci sequence, I’m told) between all the clothes you’ll be purchasing and those worth keeping after you subtract the unwearable ones, which is most. It’s so easy to remember this ratio, as it is exactly the same as your ideal total-cholesterol-to-HDL ratio, per the Cleveland Clinic. These numbers are worth committing to memory.

After snapping up all these fashion treasures, you may find, like many before you, that your sense of euphoria is short-lived, especially when you get home and discover you have absolutely NOTHING whatsoever in your closet, in the way of pants, a skirt, or shorts, to complete the ensemble.

And, it goes without saying that you will not have shoes to match. Or if, perchance, you do happen to own a pair of shoes in the right style and color, guaranteed you will be limping within one hour of putting on said shoes. This phenomenon falls under Newton’s Third Law of Motion — you know, the one that defines the relationship between a body and the forces acting upon it, and then its motion in response to those forces. In layman’s terms, there are your feet and the attractive, but ill-fitting shoes (which come into contact with one another), and then there is your feet’s response to the ill-fitting shoes. It’s physics, plain and simple, girls. The scientific term: “Your Dogs Are Barking.”

All of this is what I call The Fashion Clusterfuck. It’s like The Rapture, except you’re one of those people who get left on earth. Turns out there’s a dress code for getting into heaven, and the invite clearly stated “white tie,” and it didn’t mention “optional.” And it most certainly didn’t mention clothing-optional. Yep, your birthday suit is not good enough for god. Bummer.

And then, there’s that going back to the store thing and waiting in line for 45 minutes to return the twenty items that didn’t work out for you. This is where you queue up with 17 other shoppers in a narrow corridor filled with shelves of snacks from gourmet food companies you’ve never heard of. Hundreds and hundreds of exotic snacks.

Savory crunchy things. Chocolate-enrobed pretzels and nuts. Gummy legless invertebrates. Cookies. Cheesy stuff. Mushroom jerky. Kettle chips in ten flavors. Trail mix for people on acid. Be sure you’ve eaten before you get in line. You’ll gain weight just looking at this stuff.

Then there’s the experience of trying to get dressed for the day or an evening event. Here’s how that usually plays out for me: I am desperately in need of an outfit for a special gathering, and I’m down to the wire. The event is tomorrow. Oops! It’s tonight!! Jesse gave me the wrong date. That means it’s too late to order something online and too far into the season to find something off-the-rack that’s appropriate for the weather, in my size, and not in some horrible pastel color. “Pastels,” by the way, are a recurring theme in my psychotherapy sessions.

So, I’m fucked, unless I can find some self-tanning mousse in my cosmetic bin, which means I could then pull off an outfit in pink or powder blue.

Sadly, no bronzer.

And so, I dive into my closet, looking for just one outfit (dear god) that will do the trick. Voila! There it is! An outfit I’d forgotten about that I bought during the pandemic — the one I wore for the online Heart concert back when all of us in California had to stay sheltered in or risk death by firing squad. This ensemble has a bit of a lesbian vibe, which was intentional, not gonna lie. I was just trying to fit in with the other Heart concertgoers. And Jesse… he’s always been down for that sort of thing — you know, my hooking up with lesbians. That’s a universal guy fantasy, I’m pretty sure. I could never wrap my head around a threesome, which in Jesse’s fantasy means two women and himself. What a fucker.

As I discovered at a retreat many moons ago, these menage à trois thingamabobs don’t always go according to plan, especially when the women involved are vying for the same dude and have no interest whatsoever in going down on each other. Then, there’s that part where the guy has to service two women. Believe you me when I say most guys are not up to the task of servicing even one. OMG, two?! And then, after all is said and done, and things have not gone according to plan, there is the inevitable post-coidal upset, because at least one of the women did not get off at all, and she is the best friend of the other woman, who she imagines has gotten off, but who, in reality, was just faking an orgasm.

Let’s just say this: the guy involved snuck off in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. Word has it he’s been living off the grid in Lincoln, Montana.

OK, OK… back to the situation at hand: my upcoming night out with Jesse and his friends from the office.

Excitedly, I pulled the aforementioned ensemble out of the closet, only to realize I was still fucked. The last time I had washed the pants (which appear to be made of burlap), they had shrunk to half their original size. Pretty weird-looking — cargo pants that are cinched at the bottom but which stop mid-calf. This is not a look. And those elasticated pant cuffs were cutting off the circulation to my feet and ankles. Also, not a look I was going for: EDEMA.

Admittedly, the tag, in several languages, including English, clearly stated not to wash the pants, and underneath it was a second tag that stated: “Dry Clean Only.”

Now hold on a minute. How is it that a $15 pair of pants requires dry cleaning? It costs $15 to dry-clean any type of women’s pants at my local cleaners, even cheap shit pants from Old Navy. So I thought, WTH, I’m just going to wash them. If that doesn’t work, I’ll only have lost $15, right? If I take them to a dry cleaner, I lose $15. Same difference, except that part about being able to wear them again.

So now my cool cargo pants are half their original size. Why, you may ask, are they still in my closet? Well, you never really know when you might lose 80 lbs., in which case, they’ll be right there, ready to go. There’s some comfort in that.

And then there’s the blouse I’d paired with those cargo pants way back when. Turns out it has a huge stain, smack over my left boob, like some lactation mishap. Ay yai yai, at age 64, lactating? No one, especially my son, Daniel, wants that image in their head as they try to enjoy a delicious dinner of butter chicken and garlic naan at Sudipta’s Tandoori Kitchen.

The thought of this brought back some funny memories for me from when Daniel was a baby. For two years, he nursed at the same time every afternoon: 3:30 p.m., right at the start of my favorite Law & Order reruns. We all know that theme, am I right? Well, whenever I heard it, my milk would let down — right at the “boom, boom” of the timpani. Like clockwork.

Imagine, if you will, what happened one day as I was walking through Best Buy and that Law & Order theme came blaring through 10 synchronized large-screen TVs at once. Holy fuck! I ended up with two HUGE wet spots on the front of my T-shirt, and of course, I had nothing to cover them up. I could not get out of that damn store fast enough.

Now I’m reliving the heroic effort I’d made trying to get that stain out. I used every cleaning product known to man, including Miss Mouth’s Messy Eater Treater. The stain: it didn’t budge. It remained the same saturated color it had been when the $258 Eileen Fisher Belgian linen shirt first came into contact with a spoonful of dal tadka. One spoonful of food misses my mouth, and a beautiful shirt is ruined forever.

And yet, though the shirt was now unwearable (like the cargo pants), I had kept it, right there in my closet, as if it were part of my wardrobe. Why? Partly as punishment for my stupidity, partly so I could respectfully mourn the loss of the equivalent of a week’s worth of groceries ($258), and just in case there was ever a scientific breakthrough in the treatment for turmeric stains.

I might have donned that mustard colored sweater the next time I had a hankering for Indian food, had I not shrunk it. A curry stain would have blended beautifully into that merino wool.

Woulda, shoulda.

So now, here’s where I’m at: I cannot attend the event with Jessie. I have nothing to wear. 😭

RECTIFYING THE SITUATION

How, exactly, does one go about fixing a catastrophic wardrobe situation like mine — one resulting from twin fuckups: not having had a mother’s guidance during my formative years, and not giving a flying fuck about fashion trends?

What exactly did I want out of my wardrobe? What was I going for?

This, thank you very much. 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼

Frances McDormand: totally dialed in to my style. This I have ascertained after examining every last photo of her I could find online. She is a rockstar. Her vibe: “I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

My needs and desires are pretty simple. I want clothes and shoes that are BASIC, comfortable, and durable, and that can stand up to my less-than-stellar laundering skills. And if I feel like it, I want to transition from breakfast and my morning physical therapy exercises, to doing house chores, feeding the horses, and weeding the garden, then to sitting down to dinner with Jesse and watching an episode of the first season of Star Trek, then rounding out my day with meticulous oral hygiene and the putting on of my CPAP headgear, after which I would be going straight to sleep. Note: there are no wardrobe changes on a day like this. Same outfit all day and night. Also, NO BRA, and NO UNDERWEAR. Call me crazy. Whatever.

I want to put the clothing on, and then I don’t want to think about it for the remainder of the day. If it looks a bit sassy and irreverent, great, that would be the icing on the cake. And no fucking pastels (or flowers) for me, thank you very much.

I have really been dreading the task of rectifying my wardrobe, but I decided that if I tackled it slowly and methodically, while binge-watching all six seasons of The Handmaid’s Tale, I could get it done.

And so, I started pulling everything out of my closet and drawers, and I made four piles:

PILE #1: the stuff I hate

PILE #2: the stuff I like that has missing components

PILE #3: full ensembles I love

THE INVISIBLE PILE: things needed for special occasions

Creating these piles was very enlightening. Pile #1 was huge, like 90% of my wardrobe, while Pile #3 was comprised of just three outfits, all of which, thankfully, could be worn with my Keen Newport Sandals in “bison.” Yes, these are men’s sandals. The Keen women’s options were awful and shoddy, by comparison. Is this not always the case with men's vs. women’s apparel — this disparity in quality? Boy, does that piss me off.

In the wearable pile, all the components were either from Eileen Fisher or Old Navy. In the pile of shit I hate, nearly half the items were nasty, pilled shirts and sweaters from Target. A quarter of the rejects were tags-still-on fashion disasters from Marshall’s that I’d waited too long to return, and the rest were overly fru-fru tops from the Lucky Brand outlet store — feminine blouses that looked absolutely stupid on me, what with my quasi-butch haircut.

The free-floating components in Pile #2, which just needed to be hooked up with an appropriate top or a pair of linen pants, were from Lululemon and Quince. Yes, I had been shopping outside of my usual retail ecosystem since holing up with Jesse. These clothes were of a much better quality than my pre-Jesse togs, yet the items from Quince were still within my normal, chintzy price range. That was good, right?

Apparently, I needed to explore options outside my comfort zone to find great tops to pair with the pants and leggings I already loved. If I could get brave, perhaps I would be able to scrounge together ensembles for every day of the week (omg), including one outfit appropriate for socializing with friends at a nice restaurant. Yes! 💪🏻 Pretty sure I could do this.

It was time to pocket my pride and chuck all of the cheap shit that was clogging up my closet, life, and psyche. I needed to get the fuck over myself and quit being so miserly — it was time to jump off the fast fashion treadmill. The answer to my fashion conundrum was clear: I was better off getting a few high-quality items I loved and wearing them to death than pawing through all that ugly shit in my closet day in and day out and feeling sad.

So, I swallowed hard and bundled up about 85% of my clothes and chucked them into the back of my Subaru. I was off to Goodwill. And this time, not to shop.

NEXT TIME… Lorinda finds every cool spot for rounding out her wardrobe.

However did Donald Trump and Co. imagine they could take on Pope Leo, a guy from the south side of Chicago? The baddest part of town. Chicago is also the hometown of Trump’s other nemesis, Barack Obama. Also a southsider. Those of us from Chicago are laughing our asses off.

Soft-spoken but unambiguous, Pope Leo recently delivered this message to the president and the so-called Christians who comprise his ranks: “I have no fear of either the Trump administration nor of speaking out loud the message of the gospel.” Pope Leo offers more than platitudes in his effort to thwart war and draw attention to the Trump administration's inhumane immigration policies. He has encouraged his followers to "contact the authorities — political leaders, congressmen — to ask them to work for peace and to reject war always.”

Considering the Pope has a flock of more than 1.4 billion, this is a powerful message, especially when weighed against Trump’s measly 6.3 million followers on Truth Social. NBC News found this month that Pope Leo held a +46-point net favorability rating in the United States, significantly higher than that of any U.S. politician, including Trump, whose net favorability is currently -17 (according to The Economist and Silver Bulletin).

Among Catholic Republicans, Pope Leo has an 84% approval rating, and among Catholic Democrats, 89%. Not bad. Trump’s approval rating among Catholics as of April 2026? Forty-two percent (CNN). Yes, half of Pope Leo’s. And Trump’s rating continues to drop each and every time he opens his mouth and says something disparaging about the pontiff.

This latest rant about Leo did not score Trump any brownie points among Catholics, or with anyone else, for that matter. Fav quote from this post: “If I wasn’t in the White House, Leo wouldn’t be in the Vatican.” Number one sign you’ve got a narcissist on your hand (in this case, a malignant one): they’ve got an exaggerated sense of self-importance, frequently brag and overstate their achievements. They also don’t bother with grammar checkers (i.e., “If I weren’t in the White House…”). They’re so smart, they don’t need them.

Trump’s most shocking statement on Iran, as we all know, came on April 7, 2026: “A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.” This had to be the lowest point in Trump’s second term. In fact, it’s probably the lowest in the history of all the U.S. presidents — like, since 1789. The world’s response to this tweet was brutal, including amongst Trump’s ardent followers and his most loyal social media cheerleaders. Folks are finally (hallelujah) starting to put some miles between themselves and Crazy Town. Included in this bunch: Theo Von, Andrew Schultz, the Nelk Boys, Megyn Kelly, Tucker Carlson, Candace Owens, Alex Jones, and Joe Rogan.

The Pope’s response to this April 7th tweet was immediate and forceful. From the papal residence in Castel Gandolfo, Italy (translated from the Italian):

“Attacks on civilian infrastructure are against international law and also a sign of the hatred, the division, the destruction that the human being is capable of. We all want to work for peace. People want peace.”

Reiterating portions of his Easter message, Leo also stated: “People of goodwill — search always for peace and not violence, to reject war, especially a war which many people have said is an unjust war, which is continuing to escalate and is not resolving anything.” He went on to say, “We have a worldwide economic crisis, energy crisis, situation in the Middle East of great instability, which is only provoking more hatred throughout the world.”

Continuing on (though never directly mentioning Trump’s name), the Pope said: “Today, as we all know, there was also this threat against the entire people of Iran, and this truly is not acceptable. Let us begin with dialogue. We should resolve problems without reaching this point, yet here we are. We must pray a great deal. Let’s come back to the table, let’s talk, let’s look for solutions in a peaceful way, and let’s remember especially the innocent. Children, the elderly, the sick, so many people have already become or will become victims of this continued warfare.”

Other notable quotes from the last week include this from Pope Leo’s prayer vigil at St. Peter’s Basilica on April 11: “Enough with the idolatry of self and money. Enough with the display of force. Enough with war! True strength is manifested in serving life.” Continuing, he noted: “I receive many letters from children from conflict zones: reading them, one perceives, with the truth of innocence, all the horror and inhumanity of actions that some adults proudly boast about. Let us listen to the voices of children.”

Also, in this flurry of messages from the Vatican in mid-April was the Pope’s warning to Vance, Witkoff, and Kusher in anticipation of their meeting with leaders in Pakistan. He says, “Certainly, the leaders of nations have compelling responsibilities. We cry out to them: stop! This is the time for peace. Sit at the tables of dialogue and mediation, not at the tables where rearmament is planned, and death is deliberated. God does not bless any conflict. Anyone who is a disciple of Christ, the Prince of Peace, is never on the side of those who once wielded the sword and today drop bombs.”

JD Vance has argued there is a long tradition of the idea of a “just war” and has questioned the Pope’s assertions that God is never on the side of those wielding the sword, citing the liberation of Holocaust victims. Vance, however, has never connected the dots on how this concept relates to the United States’ indiscriminate bombing of Iran, where little effort is being made to keep those bombs from striking innocent people, many of the victims we are purportedly protecting.

PBS did a great breakdown of all this recent back-and-forth between the Trump administration and Pope Leo. Pope Leo’s unwavering stance on peace and on the humane treatment of immigrants is impressive.

Especially poignant, in light of all the praying going on in support of the war amongst MAGA folks and evangelical Christians, is the Pope’s message from his homily on Palm Sunday, “This is our God, Jesus, King of Peace, who rejects war, whom no one can use to justify war. He does not listen to the prayers of those who wage war, but rejects them. ‘Even though you make many prayers, I will not listen: your hands are full of blood.’” This biblical quote is from Isaiah 1:15.

There is no disguising the intended recipients of the Pope’s comments: Pete Hegseth and Donald Trump. Hegseth had only recently, at a Christian worship service at the Pentagon on March 25th, prayed, “Let every round find its mark against the enemies of righteousness and our great nation. Give them wisdom in every decision, endurance for the trial ahead, unbreakable unity, and overwhelming violence of action against those who deserve no mercy.”

Compelling is Nora O’Donnell’s landmark interview with three influential U.S. Cardinals, during which they give their take on the war in Iran and Trump’s immigration policies. Sprinkled throughout are clips of the pontiff speaking to these same issues.

On to lighter, Pope-related topics… an interview between Spike Feresten of Spike’s Car Radio and Ford CEO Jim Farley. It includes a cute story about the Pope’s new car, a heartfelt gift from Farley and his wife. Farley also relays a great joke (from the Pope) that you won’t want to miss.

After watching this engaging interview, you, like me, may have found yourself thinking, “Boy, that guy, Jim, looks and sounds a lot like Chris Farley.” Yes, THE Chris Farley. 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼 The smile is unmistakable.

Guess what?! Turns out Jim Farley is a cousin of the late comedian. They grew up together in Wisconsin. Crazy, eh? Listen to the way Jim tells jokes and his thick Wisconsin accent. No DNA test needed! Then there’s that last name. Another dead giveaway.

Now it’s time to CRANK UP this karaoke version of Leroy Brown and sing along with lyrics updated for Pope Leo XIV👇🏼.

BAD, BAD, LEO XIV
Sung to the tune "Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown" (Jim Croce)

Woo!

There’s a 'burb south of Chicago
Village of Dolton is its name
And if you go down there
The folks are kind and fair
Home boy Leo’s brought 'em fame

Pope Leo’s causing trouble
Take his stand on the Iran war
He won’t fall in line
With Trump and his fascists
Their threats are such a bore

And that’s bad, Leo XIV (say “X, I, V”)
The baddest pope in history
Badder than Don the Con
Sweeter than a rescue dog

Now Leo is the pontiff
And he wears those fancy clothes
And he likes to wave his Piscatory Ring
In front of Pete and Donald's nose

He got a custom Ford Explorer
He got a Popemobile... Vroom!
He got Pontifical Swiss Guard
In the Vatican City
They’ve got rifles and machine guns, too

And that’s bad, bad for Trump & friends
The Pope is firm and on peace won’t bend
Won't be bullied by The Don
Fearless in the face of wrong

On Tuesday, ‘bout a week ago
Vance told Leo to be nice
Be careful when talking ‘bout theology
And don’t you dare disparage ICE

Evangelicals heckled 'ol JD
And his troubles soon began
The hillbilly learned
A real hard lesson
‘Bout messin’ with the Church’s man

And that’s bad, Leo XIV (say “X, I, V”)
The baddest pope in history
Badder than Don the Con
Sweeter than a rescue dog

Then the four men took to squabbling
And when they gave quotes to the press
Leo spoke of Jesus and peace
Don and JD looked a mess

And we’re glad, glad for the GOP’s
Flock divided on bigotry
They were wrong about Dementia Don
He's crueler than Genghis Khan

And that’s bad, Leo XIV (say “X, I, V”)
The baddest pope in history
Badder than Don the Con
Sweeter than a rescue dog

Born Robert Prevost, this 👆 is Father Bob’s childhood home in Dolton, IL. The Pope’s humble beginnings surely make him more qualified to provide guidance to the Church’s flock of 1.4 BILLION than any of those self-serving, money-grubbing, religiously hypocritical GOP types in D.C.

Talk amongst yourselves.

with Belinda Vandervelvet

I know it has been a hot minute since last I connected with y’all. A lot has happened this year, most notably, my wonderful pitbull, Tender Buttons, bit my hand when I tried to take a bowl of raw sirloin away from her. This unfortunate situation and the $147,000 surgery that followed were the result of yet another of my husband Dan’s ill-conceived jokes. At one point, I had to decide whether a box muzzle would be needed or if I should take the drastic step of moving forward with euthanasia. The behavior seemed the type that might never resolve itself. In the end, I decided both options were too extreme. I would give my husband a second chance.

More on that later.

Dan hasn’t been the same since we came back from our accidental gay cruise. He’s not able to perform in the bedroom, he’s cranky, and has taken up drinking Aperol spritzers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s almost like he’s going through menopause. And he’s been wearing my silky nightgowns to bed most nights. He says they’re much more comfortable than his boxers because they let his balls “breathe.” Not going to lie, it’s a bit weird, his sitting on the couch watching Jesse Watters Primetime in my black nightie with his full sleeve Nazi tattoo and chest hair peeking out of the nightie’s lacey, low-cut bust panel. Not quite sure what to make of it.

And I can’t tell you how very off-putting it is to see his junk dangling below the hemline when I’m trying to enjoy breakfast at our glass-topped table. I’m going to need to get larger placemats.

As I believe I mentioned last time, I got a huge demotion at work, thanks to Dr. Gleason, who had me downgraded to the duties and pay scale of an entry-level LPN, even though I’ve been a CMSRN for 12 years. This demotion was purportedly issued because of my refusal to treat Blacks, Hispanics, some Asians, and LGBTQ patients after Trump’s 2024 victory. After two weeks of refusing to partake in surgeries involving this caliber of individuals, Dr. Gleason, a libtard, saw to it I was “held accountable.” His words.

I was then relegated to inserting catheters, changing dressings, and emptying bedpans in the psych ward. This 2-year disciplinary demotion started a little over 11 months ago, and I was told I would not be reinstated as a surgical nurse until I changed my tune. Imagine everyone’s surprise when I did not change my tune. By the end of this probation, I will have changed 275,000+ bedpans, and you can bet I will still be whistling Dixie, right through the 2026 midterms and in 2028 when Trump runs for his third term as our country’s amazing leader.

Here’s a big fuck you to everyone on the hospital board who backed this demotion. There is no doubt in my mind that whoever replaces Pam Bondi will be hauling every one of their woke asses to a detention center in Texas.

By the way, here’s what actually went down. At the time of my supposed infraction, it was LEGAL for medical professionals to choose which patients they wanted to treat. Remember this… all DEI policies had become obsolete, per Executive Order 14151. Hello! Those policies were found to be unconstitutional by our president, with some of the first changes instigated by Andrea Lucas of the EEOC and by Pete Hegseth, both Trump appointees, of course. So how was it that this order didn’t apply to hospitals? Did hospitals have the authority to compel a medical professional to treat potential criminals, illegals, and morally corrupt individuals? I don’t think so.

No, in fact, they did not have that authority, and yet Bayview would lead everyone to believe it did, their employees, in particular. This infuriated me, and I spoke out often and loudly on the issue, usually within earshot of one of those undeserving patients they were wheeling into the OR. You know, Muslims, lesbians, pro-choice women, children of farmworkers, indigent elderly people, unemployed veterans, single mothers, gay men, drug addicts, Blacks, Hispanics. Have I missed anyone?

There is no way I was willing to waste my talents administering a life-saving procedure on a potential illegal alien, or anyone, for that matter, who did not follow the path of Christ. For this, I was accused of being cruel and insensitive. Cruel and insensitive? What?! Toward someone who was lying on a gurney, completely unconscious?!

Only a liberal would come up with a complaint that stupid.

No matter, there was nothing I could do about my demotion. The union refused to take up my grievance, and my rep had a difficult time suppressing a laugh when I explained the situation. As everyone knows, unions are a bunch of socialists, so I should never have expected them to be sympathetic. All they care about is people. Not the Bible, not the Executive Orders, and most certainly not the Constitution as reinvented by the Supremes’ conservative supermajority.

HR — also not a help. Their main concern is following the hospital’s pre-Trump protocol and trying to keep our medical system from collapsing after the massive cuts to Medicaid and Medicare. Yes, I admit it has been a difficult adjustment — no longer having to provide basic medical services to all those indigent people who pick vegetables, flip burgers, and clean the hospital. Fuck that. Why should they get next-to-free medical care? That is really beyond me.

And because I was never promoted to management, due to my inability to make nice with brown people (if, in fact, you could call them people), I don’t get to write the schedules or make the assignments at Bayview Medical Center. If I did, I’d have people treating their own kind. This is as it should be. We’d have a gay ward, a Muslim ward, and a ward for children whose parents have been sent to El Salvador (no Cozy Shack pudding for those kids, btw). And there would be a special wing for Blacks, with separate surgical facilities.

Well shit. For the time being, I have been relegated to the psych ward. Treating patients, that is.

Back to this week’s breaking news story: that thing that happened with my dog.

Last Sunday, I’d been in the kitchen chopping up all sorts of tasty stuff for a Japanese stir-fry (including a 16 oz. sirloin steak) when Dan entered, slapped me hard on the ass, then dug his chin into my shoulder as he looked to see what I was cooking, in the process triggering intense pain in my torn rotator cuff. He was inebriated, as usual, as he’d put back the better part of a 12-pack of Miller High Life while watching the Packers decimate the Bears. Grunting crudely in my ear, “Oh, baby,” as he leaned into me with all of his body weight (which is substantial at 285 lbs.), he began dry humping my Lululemon-clad caboose, which was still a tad sore from my recent Brazilian butt lift. All of this was taking place as I was trying to cut up meat for dinner. Dan’s unwanted affections threw me hugely off balance, resulting in my nearly slicing off my left thumb with the butcher knife.

Boy, was I pissed! Angrily, I tossed my $170 Wüsthof knife into our stainless steel sink, where it grazed the drain stopper before landing with a loud clank, the blade now badly nicked. Grrrrr! My right shoulder, fortunately, was not injured, so I threw it into Dan as hard as I could, something he was not prepared for. Fortunately, we have a galley kitchen with a counter directly across from the sink, and that saved his ass, though I don’t think the edge of the marble countertop hitting his L5 vertebra felt too good, because now he was pissed. “I was just flirting!” he bellowed, “Why do you have to be such a bitch?!” Flirting?! There was nothing sexy about his causing me to nearly slice off my thumb.

As luck would have it, our story did not make the cut for 48 Hours, as Dan did not hit the floor and bleed out from a fractured skull. We have, as of late, been heading in that direction, however — you know, one of those scenarios where the wife has reached her limit on the husband’s overdrinking, practical jokes, lack of sensitivity, and his failure to put his dirty socks in the hamper. Being the wronged spouse, she’s already gone through enough, right? She doesn’t feel like getting dragged through a messy divorce, potentially losing custody of their pit bull and teenage son, or having to fork out for alimony. I think we all know how this ends. Not well.

@thechrisbiggsThe Husband Song. #marriage #wife #husband #comedy

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I can’t lie. I do (occasionally) have dreams about Dan’s being in an accident, one where shoving is involved. But it’s just a dream. Is once a week “occasionally,” by the way?

His flirting spurned, Dan felt humiliated. He was not only experiencing a loss of wood, but the adrenaline rush from being shoved had sobered him up considerably — he suddenly had the wherewithal to make his next move. A wicked expression flashed across his face, and I’m not talking sexy wicked. Something bad was brewing.

In the middle of all of this drama was Tender Buttons. She sat innocently in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking up at us, wondering why her mommy and daddy were shouting, all the while lifting her nose high in the air to take in the scent of raw meat.

Then, without warning, Dan reached behind me and grabbed the bowl of chopped sirloin. He dashed over to the pooch’s feeding mat, grabbed her bowl of kibbles, and swapped it out with the sirloin. Tail wagging furiously, Tender Buttons couldn’t believe her luck. She buried her head in the bowl of this new and improved canine cuisine. The best meal ever — raw Wagyu sirloin!

I panicked. Fifty-eight dollars' worth of beef was rapidly being inhaled by my dog — we’d have nothing for dinner. Impulsively, I snatched the bowl away from Tender Buttons, attempting to salvage at least some of the meat. Growling and snarling ensued. OMG — what was I thinking? Although I had taken Tender Buttons to obedience school when she was a pup, I had clearly forgotten their first lesson, on “resource guarding” — a natural, survival instinct in all dogs — i.e., threatening, aggressive behaviors dogs use to retain possession of items like their food and resting areas. No one, and I mean not a single friend or family member, was surprised to hear that Tender Buttons had sunk her teeth into my hand. “You simply do not take meat from a growling dog,” my MIL annoyingly pointed out at our next Thanksgiving dinner, as she passed scraps to said dog under the table.

The bowl of sirloin, which had been in my right hand, went flying, not unlike a tennis ball coming off one of Serena Williams’ top-spin, two-handed backhands. It hit the kitchen cabinet with impressive force, splintering the cheap veneer, the IKEA crockery smashing to bits when it landed on the floor. As for my left thumb? Well, it was still in Tender Buttons’ mouth, and I’m talking, like no longer attached to my hand.

“Drop it!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, which prompted our well-trained pup to release the severed digit. The dog, at least, had learned something at Canine Academy. My thumb and its still-attached thenar eminence thudded onto the rug like one of Tender Buttons’ proudly retrieved sticks. Unfazed by the grim reality of the situation, Tender Buttons nonchalantly walked around me (and the pound of flesh no longer attached to my body), to scavenge for the morsels of beef scattered amongst the crumbled crockery. Her priorities were clear.

I held up my thumb-free hand and looked at it in horror, taking in the massive amount of damage she had inflicted. And then, WHAM! Down I crumpled to the floor, my head narrowly missing the counter as I fainted. Man and beast stood nearby, frozen, staring at my contorted, unconscious body covered in blood. Neither could fathom what they had done to bring on such a disaster.

Hysterical, Dan frantically scrounged around for a zip-lock bag in the cabinet near the stove. Once found, he scooped up my thumb and sealed it in the bag, then tossed the grisly body part into the fridge. There it sat next to a pound of thin-sliced, honey-roasted turkey from Safeway. Though he was starving after the big game, Dan refrained from grabbing a slice. Next, he straightened me out on the kitchen floor, tenderly putting a loaf of Dave’s Killer Bread under my head. He then called for an ambulance while Pupster devotedly cleaned all of my blood from the rug and off the cabinets. What a team.

Yes, I am a nurse, though I was an unconscious one at the moment I most needed a medical professional. This meant Dan (not a medical professional) was left to figure out what to do. Dan, as many of you well know, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had, for the last 7 years, been the assistant football coach at the middle school and, as such, had seen his share of bad accidents, many of them featuring copious amounts of blood. He’d also watched every episode of “Emergency!” as a teenager in the 70s.

I’m proud to say Dan did everything properly in responding to my trauma: firmly wrapping up my hand in a clean dish towel and trussing it up like a pork roast with butcher’s twine to thwart the blood loss. He then called 911.

He might have checked for a pulse and made sure I was breathing, but hey, no one’s perfect.

During the worst of this medical adventure, I was out like a light, and that was probably for the best. I didn’t come to, in fact, until the paramedics arrived 20 minutes later, sirens blaring. When I did regain consciousness, Dan was on the receiving end of a 10-minute stream of profanity-laden shaming and blaming. Not sure he deserved that. Five minutes of it probably would have sufficed.

Into the ambulance we went; there was a long, rough ride ahead, which took us through noisy inner city neighborhoods, and across an untold number of railroad crossings and pot holes. Fortunately, the paramedics had been cleared to administer fentanyl, and they kept my injured hand out of view, or I would have lost my mind from the pain and shock. The opioids were fantastic — the ride to the hospital was like a flashback to that 2016 concert I saw at The Fillmore with Tom Petty and his first band, Mudcrutch. Truly one of the best concerts ever, even though I had to rub elbows with a bunch of San Fran liberals.

My fav Mudcrutch tune: “I don't scare easy for no one.” 🎶

Imagine my surprise when, upon arriving at the emergency room, I was greeted by my nemesis: hand surgeon, Dr. Jay Gleason. Gleason was the only orthopedic surgeon on staff who could perform the type of microsurgery needed for a replantation. Someone had thought to call ahead and have him meet us in the ER. This person was aware of my disastrous relationship with him and had given me a bogus name in order to trick him into coming in for a surgery on his day off.

Gleason had just made his way through ER security when my ambulance drove up. He seemed genuinely surprised to see me, and then became furious with the triage nurse when he realized that I was “Maria von Trapp,” the woman he’d been called in to treat. His hatred of me was well disguised, however, and no one (except me) seemed to notice the subtle grimacing and teeth grinding. I’m an expert on microexpressions, by the way, having seen every episode of “Lie To Me” on Hulu. Sadly, I have no credentials for all that expertise.

This was about the time I took to some serious praying. I prayed that Dr. Gleason would be capable of setting aside his disdain for me before heading into the operating room. I prayed that my severed thumb was in good enough shape to be reattached. I prayed that JD Vance and Erika Kirk would finally get together, and that Usha would be sent to India, where people like her belonged. How could we possibly have a Hindu as the First Lady?

I knew this: I was going to have to get super clear with my maker on what I needed to survive this calamity, or things were not going to end well.

“Dear God, please provide me with a doctor capable of reattaching all those bones, tendons, nerves, and blood vessels in my hand, someone with stamina and exceptional skills, whose team includes a great anesthesiologist and any of the nurses that don’t hate me. And if no White surgeons are available, please let Dr. Gleason be the guy.” I knew it, God knew it: Dr. Gleason was the guy I needed, even though he’s Black. And light in his loafers.

“People who know what they want get what they want” — this old adage came to mind as I set myself to praying. Ironically, this was my mother’s favorite saying. Then I thought, “Hey, Mom, if people who know what they want get what they want, how in the hell did I end up with Dan, you stupid bitch?”

BTW, my mother was an avid reader of Ms. Magazine and a huge fan of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, and Bella Abzug. All Jews. How I was born into that household is one of life’s great mysteries. Thank God my father (rest his soul) got the hell out of her household when I was 11, and settled in with Doris, the nice Polish lady on our cul-de-sac. Doris became available after her husband, Leon, had a coronary while grilling steaks out on his driveway. Doris was great. She saw to it there was always a hot meal on the table when my dad returned from the Cadillac plant, and she joined him every Sunday at his Missouri Synod Lutheran Church. Doris was a righteous Christian woman who knew she damn well better obey my father. And she always wore pantyhose and a bra.

I prayed fervently that Gleason would take on this surgery. If he didn’t, I’d have to ask my nail technician for a 10% discount whenever I came in for gel nails.

While I was in the midst of my praying, there in the hallway just outside the exam room were Dr. Gleason and the head of ER, discussing my situation. There was some heated back-and-forth, Gleason pointing out the bad blood between him and me, and painting a picture of how this might affect the outcome of the surgery. His big concern: my lack of confidence in him, because he was Black and gay. He was worried that if the surgery didn’t go exactly as I expected, I would sue him and the hospital. The surgery was tricky, and there were no guarantees that I would regain full use of my thumb. Hell, it had been chewed off by a pit bull. It was a mess. Gleason was afraid of becoming a victim of my bigotry.

Dr. Chen listened sympathetically, then suggested I be required to write a letter before the surgery was approved — a letter that included an apology for having made disparaging remarks about the doctor’s ethnicity and sexual orientation, and for having suggested to other staff members that these things somehow made him a lesser surgeon. In this letter, I would be expected to convince the hospital that I had confidence in Dr. Gleason’s skills and believed he could do his job professionally.

As Dr. Chen would point out to me, I had a choice: get on board with Dr. Gleason as the surgeon or wait for a White surgeon to become available. My thumb, my choice — but she would not have me blaming him post-surgery. He had a sterling reputation to uphold. I did not, she reminded me.

Dr. Chen then cheerfully noted that since I had full use of my right hand, it should be no problem for me to type the letter and sign a Consent to Surgery form. And she had a notary on hand, even at this late hour, who would be available to witness all of it.

Both doctors knew that time was of the essence and were thus tightening the tourniquet, so to speak. They would entertain no hemming and hawing about White surgeons versus Black, or any of the other bellyaching I was renowned for. Surgery prep had to start in the next hour, or there was a chance I’d lose my thumb altogether.

So there I was. Trapped. Maria von Trapped.

Was I capable of setting aside everything I believed in to move forward with a gay, Black surgeon? And then there was my having to kowtow to that Chinese hospital administrator. That was really beyond the pale, having to deal with a Chinese woman. Running a hospital, that was a man’s job. Didn’t anyone read the bible? I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for any of this.

Then I looked down at my hand — a bloody stump, all bandaged up and throbbing. My pride or my hand? My pride or my hand? Which would it be?

I ruminated on this for all of two minutes, then a vision of trying to take a big casserole out of the oven popped into my head. It was a divine revelation. I needed that opposable thumb on my left hand, and it had to be strong. My family needed this sustenance, and my church needed those casseroles for their holiday gatherings in the fellowship hall. I needed Dr. Gleason’s surgical skills.

Then, I remembered ChatGPT’s AI Writing Assistant. Halle-fucking-lujah. The clouds parted, and a rainbow appeared in the sky. I was saved! I would not have to write one fucking thing I didn’t believe in. The AI Writing Assistant would fix everything: the content, the tone, my attitude, the profanity. I could do this, even when cognitively impaired from opioids. Thank you, Sam Altman.

And so, after telling Dr. Chen I was agreeing to move forward, her nursing assistant delivered an iPad to my bedside. I set to work.

Here’s my original letter, followed by the ChatGPT-generated version. This sterilized one I actually submitted to Dr. Gleason via Dr. Chen. Too bad I hadn’t figured out this AI thing earlier in the game. I might not have gotten demoted.

3/28/26

To:	        Dr. Jay Gleason, hand microsurgery specialist
From:	Belinda Vandervelvet
Re:  	Your services; my surgery

Dear Dr. Gleason:

Not going to lie. I hate your guts after you had me sacked from my position as an OR nurse. I also despise the fact that you are gay and I hate the thought of you having sex with another man. Your homosexual acts are contrary to God's design. Everyone knows that. Anal sex is disgusting and sinful, as is oral sex. If you don’t repent, you are heading straight to hell. And how can you help anyone if that’s where you’re going?

Then there is the issue of your being Black. As has been well-documented, Blacks are intellectually inferior, a danger to society, and uncivilized. How you ever made your way through medical school is truly a miracle and that is why I am consenting (if but reluctantly) to your doing my surgery. 

If God has allowed you to pass your boards, then he must be OK with my taking advantage of your skills and training to reclaim the use of my left thumb. Not sure how this came about, a Black man becoming a renowned hand surgeon, but as the Maria Von Trapp sang in the Sound of Music, “I [you] must have done something good.” You have obviously done something worthwhile in your life to be the exception in this White dominated field of medicine.

I am, thereby, consenting to your performing surgery on my left hand, as well as reluctantly placing my confidence in you, but only because there are no White surgeons available to take this on. I would have waited for a White surgeon, but time is of the essence and I really have no choice but to put my faith in you so I don't lose the use of my left thumb altogether.

You’ve ruined my career, but I’m hoping you can at least salvage my hand, which I need for gardening, cooking and “beating the meat” for my husband. God is fine with hand jobs, by the way.

Get on with it, dude. I cannot wait any longer.

Thank you and fuck you,
Belinda Vandervelvet

Needless to say, this letter 👇🏼, which OpenAI generated from my actual words, landed me the surgery. Truly a miracle. And, totally hilarious.

3/28/26

To:	        Dr. Jay Gleason, hand microsurgery specialist
From:	Belinda Vandervelvet
Re:  	Your services; my surgery

Dear Dr. Gleason:

I am writing to confirm my consent for you to perform surgery on my left hand, and to offer a sincere and unreserved apology.

In my previous message, I used offensive, discriminatory, and deeply inappropriate language regarding your sexual orientation and your race. Those statements were wrong, harmful, and disrespectful. I take full responsibility for what I said, and I am truly sorry for the hurt and offense my words may have caused you both personally and professionally.

There is no excuse for that kind of language. I allowed my anger and frustration to override my judgment, and I regret it. You deserve to be treated with dignity and respect, and I failed to do that.

I am grateful that you are willing to provide care despite my earlier behavior. I respect your expertise, and my priority now is to move forward in a professional and respectful way as your patient, with the goal of restoring the function of my hand.

Please let me know if there is anything further I should do to prepare for the procedure or if you need anything from me.

Thank you for your time, your professionalism, and your care.

Sincerely,
Belinda Vandervelvet

I am now home and recovering beautifully. I’ve got three months off, then it’s back to bedpans. Life is good.

“If I Only Had AI”

I could while away probation
At the nurses’ station,
Disparaging my boss

To my friends, I’d be bitchin’
But now there’s heat in the kitchen
If I’d only had AI 😭

I’ve unraveled every friendship
At work and on the homefront 
With bigotry and hate

Speaking thoughts like “you’re a fucker”
I offend even a trucker
With my filthy little mouth

Oh, I, could tell you why
That Whites are better than Blacks
I could make up shit that’s n’er been
Proved before

Then I'd grandstand, and bullshit more

I am such a dumb stool pigeon
My head full of religion
And political claptrap 

And perhaps I’m a failure
And will be living in a trailer
If I’d only had AI 😭

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

NOTE: The dealership name has been changed to avoid a defamation suit and to protect the innocent ladies who still have to take their CR-Vs to this dealer for extended warranty services.

It’s been a really long time since I bought a new car. I’ve proudly driven my Honda CR-V for 27 years, and it just hit 205,000 on the odometer last week. Nothing’s really wrong with the car, but I got to thinking this might be a good time to get a hybrid, especially one that doesn't require plugging in, what with the conflict in Iran likely to go on for decades and Shitler halting all funding for the charging station infrastructure. Honda has some highly rated hybrids right now, so I thought to trade in my beloved Brianna, before she dipped below $1350 in value per Edmunds. I was gonna need $1200 to put down on the lease, and if Shafther was willing to take my trade-in, as is, I was pretty sure I could swing the deal. It was going to be a bit of a stretch, but I’m a good negotiator. Plus, I’ve had the same job for over 25 years, and I’ve got a solid credit rating. What could go wrong?

By the way, how many of you early CR-V owners only discovered its way-cool picnic table after you got a flat? This sturdy folding plastic table (a standard feature from 1997 to 2006) served double duty as the floor for the spare tire well.

Gotta love this Jane Goodall takeoff 👇🏼 — an early CR-V commercial plugging its picnic table and usefulness in a rustic setting in which a Goodall impersonator is discreetly observing men (aka chimpanzees) in the wild, and copiously taking notes on their behavior. But I digress.

So, off I went, down the hill, into town, to take a gander at what was on the lot at Shafther Honda, the one and only dealer I’d ever gone to. Yes, I am stupid loyal to these guys. And I do mean “guys” — as there is not a single woman in sight at that dealership. Until this car purchase, I had no idea how other dealerships operated in terms of men and women on the sales floor (or in the service department, for that matter), as I’d never gone to any other dealer. I was, in fact, under the false impression that there must be a loophole for car dealers as relates to the hiring of women, since Shafther didn’t appear to be in compliance in any way, shape, or form with Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which (purportedly) protects women from hiring discrimination. Shafther was proudly an all-male, all-White sales team, with an all-male, all-Hispanic service team. The fuckers.

Really? No women ever applied for jobs there or were qualified to do the work? Unlikely. I know for a fact that my best bud, Nadine, had applied for jobs there more than once (like four times), and on each occasion, she NEVER heard back from them. Not a peep.

And Nadine’s the biggest Honda gearhead in town.

California, the state from which I proudly hail, has additional laws intended to bolster and enforce the Civil Rights Act. My state requires informative posters related to discrimination and harassment to be posted in a prominent location at all places of employment.

And sure enough, there it was, that very poster, at Shafther, behind their unattended reception desk, right in plain view. Surely staff had time to study this information ad nauseam, namely on any given midafternoon on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday — you know, those long stretches when there are ZERO customers, and the boys are just pacing the showroom floor trying to appear as though they are actually doing a thing.

I’m guessing the attractive young woman who once worked at this reception desk had grown weary of the daily barrage of “compliments” on her hair, clothing, and figure, as the desk now appeared to be permanently vacated. There were none of the telltale signs of occupancy: no organizer tray, Post-It Notes, business cards, pens, notepads, or paper clips. Not even a computer or phone charger. Clearly, Tiffany was history with a capital H. My guess? She wouldn’t be getting replaced anytime soon, unless they could find someone like Candy Wife from The Marvelous Midadventures of Flapjack. Now that would be sweet.

The guys at this dealership: fucking clueless, just like K’nuckles.

Despite this poster’s message, which reminds all idiots out there that the Civil Rights Act and Title VII remain in effect, Shafther Honda seemed confident that their noncompliance would go unpunished. And that did seem to be the case. I didn’t see even one complainer amongst the hundreds of Shafther Google and Yelp reviews. In fact, all the commentary about their dealership was suspiciously flattering and generic in tone. Also, the reviews had no typos or grammatical errors. I don’t think we need to pull in Columbo to connect these dots. Shafther had five-star ratings simply because they (or Honda) were using a review farm or a reputation management company. 💯 Pathetic. This was like reputational Viagra. The reality: these local Honda guys can’t get anything up without some pharmaceutical help.

But of course this was the case, the fake reviews, that is. Minus my compadre, Nadine, and me, our community was comprised of chickenshits — people who could never, in their lifetimes, muster the courage to write a scathing review or alert the California Civil Rights Department about Shafther’s suspiciously all-male staff and management. Uh-uh. Hell, they might meet one of those sales guys in the bleachers at Little League. Then what? I can see it now… their sons ending up with the 9th spot in the batting lineup for the rest of the season.

Small town politics. You know how this works.

Me, however? I’ve got what my doctor calls high immunocompetence. In layman's terms, I’ve got “the robust ability to produce an effective immune response against antigens, infections, and diseases.” These same personality and physiological traits allow me to respond courageously and forcefully against narcissists, misogynists, bigots, racists, and bullies. Yep, I’ve got cojones and a powerful uppercut. Methaphorically, that is.

And for that, everyone in town gives me a wide berth, as well as respect. 😂🤣😂

Y’all need to get familiar with this: the law.

Here’s a little factoid for those of you unfamiliar with CR-Vs: “CR-V” stands for Comfortable Runabout Vehicle. Not kidding. This is what Honda actually named their compact SUV. I like to imagine what their all-male marketing team might have named this car had they realized which demographic would actually be driving it, i.e., the not-guys demographic. I’m thinking Kohaku, Haruto, and Takeshi (the leaders of the Honda marketing team) might have called the CR-V the ML-V.

I’ll leave it to all you closeted Gen X misogynists to figure out what ML-V stands for. And you can shut the fuck up in advance, Tom (since I know you will hit this nail on the head), or I will renege on my offer to share a room with you at the Golden Haven Nursing Home when we come of age. Separate beds, of course. Keep your piehole shut. Let’s see what my readers conjure up before you spill the beans.

So folks, what do you think ML-V stands for?

OK, back to my car trading/buying experience, the actual point of this blog.

So, there I was at Shafther, armed with ratings from Consumer Reports, Car and Driver, Edmunds, and Kelley Blue Book. I had at my fingertips every detail known to (wo)man about safety, predicted reliability, cabin ergonomics, cargo space, usability for daily driving, fuel economy, horsepower and torque, drivetrain for handling, and road test results, as well as specifics about owner satisfaction. And I’d gotten pricing from four other dealerships in the area and was pre-qualified for a loan through my credit union in the event Honda Financing did not come through for me.

Here’s the stealthy part: last Friday, I took my CR-V in for an oil change and one of Honda’s complimentary multi-point inspections. Ha, ha! Yes, I am doubled over, laughing my ass off. Why? Because for the asses at Shafther, this inspection would come back to bite them in the ass when they gave me a lowball offer on my trade-in. All I had to do was show them their own beautifully printed out inspection sheet with every checkmark in the green column. And because they acted like asses, I was going to make them take up the ass if they made any more asinine moves on this trade-in or on my to-be purchase.

Those who know me know this: I am nothing if not methodical. For 27 years, I was religious about taking my 1999 CR-V to the dealer for all of its routine maintenance, per Honda’s recommendations in the owner’s manual. And this paid off. My car ran beautifully over the years and always got me where I needed to go. More importantly, even with 200,000+ miles, I always had perfect scores across the board on my multi-point inspections, including on tires and brake pads .

Imagine sales floor manager Walter’s surprise when I pulled out that 4-day-old inspection sheet from his service department after he expressed skepticism about my car’s value and condition and made me a lowball offer on the trade-in: $350. Insulting.

After that, no haggling was needed. Those fuckers were either going to pay me $1350 on this trade-in, or I was walking out the door. This they knew.

Hurdle #1: Cleared. Or so I thought.

Hurdle #2: Getting a quote and an offer on financing, in writing.

I knew exactly what I wanted from Shafther, and though I was hoping to close the deal that day, I was willing to wait a week or two if they had to special-order my dream car: a 2026 Honda Civic Hatchback Hybrid Sport Touring. I wanted that car, not one of the 35 CR-Vs they had sitting on the lot or the 30+ gas-powered Civic Sedans. And I wanted the hybrid in any color other than Platinum White Pearl, which looks like Revlon nail polish from the 70s. All I needed from Josh, my designated sales associate, was pricing on the car and information on the financing available to me, specifically a 36-month lease with $1200 down and all closing fees wrapped into the monthly payments. And no, I did not want GAP insurance tacked on as I could get it through my insurance company at a sixth of the price offered by Honda. I had that in writing.

And I was not interested one iota in ballpark figures or estimates. I wanted to know exactly what Shafther was willing to offer me — an offer based on my credit score and that paid homage to my nearly 30 years of loyalty to the dealership. My family (my ex, my parents, and my kids) had purchased all of their cars from the Shafther dealership: 2 CR-Vs, 3 Civics, an Accord, and an Element. That’s quite a few vehicles, if you ask me, and I was the negotiator on every one of those sales. Shafther was lucky to have our business.

Please, Josh, no thank you on any of the bullshit add-on packages. Let everyone know that I absolutely do not want to hear the spiel. I have it committed to memory.

And pass this on to your finance manager: I will not entertain any high pressure tactics IF he wants to close this deal. No, I do not need undercoating. We live in fucking California.

To be clear: no add-ons.

Josh then said, “Great, let me pass this by my boss, Walter, and see if we can’t get the ball rolling.” Off he trotted across the showroom floor toward an office in the corner farthest from customer service, the office with the blinds closed, the door shut and a sign that read, “Knock before entering.” Hesitantly, Josh did knock, though quietly, then put his ear to the door as if listening for a response. A muffled voice could be heard, inviting him in.

Judging from his demeanor, you’d think Josh had just entered a SCIF (Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility) at the Department of Defense, not the office of some delulu who was only making $42,000 a year at a podunk car dealership. With no benefits, btw.

Ten minutes passed before Josh reappeared, a downtrodden look on his face as he meandered back to his desk to deliver the bad news. Unfortunately, he could not provide me with a quote until they ran a credit check and he had completed the financial application, which could take 45 minutes or more. Did I have time for that? Well of course I did, I said cheerfully. I’d like to button this up TODAY, I said for the fourth time.

The prospect of a simple, straightforward sale did nothing to lift Josh’s spirits. Perhaps filling out financial applications was not the best part of this car sales gig, especially for a 21 year old who was still working on his GED and trying to lose his virginity.

Josh wondered if I had my registration, proof of insurance, both sets of keys for my trade-in, my photo ID, proof of residence in the way of 2 utility bills, proof of employment in the way of three paycheck stubs, a social security card and my birth certificate. And hopefully I’d brought my checkbook, he added, as they didn’t allow a credit card for deposits. Josh’s tone of voice gave one the impression he was hoping this request for documentation so early in the sales process might catch me off guard, perhaps queering the deal or at a minimum giving him cause to put off the quote. I had the feeling this math stuff was not Josh’s forté. It felt like he was looking for an out.

Sadly (for Josh), I had everything he requested, and then some, and all of it was neatly tucked into a folder, with duplicate copies for his sales manager and the finance guy. How convenient, right? You’re welcome, Josh. I would, however, be holding on to my car keys until they put the offer for my CR-V in writing. I knew how this worked. They would take the keys for my CR-V and then “misplace” them while they held me hostage until I signed a contract. This had happened to my friend, Leann.

I slid only the documents folder across the desk.

Next, came the hardest part for Josh: the laborious task of typing all that information into the confusing financial form used by the dealership. This guy didn’t have a post-doc in astrophysics, that was clear. Reluctantly Josh began banging on his cheap keyboard, punctuating every entry with some soft profanity and subtle teeth grinding. I began to wonder if perhaps he had a mild form of Tourettes. Then, abruptly, in his frustration with the data entry, Josh turned to me and blurted out, “There are many questions I’m required to ask; are you OK with that?” “Yes,” I replied.

This is where things started to go south.

Most of the questions Josh was required to ask seemed highly inappropriate for someone just looking for a quote on a car. Yet, for the first few minutes, I gave Josh, who was but a fledgling, the benefit of the doubt. I went along with the program, imagining how this might play out for my own son, who was about the same age. Josh wanted details confirmed on my gender, race, age and the number of children I’d had. Was I married or single or in a domestic partnership? Was this with a man or woman? Was I collecting alimony, did I own a home, or perhaps more than one home, how many cars did I own and what were the makes and models? Then Josh cheerfully inquired as to whether I’d like to share information on my religious persuasion or medical history. All of this would be helpful in finding the best deals for my situation, he assured me. Was there a special discount for Episcopalians? Or a higher rate for someone who had a full hip replacement? WTF.

This is where I stopped the interview dead in its tracks. I knew my rights and none of these questions had a flying fuck to do with my fitness for a loan or lease. Fuck him. Fuck this whole sales process. I wanted to speak to the general manager and NOW.

The blood rushed to Josh’s plump face. He was a bit of a dumpling and looked as if he might explode. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner, he told me. Of course Josh had only been on the job for a week, so “ever” was all of five days. Just wait buddy, your career in customer service is just beginning. Or ending, as the case may be.

Off Josh trotted in his expensive OluKai leather sneakers, back to that mysterious corner office. On this second go-around, Josh was in his boss’ office for all of 30 seconds before reappearing, this time with the ever elusive Walter What’s-His-Name, sales floor manager, by his side. Walter looked rather displeased at having to pause his first-person shooter game, Counter-Strike 2. Imagine that — him having to start his game all over, just when he’d been racking up the points. This might have ticked me off, too, had I been a player of these sorts of games. But then, I hate all games. From checkers to the games people with Borderline Personality Disorder play. No thanks. I’d rather pull weeds

It was at this point that Walter took over the sales process. He was not going to let some middle-aged lady with polyester cargo pants run ripshod over his new employee. They’d just spent $2500 plus airfare sending Josh off to Decatur for training and had given him a $1500 allowance for spiffy work togs. And thus the showroom showdown began.

Walter, feeling cocky, assumed the position in Josh’s chair, put his computer to sleep, unceremoniously shoved my manila folder of documents to the side, then spoke directly and deliberately to me, in a tone not unlike Pam Bondi at her Senate confirmation hearing. And it had the same effect: I felt the hair bristling on the back of my neck.

“Tell me, Lorinda, what exactly are you looking for in the way of a car?” Walter’s tone of voice could not have been more grating and insincere. Rather than using my voice, I shoved my printout with the car specs across the desk until it rested right under his nose. Joshua stood sulking behind him.

I wanted a 2026 Honda Civic Hatchback Hybrid Sport Touring. This would be the fifth time that day that I’d conveyed this information to the Shafther sales staff.

“Oh,” said Walter, “Not sure if this is still in stock. Let’s do this, I will see what we have available and make a list and will run the numbers for your financing. I should be back to you before the afternoon is out. You don’t need to wait around; I’ll give you a call.”

“Alright,” I said, “But I don’t want anything in Platinum White Pearl. I really hate that color.”

“Of course,” he said. “Noted,” he said.

So off I went, though when I glanced over my shoulder as I exited, I saw Walter laughing and giving Josh the congenial shoulder slap as the other sales staff gathered round, big grins on all of their faces. The good-ol’-boys network was alive and well at Shafther. Clearly, everyone was having a good laugh at my expense. This hardy har har would cost them my business forever when all was said and done.

Still, I was doggedly determined to give these guys the benefit of the doubt. I’d been a loyal customer of this dealership for decades and I genuinely wanted to see what they could come up with in the way of pricing and financing. I was intent on keeping an open mind.

And so I waited. Patiently. Then, PING! An alert from my credit union indicated that someone had run a credit check. A good sign, I thought, until for hours, the alert was followed by crickets. There was no news from Walter by the end of the afternoon, as he had promised. Perhaps he was caught up in a video game. I could appreciate that. Not.

The next morning: more crickets. Then, I checked my email during my lunch break, including the spam folder: no quote. In fact, there was not even a note assuring me they were just running behind.

By mid-afternoon, I was steamed. I called the dealership and informed their customer experience ambassador, Kayla (whose actual office was in Overland Park, Kansas), that I would be making a decision on a car by the day’s end, with or without Shafther’s quote. Within seconds, she pulled up my file, saw how many Hondas the Birdwhistles purchased at Shafther, made a contrite apology, and then immediately transferred me to the general manager at the dealership.

Arthur could not have been more self-abasing. This was his fault; he should have made himself available to me at the start of the sales process, especially considering my importance to the dealership, blah, blah, blah. And though Arthur was unable to pull up any information on progress related to my current sale, he assured me he’d get me the deal of the century — I just needed to tell him what I was looking for. He promised to have a quote and financing for me within the hour. And so, for the sixth time, I described all the specs on the car I wanted and on my trade-in and gave him a thumbnail of my financials. Really, all he needed to pull my credit report (again!) was my social security, which I gave him gladly, though not gonna lie — all of this was making me really pissed off.

But Arthur… he was true to his word. Within the hour, he got me a quote AND all the paperwork needed to button up the financials.

Sadly, Art’s quote was for a gas-powered CR-V LX without AWD in Platinum White Pearl (!), with standard financing for 60 months at 6%, and a down payment of $5000. And the offer on my trade-in: $500. Not a single detail was correct. Not a one.

Rather than heading over to Shafther to knock them upside the head, I got into my wonderful 1999 Comfortable Runabout Vehicle and headed over to my local Subaru dealer. In my recent quest to find the perfect new car, it had not gone unnoticed that Subaru had the highest Consumer Reports ratings of any brand on all its vehicles. Even better ratings than all those luxury cars. Maybe it was time to try something new.

And new to me it was — the entire experience. From the moment I walked into a dealership filled with women, made my way through their basic-as-it-gets application process, got a tour of the cars available on the lot, and was allowed a test drive, I was sold. I had not been talked down to, nor were there any of the usual parlor tricks, and I didn’t have to waste an entire afternoon twiddling my thumbs while the finance peeps put together paperwork not-so-cleverly filled with add-ons I’d not requested.

And here’s the best part: the Subaru Crosstrek Sport Hybrid in Sapphire Blue Pearl with AWD and every bell and whistle was 100x better than any of the Civic Hatchback Hybrids. Who knew?! And the car I wanted was right there, on the lot, fully detailed, with Yokohama Geolandar tires and a full tank of premium gas. Gina, my salesperson, offered me a fabulous price and a fabulous lease to boot, with exactly the terms I had requested.

The whole deal was buttoned up in a little over an hour by my new dealer’s female finance manager, Sharon, who additionally offered me $2000 on my trade-in. With tears in my eyes, I handed over both sets of keys for my beloved CR-V. She assured me it would find a good home.

Then off I drove in my spunky new set of wheels, blasting Little Red Corvette on my new Harman Kardon premium audio system with 10 speakers.

I had found a love that was gonna last… 🎶 🎶 🎶

If ever there were a time for Kate Wolf’s music, it would be now. The world needs her strong and sure, yet tender, touch.

For those unfamiliar with Kate Wolf, she was active as a lyricist, songwriter and performer of American folk music from 1971 until her death from acute leukemia in 1986. During those brief 15 years, Wolf composed nearly 200 songs, 56 of which she laid down in recordings.

Wolf’s music is distinctive in its narrative depth, touching on intimate themes that are not only comforting and reflective but evocative of the serene scenery and simple country life she enjoyed in Northern California, surrounded by like-minded musicians. Her poetry, her soothing alto and sometimes contralto voice, her lyrical phrasing and gentle, caressing instrumentations are wholly feminine; Wolf makes no effort to compete with her male counterparts in the folk world, her pieces speaking directly to women, describing the world as they see it, not unlike her contemporary, Joni Mitchell.

Wolf founded her band, The Wildwood Flower, in the early 1970s and would go on to become a renowned solo artist, releasing six albums between the years of 1976 and 1986. Tragically, in the midst of some of her best work, in early 1986, Wolf was diagnosed with leukemia and would die eight months later after a failed bone marrow transplant destroyed her immune system.

In the year before she passed away, Kate Wolf’s career had been on an upward trajectory, with her performing at some of the top music festivals in the United States and Canada, her recordings selling in the tens of thousands. Prior to her death on December 10, 1986, Wolf had been working on her final album, Gold in California: A Retrospective of Recordings 1975–1985, which featured her favorite studio recordings. This double album would posthumously earn Wolf the NAIRD Best Folk Album award (1987). For those unfamiliar — between 1972 and 1997, NAIRD, the National Association of Independent Record Distributors, had been the hub for indie labels, allowing independent artists to connect, network, and promote their music without the creative restraints and predatory practices epidemic among major record labels.

Gold in California was first released in 1987 by Kaleidoscope Records and rereleased in 1994 by Rhino Records. This exceptional collection of Wolf’s music can be purchased through the Official Kate Wolf Website, which has fittingly been created by her children, Max and Hannah, and her husband, Terry Fowler.

To fully appreciate the woman behind the music, listen to Kate Wolf’s in-depth interview with Tim Van Schmidt from 1985: Love Letter: An Hour With Kate Wolf. Insightful and inspiring. A favorite quote from this interview:

“I have found that when you give yourself away, you get what you need. If you take in, take in, it doesn’t work. But if you’re feeling stuck and feeling unfulfilled, to give your love away is like the mirror we were talking about. It creates a circle and comes back to you.” — Kate Wolf

ACROSS THE GREAT DIVIDE
written by Kate Wolf, 1980

"The finest hour that I have seen
Is the one that comes between
The edge of night and the break of day
It's when the darkness rolls away"

THE REDTAIL HAWK
written by George Schroder, recorded by Wolf for her 1976 album, Back Roads

"The redtail hawk writes songs across the sky
There's music in the waters flowing by
And you can hear a song each time the wind sighs
In the golden rolling hills of California"

MIDNIGHT ON THE WATER
A traditional fiddle tune attributed to Luke Thomasson, recorded by Wolf on her album, Lines on the Paper (with John Roy Zat, fiddler), 1977

"Though they're gone like floating dreams
The scenes were there as in a mirror
Made by the moon upon the water
And our love was never stronger
But the picture was broken
By the waves we left behind
At midnight on the water
Once upon a time"

SHE RISES LIKE THE DOLPHIN
written by Kate Wolf, 1979

"Sometimes she swims in moonlight
With the stars high above
The night sounds of the water
Speaking soft of love
Her skin turns to velvet
As she feels the waters glide
She loses all her boundaries
On this magic carpet ride"

UNFINISHED LIFE
written by Kate Wolf, 1980

"It's an unfinished life
That I find lies before me
An open-ended dream
And I don't want to wake
I've crossed so many rivers
In search of crystal fountains
I've found the truest paths
Always lead through mountains
I've seen water on the sky
And fire burning on the lake"

LIKE A RIVER
written by Kate Wolf, 1981

"My mind grows dry and thirsty
As the memories linger
Drifting on the wind
Through the mountains like a river
The sweet smell of the pines
The tall western cedar
Drifting on the wind
Through the mountains like a river"

EVERYBODY'S LOOKING FOR THE SAME THING
written by Kate Wolf, 1977

"Now there's someone going to Boston with a guitar and a dog
And a lady with a goat to give away
There's ten free kittens, a square dance on Sunday
And Cindy, please gеt in touch with Ray"

ALL HE EVER SAW WAS YOU
written by Kate Wolf, 1984

"The candle's burnin' at both ends
It's burnin' in the middle
There's no time to stop
Between the guitar and the fiddle
A crazy tune, a crazy time
You know the words were true
Smiles lit their eyes
But all he ever saw was you"

FATHER SKY
written by Kate Wolf, 1982

"I left you when the leaves
Had first begun to fall
It was the eagle's flight
That carried me away
How we talked all through the night
And loved in the morning light
Burned the sweet grass
The cedar and the sea"

DESERT WIND
written by Kate Wolf, 1984

"It’s all alone with the earth and sky
The hours are long, the days go slow
Your lovin’ way, like the wind reminds me
There is so much that I do not know"

GIVE YOURSELF TO LOVE
written by Kate Wolf, 1982

"Kind friends all gathered 'round
There's something I would say
That what brings us together here
Has blessed us all today
Love has made a circle that holds us all inside.
Where strangers are as family
Loneliness can't hide.

Give yourself to love
If love is what you're after
Open up your heart
To the tears and laughter
And give yourself to love
Give yourself to love"

I know. This is a really difficult time to have to think about leaving this world.

You’ve been through so much and worked so hard to make a good life for yourself and your daughter — a life full of hikes into the hills, road trips, evenings in the backyard enjoying good food and wine with friends, lazy weekends with lovers, nights working events, and long, sunny days taking folks on bike tours. You’ve made beautiful things: your jewelry, your artwork, your home, your Maggie, your friendships. You’ve generously shared your time and deepest considered thoughts. You have always listened to people and made them feel good. You’ve given the world your all, girl. It is better because of you.

Now it’s time to be still and to ruminate on all those stories you’ve gathered up like a bouquet of dahlias — colorful and vibrant, each one with something important to express. Let the memories put a smile on your face, if but a gentle one. Let them merge with and strengthen the life energy flowing toward your healing, enabling you to put one foot in front of the other as you navigate this arduous path.

Take tiny bites of this world you love, and let each melt slowly in your mouth. As you sit outside your back door, safely within reach of everything you need to sustain yourself, let your mind put on the hiking boots and take you to that place you love. Remember the mornings you spent in the fresh air, surrounded by mountains and woods, taking in the sun and the smell of eucalyptus, your strong legs vigorously working their way up steep hills. For so many years, your body served you faithfully, allowing you to escape into nature even on the most difficult days. That was no small task.

I know well how hard it is just putting one foot in front of the other. I know this doesn’t feel like who you are. But it is. It is every bit you, as was the woman who was skiing last winter. This is your body’s time to rest and your mind’s time to let things go. Your body needs to be in charge. It needs to express how it feels, to remind you of all that it’s endured, how very hard it has worked, and it needs to be remembered for all the wonderful things it created, and the people it embraced and loved. It fought many battles for you — they were good and worthwhile fights that made life better for those you cherish.

For now, let those around you hold on to the hard memories. We will take care of them. We will not let them be forgotten. We will not lose track of their meaning. You’ve held on to these heavy stones long enough. Drop them and enjoy the lightness.

What a wonderful body you have. An elegant, strong, and confident body. Right now, it needs peace. Let it rest among beautiful things, so it can release your pain.

WOMEN OF A CERTAIN AGE
by Mary Holman Tuteur

We sense the change, an apparent turning,
at the same time as we feel it — a knife
slamming down on the chopping block,
cleaving the known body from itself.
We discern the shift in how the earth holds us,
how we hold ourselves to the earth,
as the fine attention of our passion
revolves, all on its own, toward the roses.
Our tongues relish the details
of a rare bloom's growing habits,
the way they used to curl themselves around
the description of a lover's quirks.

We laugh in gusts, recalling to each other
our grandmothers, great-aunts, those old beloveds
whom we used to imagine belonged to another species,
down on their knees troweling, or bending warily,
their bones evolving into glass,
to harvest thosed clawed and petalled globes,
those roses they offered up to us.

Women of a certain age
teach each other to circle
within the strict confines of radiance
of afternoon arching backwards into dusk.
Turning, almost imperceptibly,
we hold out to you a light
that warms you less with its heat
than with a layered generosity, reflecting back to you
every angle it has moved through to get here. 

by yours truly, with music by Carly Simon

Well, well, well. Here I am. At my computer. Typing. It’s about time.

Truth be told, I’m over a month into this medical adventure, and still sporting a spruced-up version of pajamas every day due to my frequent need to nap and for providing easy access to my ass, which I still cannot wipe on my own. And why not wear PJs? It’s not like I can drive anywhere, like to a store, restaurant, or the park. I certainly can’t wrangle cattle or feed horses, and it will likely be another 2-3 months before I can garden and carry groceries in from the car.

And fuck hiking and swimming, my two favorite sports. I feel like heading up into the hills at the ranch like I need a hole in the head. And what could I possibly do in a pool right now? Float? Pretty sure that would piss off anyone who had to share a lane with me.

Yeah… after 10-12 fractures, I’m feeling a tad vulnerable. And stiff, and sore, and tottery. Yes, that’s a word. And the 6-inch scars on both arms from the surgeries… impressive! Makes my C-section look like a walk in the park. Ditto for my full hip replacement. Fortunately, my life partner has forgiving eyesight, and our bedroom lights are on a dimmer.

Despite all this damage, I can do a lot more today than 5 weeks ago, when I had my calamitous fall. For starters, I am back to writing. But I still cannot believe this happened. You’re going along, you’re going along… and things seem great. Then fucking WHAM! You’re on the ground and broken into a million pieces.

Hey Debbie… not going to lie. When you had that spill on your bike a couple of years ago — you know, the one where you broke both of your arms – I thought, “What the fuck? How does someone do that?” That really did go through my head. Famous last thought bubble. I owe you a huge apology for going there, even if it was only in my mind.

FYI, Debbie has been my friend since 5th-grade hockey. She played guard, and I was the goalie for the Million Dollar Babies. We lost every single game that season, but we had a helluva lot of fun. Sometimes, when you have no skill at a thing, the only thing you can do is laugh. And that we did — much more fun than winning.

Hey, not trying to compete with you on this, Deb, but I broke both wrists in multiple locations and had a comminuted patellar fracture in the shape of a perfect X on my right kneecap, and a broken rib. And I wasn’t even on a bike. All I did was trip on a cement parking block. Yep… I snagged the gold at the Stupidity Olympics.

So, here goes. The not-so-short version of my tale of woe.

In March of 2025, I was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, this after having a full-blown thyroid storm — a life-threatening combo of conditions. To be frank, before this storm blew in, I didn’t even know I had a thyroid problem, or where exactly the thyroid resided in my body, let alone any understanding of the function my thyroid played in keeping me alive. Turns out thyroids control just about everything in a person’s body, though in my case, my thyroid was cueing my whole body to malfunction, like a drunken orchestra conductor. Yes, music colleagues, I’m envisioning that Scottish dude who directed Daphnis and Chloé at the Scotia Festival of Music in the early 90s. You remember the guy. The festival orchestra slayed that piece and then got a 10-minute standing ovation. Then that fucker made us play the whole tune a second time. As an encore.

For those of you not in the classical music world, know this: Daphnis and Chloé is widely considered one of the most difficult pieces in the orchestral repertoire. It is absolutely exhausting to play. Imagine, if you will, finishing the Boston Marathon, then immediately being bused back up to the top of the race to run it a second time. That’s what our illustrious conductor would have us do.

Maybe he had Graves’ Disease. Hadn’t thought of that.

Prior to this crack in my engine block, I had pretty much been FINE. At age 63, I was taking one pill. For hypertension. That was it.

Then, out of the blue, a year ago, I developed a laundry list of symptoms — all of them pointing to Graves’ Disease according to Chamberlain’s Symptoms and Signs in Clinical Medicine.

This was not a subtle version of the disease — it was a full-on war with my body. Graves’ was taking out all of the feeling in my hands, weakening the muscles in my legs, making me hyper and reactive, causing my heart to race and my blood pressure to spike. And I lost a good chunk of my left kidney during the thyroid storm from a renal infarction, with other blood clots floating around out there, threatening more damage. At first, I assumed this downturn in my health was caused by my exposure to that endless stream of bad news we’ve all had to endure since Trump assumed his second term, as well as the subsequent stress I experienced in trying to write political satire when everything in this world had gone way beyond being funny or ironical.

The timeline was right: Trump was sworn in on January 20, 2025, and by the first week in March of 2025, the thyroid storm had rolled in. So yes, Trump was likely a contributing factor in my health crisis, though the evidence was only circumstantial. There was also the issue of the EIGHT amalgam fillings I’d had in my mouth since first grade. Apparently, amalgam fillings contain 50% elemental mercury, and guess what? Continuous exposure to that over many years can damage your thyroid. Yes, those fillings are now GONE.

The majority of my health issues, however, really seemed to be pointing to STRESS as the main contributing factor. This became abundantly clear as the year wore on and my huge team of doctors struggled to get my thyroid hormone levels under control — to no avail, I might add. Chronic stress, elevated cortisol levels — and decades of it — seemed to be the root cause of my problems, in combination with my having a genetic predisposition for the disease. Turns out several family members have had Graves’. Anyone who’s been a single mother with two kids, who’s also running their own business, can imagine how this situation might have gone down. Add to that a vindictive ex who was getting off on going to court every month for years, and there you have it! My thyroid was toast.

For all of 2025, the fabulous team of medical professionals at Kaiser Permanente kept the worst of my symptoms at bay, but the Methimazole and beta-blockers were not resolving the problem, and many of my symptoms were getting worse. So a decision was made that I needed a series of surgeries, first for my hands, where serious nerve damage was taking place, and then my whole medical team and their cheerleading squad came together in deciding the thyroid needed to go. All of it. Rah-rah.

And so, three surgeries were scheduled for the fall of 2025. These were done efficiently and with minimal pain. I healed quickly, had no complications, and within weeks, the feeling began to return to both of my hands. Yes!! And after the third surgery, a thyroidectomy, I felt instant relief. Many of my hyperthyroid symptoms fell off — just like that, within days of the surgery. A huge thank you to my medical team — the OR nurses, my surgeons, my PCP, my endocrinologist, and my physical therapists. A really kind and talented bunch.

The bit that would take longer to resolve, as it turned out, was finding the right dosage of Levothyroxine to take daily — that artificial hormone used to replace the essential-for-life thyroxine my thyroid gland had been producing. I was started on 150 mg, but within a short period of time, it became apparent this was way too much; my TSH and free T4 levels were off the charts, and I was back to experiencing all the classic symptoms of hyperthyroidism. Ugh. And so, the dosage was reduced slightly, with subsequent blood tests showing the situation still not cooling off. Patience was required, I was told. It would take time for everything to equilibrate.

And so I went about my life as if I were back to normal, which I was not. In fact, I felt superhuman. I needed very little sleep, I was writing like a fiend, I was back to hiking and swimming, and I had a voracious appetite. And really high blood pressure. Things were still off. Very.

And so it was on the day I fell, which was after a night of about 4 hours of sleep, a morning packed full of chores, and an 8-mile afternoon hike. Pretty sure I was exhausted, though nothing in my body or mind was registering this fact. Why? Because I was on the hyperthyroidism habitrail.

And then, suddenly, there I was, on the ground at the Food Shed parking lot, writhing in pain. In the flick of a switch, I went from trotting out to the car to get my reusable shopping tote to being splayed out on the asphalt, arms grossly deformed, and experiencing the worst pain I have felt in my entire life. And this pain was for good reason — I had a lot of broken bones.

This is where my description of the events on January 24th needs to end. The rest is far too triggering, and who needs to hear it? No one. Suffice it to say, that horrible night was followed by two weeks of excruciating pain (as I waited for bilateral arm surgery), and then three more weeks of severe pain after the surgery, during which, due to the numerous complications of my injuries, no nerve block could be administered. What a shitty five weeks. I pray I never have to relive this experience. And may you never have this happen to you.

The good news: I am feeling much better. And I am healing. And most importantly, I can now take a shower. There is NOTHING better than a long, hot shower after a month of being trapped in bed.

So, what happens when you’ve got 2500+ hours to lie around and think? I’m talking about endless hours where you’re incapable of doing even the most basic tasks. You cannot sit up or use your arms, hands, or fingers. You cannot walk, cannot use the bathroom, you can’t feed yourself, or hold a cup of water to your mouth. You can’t run a brush through your hair or put on a fresh nightgown.

So, you ruminate, and the days seem endless, and it feels like you will never be released from the pain. You wonder how long you can go on. You may, as I did, want the whole thing to end. Your life, that is.

But John… he was right there the whole time. He never let up. He never let himself get pulled into my abyss. He was strong and positive and constant. And he reminded me that I needed to hang in there because of my kids, and because of him. When I told him I couldn’t stand the thought of having to rely on him or them, that this was not how I envisioned my life, that they didn’t deserve this, he asked, “Don’t you want to be there to take care of me? Or them?” Well, of course I did.

I think that was a trick question. 😂

The pity party was officially over. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to get well. For myself and for them.

featuring guest writer, Shawn Coyle

Gentleman, we‘ve all been there. You wander into the bathroom, and you wonder, “Does she really need all this stuff?” The short answer is yes, and today we’re going to break it down in terms we can all understand.

But first, we need to address your secret fear: Does she have an undiagnosed mental health issue or a latent hoarding fetish? In most cases, no. However, if the number of objects on the bathroom counter, in the shower, in your cabinets, including any adjacent closets or accessible crawlspaces, exceeds 5000 –not including any number of nail polish bottles and lipsticks (even if the colors look the same to you) then, my friend, professional help may be required.

Caution: Do Not Attempt Intervention at this stage. If you try to interrogate your wife or partner with a reasoned call for a reduction in the number of these objects, it can lead to an emotional altercation, flying plates, and – in extreme cases – yes, even crankiness.

Slowly back away from the bathroom and seek professional help. Field mediators are waiting on-call via the (sadly underfunded) 1-800 National Hotline for MMC (Middle-Age Male Confusion).

Okay, moving on: Here we will run down a few of the objects you may have seen and wonder: “What does it do?”

Since we have insufficient access to the volume of space-time continuum necessary to fully explicate all the possible items, I will detail just a couple. My object here is not to be comprehensive, but merely to demonstrate that, indeed, there is critical thought and scientific rationality at work, no matter how opaque that may seem at present.

Let’s all start off “curious” rather than certain. And honestly, a dose of self-reflection is helpful here as well. We can be certain that our partners may well question our own rationality in our various purchases. You can hear it now: “Why do you need so many truck accessories? Or fishing gear thingies? And who really needs two (2.5) full sets of golf clubs?” We know that the answer to these types of questions is: “Duh!” So let’s just skip the questioning and agree we’re better off avoiding needless hours in cohabitational Q&A, even if patiently laying out the facts for our sanity. Suffice to say, we’re all in the same boat.

And now on to the items slated for today’s review. I will attempt to provide a Shorthand-for-Guys™. Think of this as Google Translate.

Q: What is Volumizer?

Shorthand-for-Guys™: Viagra for hair. This nifty substance is chemically formulated to make hair look fuller, thicker, and lifted, especially at the roots. It adds bounce and body. It says: “Let’s party! I’m ready for my close-up selfies!”

PSA sidebar: regarding “selfies,” men… just a reminder that a gentlemen never sends unsolicited dick pics to a woman. Ever. Unless she specifically says to you, “Show me your Schmeckle!”, keep it in your pants. All good things come to those who wait. However, if a dick-pic is “on-request” then, remember the basics: a) side-lighting works best in a natural warm glow, never fluorescent, and b) taking shots more “close up and personal” will create a corollary effect like that described on your truck’s side mirrors: “Objects appear larger than they actually are.”

Now we come to the vast continent of knowledge known as Skin Care. Some women do not need any – or any cosmetic products at all for that matter. These types are known, clinically, as “young.” And there are many women of all ages who just don’t want it. It’s all good; we gentlemen always respect individual choice (so long as no animals are harmed, and that we can opt out of Disney-On-Ice). For those, however, who may choose to enhance their natural gifts through the multitude of enhancement options available, still we go back to the original question…

Q: What do all these tubes and jars do functionally?

Shorthand-for-Guys™: sanding, spackle, primer, and paint.

Q: Got it! But why so many? Why not just 2 or 3?

Shorthand-for-Guys™: Think vehicle maintenance. You’ve got to lubricate, rotate, refill, flush, grease, wash, wax, buff, etc., and the list goes on. We want our ride looking sharp –whether it’s just a quick spin over to Piggly Wiggly for dish soap and vitamin B12 tabs or revved-up and rockin’ for the Labor Day truck parade.

It’s all about Youth and Vitality. Do you love it? Do you want it? Sure, we do. We all would like to turn back the clock, and why not? You only go ‘round the racetrack one time, so why not optimize for action! And for the sweet coaxing of the dewy dawn of our former states of glorious youth, robust and flush in the rosy cheeks of human fun and fecundity.

So it’s not just the womenfolk. Men want it too (c.f., Cialis). The difference between us and the gals, in general, is that they tend to be more diligent in this project, more experimental, and, over time, ultimately, more successful. This becomes more and more clear, as well, as the years pass. Check it for yourself: People watch for an hour over at your local park and notice the late middle-aged couples walking together. The older the couple, the more the apparent age difference. At some point, the woman looks like she’s taking her dad out for a stroll.

Don’t let this be you! If you should find yourself walking in a 5% or more forward lean, baggy dad-jeans, and with a saggy belly, remember that your schmeckle is also saggy and baggy. In general, we resemble our dicks. We are our dicks. The good news is this is fixable! Good posture (yes, I’m talking yoga for men) and hitting the salad bar (sans bacon bits) are two great places to start.

Right – it looks like my time here is running short, so let’s wrap it up for today...

In our next session, we’ll jump into the wonderful, wacky worlds of: exfoliants, hyaluronic acids, niacinamides, peptides, retinoids serums, gels, creams, micelles, foundation (mineral, mousse, stick, liquid, powdered), concealers, blushes, bronzers, highlighters, mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, brow pencils, brow powders, lip liner, lip gloss, lipstick, lip stain, tinted balm, parfum, eau de parfum, eau de toilette, body sprays, scented oils, moisturizers, body washes, body butter, scrubs, hair removal, nail treatments, haircare, styling, and follicle repair treatments!

In conclusion, what have we seen here today? I submit to you that it’s the very opposite of “clutter and confusion.” We see solid evidence of a) the studied application of the scientific method, b) the spirit of springtime, c) the love of youth and beauty, and d) a passion for self-respect.

But let’s not make the mistake of thinking that this is a gender-exclusive undertaking. Just for the gals? Not even! Quite frankly, men, a lot of us could use a bit of a buff up, perhaps a skoosh o’ hyaluronics wouldn’t kill us —or even a wee bit o’ power sanding (start with the P40-P60 grit).

Let’s take a page or two from the Ladies’ Playbook. And not to worry, guys! This will not make you Gay, or magically make you want to wear a dress (unless you’re into it, then by all means, enjoy), but it can help you shine in whatever (and whoever) you do.

Lotions and loofahs! These are your new friends.

And always keep in mind the Immortal Words of ZZ Top:

Clean shirt, new shoes; and I don’t know where I am goin’ to
Silk suit, black tie; I don’t need a reason why.

They come runnin’ just as fast as they can…
‘Cause every girl crazy ‘bout a Sharp Dressed Man.

Bonus Tips: Guys, for the sake of the children (who are the future!), go ahead and toss those cargo shorts, dumpy tees, plastic shoes, and anything with a camo pattern –unless shooting at birds is your “happy place,” then, for everyone’s sake, remember to change in the truck.

Enjoy all of Shawn’s fabulous writing on Substack. Thank you, Shawn, for having my back as I recover. 😘

Sierra Echo Charlie

Discursive Observations & Random Thought Balloons: I’m a S.F. Bay Area songwriter/musician and I write about culture, history, music, and personal experience.

By sierra echo charlie

by Jason Thompson, guest writer for Men On Pause

What makes a protest song actually protest anything?

We throw that term around like it’s self-evident. Blowin’ in the Wind is a protest song. Fortunate Son is a protest song. Every earnest white guy with an acoustic guitar and strong feelings about fracking thinks he’s writing protest songs. But Nina Simone’s Mississippi Goddam from 1964 isn’t a protest song in the way that a hammer isn’t just a tool for hitting things. It’s the blueprint for what happens when an artist stops asking permission to be angry and starts demanding that you sit in that anger with her, whether you like it or not.

The song emerged from a very specific historical moment that, if we’re being honest with ourselves (and when are we ever?), looks uncomfortably familiar from where we’re sitting in 2026. In September 1963, four Black girls were murdered in the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Carol Denise McNair. Say their names, because Simone did. That same year, Medgar Evers was shot in the back in his own driveway. These weren’t anomalies. They were the routine operations of a system functioning exactly as designed.

Nina Simone - and let’s be clear, she was already Nina Simone by this point, was a classically trained pianist who’d been rejected by the Curtis Institute (definitely not because of racism, they assured everyone), and a jazz singer who could make you weep with a ballad and then destroy you with Bach - Nina Simone sat down and wrote Mississippi Goddam in about an hour. An hour. She was so angry she couldn’t not write it, which is the only reason anyone should ever write anything.

Now here’s where it gets interesting, in that way that “interesting” is a completely inadequate word for what I’m describing. The song is structured as a show tune. It’s upbeat. It’s got a rhythm that could accompany a tap dance number. Simone performed it with a smile on her face, like she was doing a jaunty little number from a Broadway musical, except the lyrics are systematically dismantling every lie white America told itself about gradualism and progress and “wait your turn.” This wasn’t a protest as somber hymn. This was a protest as psychological warfare.

And white America, bless its heart (as they say in the South when they mean something else entirely), absolutely lost its mind. The song was banned across Southern states. Radio stations refused to play it. Simone’s record label got nervous. Because here’s what nobody wants to admit: America can tolerate protest songs about abstract injustice. What it cannot tolerate is specificity. What it really cannot tolerate is a Black woman refusing to be patient.

Mississippi Goddam was important in 1964 because it violated every unspoken rule about how Black artists (let alone WOMEN!) were supposed to voice discontent. You were supposed to be hopeful. You were supposed to believe in the arc of the moral universe bending toward justice (at a pace that wouldn’t inconvenience anyone). You were supposed to sing We Shall Overcome and mean it as a distant aspiration, not an immediate demand. Simone looked at that script and set it on fire, which is what you’d expect from someone who’d titled songs Four Women and would later record To Be Young, Gifted and Black.

The genius, and I’m using that word precisely, not hyperbolically, was that she weaponized everyone’s expectations. She gave them the music they wanted, the show tune structure, the entertainment, and then she made them choke on it. It’s the same energy as inviting someone to dinner and serving them a meal that forces them to confront exactly what they’ve been consuming all along without noticing.

Chuck Berry once said rock and roll was about three things: freedom, rebellion, and sex. Mississippi Goddam was about freedom and rebellion, but it replaced the sex with something far more threatening: memory. Simone wasn’t just protesting current conditions; she was creating a historical record that couldn’t be erased or softened later. She was saying, in effect, “I see exactly what you’re doing, I’m naming it, and I’m not letting you forget.”

Which brings us to why Mississippi Goddam is doubly important now, in this precise moment we’re occupying in 2026.

First, the obvious parallel: we’re still having the same argument. The names change, the headlines change, the specific incidents that spark national conversations change, but the underlying structure - violence against Black bodies, demands for patience, calls for civility, the insistence that protest be conducted in ways that don’t make anyone uncomfortable - remains depressingly consistent. If you could time-travel back to 1964 and play Simone a montage of contemporary discourse about police violence, voting rights, and “divisiveness,” she’d probably just nod and say, “Yes, that’s exactly what I was singing about.” The song hasn’t become dated; American racism has simply refused to evolve.

But here’s the deeper, more insidious reason the song matters now: we’ve gotten very good at neutralizing protest through acceptance. We’ve turned rebellion into content, revolution into aesthetic. You can buy a t-shirt with Angela Davis’s image at Target. Brands tweet about Black Lives Matter. It’s currently Black History Month, and the greed heads sitting in corporate board rooms will want to capitalize on Black money because money’s green, so it’s acceptable. We’ve created this mechanism where we acknowledge injustice, we consume the correct opinions about it, we stream the right protest music, and then we continue on exactly as before. It’s a kind of cultural embalming fluid that preserves the appearance of progress while killing the actual possibility of change.

Mississippi Goddam resists that neutralization because it’s so irreducibly angry. You can’t background-music it. You can’t turn it into an inspiring moment in a feel-good documentary about the Civil Rights Movement. Simone’s fury is right there in every note, undiminished by time, and it won’t let you off the hook by letting you feel good about acknowledging it exists. The song doesn’t want your approval; it wants your complicity examined.

Michael Eric Dyson wrote about how America prefers its Black prophets dead, how we lionize figures like Dr. King only after we’ve sanded down their radical edges and turned them into safe symbols of non-threatening change. Mississippi Goddam is the antidote to that sanitization. It reminds us that actual protest - not the performed, aestheticized version we’ve gotten comfortable with - is supposed to be uncomfortable. It’s supposed to make you squirm. It’s supposed to reject your timeline for other people’s freedom.

The song is also doubly important now because we’re living in an era of algorithmic everything, where engagement metrics determine what gets heard and what gets buried. Mississippi Goddam is a reminder that some things matter whether or not they trend, whether or not they’re optimized for shareability, whether or not they make anyone feel good. It’s a historical anchor that says, “This happened, it was wrong, and your discomfort with confronting it is vastly less important than the reality of what occurred.”

In 1964, Nina Simone wrote a song that was too angry, too direct, too uncompromising for the moment. Sixty-two years later, it’s still too angry, too direct, too uncompromising, which tells you everything you need to know about how little has fundamentally changed and how much we still need voices willing to burn down the polite fictions we construct around injustice.

Mississippi Goddam shouldn’t still be relevant. Its continuing relevance is its own indictment. Every time we find ourselves reaching for this song, every time its themes resonate with current events, we’re admitting a failure. We’re admitting that Nina Simone’s rage in 1964 was justified then and remains justified now, which means we’ve spent six decades proving her point.

That’s not a legacy anyone should be proud of. But it is the truth. And if nothing else, Mississippi Goddam demands we tell the truth, whether we’re ready for it or not.

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Nightly News Roundup

All the news that's fit to confuse.

By Jason Thompson

Ear Candy Update

Connecting emotion and memory with every song that’s left a mark on me.

By Jason Thompson

Hi friends. It's been quite a week.

Eight days ago, I enjoyed a wonderful hike in the American Canyon wetlands. It was beautiful weather. Blue skies, a few wispy clouds, thousands of waterfowl, a huge field of sheep. We mostly had the trail to ourselves, though we met a couple of wonderful characters along the way. One guy, whose name I’ve forgotten, had spent hours clearing the rough terrain of every manner of debris. In admiring his piles of garbage, I wondered, “Who in the hell throws all of these household items, bottles, food wrappers, and construction debris into this precious water?” A rhetorical question, I know. Assholes.

It still baffles me why people do these sorts of things. There are just different types of people in this world, aren't there? Yep - good and bad. Or, some optimists might categorize them as the ignorant vs. the well-informed. I'm sticking with the former. Even when I was a little girl, I had a sense that these beautiful places where living creatures thrive needed to be protected. It would've felt wrong to throw random things I knew should have gone in the garbage into a beautiful setting with frogs, fish, and birds. That would have been mean.

The other character John and I met on our walk was named Chris, I believe, though I'm going to admit things have been super foggy this week. I will get to the reason for that shortly. Chris was a nice gentleman from Vallejo (though originally from London) who loved the wetlands park and had put up a cute sign marking this especially scenic spot, which he named Gratitude Point. His good friend had built an attractive, sturdy bench at the spot. GP was perfectly halfway between the trail’s beginning and end. The bench gave one (or two) the opportunity to sit and enjoy the view or to rest their weary feet.

Not gonna lie, here I am only in my fourth paragraph, and I'm reaching the end of my ability to sit in an upright position. Pretty proud, however, that I have at least mastered the voice recognition program on my Mac. I had a million stories that needed telling this week, but they've had to remain inside my head, as I've broken both of my arms and wrists in multiple locations, as well as a rib and my kneecap, and I can't do a damn thing. I've been in excruciating pain. And my healthcare provider had to put off my surgeries for a week and a half because many of their hospital staff were on strike. I'm looking forward to having a double surgery this coming Thursday to repair both of my arms. Can hardly believe this has happened.

For those thinking WTF… after completing our wonderful 8-mile walk, John and I stopped by a favorite restaurant to pick up sandwiches for the next day’s cattle wrangling, and when I went out to the car to grab a bag, I somehow tripped. Just like that. I don't even remember tripping. I was just all of a sudden on the ground. I'm not going to describe what my arms looked like.

Amazing how quickly things can go from being idyllic and peaceful to chaotic and painful. This last week has been quite an adventure, and one I will share with you when I can relay the details with more humor. A lot of funny things happened. And I just have to say how very grateful I am to my partner, John, and my daughter Ellie, who are taking good care of me.

I'm signing off for now, as I need to go and rest. Thank you, readers, for all your engagement with my posts.

Get out there and protest on my behalf!

xo, Chris

The lights will go on again; there is no doubt. They always do. For the time being, however, we are in deep — up to our eyeballs, in fact. As Trump blows up the entire world, as it is his right to do (according to Samuel Alito), we’re going to have to come up with some ways to keep sane. I’m recommending you stay closer than ever to those you love and focus on taking care of one another. And by all means, stay away from those people, and quit spending money. For god’s sake, it all goes to Jeff Bezos, and other evil sons-of-bitches, who will use it for bad things, plus you’re going to need every penny (😂 — pun intended) for groceries. The situation at the grocery store… It’s only going to get worse.

Time to get small and do what animals do when they are injured or threatened. Hide in your hovel. Stay safe.

There is no time like the present to start planning for the United States’ version of the International Military Tribunal, aka The Nuremberg Trials. My coffee klatch and I anticipate this will take place in Washington, D.C., though we had considered holding the trials at Mar-a-Lago, another fitting location. In the end, however, we all agreed that more (and better) seating was needed, as well as plenty of space for the judges, witnesses, and evidence presentation systems. Add to that the layout, lighting, and acoustic challenges at Mar-a-Lago, all of which make it a less-than-desirable venue for a trial streaming live. The 17 crystal Stras chandeliers imported from Czechoslovakia in the Grand Ballroom (each valued at around $250,000) were far too dim, and the opulent gold leaf ($17M worth) on the columns, ceiling, walls, cherubs, figurines, mirror frames, and other decorative elements in the room would have caused massive glare, in addition to being a huge distraction from the task at hand. Then there are those gawdy marble floors that would have caused a harsh acoustic environment, and huge pillars would have blocked the view for many attendees. We’ll save this venue for another event that is sure to sell out: the looting of MAGA-a-Lago. After the throngs take the place apart, we’re having the entire property razed and turned into a public park.

For a tribunal, camera and light crews want a more stolid setting — a simple backdrop where the faces of ruthless predators lined up in the dock are the primary focus. We estimate that 336 million Americans will be watching the trials, and we want them trained on every facial expression, every word spoken, every piece of evidence presented. We want them to see these people for who they really are. No distractions, no MAGA makeup, no spray tans, no hair extensions, no false eyelashes, no touching up of dark roots, and plain clothing. Imagine that, if you will, and try not to snicker.

The most obvious venue for these trials: The Trump-Kennedy Center. Of course the previous name would be restored prior to the tribunals, though perhaps in a shortened version — The Kennedy Center — this being most fitting as the venue will serve more as a hall of justice than a performing arts center, at least until the victims of the Trump regime have their day in court and the American economy can once again support the arts.

THE AMERICAN TRIBUNAL VENUES

THE GERMAN TRIBUNAL VENUE

THE EVIDENCE AGAINST THE NAZIs

The evidence against the Trump Administration, GOP, Supreme Court, Project 2025, The Heritage Foundation, assorted MAGA influencers and media, oligarchs, et al., is UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Hey! We are working hard at pulling together all the evidence, and it is vast. There will be the Epstein files, video footage and photos of conditions at the detention centers and CECOT, videos of children who were separated from their parents at the border and housed in cages, as well as stats on how many of those children were not successfully reunited with their families. There will be lists of the death tolls from COVID, USAID, Gaza (U.S. weapons and funding helping to kill 72,000 Palestinians), vaccine-related deaths, SNAP-related malnutrition stats, deaths caused by the lapse in ACA benefits, gun violence deaths and injuries, deaths and hardships caused by DOGE cuts, deaths from environmental deregulation, and much more.

Fortunately, a number of watchdog organizations and the press have been keeping track of everything, starting from Trump’s first term, when the atrocities began:

☠️ Firearm Violence in the United States / John Hopkins, Bloomberg School of Public Health

☠️ Statistics on gun violence / Brady: United Against Gun Violence

☠️ Tracking the Harm of DOGE Cuts / The Center for Law and Social Policy

☠️ President Trump’s Worst Offenses (first term) / Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington

☠️ The Nine Worst Trump Scandals of 2025 / New Republic

☠️ Trump’s Bloody Hands / Choose Democracy

☠️ Trump Administration Deadlier for ICE Detainees Than Covid-19 / American Immigration Council

☠️ U.S. virus death toll tops 400,000 in Trump’s final hours / PBS

☠️ Trump Environmental Policies Killed Thousands / Bloomberg

☠️ Trump global aid cuts risk 14 million deaths in five years, report says / BBC

☠️ Death by a Thousand Federal Cuts / Milbank Quarterly

☠️ Trump’s anti-abortion policies are causing more abortions, suffering, and death / Population Connection

☠️ Trump’s anti-climate agenda could result in 1.3M more deaths globally / Guardian

☠️ Trump DOGE cuts caused 600,000 deaths this year / MS Now

☠️ Deaths, detentions, and deportations of American citizens in the second Trump administration / Wikipedia

☠️ The Deaths and Agonies of Trump’s Abortion Bans / New York Magazine

This ☝️ is just the tip of the iceberg. Donald is really giving Adolf a run for his money as far as this death toll thing is concerned. Pretty sure Adolf didn’t have this many deaths under his belt after only one year of totalitarian rule. Trump is winning yet again.

January 30, 1933: the day Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany, a position from which he dismantled Germany’s democracy and established a totalitarian government. January 20, 2025: the day of Trump’s second inauguration, after which he began dismantling the United States’ democracy and establishing a totalitarian government.

Back to my coffee klatch. You’re probably wondering, who are these folks? What qualifies them to take on this monumental task? These are my good friends and a few family members, namely Tom and Mary Ellen, Ursula, Amanda, John, Armand, Rose, Bob and Becca, Joni, Cheryl, Ash, Annette, Steve, Laura, and Shawn.

These great people are all of sound mind, news junkies, well-educated, hardworking middle-class folks across a range of ages. The common thread between all of us: no one sits on the fence. That is simply not acceptable in the current political climate. No longer do we have the luxury of splitting hairs on important issues or labeling ourselves “independents.” Either you’re pro-democracy, or you’re pro-fascism. Plain and simple. So, either get down to what needs doing, or go join George and Amal in Brignoles, France, and fuck you.

It was this group that had begun meeting during the first Trump term. This time around, we decided we had to put our heads together and start organizing the logistics for what we are calling the Citizens Democracy Restoration Council and Tribunal. There are certainly flashier, more rebellious names we might have taken on, but we think it prudent to keep a low profile as we’re planning some pretty heavy stuff. Homeland Security wouldn’t round up nice Minnesota folks in zip-up cardigans and Carhartt beanies who are simply “protecting democracy,” would they? Oh, yes, they most certainly would! They might even drag your ass out into the snow in nothing but boxers when there is a wind chill of -23°F.

The problem: no one out there seems to be up to the task of planning the next steps — not our members of Congress, not our governors, not any of the top talking heads. Not even Rachel Maddow. These folks are preoccupied with midterms, approval ratings, and viewership, and rightly so. Planning for a military tribunal — well, that is a lot to coordinate — so many tedious details. All of these people, the journalists, opinion columnists, bloggers, and influencers — they have their hands full trying to stay on top of the latest developments, an overwhelming task given the pace at which the Trump administration is dismantling the world order. It’s true, we need them to keep us informed, as this information is needed for the work that lies ahead. Time read up, listen up, then dig in. Cast aside your doubts and worries. There is no room for them.

Maybe start here, a great piece by Heather Cox Richardson (from yesterday) on the “major realignment of the global order”:

And this probably goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway: something desperately needed to be done about the leadership void on the left. Or should I say the leadership abyss? Scary, that. Democratic leadership is something we plan to discuss at our next get-together. It’s time to start disseminating ideas — outside-the-box ones — and putting them out there. Everywhere. People need to quit thinking things like “The country isn’t ready for a woman,” or “He’s too heavy, people will take issue with that,” or “We can’t have a Muslim running our country.” Bullshit. Here’s some proof: Mamdani, Spanberger, Sherrill, Pritzker. We, the people, can have anything and anyone, as long as they are willing to take on Trump, the Project 2025 people, the GOP, and the gun lobby. Beautiful, capable, talented people come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and genders. Some of them are even Somali.

What characteristics do we need in our next leader, the person who is going to defeat Trumpism and restore our democracy? A negotiator, a provocateur, a military strategist, a diplomat, a charismatic, a pragmatist? We need to figure this out, like yesterday. Pretty sure Kamala is out of the question, as she all but disappeared after losing the presidential election. That told me everything I needed to know. There we were flailing in the wind after Trump was sworn in. And where was she? Nowhere important, that’s for sure. And Obama has been too busy bodysurfing, working on his washboard abs, and visiting exotic locales to help his country in any meaningful way. In our time of crisis, as our democracy is nearing an end, from Obama, we get only a few sound bites. WTF.

Newsom needs to focus on California, which may end up being its own country at the rate we’re going. Californians are going to need him to be their president. He also needs to quit wasting all of his political capital trolling Trump. Time to get serious, Gavin, if, in fact, you are ready to take this on. And when I say serious, I’m talking we’re-pushing-the-baby-out-now serious.

Pritzker is fantastic. Come on, folks, he gets things done, says exactly what needs saying, and he’s afraid of no one. But for some assinine reason, people can’t seem to wrap their heads around him as our next president. The same holds true for Gretchen Whitmer and the whole cast of amazing female political leaders in Michigan. They fucking kick ass. Besides Big Gretch, there’s Dana Nessel, Jocelyn Benson, Winnie Brinks, Mary Sheffield, Elissa Slotkin, Debbie Dingell, Hillary Scholten, Bridget Mary McCormack, Rosemary Bayer, Rashida Tlaib, and Kelly Breen. If you don’t know who these women are, shame on you. Get familiar, because all of them are amazing leaders and Democrats. What is it with Michigan women anyway? Something in the water? That would make sense, as there is a helluva lot of it there.

Then there is Michelle Lujan Grisham, governor of New Mexico — she’s doing an extraordinary job and is totally dialed in to every issue that plagues our country. Check her out on Emily’s List if you’re unaware of her many accomplishments. Also at the top of my list are Melinda French Gates and MacKenzie Scott. These astute businesswomen are generous and work hard to support great causes, and they are well acquainted with the broligarchy, an entity we are going to have to deal with head-on this next round. These are women who have successfully taken on two of the most powerful men in the world — their exes.

Then there are the numerous governors who have proven themselves in spades, and who, even more than our legislators at the federal level (who have, as of late, shown themselves to be totally ineffectual), are ready to take on the immense responsibility of repairing the damage Trump has done to our democracy. These politicians are already in charge of complex political institutions and have been handling all manner of logistical issues from roads and schools to state finances. Additionally, they have been sharpening their teeth by going toe-to-toe with the Republicans in their respective states. This would include NY Governor Kathy Hochul, AZ Governor Katie Hobbs, MN Governor Mike Walz, PA Governor Josh Shapiro, and KY Governor Andy Beshear. There are others.

And then there are the underdogs in the House and Senate. Time to focus our attention on the squeakiest wheels, and to ignore old-school Dems like Schumer and (dare I say) Hakeem Jeffries — who is a little too complacent for my taste. The pit bulls of which I speak are Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Rashida Tlaib, Ro Khanna, Jasmine Crockett, Jamie Raskin, and Chris Murphy. There are others, but these are my personal favs. Anyone who is no longer in the fray or has been hiding in the shadows since the start of Trump’s second term can kiss my ass. We don’t need cowards. There is no room on the bus.

And we should be considering military leaders, judges, prosecutors, and people who have held important bureaucratic positions. Think Dr. Anthony Fauci, Jack Smith, Ketanji Brown Jackson, and others. 💡 Folks! Wake up! We need your ideas.

So we thought, what the hell, why shouldn’t our group take on the task of putting together the Citizens Democracy Restoration Council and Tribunal? Minnesotans are nothing if not organized and tenacious. This civil war needs fighters, and since the first major battle started right in our front yard (i.e., the murder of Renee Good), it seems we should get to throw the first punch. Renee was a kind woman, by all accounts, and a mother of three, and this unarmed woman was unceremoniously shot to death by an ICE agent for being “disrespectful.” Turned out that was the final straw for most Minnesotans, and for the rest of the country, too. No more Minnesota Nice for ICE. We are at war — Trump has made that abundantly clear. As of today, the Pentagon is readying 1500 infantry soldiers from the Army’s 11th Airborne Division in Alaska and 200 Texas National Guard troops for deployment to Minnesota. And Trump has threatened to invoke the Insurrection Act, a law from 1807. That means he can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, to whomever he wants.

Like many of you out there, we are tired of sitting on our hands, and protests are only getting us so far. Believing we can do this thing, putting together the inevitable military tribunal, quantifying and displaying the destruction, thievery, and murder Trump and his people have committed — all of this digging up of facts, photos, and video footage, putting all things in order, then debating the logistics of the trials and potential punishments is giving us purpose and hope. We relish the idea of giving these sociopaths the due process they have so glibly denied everyone else, knowing that an avalanche of facts will bury them. They will eventually get the harsh punishments they deserve: life behind bars or perhaps death by firing squad, public hanging, or the guillotine — all the methods of capital punishment that Trump advocated for during his 2024 campaign tour.

Hope. Something none of us has felt since November 8, 2016. This project has given us wings.

And so we’ve begun the task of planning the final days for these horrible people — the Trump administration, the MAGA leaders, the Heritage Foundation, the religious right, the gun lobby, and the like. We believe that at some point, when food and healthcare become unattainable, and the basic needs of families can no longer be met, there will be a rebellion. It is inevitable. The details of that rebellion? Stay tuned.

Eventually, democracy will be restored, though some serious tweaks to the Constitution will be needed. In the meantime, the enemies of the American people will be gathered up and incarcerated in the detention centers they built, and those facilities will be run by the very people whose lives they had sought to ruin: immigrants, members of the LGBTQ+ community, Muslims, people of color, atheists, Democrats, medical professionals, teachers and journalists, and people whose loved ones died or were injured as a result of irresponsible public health policies, loss of food benefits or gun violence.

The worst offenders will, of course, be sent to CECOT in El Salvador.

Of course, I’m just thinking out loud. I know, this is just a fantasy, at least for now. But I thoroughly believe that people who know what they want get what they want. Let’s start by figuring out exactly what it is we want — come up with a vision for our country that goes beyond our seemingly unresolvable differences. Then, we need to quit fretting and start making things happen.

As Martin Luther King said, “All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence."

Let’s get down to work.

xo, Penny

January 9, 2026

The Honorable Mike Johnson, Speaker
United States House of Representatives
Washington, D.C. 20515

Speaker Johnson:

I just wanted to thank you for all you are doing on behalf of America’s women and children. What a good Christian man you are, from all accounts. I’ve seen photos of you leading mostly-male prayer groups right on the House floor, filling the chamber with some much-needed Holy Spirit — a testosterone replacement therapy, of sorts. It is inspiring and reassuring to know you are doing God’s work and that with the power of the gavel, you are helping to bring to heel all those brown-skinned sinners and uppity women that populate the other side of the aisle (though there are a few on your side also worthy of your scorn). Even women elected to public office should be graciously submitting to your male leadership, functioning only as helpers and nurturers, as dictated by the Bible. Clearly, those Congresswomen who fail to do your bidding (Elise Stefanik comes to mind) are not fulfilling their God-given role.

I don’t need to tell you how shameful this is. I am glad the legislative ideas and concerns of women fall on deaf ears. You have set a good example in this, demonstrating to your Republican colleagues what it means to be a Christian man in these difficult times. I loved your recent praise for Congresswoman Lisa McClain, in which you described this high-ranking Republican as the colleague you most trust to make you dinner. I’m not sure she took that compliment in the spirit in which you intended it, but that’s her issue, and I hope she prays on it.

I also appreciated your raging against a bipartisan bill that would have allowed pregnant members of Congress and those recovering from childbirth to vote by proxy. I can appreciate where you are coming from on this issue: these women need to stay home, and refrain from doing House work (so to speak) during those precious early months. Their focus should be on pumping breast milk and changing diapers, rather than crafting legislation for child healthcare, education, daycare for working mothers, and food security. And, I am positive that all of those Congressmembers without uteruses could really use a reprieve from the hormonal angst of gestating women. Am I right?

Time and again, you, Speaker Johnson, have demonstrated respect and understanding for women, most recently offering insight into the differences between the male and female brain: “Men and women are different in this way, in that men can compartmentalize things,” you said, after which your wife chimed in, “But women, we cannot do that. We are always thinking. In fact, our brains are like spaghetti.” Speaking of spaghetti for brains, let’s discuss Elise Stefanik’s leaving Congress and abandoning her bid for governor of New York. Stefanik attributes much of her disillusionment with the party, and aversion to politics in general, to your failure as a leader, as well as your hand in seeing that she was not elevated to U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. God riddance to her, I say. Yes, God. Not a typo.

And now you are getting the same cold shoulder from Marjorie Taylor Greene, who has publicly denounced you over the Epstein files and is leaving Congress mid-term. Immediately following her resignation, an anonymous representative from the House told the press, “More explosive early resignations are coming. It’s a tinder box. Morale has never been lower. Mike Johnson will be stripped of his gavel, and they will lose the majority before this term is out.”

MTG is the poster child for why women should not be in politics — at least this seems to be the general consensus among your male colleagues, especially those with connections to Mr. Epstein. God, in His infinite wisdom, has seen to it that five of the 30 Republican women in the House will soon be gone (Ashley Hinson, Nancy Mace, and Harriet Hageman, in addition to MTG and Stefanik). That leaves only 25 more women to go. Were there a way to turn these remaining Congresswomen into pillars of salt, there is no doubt in my mind you would bring it to the floor and gather the votes needed to pass the Genesis 19 Act.

As a single, cat-free mother of two adult children, who kept her household intact and family healthy through food assistance (SNAP and USDA food banks) as well as ACA subsidies, I was impressed by this in your press release from 5/18/25: “We’re ensuring that programs like Medicaid and SNAP are strengthened for U.S. citizens who need and deserve them and not being squandered away by illegal aliens and persons who are ineligible to receive them and are cheating the system.” Very clever on your part to show these hooligans who’s boss by yanking $187 billion in SNAP funding right out from under them. You did the right thing is skirting over pesky details like the fact that the majority of SNAP fraud is from retailers who traffic benefits for ineligible items or cash, organized criminal groups who skim/clone cards to steal benefits, and corrupt USDA employees who sell access to benefits. Properly ending this corruption would have required more legislation and bureaucratic oversight at a time when DOGE was chainsawing its way through every agency that might have been up to the task. A much simpler solution, and brilliant on the part of you and your colleagues: get rid of SNAP altogether. The timing needed to be perfect, however — a gentle phase out before the midterms, so no seats in Congress would be lost, then ax the fucker down (pardon my French, Mike) altogether in 2027. Mission accomplished, one more bullet point in the Project 2025 agenda to check off.

The idea of punishing all SNAP recipients for the sins of the 11.7% who commit fraud was really the only way to make the point, wasn’t it? These people need to work. Plain and simple. Never mind their age, or their handicaps, or the fact that they are taking care of ten children, and their spouse is deceased. We all have to work, and being a housewife, well, that isn’t really work, is it? I mean, a stay-at-home mom could be watching Real Housewives of Salt Lake City while she’s ironing, but her husband — he cannot be checking out soft porn on his phone while also working the assembly line, or he could end up with a workplace-related injury. Am I right?

You have fought valiantly to keep contraception out of the hands of women, and rightly so. They are not the deciders in our Christian society. I cannot thank you enough for preventing the passage of the Right to Contraception Act while simultaneously co-sponsoring the Life at Conception Act. For many FOX viewers, the difference in spelling — between “contraception” and “conception” — that went right over their heads. This clever tactic allowed you to strip women of a few more rights with almost no one noticing. And your crafty legislation, which allows employer insurance plans to deny coverage for birth control while still requiring them to cover the cost of Viagra — that was a stroke of genius! I bet everyone at the old boys' club was slapping you on the back.

And that statement you made about illegal immigrants getting benefits and robbing hardworking taxpayers — I’m guessing that was just a White lie, as it is well-known that undocumented immigrants cannot even apply for SNAP under federal law, and because of that, the number of illegal aliens receiving benefits is close to zero.

“White lies” are sort of a gray area in the Bible, aren’t they? The Bible suggests that God considers deception the lesser evil in extreme moral dilemmas, and that’s where we’re at, isn’t it? Remember Deflategate, the 2015 NFL scandal involving the New England Patriots and quarterback Tom Brady, in which players allegedly used underinflated footballs in the AFC Championship for a better grip? Well, it helped, and the Patriots won. I think this was one of those moral dilemmas they were referring to in the Bible. No doubt, one day, you will be an honorary Patriot for your role in getting all of Project 2025 across the goal line. I look forward to watching you do your little dance in the end zone.

With your help, Congress has done so much to cut back on all programs that impact women and children. In reality, these programs were just perpetuating that insatiable human desire to live, and even thrive, rather than letting nature take its course. I’m sure you get the gist of what I am saying here without my having to get graphic.

So, here we are again, circling back on this issue of God’s will as it relates to Congress’s cuts to the many programs that benefit families, women, and children. Let me be the first to point out that none of these programs specifically benefits adult men, which to me seems grossly unfair in light of their importance in the Bible. I can only assume, since you are a God-fearing man, that you are looking to right these societal wrongs by putting men back where they belong in the pecking order: first.

As a woman, it is my duty, going forward, to set an example of both humility and gratitude. Thanks to you, I now see God’s hand in all that Congress has been doing to eliminate sinful government handouts — the $900 billion in Medicaid reductions, the significant (and ongoing) depletion of funds for CHIP and SNAP, the massive downsizing of Head Start, and the elimination of educational grants for Migrant Education and English Language Acquisition, as well as K-12 Education. Other divinely sanctioned budget cuts and executive actions eliminate or significantly reduce programs for college-related aid — programs like CCAMPIS (Child Care Access Means Parents in School), TANF (Temporary Assistance for Needy Families) grants, and the Child Care & Development Fund (CCDF). Yours and the administration’s crowning accomplishment: the imminent closure of the U.S. Department of Education. What a winning team we are! I am so proud of your leadership.

Thank you for helping the women and children of this world see the light. As you have made clear, our needs, priorities, and lives must take a back-seat (without a safety restraint) to those of our important male leaders, both religious and political, and the oligarchs that bring prosperity to our land.

For this, we owe you, those tasked with carrying out God’s holy mandate, a larger percentage of our income. May you enjoy the fruits of our labor and see them properly distributed to those special interest groups that support the evangelical right and move forward His great plan.

Sincerely,
Chris Andrews

So many terrible things are happening in the world right now, and there are two young adults out there trying to make sense of it all. My children.

How to live, what to hope for, whether to have a family. Will they ever own a house or have the means to purchase a car? Will they ever finish a college education that was once interrupted by the pandemic, and now by the need to work? Should they even contemplate these things?

“No, not right now,” I say.

It’s hard to formulate these words without my eyes full of tears, but they need to be said. So I suck it up because what my kids need right now is fortitude, not sadness, anger, or nostalgia. Fuck all this shit going down, I tell them. Absolutely fuck it. We have to keep going. We have to be clever and self-sufficient. We have to stay away from these people. They are clearly our enemies. They hurt the people we care about. They are sending our neighbors away. They are taking food away from children we know. They have taken a wrecking ball to our democracy and all we have known.

Believe what your gut is telling you, I say. Listen to the words being said. Do they sound right? If not, steer clear. You are not obligated to be kind or even polite. Those are their rules, not ours. You have permission to ignore them, to walk away, to remain silent. Find another companion for hiking to the top of the mountain. Enjoy your sandwich at the end of the dock, your feet in the water. But do not, under any circumstances, break bread with these people.

Above all, I say, do not squander your talent. Save it for people who know your worth and who deserve what you have to offer. Keep your money in your pocket if you’ve walked into the wrong place. Return that thing to the shelf, abandon the shopping cart, walk out of the store. Find it somewhere else, or maybe you don’t really need that thing, come to think of it.

The point: once you know you’re dealing with the wrong people, don’t fall in with them. Not financially, not emotionally, not spiritually.

Quietly divest them of power. Yours. When the good people they’ve always known quit doing business with them, and they are passed on the street without a hello or even a glance, they will start to understand. Or not.

It doesn’t really matter either way.

Just get on with your life, as it is. We’ll carve our own trail through this wilderness. Together.

A collection of Ellie’s paintings, Les Parfums de la Nuit, and Ben’s photos from the desert. Canvas prints available for all images. Profits go to some great Gen Zs. DM me if you have an interest.

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

Hey friends! Hope your holidays were a blast. Mine weren’t. Not going to lie — even though I should, as I know my cousin Amanda is reading this and will, no doubt, be reporting every gory detail back to my folks (who invite her over for dinner every Sunday night). Amanda’s parents died of lung cancer after decades of smoking two packs of Lucky Strikes a day, and they left her with nada. Pretty sure every last cent they had went to booze, cigarettes, and Taco Bell.

Not my problem.

My guess — Amanda is angling for a share of my parents’ estate. My share, to be exact.

I truly HATE partaking in this yearly holiday drama — so much so that I would happily relinquish the postmortem perks if it meant I never had to sit across the yuletide table from Uncle Ron ever again. Ron’s the one who, when I was 16, whispered in my ear: “You know… I can be really discreet.” He then rested his warm, greasy meat hook on my leg, well above the knee. You can bet that was the last time I wore a miniskirt to a family gathering. The really sick part: even after snitching on Ron, my stepmother insisted I give him a goodbye hug and thank him for the wildly inappropriate cubic zirconia tennis bracelet. His wife, by the way, got a Black & Decker Dustbuster.

Needless to say, after occasions like these, my preference would be to spend my holidays cuddling with a meth addict in a refrigerator box on the streets of San Francisco. Another year of breaking bread with my stepmother’s gun-toting relatives from Wauwatosa, or watching endless hours of football and FOX News with my MAGA father — I no longer have the stomach for it.

I know. Hate is a strong word. But it’s the right word. Per Urban Dictionary…

I hate the Birdwhistle family gatherings. I hate what MAGAs and their leader are doing to our country. I hate religion — every kind, though I have a special hatred for Unitarian-Universalists, Baptists, and Christian Reformed folks. If there was one word that summed up each of these groups, it would be SELF-RIGHTEOUS.

There’s a reason hubris is the worst of the seven deadly sins. Arrogant pride, be it individual or collective, opens the door to the notion that “God’s chosen people” are above reproach. NO ONE IS ABOVE REPROACH.

People who can’t see that are NotSees.

And American NotSees are flawed in exactly the same ways as the German Nazis we knew and despised. Today’s NotSees are primarily White, evangelical Christians who love throwing their weight around as if their so-called Christian “values” make them better and more deserving than everyone else on the planet. I think we can all agree they are full of shit.

My beef with the UUs is that they don’t stand for anything in their attempt to embrace everything. Sound like the current state of the Democratic Party? Yup. Lord Almighty, if there was ever a time to speak up, this would be it. And I’m not talking about over seafood at Scomo’s in Sausalito, with your girlfriends in their Eileen Fisher togs. I’m talking about starting a conversation at the gas pump, while you’re in line at the grocery store, at a town council meeting, or in a letter to the editor. Start that hard, awkward conversation. Yes, try to empathize, but more importantly, emphasize. Reality, that is. It is time to SPEAK the fuck UP.

Enough with the Kum Ba Yah. Give me some classic Woodie Guthrie with lyrics reworked perfectly for the present by Marc Nerenberg. CRANK IT.

Back to this holiday bullshit. I think I’ve made clear the origins of my Christougenniatikophobia and all my other holiday-related phobias: santaphobia, doronophobia, chionophobia, pyrophobia, and simbosiophobia. I love that you have to Google all of those words.

I hate Christmas decorations, pfeffernüsse, and gingerbread. I hate Dodge Rams and Tucker Carlson. I hate shopping and wrapping gifts, and I really hate holiday music, especially “Oh, Holy Night” and “Little Drummer Boy,” two favorites of my stepmother. Smacking my brother until he was fearfully cowering in a corner — this did not move our now-MAGA stepmother in any way, but Christmas tunes — ah, yes, those brought tears to her eyes.

So there you have it, all the things I hate about Christmas. I understand it may soon be a felony to diss Xmas, but ex post facto laws are still unconstitutional, so I’m hoping to be under the wire in airing my holiday grievances. I can well imagine our current Supreme Court allowing an exception in my case after Pam Bondi tries to indict me. I could be up for the death penalty or at minimum, life without parole.

The Mandatory Yuletide Cheer Act is slated to be at the top of Trump’s next pile of executive orders in early January and will likely be co-signed by Erika Kirk, who I’ve heard loves sitting on Santa’s lap in her shiny post-assassination black pleather mourning attire. JD looks to be filling Santa’s shoes, Charlie’s shoes, and those of 47. Erika would be his perfect running mate/sexual partner, don’t ya think? 🔥

By the way, here is, hands down, the best rendition of “Oh, Holy Night” out there. 👇🏼 You’ve got to listen all the way to the end. It’s excruciatingly good.

Despite all the bad stuff, this year’s Christmas festivities have, at a minimum, been interesting, if in a schadenfreude sort of way. The difficulties my fiscally challenged MAGA cousins have been experiencing confirm what even nematode worms know: we are, all of us, in deep shit — those who voted for the-bastard-who-shall-not-be-named, and those who long to see his death notice at the top of tomorrow’s news feed.

January, 2026, looks to be the month when many hard lessons will be learned. Very hard lessons. Americans are going to become familiar with what it’s like to spend half their income on health insurance and the balance on canned beans. To hell with beef and coffee being tariff-protected. Even if a few favorite food items cost less, it won't resolve the problem of skyrocketing food costs overall. No farmworkers + high tariffs on food from outside of the U.S. + overseas markets devastated by tariffs for farmers + thousands of truckers deported = high food costs and SHORTAGES.

Welcome to NotSee America. Hope y’all love Postum and powdered eggs. This is where we are headed.

And all of these rising costs and the tanking job market mean there’s not gonna be much money for car payments, insurance, rent, and utilities. Oops! Then, imagine cousin Rob’s underage girlfriend getting pregnant, and both of them are living in Texas. Gosh, Rob, that’s a tough one — Londa getting knocked up, and despite both of you being unemployed and her still legally a child, she will be forced (by law) to carry the baby to term. How will you afford diapers? A crib and a car seat? Food?

Guess what, all you NotSees in Mississippi, Louisiana, West Virginia, Arkansas, Alabama, Texas, Kentucky, and every other red state? Your man, 47, is cutting off your gravy train. Big time. No more SNAP, no more ACA, and vastly reduced Medicaid. No more housing and rental assistance, no more home energy efficiency programs, fewer educational grants and training programs for the underprivileged, and significant cuts to disability benefits. And for all you NotSees who hate libtards — where exactly do you imagine the money and resources come from that fuel your states’ social programs? BLUE STATES. Duh.

And guess what else? The MAJORITY of the food on your table is from California. That state you love to hate. Think on that, buddy.

Whenever I visit the fam in Michigan, I come away with a few insights. Also, a bad sinus infection from all that forced air heating and the 10% humidity in my bedroom at Granny’s house. If I’m there for the week, I have to start using Head and Shoulders as a body wash because my entire epidermis develops dandruff. And don’t bother styling your hair in the morning, because the minute you take off your Carhartt knit beanie after shoveling snow, well, you know what happens. Your hair — it’s a fucking joke. And if you’ve been eating beans (which all of us will be doing soon), the sparks could easily set off an explosion.

Thank god I now live in California, because, like wow, this state of Michigan is WHITE. I’m talking all white, at least the parts I’ve been visiting, namely Grand Rapids and western Michigan. I guess that didn’t really sink in when I was a kid, but now, after years away… holy shit. Upon exiting baggage claim at the Gerald R. Ford International Airport, I found myself suffering from photokeratitis, a sunburn on the cornea caused by intense ultraviolet rays reflecting off snow and the white skin of all those Dutch Reformed kids working the Enterprise parking lot. These Michigan folks — they seem super chill about living in an ethnic void, a galaxy free of brown people and the reality of the world outside of winter wonderland.

White, white, white, and Christian with a capital C. Pretty sure I was the only evangelical atheist sitting at Aunt Elaine’s Christmas dinner table this year.

While Granny was slaving over a hot stove making biscuits and gravy for the whole clan on Christmas Eve morning, I snuck over to Wesco to fill up my rental car and to get something, ANYTHING really, to eat that had less cholesterol and at least one leaf of iceberg lettuce. Didn’t score on the sandwich, but holy shit — gas was listed at $2.86 per gallon for regular. And this, in Saugatauk (or Sausage Tuck as the homophobic rednecks in Holland refer to it). Though Saugatauk is an affluent place, and most everything is priced comparably to the Northalsted neighborhood in Chicago (where much of the population resides during the winter months), the gas prices were incredibly low. Hell, I’d been paying $4.10 for regular in the SF Bay Area, and that was after the price had come down.

Everyone gassing their cars was feeling pretty damn cheerful, especially the MAGA dude with the Silverado 1500. He was blasting Whistlin’ Dixie while filling up his 28.3-gallon tank, enthusiastically chiming in with Randy Houser when his tab rolled to a stop at $76.02 on the pump display. Compared to November’s gas prices, Derek was saving $3.11. Merry Fucking Christmas.

For Derek, this new pricing works out to a savings of about $12.45 per month — the cost of a pack of Marlboros (with tax), or if Derek saved up for two months, he could score a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Thank you, 47.

The overall Western Michigan Wesco vibe: Trump was making good on his campaign promises. Fuck those libtards. All I could think was alrighty, gas prices are down, but what about every other fucking thing — the dehumanizing immigration policies, the military strikes in Venezuela, cutting off USAID without warning, the irresponsible public health changes, gun violence, the end of SNAP benefits, the soon-to-be unaffordable insurance premiums, the gutting of the Voting Rights Act, gerrymandering, burgeoning racial discrimination, cruelty toward the LGBTQ community, the decimation of Veterans’ healthcare, the erosion of women’s rights, and the end of public education as we know it.

I know. This is just the tip of the iceberg. Fuck.

But then there was Trump’s televised declaration on December 17 ☝️ about dramatically lower drug prices. Hey! Now there was some Christmas cheer for the masses, am I right? Trump purportedly reduced drug prices by “400, 500, and 600%.” His new policy: “It’s called Most Favored Nation, and no president has ever had the courage or ability to get this done until now.” Thus Spake Zarathustra.

Here’s how this new drug policy apparently works: instead of Granny paying $35/month for her insulin through Blue Cross Blue Shield, she will now be paid $175 for taking insulin. You heard that right.

Here’s the math, according to Sam Altman:

With all of Granny’s prescriptions taken into account — the statins, beta-blockers, calcium channel blockers, Omeprazole, Levotiroxine, and Daridorexant — it looks like Trump will be sending Granny a check for about $1432 per month. Well, fuck me. Turns out POTUS is the man!

I hate to say what I know many of you are already thinking… won’t some people start taking more medication just so they can make rent? Yes. They will.

This is where we’re at, friends. 2026 is looking to be a great year.

FYI, Rancho Gordo beans are to die for. Cheap food that is delicious and healthy.

by Kris Kringle

Greetings from the North Pole.

What a trip around the sun this has been. My gift to you: I’m sparing you a rehash of the year in politics. I fear that your getting retraumatised could lead to overimbibing at the punchbowl, and between the off-the-charts caloric content of eggnog, and the 146.4 proof Garrison Brothers Cowboy Bourbon that Uncle Ron slipped into the mix, you’ll either die from alcohol poisoning, or be curled up on the couch in the fetal position with severe cramps on account of your lactose intolerance.

What would be the purpose of rehashing all the terrible stuff that went down this year, when there is absolutely nothing you can do about it? Let it go, is what I say — we are all at the mercy of the MAGA tsunami. You know, and I know where this MAGA movement is headed — it’s gonna wipe out civilisation as we know it. Hell, it’s already wiped out civility.

My only suggestion is that if you’ve got any surgeries you’ve been putting off, try to pack those in before the New Year. It’ll save you from having to file for bankruptcy in 2026.

And, until this Trump-Project 2025 nightmare has passed, and it will, enjoy your Jelly-of-the-Month Club membership (which you’ll receive in lieu of health benefits and that bonus for your record sales in 2025), and stay close to family and friends, except maybe Ron and Elaine and their Klan. FYI, you’ve got my permission to tell the MAGA branch of your family to go fuck themselves and to retract their invitation to Christmas dinner.

Yes, 2026 is going to be a bitch, but for now, while you still have a wee bit of cash in the bank, try to chill. Splurge on the Ruffles potato chips and pre-made sour cream onion dip, and make yourself a gallon of dark chocolate peppermint kombucha to wash it down. Then, cue up every Vince Gilligan series and Coen Brothers movie on Netflix and binge-watch them before you have to renew your subscription on January 1. Trust me when I say you’re going to have to cancel a half dozen subscriptions for the coming year if you want to eat.

Here’s the deal… what we’re going through right now is not unlike what folks were experiencing in the late twenties under Herbert Hoover, right before the Stock Market Crash of 1929, which officially heralded in The Great Depression. There are striking similarities between the economic policies of Hoover and those of Trump, namely protectionism through high tariffs, blaming immigrants for economic woes, the optimistic denial of the impending financial crisis, and a cascade of significant job losses. What went down in 1929 — that is happening now.

For some perspective, here’s a letter I sent out in 1930:

Free Passes for Christmas 2025

I’m excusing some behaviors that in past years would have disqualified anyone from receiving their Big Ask:

🎄 Loudly expressing disgust with anyone in a MAGA hat, even at funerals.

🎄 Swearing profusely and often, except around children.

🎄 Cutting ties with family and friends who are racist, misogynistic bigots.

🎄 Completely ignoring Republicans who complain about shitty produce at the grocery store, not being able to afford chemotherapy, or being the victim of a World Liberty Financial scam.

🎄 Refusing to offer thoughts and prayers to MAGAs upset about the measles outbreak in their community.

🎄 Not holding the door for someone who is limping after doing (for the first time) all of their own yardwork, and/or if they are wearing a Charlie Kirk T-shirt.

🎄 Rolling your eyes when your MAGA neighbor cries about her estranged GenZ children and can’t understand why they’re not coming home for the holidays. Refer her to #nocontactfamily on TikTok for enlightenment.

🎄 Cruelly trolling Alpha Males on X.

🎄 Boycotting every business in town run by MAGAs and posting reviews with links to purchase similar products elsewhere (minus Amazon).

Here are some of the funniest wishes I got from folks this year:

Of course, every one of these assholes is getting a lump of coal. 🤣 FYI, if you’ve got similarly worthy recipients, know that Amazon has a great selection of festively wrapped coal, and with their expedited shipping, it can arrive in time for maximum disappointment, i.e., Christmas Eve.

I would LOVE to get a special letter from you, telling me exactly what you’d like this year. Use my comment section, please! And do respond to the survey below…

Susie Wiles may be tough as nails, but she’s also dumb as a rock. Now we have it on the record.

Vanity Fair delivers (once again) on what could be the story of the year: the complete evisceration of the Trump administration, using White House Chief of Staff Susie Wiles’s own words and observations.

Susie — supposedly a staunch Trump loyalist, puts it right out there, describing Trump as having “an alcoholic’s personality,” and criticizing Pam Bondi’s handling of the Epstein files, saying she completely “whiffed” influencers by giving them “binders full of nothingness,” and, “Then she said that the witness list, or the client list, was on her desk. There is no client list, and it sure as hell wasn’t on her desk.”

Know that this is just a teaser. This two-part series is the motherlode of schadenfreude, dished out by the president’s most inside insider.

Would love to let Sigmund have a go at analyzing this interview.

Susie Wiles obviously failed to make clear to writer Chris Whipple which of her comments should be off the record. It’s as if we’ve been invited to a life-drawing class, with Wiles as the nude model. She lays it bare in this series of interviews, conducted over the past year, each at a crisis point for the administration. Wiles may not have masterpiece-worthy curves, but it is really hard to look away as she exposes the gruesome ugliness of the Trump administration under unforgiving fluorescents.

Rounding out the interview is a series of carefully staged, yet highly unflattering and remarkably telling photos of Vance, Rubio, Leavitt, Miller, Scavino, Wiles, and Blair. Christopher Anderson’s photos will, no doubt, one day grace the pages of digital history books; they are that good. Rubio looks like the punching bag he is, the injection marks for the filler in Leavitt’s lips had not yet healed prior to the shoot, and Stephen Miller wears his slovenly paunch like a badge of honor. Wiles’s photos take the cake, however. She looks like she’s either posing for her photo ID as a psychiatric patient or that she’s had a really bad eyelift. Who to sue? Vanity Fair, her psychiatrist, or her plastic surgeon?

This 2-part series is a must-read. You’ll enjoy the spectacle of Susie Wiles stepping into junkyard dogshit over and over.

Here are the goods:

Part 1: Susie Wiles, JD Vance, and the “Junkyard Dogs”: The White House Chief of Staff on Trump’s Second Term

Part 2: Susie Wiles Talks Epstein Files, Pete Hegseth’s War Tactics, Retribution, and More

If you’ve not got a Vanity Fair subscription, get on it! Your contribution will help them prepare for the lawsuit we know is already in the works.