Oh to be a fly on the wall behind the scenes of one of Rick Perry's catastrophic debate performances. I actually was. Well, metaphorically speaking. I was working for a catering company serving the staffs of the various presidential candidates during the Fox News Google debate on September 22 in Orlando, Florida. I saw Rick Perry's campaign manager during the candidate's famous flip flop flub.
Rick Perry: "I think Americans just don't know sometimes which Mitt Romney they're dealing with. Is it the Mitt Romney that was on the side of against the Second Amendment before he was for the Second Amendment? Was it, was before he was before the social programs, from the standpoint of he was for standing up for Roe vs. Wade before he was against vs. Roe vs. Wade? He was for Race to the Top, he's for ObamaCare, and now he's against it. I mean, we'll wait until tomorrow and, and, and see which Mitt Romney we're really talking to tonight."
In a back room, after that monologue, Rick Perry's campaign manager raised his head, pumped his fist, and exclaimed, "Nailed it! Yee Haw!"
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Bills are 5-2
The Bills won 23-0 over the Racistskins today. The game was played in Toronto for no good reason. The Bills actually struggled, committing uncharacteristic turnovers and failing to score TDs when in the redzone far too often.
The Skins are just a terrible team and the Bills have enough firepower to overcome the poor performance. Fred Jackson was Mr. Everything. He ran on the ground effectively and also enhanced the passing game as a receiver. But the Bills have a bad habit of stalling in the second half when they have a big halftime lead. They become conservative on both sides of the ball. The Skins just didn't have anything in order to take advantage.
The Skins are just a terrible team and the Bills have enough firepower to overcome the poor performance. Fred Jackson was Mr. Everything. He ran on the ground effectively and also enhanced the passing game as a receiver. But the Bills have a bad habit of stalling in the second half when they have a big halftime lead. They become conservative on both sides of the ball. The Skins just didn't have anything in order to take advantage.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Camila Vallejo Speaks
Obviously, I've been writing a lot about the beautiful Chilean leader Camila Vallejo. Well, I received a letter from her recently that I would like to share with you.
Dear Proprietor of the H-Quack Times,
I respectfully request that you cease and desist in referring to any supposed interactions regarding the two of us. As far as I know, we have never met. You are clearly a fan of mine, and I appreciate the support, but I kindly ask you to choose other topics to write about. I am afraid that, judging from the recent work on your site, you have an obsession. Your constant posts imagining the two of us as some sort of romantic couple are very creepy and make me quite uncomfortable. Please stop. I sincerely appreciate your understanding.
Regards,
Camila
I'm going to have to get more creative in coming up with excuses to post pictures of her.
Dear Proprietor of the H-Quack Times,
I respectfully request that you cease and desist in referring to any supposed interactions regarding the two of us. As far as I know, we have never met. You are clearly a fan of mine, and I appreciate the support, but I kindly ask you to choose other topics to write about. I am afraid that, judging from the recent work on your site, you have an obsession. Your constant posts imagining the two of us as some sort of romantic couple are very creepy and make me quite uncomfortable. Please stop. I sincerely appreciate your understanding.
Regards,
Camila
I'm going to have to get more creative in coming up with excuses to post pictures of her.Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The End
Sitting outside of the Air and Space Museum, we were surrounded by a boisterous group protesting Obama's use of drones as a means of assassination. Despite the chaos around us, in our eyes, Camila and I were the only two people in the world. She, a Chilean communist leader with light angelic eyes and a round face that combined the cuteness of a three month old baby with the sexiness of an inmate's first nude woman in 26 years.
What attracted her to me, I cannot say. I can only presume. It could have been my leftist beard. It could have been my outrage at all injustice, no matter how slight. It could have been my sense of decency. It could have been my unapologetic bluntness. It could have been a physical attraction. Whatever it was, I was more concerned that it existed than why it existed.
We sat on a bench turned towards each other Her bent left leg on top of my my bent right leg, which was resting on the bench. Her right hand was in my left as a stroked her palm with my middle finger. My right hand continuously brushed her hair out of her face with the sole purpose of stroking her cheek. He left index finger and thumb fiddled with my right earlobe. Our eyes gorged on each other as if coming out of a three-week Gandhian fast.
I didn't dream of the future. I spent too much energy enjoying the present. There was none available to waste on analyzing our relationship. A week and half later, we were sitting across from each other at a restaurant, both seemingly ecstatic to be with the other. The bubbling of something more made its first appearance.
"Camila, you have the most beautiful eyes." Her cheeks grew pink. She titled her head and batted her eyelashes. "David, don't."
I was knocked off balance. 'Don't? Why not?' I thought. The conversation continued at such a pace that silence couldn't get in a word edgewise. We laughed, discussed serious topics, our families, our hopes. Everything seemed to be going wonderfully. At the end of the meal, we hugged passionately, our cheeks kissing each other before our lips took over. We vowed to meet again as soon as possible.
Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. "Hi Camila. I had a wonderful time with you the other night. Let's go out again this week. How about Wednesday? Give me a call when you get a chance." Two days later, I received a text. "Sure. 6:30 good?"
I had spent the previous two days slightly concerned. But all doubts melted away with that text. I could not contain my anticipation. At 4:30 on Wednesday, another text came. "Have to cancel. Sorry." Disappointment filled the gap in my heart where excitement had made its home.
I told myself that it was ok. Don't get too emotional with every interaction. Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. I left another message. Two days later, nothing. I waited a week and called again. No answer. Two days later, nothing. I texted. No response.
What had happened? I was confounded, dumbfounded, and brokenhearted. I thought she liked me. We had good chemistry. We enjoyed each other's company. We had a lot in common. Things seemed to be going well. Why all of the sudden? I didn't get it.
Over the next couple of months, I tried again here and there and either got a rejection or was ignored and finally decided to give up for good. I suppose the combination of not understanding what had happened and my imagination of what could have been forced me to try so much.
Stories tend to have happy endings or at least closure. But life cannot always be packaged neatly into a story. Life poses questions that will never be answered. We must accept that reality, learn what we can from our experiences, and move forward.
What attracted her to me, I cannot say. I can only presume. It could have been my leftist beard. It could have been my outrage at all injustice, no matter how slight. It could have been my sense of decency. It could have been my unapologetic bluntness. It could have been a physical attraction. Whatever it was, I was more concerned that it existed than why it existed.
We sat on a bench turned towards each other Her bent left leg on top of my my bent right leg, which was resting on the bench. Her right hand was in my left as a stroked her palm with my middle finger. My right hand continuously brushed her hair out of her face with the sole purpose of stroking her cheek. He left index finger and thumb fiddled with my right earlobe. Our eyes gorged on each other as if coming out of a three-week Gandhian fast.
I didn't dream of the future. I spent too much energy enjoying the present. There was none available to waste on analyzing our relationship. A week and half later, we were sitting across from each other at a restaurant, both seemingly ecstatic to be with the other. The bubbling of something more made its first appearance.
"Camila, you have the most beautiful eyes." Her cheeks grew pink. She titled her head and batted her eyelashes. "David, don't."
I was knocked off balance. 'Don't? Why not?' I thought. The conversation continued at such a pace that silence couldn't get in a word edgewise. We laughed, discussed serious topics, our families, our hopes. Everything seemed to be going wonderfully. At the end of the meal, we hugged passionately, our cheeks kissing each other before our lips took over. We vowed to meet again as soon as possible.Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. "Hi Camila. I had a wonderful time with you the other night. Let's go out again this week. How about Wednesday? Give me a call when you get a chance." Two days later, I received a text. "Sure. 6:30 good?"
I had spent the previous two days slightly concerned. But all doubts melted away with that text. I could not contain my anticipation. At 4:30 on Wednesday, another text came. "Have to cancel. Sorry." Disappointment filled the gap in my heart where excitement had made its home.
I told myself that it was ok. Don't get too emotional with every interaction. Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. I left another message. Two days later, nothing. I waited a week and called again. No answer. Two days later, nothing. I texted. No response.
What had happened? I was confounded, dumbfounded, and brokenhearted. I thought she liked me. We had good chemistry. We enjoyed each other's company. We had a lot in common. Things seemed to be going well. Why all of the sudden? I didn't get it.
Over the next couple of months, I tried again here and there and either got a rejection or was ignored and finally decided to give up for good. I suppose the combination of not understanding what had happened and my imagination of what could have been forced me to try so much.
Stories tend to have happy endings or at least closure. But life cannot always be packaged neatly into a story. Life poses questions that will never be answered. We must accept that reality, learn what we can from our experiences, and move forward.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The World Series So Far
Ron Washington has been out-managed by Tony La Russa so far. Twice, La Russa forced Washington's hand and both time the Cardinals came away with the lead.
Washington normally doesn't have to worry about what either team will do with the pitcher's spot, because for some inexplicable reason, the American League has a DH (longevity does not make it legitimate or logical).
In Game 1, La Russa bluffed by putting Carpenter in the on deck circle. As a result, Washington had his starter, Wilson, pitch around Punto. Wilson lost his control as a result. La Russa pulled Carpenter back and put up Craig. Washington felt he had to make a pitching move and Craig got the go-ahead RBI.
In Game 2, La Russa made the first move and sent up Craig for Garcia, who had pitched 7 scoreless innings. But the was St. Louis's only real chance to score. Despite the fact that Lewis had given up zero runs and four hits, Washington pulled him and brought in Ogando, who had given up the hit to Craig in Game 1. Pulling Lewis just because La Russa put in a pinch hitter made no sense. Bringing in the same guy who gave up the winning hit to the same hitter was stupid.
But Washington got away with it because his guys got a couple hits in the ninth and Pujols made that error. I don't think Washington is a bad manager. His ability to make decisions surrounding the pitcher's spot has atrophied because he doesn't normally have to do it. American League managers are by definition less capable than NL managers.
Washington normally doesn't have to worry about what either team will do with the pitcher's spot, because for some inexplicable reason, the American League has a DH (longevity does not make it legitimate or logical).
In Game 1, La Russa bluffed by putting Carpenter in the on deck circle. As a result, Washington had his starter, Wilson, pitch around Punto. Wilson lost his control as a result. La Russa pulled Carpenter back and put up Craig. Washington felt he had to make a pitching move and Craig got the go-ahead RBI.
In Game 2, La Russa made the first move and sent up Craig for Garcia, who had pitched 7 scoreless innings. But the was St. Louis's only real chance to score. Despite the fact that Lewis had given up zero runs and four hits, Washington pulled him and brought in Ogando, who had given up the hit to Craig in Game 1. Pulling Lewis just because La Russa put in a pinch hitter made no sense. Bringing in the same guy who gave up the winning hit to the same hitter was stupid.
But Washington got away with it because his guys got a couple hits in the ninth and Pujols made that error. I don't think Washington is a bad manager. His ability to make decisions surrounding the pitcher's spot has atrophied because he doesn't normally have to do it. American League managers are by definition less capable than NL managers.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 4, Part 2)
Read Episode 4, Part 1 here.
At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila Vallejo. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
The romance poured out of my pen as I dreamed of a world where the beautiful Chilean communist leader and myself were forever joined as one. Herman Cain, who was helping me write a romantic poem to my beloved Camila in order to enhance our relationship, read my poem off of the pizza box. He smirked and winked at me. "This is it."
Camila
Before the sun rose, I wandered the desert weak
Until a refreshing wind brushed against my cheek
At dawn, we reveled in each other's pleasure
As the day rolls on, we cement our future together
And if we find despair when our pale springs a leak
Remember, there will be valleys before we reach the peak
The desert is limited only by man's ability to measure
But a sip after a hard day in the heat is the greatest treasure
Should our water ever run dry one night and we are forced to part
I won't die of thirst, for every drop of you is stored in my heart.
"This poem would do the trick if she primarily speaks English. But remember David, Camila speaks Spanish. There is a wall separating Camila from your expression of love. So, we must tear down that wall by using Google translate to turn it into Spanish." My delight in having crafted a poem that I felt accurately expressed my love for Camila diminished. I fretted this confrontation. "But Mr. Cain, using Google translate might not give us the best translation."
"Do you have a better suggestion, niggahead? Do you want to ask one of your Spanish-speaking friends to translate this poem for Camila."
"No," I answered meekly. I showcased a defeated look.
"That is what I thought. Since no one else has a plan, I propose we implement my plan of using Google translate in order to turn your poem into Spanish and share it will Camila Vallejo." We left my room and found a computer in order to google "Google translate."
I wrote down the Spanish translation on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and mailed it to Camila. Three days later, she received the poem. She opened the envelope and began to read.
Camila
Antes de la salida del sol, recorrí el desierto débil
Hasta que un viento refrescante rozó mi mejilla
Al amanecer, nos deleitaba con los demás el placer
Como el día avanza, que el cemento nuestro futuro juntos
Y si nos encontramos con la desesperación cuando nuestros pálidos comienza a gotear
Recuerde, habrá valles antes de llegar a la mirada
El desierto está limitado sólo por la capacidad del hombre para medir
Pero un trago después de un día duro en el calor es el mayor tesoro
En caso de nuestras aguas vez se ha quedado una noche seca y nos vemos obligados a participar
No voy a morir de sed, por cada gota de que se almacena en mi corazón.
Camila came over that night. I opened the door covered in anticipation and there was Camila. "David, I got this poem from you. It makes no sense. Are you insulting the Spanish language with this?" My heart and stomach traded places. "No, well, Herman Cain, but, I didn't think, I mean, I know it is..." Camila glided closer to me and kissed me on my left cheek leaving it with a hint of moisture. "Say no more my love. Where is the English version of the poem?"
I fetched the English version and handed it to her. She eyed it and then clutched it to her chest. She pressed her lips gently against mine. We then made love in the foyer.
I called Herman Cain and told him what happened. He was on a bus tour of Tennessee for some reason. "Excellent," was all he had time to say.
I woke up. Sweat congregated around my forehead. Herman Cain had gained legitimacy in his run for the White House. Camila Vallejo was in Chile and had no inkling of my existence. I decided to return to my slumber and clutched my pillow. Underneath it was a piece of paper. The paper wore a poem written in beautiful foreign cursive. I read its title in bewilderment. The title read David.
At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila Vallejo. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
The romance poured out of my pen as I dreamed of a world where the beautiful Chilean communist leader and myself were forever joined as one. Herman Cain, who was helping me write a romantic poem to my beloved Camila in order to enhance our relationship, read my poem off of the pizza box. He smirked and winked at me. "This is it."
Camila
Before the sun rose, I wandered the desert weak
Until a refreshing wind brushed against my cheek
At dawn, we reveled in each other's pleasure
As the day rolls on, we cement our future together
And if we find despair when our pale springs a leak
Remember, there will be valleys before we reach the peak
The desert is limited only by man's ability to measure
But a sip after a hard day in the heat is the greatest treasure
Should our water ever run dry one night and we are forced to part
I won't die of thirst, for every drop of you is stored in my heart.
"This poem would do the trick if she primarily speaks English. But remember David, Camila speaks Spanish. There is a wall separating Camila from your expression of love. So, we must tear down that wall by using Google translate to turn it into Spanish." My delight in having crafted a poem that I felt accurately expressed my love for Camila diminished. I fretted this confrontation. "But Mr. Cain, using Google translate might not give us the best translation.""Do you have a better suggestion, niggahead? Do you want to ask one of your Spanish-speaking friends to translate this poem for Camila."
"No," I answered meekly. I showcased a defeated look.
"That is what I thought. Since no one else has a plan, I propose we implement my plan of using Google translate in order to turn your poem into Spanish and share it will Camila Vallejo." We left my room and found a computer in order to google "Google translate."
I wrote down the Spanish translation on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and mailed it to Camila. Three days later, she received the poem. She opened the envelope and began to read.
Camila
Antes de la salida del sol, recorrí el desierto débil
Hasta que un viento refrescante rozó mi mejilla
Al amanecer, nos deleitaba con los demás el placer
Como el día avanza, que el cemento nuestro futuro juntos
Y si nos encontramos con la desesperación cuando nuestros pálidos comienza a gotear
Recuerde, habrá valles antes de llegar a la mirada
El desierto está limitado sólo por la capacidad del hombre para medir
Pero un trago después de un día duro en el calor es el mayor tesoro
En caso de nuestras aguas vez se ha quedado una noche seca y nos vemos obligados a participar
No voy a morir de sed, por cada gota de que se almacena en mi corazón.
Camila came over that night. I opened the door covered in anticipation and there was Camila. "David, I got this poem from you. It makes no sense. Are you insulting the Spanish language with this?" My heart and stomach traded places. "No, well, Herman Cain, but, I didn't think, I mean, I know it is..." Camila glided closer to me and kissed me on my left cheek leaving it with a hint of moisture. "Say no more my love. Where is the English version of the poem?"
I fetched the English version and handed it to her. She eyed it and then clutched it to her chest. She pressed her lips gently against mine. We then made love in the foyer.
I called Herman Cain and told him what happened. He was on a bus tour of Tennessee for some reason. "Excellent," was all he had time to say.
I woke up. Sweat congregated around my forehead. Herman Cain had gained legitimacy in his run for the White House. Camila Vallejo was in Chile and had no inkling of my existence. I decided to return to my slumber and clutched my pillow. Underneath it was a piece of paper. The paper wore a poem written in beautiful foreign cursive. I read its title in bewilderment. The title read David.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 4, Part 1)
Here are Episode 1; Episode 2, Part 1 and Part 2; Episode 3, Part 1 and Part 2.
"Wake up, David." That familiar voice. It was Herman Cain, surely here to ask me to go on another mission with him. "What is it?" I mumbled without opening my eyes. "David, we must do something romantic in order to enhance your relationship with the Chilean communist, Camila Vallejo." I slowly opened my eyes and rubbed them, hoping that would bring me clarity. "But that was just a dream. Even if the relationship with the woman is just a dream, you still have to work on it?"
"Yes. You must work on all relationships with women, regardless of the circumstance. I propose that we write her a romantic poem. We must first write in English. But English is not her first language. So we must then use Google translate to turn it into Spanish so that she can get the full impact."
I realized there was no sense in arguing with Herman Cain. Plus, if it could help my relationship with the lovely Camila, all the better. Herman Cain took out a used pizza box from his briefcase and a pen. He began scribbling notes on the pizza box.
I was anxious to finish this latest mission and go back to sleep where being with Camila was far easier. "Mr. Cain, maybe we can write a Haiku. Here's one:
Since we became one,
My life has greater meaning.
I love you always.
Bam! Done." A smug satisfaction assumed control of my face.
Herman Cain frowned and shook his head as if to free his mustache from stubborn pizza crumbs. "No! Terrible." He leaned forward. "I only use one type of poetry. It is my 9-9-9 poetic form." The corners of my mouth succumbed to gravity. This wasn't going to be easy.
The 9-9-9 poetic form featured three lines of nine words each with the last word of each line rhyming.
"First, we need to get a picture of your beloved." That was easy enough as I slept with a picture of Camila every night. "Focus on what attracts you to her. Not just her physical beauty, but how you feel with her. How would you feel without her." I began writing on the pizza box,
You mean everything to me, a world without you
Would find me all alone. I feel electricity through
Me when we touch. Everyday with you is new.
Herman Cain examined the poem. "That is not good. It is too cliche." Frustration slapped me in the face. "This form is so stupid. You just made it up. It's too limiting. Sure it's simple, but simple is not always better. I mean, I'm not a poet to begin with. This was a bad idea from the start."
Herman Cain lent a disappointed smirk. "The problem with that analysis is that it is incorrect. But maybe my 9-9-9 poetic form is not for you. I am not attached to those numbers. We can try something else." I tried to keep my shock from exploding onto the surface but failed. Those numbers seemed to be the essence of his being. He was so willing to give in once he found the slightest push back.
He ripped up the canvas that held our notes and took out another used pizza box from his briefcase. "We need to set the mood." At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
Join us tomorrow as the poem for Camila is unveiled.
"Wake up, David." That familiar voice. It was Herman Cain, surely here to ask me to go on another mission with him. "What is it?" I mumbled without opening my eyes. "David, we must do something romantic in order to enhance your relationship with the Chilean communist, Camila Vallejo." I slowly opened my eyes and rubbed them, hoping that would bring me clarity. "But that was just a dream. Even if the relationship with the woman is just a dream, you still have to work on it?"
"Yes. You must work on all relationships with women, regardless of the circumstance. I propose that we write her a romantic poem. We must first write in English. But English is not her first language. So we must then use Google translate to turn it into Spanish so that she can get the full impact."
I realized there was no sense in arguing with Herman Cain. Plus, if it could help my relationship with the lovely Camila, all the better. Herman Cain took out a used pizza box from his briefcase and a pen. He began scribbling notes on the pizza box.
I was anxious to finish this latest mission and go back to sleep where being with Camila was far easier. "Mr. Cain, maybe we can write a Haiku. Here's one:
Since we became one,
My life has greater meaning.
I love you always.
Bam! Done." A smug satisfaction assumed control of my face.
Herman Cain frowned and shook his head as if to free his mustache from stubborn pizza crumbs. "No! Terrible." He leaned forward. "I only use one type of poetry. It is my 9-9-9 poetic form." The corners of my mouth succumbed to gravity. This wasn't going to be easy.
The 9-9-9 poetic form featured three lines of nine words each with the last word of each line rhyming.
"First, we need to get a picture of your beloved." That was easy enough as I slept with a picture of Camila every night. "Focus on what attracts you to her. Not just her physical beauty, but how you feel with her. How would you feel without her." I began writing on the pizza box,
You mean everything to me, a world without you
Would find me all alone. I feel electricity through
Me when we touch. Everyday with you is new.
Herman Cain examined the poem. "That is not good. It is too cliche." Frustration slapped me in the face. "This form is so stupid. You just made it up. It's too limiting. Sure it's simple, but simple is not always better. I mean, I'm not a poet to begin with. This was a bad idea from the start."Herman Cain lent a disappointed smirk. "The problem with that analysis is that it is incorrect. But maybe my 9-9-9 poetic form is not for you. I am not attached to those numbers. We can try something else." I tried to keep my shock from exploding onto the surface but failed. Those numbers seemed to be the essence of his being. He was so willing to give in once he found the slightest push back.
He ripped up the canvas that held our notes and took out another used pizza box from his briefcase. "We need to set the mood." At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
Join us tomorrow as the poem for Camila is unveiled.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 3, Part 2)
Read Episode 3 Part 1 here.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
"The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
We waited for Camila Vallejo to finish her meeting with Islam Karimov, the president of Uzbekistan. We had traveled to Chile in the heat of the presidential campaign because Herman Cain wanted to hook me up with my not-so-secret love, Camila, a famous Chilean student leader. Seconds turned to excruciating minutes. The more time rolled, the more anxiety rose inside of me.
Herman Cain could sense my uneasiness. "Listen niggahead, put your faith in Jesus. Everything will work out then." I looked at him cockeyed, "Mr. Cain, I'm Jewish. And you know that." Herman Cain shrugged. "Ah well. Things will probably work out anyway."
After nearly two hours of waiting, President Karimov left Camila's office. He gave both Herman Cain and I the stink eye in mid-stride and walked out of the building. Three minutes and 23 seconds later, she floated out of her office surrounded by an orange glow. Suddenly, the rest of the world disappeared and only Camila and I remained. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
I stood up, awkwardly, and attempted to speak. "Um. Cam, I mean um, Ms. Vallejo. I'm..." But she was preoccupied and paid me no mind. She asked her assistant a question, grabbed a black leather jacket, and turned. Then, our hazel eyes met for a fraction of a second. I froze. I was overcome by the moment. I lost sight of her as she walked out the door. I had missed my chance; I cursed myself.
I showed Herman Cain a frown. "I guess that's it. I blew it. Sorry to have wasted your time Mr. Cain. I really appreciate you..."
"Nonsense!" Cain stood up straight, his voice slow and booming. "You will win her yet. If you are truly meant to be together, love does not vanish after one missed chance. Come. We must plan."
Back at the hotel, Herman Cain and I were thinking of a way to set up a chance meeting with Camila Vallejo. He called his adviser, Rich Lowrie. Though an accountant by trade, Cain took his advice on everything, from economic policy to love. Lowrie promised he would think of something and call Cain back.
In a quiet moment in the hotel, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, I'm wondering about one thing. Why are you helping me fall in love with a communist? I thought you were a diehard capitalist through and through." Herman Cain gave the question some thought. "That woman is a communist? Hmm. Well, at least that's better than being a socialist." I decided not to follow up.
In some ways, being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is like being in a prison. Your thoughts are confined to that person. As much as you try, you can't break free and think about something else. You are trapped. Every minute away from the person is a minute wasted. And those minutes crawl as if they had no arms or legs. I was so close to Camila and yet, that closeness seemed only to intensify the heartache exponentially. I was about to give up hope and ask Herman Cain to take us back to America when the phone rang.
It was Rick Lowrie. Herman Cain answered. Apparently, he had recruited Sarah Palin to the cause and handed her the phone. Palin yelled into the phone loud enough for me to hear. "Herb, she's a communist. The only way to attract a communist is to shave your mustache like Hitler's because those communists are Nazis." My head sank. That was a terrible idea. I would soon be headed back to America and seemingly lasting loneliness.
A knock on the door startled me out of my sad stupor. Head down, I walked to the door and turned the knob. "Hola. Me llamo Camila." My jaw fell off. My eyes drifted upwards like a balloon. Stuttering soon supplanted my speechlessness. She smiled sheepishly, cocked her head to the side, and batted her eyes.
Perhaps 45 seconds later, I managed to spit out, "I... I... don't speak Spanish. I'm sorry." And my head fell. A hand brushed my left cheek. "It's ok." I lifted my head and our eyes met again. She grabbed both of my earlobes gently between her thumb and forefinger and tugged me closer. Then, our lips introduced themselves. They fit perfectly as if both sets had originally been crafted as one, like two parts of a broken charm reunited.
Our lips reluctantly parted and we were locked in each other's eyes. Finally, I managed to ask, "What just happened? How do you even..." Camila put her left index finger on my lips softly, lovingly. "When our eyes met. I couldn't forget your eyes. I have spent the past few days tracking you down. In that quest, I learned so much about you. My dream guy has always been a hirsute neurotic Jewish leftist who loves Rocky, Slurpees, and basketball." A smile covered my face like Obama's hand over the Mongolian president in a recent UN picture.
I looked over to Herman Cain, who was standing on the balcony still debating the merits of the Hitler mustache plan with Sarah Palin on the phone. I walked over and tapped the glass with Camila's hand in my own. I threw up my free thumb. Herman Cain winked and smiled.
I woke up in my bed alone, my only company a picture of Camila Vallejo printed out from the internet. Herman Cain was leading the national polls in the primary race. It appeared as if he had a real shot at becoming the Republican nominee for President of the United States.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
"The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
We waited for Camila Vallejo to finish her meeting with Islam Karimov, the president of Uzbekistan. We had traveled to Chile in the heat of the presidential campaign because Herman Cain wanted to hook me up with my not-so-secret love, Camila, a famous Chilean student leader. Seconds turned to excruciating minutes. The more time rolled, the more anxiety rose inside of me.
Herman Cain could sense my uneasiness. "Listen niggahead, put your faith in Jesus. Everything will work out then." I looked at him cockeyed, "Mr. Cain, I'm Jewish. And you know that." Herman Cain shrugged. "Ah well. Things will probably work out anyway."
After nearly two hours of waiting, President Karimov left Camila's office. He gave both Herman Cain and I the stink eye in mid-stride and walked out of the building. Three minutes and 23 seconds later, she floated out of her office surrounded by an orange glow. Suddenly, the rest of the world disappeared and only Camila and I remained. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
I stood up, awkwardly, and attempted to speak. "Um. Cam, I mean um, Ms. Vallejo. I'm..." But she was preoccupied and paid me no mind. She asked her assistant a question, grabbed a black leather jacket, and turned. Then, our hazel eyes met for a fraction of a second. I froze. I was overcome by the moment. I lost sight of her as she walked out the door. I had missed my chance; I cursed myself.I showed Herman Cain a frown. "I guess that's it. I blew it. Sorry to have wasted your time Mr. Cain. I really appreciate you..."
"Nonsense!" Cain stood up straight, his voice slow and booming. "You will win her yet. If you are truly meant to be together, love does not vanish after one missed chance. Come. We must plan."
Back at the hotel, Herman Cain and I were thinking of a way to set up a chance meeting with Camila Vallejo. He called his adviser, Rich Lowrie. Though an accountant by trade, Cain took his advice on everything, from economic policy to love. Lowrie promised he would think of something and call Cain back.
In a quiet moment in the hotel, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, I'm wondering about one thing. Why are you helping me fall in love with a communist? I thought you were a diehard capitalist through and through." Herman Cain gave the question some thought. "That woman is a communist? Hmm. Well, at least that's better than being a socialist." I decided not to follow up.
In some ways, being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is like being in a prison. Your thoughts are confined to that person. As much as you try, you can't break free and think about something else. You are trapped. Every minute away from the person is a minute wasted. And those minutes crawl as if they had no arms or legs. I was so close to Camila and yet, that closeness seemed only to intensify the heartache exponentially. I was about to give up hope and ask Herman Cain to take us back to America when the phone rang.
It was Rick Lowrie. Herman Cain answered. Apparently, he had recruited Sarah Palin to the cause and handed her the phone. Palin yelled into the phone loud enough for me to hear. "Herb, she's a communist. The only way to attract a communist is to shave your mustache like Hitler's because those communists are Nazis." My head sank. That was a terrible idea. I would soon be headed back to America and seemingly lasting loneliness.
A knock on the door startled me out of my sad stupor. Head down, I walked to the door and turned the knob. "Hola. Me llamo Camila." My jaw fell off. My eyes drifted upwards like a balloon. Stuttering soon supplanted my speechlessness. She smiled sheepishly, cocked her head to the side, and batted her eyes.
Perhaps 45 seconds later, I managed to spit out, "I... I... don't speak Spanish. I'm sorry." And my head fell. A hand brushed my left cheek. "It's ok." I lifted my head and our eyes met again. She grabbed both of my earlobes gently between her thumb and forefinger and tugged me closer. Then, our lips introduced themselves. They fit perfectly as if both sets had originally been crafted as one, like two parts of a broken charm reunited.
Our lips reluctantly parted and we were locked in each other's eyes. Finally, I managed to ask, "What just happened? How do you even..." Camila put her left index finger on my lips softly, lovingly. "When our eyes met. I couldn't forget your eyes. I have spent the past few days tracking you down. In that quest, I learned so much about you. My dream guy has always been a hirsute neurotic Jewish leftist who loves Rocky, Slurpees, and basketball." A smile covered my face like Obama's hand over the Mongolian president in a recent UN picture.
I looked over to Herman Cain, who was standing on the balcony still debating the merits of the Hitler mustache plan with Sarah Palin on the phone. I walked over and tapped the glass with Camila's hand in my own. I threw up my free thumb. Herman Cain winked and smiled.
I woke up in my bed alone, my only company a picture of Camila Vallejo printed out from the internet. Herman Cain was leading the national polls in the primary race. It appeared as if he had a real shot at becoming the Republican nominee for President of the United States.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Bills are 4-2
The Bills suffered their second loss of the season today. Both losses have been by three points with time running down in the game. Fred Jackson had a great game, by Fitzpatrick had his first subpar performance of the season.
The real problem again has been the defense's inability to come up with the big stop. Frankly, even in the Bills wins, it's been a late TD or FG that has been the difference most of the time. The defense has been able to force turnovers, which is generally more important than the number of yards given up. But the failure to stop opposing offenses in the fourth is a major problem, whcih likely speaks to a lack of depth. The Bills have a bye next week.
The real problem again has been the defense's inability to come up with the big stop. Frankly, even in the Bills wins, it's been a late TD or FG that has been the difference most of the time. The defense has been able to force turnovers, which is generally more important than the number of yards given up. But the failure to stop opposing offenses in the fourth is a major problem, whcih likely speaks to a lack of depth. The Bills have a bye next week.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Poor Larry Hopkins
Dewey Bozella is 52 years old. He spent 26 years in jail, convicted of a murder he did not commit. He is set to make his professional boxing debut in a matter of hours. No one is rooting against the cruiserweight, a victim of a horrific spell of injustice.
Bozella faces Larry Hopkins, who is from Houston and will turn 31 years old next month. Hopkins is 0-3, being KOed in all three of his pro bouts.
You couldn't imagine anyone rooting for Hopkins to do anything but hit the canvas for the ten count. Larry Hopkins hasn't done anything wrong but he could be Adolph Hitler and he'd still have the same number of fans tonight. Bozella's story is that transformative. He is a hero simply for moving on with his life despite what this country has done to him. He could wallow in self-pity; instead he fights.
But the real victim is Hopkins. He is a villain through no fault of his own. Even his own mother is rooting for Dewey Bozella tonight. She'll root for her son Larry on another night. This night belongs to Dewey Bozella.
Bozella faces Larry Hopkins, who is from Houston and will turn 31 years old next month. Hopkins is 0-3, being KOed in all three of his pro bouts.
You couldn't imagine anyone rooting for Hopkins to do anything but hit the canvas for the ten count. Larry Hopkins hasn't done anything wrong but he could be Adolph Hitler and he'd still have the same number of fans tonight. Bozella's story is that transformative. He is a hero simply for moving on with his life despite what this country has done to him. He could wallow in self-pity; instead he fights.
But the real victim is Hopkins. He is a villain through no fault of his own. Even his own mother is rooting for Dewey Bozella tonight. She'll root for her son Larry on another night. This night belongs to Dewey Bozella.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 3, Part 1)
"Wake up, David. We have a new mission." My pupils rolled underneath my closed eye lids. The novelty of going on extraordinary missions with Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain was wearing off. "David, it is based on the Chilean model."
My eyes popped open and my head jumped off the pillow. "Wait. You haven't even told me the mission yet and the solution is already based on the Chilean model?" I thought aloud.
"No. The mission is based on the Chilean model. You are not-so-secretly in love with the student leader Camila Vallejo, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, she is Chilean and she is as attractive as a model, true?"
"True."
"Our mission is to join you and Camila in a romantic relationship. So, our mission is based on the Chilean model."
"Good point."
Herman Cain continued, "And I know you were dreaming about her." My face displayed confusion. Cain spoke, "Because your weewee is sticking out of your underwear and it is very very hard." My face turned the color of a poor man's bank statement under a President Cain. I quickly covered my genitalia.
"Listen niggahead, to bring you and Camila together, we must find her phone number so you can call her." Apprehension rained down on me. "But Mr. Cain, even if we get her number, we don't know if she speaks English and I don't speak Spanish. Plus, I'm not very smooth on the phone. She's an internationally known heartthrob; I write snarky stories that nobody reads about dreams I've had."
"Nonsense! The key to a woman's heart is to believe that you deserve it. You will win her. We simply need to find her digits."
I got dressed and I rode shotgun as Herman Cain drove us to the airport. We flew to Santiago. On the flight, Herman Cain continuously called over the flight attendant. She was pretty if I may say so. Her sun blond hair rested against her snow colored skin. Her rump stuck out like a black man at a GOP debate. Cain would whisper in her ear and she would whisper back in his. I cringed at the hypocrisy of it. Herman Cain preached morality, but was flirting with this flight attendant.
Midway through the flight, I leaned over to hear the whispers. Herman Cain was not flirting with the flight attendant after all. He was complaining about the other passengers, asking the flight attendant if they were Muslims and then declaring that he felt uncomfortable with the other passengers on the plane. The flight attendant tried to ease a concerned Herman Cain by stating that most Chileans were Christian, not Muslim. I suppose she should have been arguing that flying with a plane full of Muslims shouldn't cause concern either, but the flight attendant was doing her best in dealing with Herman Cain's irrationality.
We checked into a hotel in Santiago and opened the phonebook looking for Camila Vallejo. We couldn't find her number listed. As day turned to night, I dug up the courage to ask Herman Cain something that had been weighing on me this entire mission.
"Mr. Cain? Why are you going through all of this trouble to help me? I mean, this excursion has taken you away from the presidential campaign just as things are heating up. You're losing precious time." Herman Cain smiled as wide as a hungry man who has just smelled a pizza. "Because you my niggahead. I always stand up for my niggaheads. We niggaheads need to stick together."
I gave a shrug of acceptance, but then added, "But Mr. Cain, I'm not black."
"Why does it always have to be about race with you liberals? You are my niggahead. It is not about black or white." Silence slammed into the room as we readied ourselves for sleep so we could attempt to find the lovely Camila Vallejo the next day.
The following day, we rose early. We took a different tack. We took our search to the people. We put it in simple language. In clear, slow, and loud English, Herman Cain approached every potential source by saying, "Hello, I am Herman Cain. I am looking for Camila Vallejo's phone number so that she can fall in love with this gentleman here."
After a day of fruitless searching, we found someone to divulge her number. Of course, her phone number was 999-999-9999. I asked myself, what were the odds, 'About 1 in 9,999,999,999 I suppose,' I answered silently.
It was too late to call her, so we waited until the next morning. I called and her assistant picked up. "Sorry, she's in a meeting with the president of Uzbekistan for some reason." I whispered the information to Herman Cain and he told me to ask where the office was located. We got the information and set off.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
Join us again for the stunning conclusion.
My eyes popped open and my head jumped off the pillow. "Wait. You haven't even told me the mission yet and the solution is already based on the Chilean model?" I thought aloud.
"No. The mission is based on the Chilean model. You are not-so-secretly in love with the student leader Camila Vallejo, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, she is Chilean and she is as attractive as a model, true?"
"True."
"Our mission is to join you and Camila in a romantic relationship. So, our mission is based on the Chilean model."
"Good point."
Herman Cain continued, "And I know you were dreaming about her." My face displayed confusion. Cain spoke, "Because your weewee is sticking out of your underwear and it is very very hard." My face turned the color of a poor man's bank statement under a President Cain. I quickly covered my genitalia.
"Listen niggahead, to bring you and Camila together, we must find her phone number so you can call her." Apprehension rained down on me. "But Mr. Cain, even if we get her number, we don't know if she speaks English and I don't speak Spanish. Plus, I'm not very smooth on the phone. She's an internationally known heartthrob; I write snarky stories that nobody reads about dreams I've had.""Nonsense! The key to a woman's heart is to believe that you deserve it. You will win her. We simply need to find her digits."
I got dressed and I rode shotgun as Herman Cain drove us to the airport. We flew to Santiago. On the flight, Herman Cain continuously called over the flight attendant. She was pretty if I may say so. Her sun blond hair rested against her snow colored skin. Her rump stuck out like a black man at a GOP debate. Cain would whisper in her ear and she would whisper back in his. I cringed at the hypocrisy of it. Herman Cain preached morality, but was flirting with this flight attendant.
Midway through the flight, I leaned over to hear the whispers. Herman Cain was not flirting with the flight attendant after all. He was complaining about the other passengers, asking the flight attendant if they were Muslims and then declaring that he felt uncomfortable with the other passengers on the plane. The flight attendant tried to ease a concerned Herman Cain by stating that most Chileans were Christian, not Muslim. I suppose she should have been arguing that flying with a plane full of Muslims shouldn't cause concern either, but the flight attendant was doing her best in dealing with Herman Cain's irrationality.
We checked into a hotel in Santiago and opened the phonebook looking for Camila Vallejo. We couldn't find her number listed. As day turned to night, I dug up the courage to ask Herman Cain something that had been weighing on me this entire mission.
"Mr. Cain? Why are you going through all of this trouble to help me? I mean, this excursion has taken you away from the presidential campaign just as things are heating up. You're losing precious time." Herman Cain smiled as wide as a hungry man who has just smelled a pizza. "Because you my niggahead. I always stand up for my niggaheads. We niggaheads need to stick together."
I gave a shrug of acceptance, but then added, "But Mr. Cain, I'm not black."
"Why does it always have to be about race with you liberals? You are my niggahead. It is not about black or white." Silence slammed into the room as we readied ourselves for sleep so we could attempt to find the lovely Camila Vallejo the next day.
The following day, we rose early. We took a different tack. We took our search to the people. We put it in simple language. In clear, slow, and loud English, Herman Cain approached every potential source by saying, "Hello, I am Herman Cain. I am looking for Camila Vallejo's phone number so that she can fall in love with this gentleman here."
After a day of fruitless searching, we found someone to divulge her number. Of course, her phone number was 999-999-9999. I asked myself, what were the odds, 'About 1 in 9,999,999,999 I suppose,' I answered silently.
It was too late to call her, so we waited until the next morning. I called and her assistant picked up. "Sorry, she's in a meeting with the president of Uzbekistan for some reason." I whispered the information to Herman Cain and he told me to ask where the office was located. We got the information and set off.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
Join us again for the stunning conclusion.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
An Old Love is Punished
In May 2008, Yulia Tymoshenko and I had a fling, which ended badly. Now, Yulia has received a seven year jail sentence in Ukraine, a move widely seen as reversing the gains of the Orange Revolution.
I wanted her so bad. I have come to realize that it wasn't meant to be. My life is better because we are not together. And yet, whenever I see her face, those old love pangs resurface. Her face reminds me of the perfection I saw in her. It reminds me of the happiness I envisioned being with her. Emotions that I will never experience with her. Perhaps I never could.
Now, I have a new love. The Chilean communist student leader, Camila Vallejo. That love is merely in its early stages, so I won't go into detail just yet.
Part of me is sad that Yulia, a person I once loved, is in this position. But there is another, perhaps darker, side that feels this sentence is karma for breaking my heart. I always tried to be there for her. I put myself out there for her. I saw my future in her eyes. And she couldn't accept my vulnerability. She saw what I view as my best qualities and used them against me.
She said I never listened to her. I never stood up for myself. I was too negative. These all seemed like excuses to cast me aside because being with me would force her to open herself up. She was not able to show that same vulnerability to me.
I wanted her so bad. I have come to realize that it wasn't meant to be. My life is better because we are not together. And yet, whenever I see her face, those old love pangs resurface. Her face reminds me of the perfection I saw in her. It reminds me of the happiness I envisioned being with her. Emotions that I will never experience with her. Perhaps I never could.Now, I have a new love. The Chilean communist student leader, Camila Vallejo. That love is merely in its early stages, so I won't go into detail just yet.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 2, Part 2)
Read Episode 2 Part 1 here.
On the plane, Herman Cain began drinking. He looked at me red eyed and spouted, "Listen niggahead, I like you, you're alright," and winked at me. I feigned a smile. I've always felt uncomfortable around drunk people.
Herman Cain slept off the liquor and woke up sober when we arrived in Boise, Idaho. There we were going to start the process of implementing Herman Cain's Nein-Nein-Nein Plan in order to halt the epidemic of evangelicals converting to Judaism, thus giving my arch-nemesis- former Jewish parody rapper turned Jew-for-Jesus singer- 50 Shekel increasing power.
We opened a new fast food restaurant in Boise. We called it McDonawitz's. Herman Cain took care of the restaurant part of it; I took care of the Jewish part of it. Our big hit was the McRibawitz, a boneless rib sandwich made entirely of pork and iceberg lettuce. We also served the Hamboygeh, which was a pork hamburger. For breakfast, we offered bacon and sausage on a bagel sandwiches called McBagelwitzes. You could get a chappy meal for your kid that included a mini pork chop sandwich with a dreidel and gelt.
The new Jews of Boise ate it up, quite literally. We gave half-price specials on Friday nights and Saturdays through GroupOn, so most of the Jewish converts of Boise would be eating their pork products from McDonawitz's and watching the new channel, Jewish Entertainment Television or JET (we just couldn't think of a word that started with W that made sense. We really tried). Jackie Mason marathons ran from sundown on Friday until sundown Saturday, ensuring that no Jew in Boise honored Shabbat; they were too busy watching television.
We had implemented two parts of Herman Cain's plan and it was working swimmingly. But we still needed to get sexy people to move to the community so that these converted Jews would covet thy neighbors.
"David, I just can't think of a way to lure attractive people to Boise," Herman Cain was pensive, "Can you, my niggahead?" He always smiled when he used that last word. It was freeing to him. But it made me uneasy. I tried to ignore it. I told myself that Herman Cain has every right to use that word. He's not using it in a derogatory way. I shouldn't let it bother me.
"I can't think of anything either." Herman Cain leaned forward and put his arm around my shoulders, "Niggahead, we gotsta think of something." I felt I should confront Herman Cain and ask him to stop using that word. But did I have the right to? I was focusing more on that word than on trying to solve our problem. I was consumed by the ugliness of the word. Through use of it, Herman Cain held all of the power. I decided something needed to be said.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cain?"
"Yes, niggahead?"
"I was wondering if you could stop saying that word. It makes me uncomfortable."
"What word is that, David?"
"Um. Well. Uh. The name of Rick Perry's hunting grounds."
Herman Cain's face lit up. A smirk covered it entirely. "I know that you are refraining from saying that word," he began, "So I am going to say what the word was. The name of the place was called Niggahead." The last word rolled off his tongue with the ease of first grade math.
"Yes, that's the word. It makes me uncomfortable." Herman Cain set his eyes on me for what felt like days. Then, suddenly, he shrugged and said, "Whateva, niggahead."
With that "settled," we went back to thinking of a way to attract those sexy potential neighbors to Boise. It was Herman Cain who finally came up with the idea. "I have a plan. It is based on the Chilean model." Again with the Chilean model, I thought. "We create an ad with your face on it, David, claiming that you are looking for that special woman and you live in Boise. The sexy women will flood into town." I thought about his plan and wondered how that was possibly "based on Chilean model." Maybe Herman Cain just thought "the Chilean model" was a figure of speech.
"It's a good plan. It can't fail. Every sexy woman wants to be with me and is willing to uproot their life to have that chance. But one problem Mr. Cain. How do we attract sexy men? We want the women converts to covet their neighbors too."
"Ah niggahead, good point. I have got it covered. When the sexy women move to Boise, naturally sexy men will follow."
Everything worked just as we had hoped. Sexy women and then sexy men moved to town. Soon, neighbors were being coveted like the fat kid on a desert island after the food supply has run out. Between the all-pork diet, the eschewing Shabbat for Jackie Mason marathons, and the coveting, the Jewish converts of Boise were losing their link to Judaism.
But 50 Shekel still had a number of other communities within his orbit. We were far from finished. So we assembled a team of economic experts. It was a secret team; we didn't tell anybody who was a member of the team, but there was a team. It existed. I'm telling you, there was a team of economic experts. The team, which existed, devised a plan to mimic our Boise escapade in such places such as Galveston, Texas, Charleston, South Carolina, and Tallahasee, Florida.
Soon McDonawitz's was the fastest growing restaurant in the nation. JET was the highest-rated television station on Friday nights. And the covet-worthy people of America were concentrated in a few pockets across the country. There was a mass wave of re-conversions. 50 Shekel's power base had been smashed.
I woke up drenched in my own semen. 50 Shekel, who continued to put out shitty music, was still irrelevant and always had been. Herman Cain's prospects for the White House, however, were still very real.
On the plane, Herman Cain began drinking. He looked at me red eyed and spouted, "Listen niggahead, I like you, you're alright," and winked at me. I feigned a smile. I've always felt uncomfortable around drunk people.
Herman Cain slept off the liquor and woke up sober when we arrived in Boise, Idaho. There we were going to start the process of implementing Herman Cain's Nein-Nein-Nein Plan in order to halt the epidemic of evangelicals converting to Judaism, thus giving my arch-nemesis- former Jewish parody rapper turned Jew-for-Jesus singer- 50 Shekel increasing power.
We opened a new fast food restaurant in Boise. We called it McDonawitz's. Herman Cain took care of the restaurant part of it; I took care of the Jewish part of it. Our big hit was the McRibawitz, a boneless rib sandwich made entirely of pork and iceberg lettuce. We also served the Hamboygeh, which was a pork hamburger. For breakfast, we offered bacon and sausage on a bagel sandwiches called McBagelwitzes. You could get a chappy meal for your kid that included a mini pork chop sandwich with a dreidel and gelt.
The new Jews of Boise ate it up, quite literally. We gave half-price specials on Friday nights and Saturdays through GroupOn, so most of the Jewish converts of Boise would be eating their pork products from McDonawitz's and watching the new channel, Jewish Entertainment Television or JET (we just couldn't think of a word that started with W that made sense. We really tried). Jackie Mason marathons ran from sundown on Friday until sundown Saturday, ensuring that no Jew in Boise honored Shabbat; they were too busy watching television.
We had implemented two parts of Herman Cain's plan and it was working swimmingly. But we still needed to get sexy people to move to the community so that these converted Jews would covet thy neighbors.
"David, I just can't think of a way to lure attractive people to Boise," Herman Cain was pensive, "Can you, my niggahead?" He always smiled when he used that last word. It was freeing to him. But it made me uneasy. I tried to ignore it. I told myself that Herman Cain has every right to use that word. He's not using it in a derogatory way. I shouldn't let it bother me.
"I can't think of anything either." Herman Cain leaned forward and put his arm around my shoulders, "Niggahead, we gotsta think of something." I felt I should confront Herman Cain and ask him to stop using that word. But did I have the right to? I was focusing more on that word than on trying to solve our problem. I was consumed by the ugliness of the word. Through use of it, Herman Cain held all of the power. I decided something needed to be said.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cain?"
"Yes, niggahead?"
"I was wondering if you could stop saying that word. It makes me uncomfortable."
"What word is that, David?"
"Um. Well. Uh. The name of Rick Perry's hunting grounds."
Herman Cain's face lit up. A smirk covered it entirely. "I know that you are refraining from saying that word," he began, "So I am going to say what the word was. The name of the place was called Niggahead." The last word rolled off his tongue with the ease of first grade math.
"Yes, that's the word. It makes me uncomfortable." Herman Cain set his eyes on me for what felt like days. Then, suddenly, he shrugged and said, "Whateva, niggahead."
With that "settled," we went back to thinking of a way to attract those sexy potential neighbors to Boise. It was Herman Cain who finally came up with the idea. "I have a plan. It is based on the Chilean model." Again with the Chilean model, I thought. "We create an ad with your face on it, David, claiming that you are looking for that special woman and you live in Boise. The sexy women will flood into town." I thought about his plan and wondered how that was possibly "based on Chilean model." Maybe Herman Cain just thought "the Chilean model" was a figure of speech.
"It's a good plan. It can't fail. Every sexy woman wants to be with me and is willing to uproot their life to have that chance. But one problem Mr. Cain. How do we attract sexy men? We want the women converts to covet their neighbors too."
"Ah niggahead, good point. I have got it covered. When the sexy women move to Boise, naturally sexy men will follow."
Everything worked just as we had hoped. Sexy women and then sexy men moved to town. Soon, neighbors were being coveted like the fat kid on a desert island after the food supply has run out. Between the all-pork diet, the eschewing Shabbat for Jackie Mason marathons, and the coveting, the Jewish converts of Boise were losing their link to Judaism.
But 50 Shekel still had a number of other communities within his orbit. We were far from finished. So we assembled a team of economic experts. It was a secret team; we didn't tell anybody who was a member of the team, but there was a team. It existed. I'm telling you, there was a team of economic experts. The team, which existed, devised a plan to mimic our Boise escapade in such places such as Galveston, Texas, Charleston, South Carolina, and Tallahasee, Florida.
Soon McDonawitz's was the fastest growing restaurant in the nation. JET was the highest-rated television station on Friday nights. And the covet-worthy people of America were concentrated in a few pockets across the country. There was a mass wave of re-conversions. 50 Shekel's power base had been smashed.
I woke up drenched in my own semen. 50 Shekel, who continued to put out shitty music, was still irrelevant and always had been. Herman Cain's prospects for the White House, however, were still very real.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 2, Part 1)
Read Episode 1 here.
"David, wake up. We have another mission to complete." That familiar voice. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew it was Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain. "What is it, Mr. Cain?" I responded in that aggravated yet resigned way that people offer when they know they have to get up but would rather stay asleep.
Herman Cain spoke in his customary halted manner, focusing intently on every syllable, "David, we need to stop 50 Shekel from taking over the world." 50 Shekel was a former Jewish parody rapper turned Jew-for-Jesus singer.
Since Jesus was apparently Jewish, there had been a revival of interest in Judaism among evangelicals. In fact, many had been converting to Judaism, but maintaining Jesus as their messiah. This gathering movement sought out 50 Shekel and anointed him as their leader.
"David, we must stop him." It made a lot more sense that I was involved in this mission than in the Bosnian diplomas one. I hated 50 Shekel. He was my arch-enemy. I disliked the hypocrisy of his claiming to be a Jew-for-Jesus- particularly after previously asserting his pride in being Jewish- for a Jew, by definition, does not accept Jesus as lord. 50 Shekel had also once called me a terrorist. But more than anything, I hated him because he was a really shitty musician.
"You're right, Mr. Cain, what's the plan?" Herman Cain straighten up from his hunched position over me still lying in my bed and stared straight ahead, which was about three feet over me, as if about to give a great visionary speech. "How do you stop a Jew? You must think like a German. That is why I will implement my Nein-Nein-Nein Plan." I wanted to stop 50 Shekel because he was attempting to change the very essence of being Jewish. I abhorred the Jesus part. Herman Cain despised the Jewish part. But we had a common goal and I saw value in working together.
As I got dressed and Herman Cain drove us to the airport, he explained the essentials of his Nein-Nein-Nein Plan. Jews could not eat pork, use electricity during Shabbat, and covet their neighbors. They had to say "no" to each of those things. If we could make that difficult, people might start abandoning their Judaism. They were converts and did not have history or ethnicity to fall back on. All they had was their religious belief. If we could break that, we could stop the wave of evangelical conversions to Judaism and break 50 Shekel's power base.
We needed to find a few select and influential communities and flood them with pork-only restaurants, fill the television stations with Jackie Mason marathons during Shabbat, and move in sexy neighbors. It would be a challenge, and the plan didn't make much sense, but on three and half hours of sleep it seemed like the only thing we could do.
On the plane, Herman Cain began drinking. He looked at me red eyed and spouted, "Listen niggahead, I like you, you're alright," and winked at me.
Part 2
"David, wake up. We have another mission to complete." That familiar voice. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew it was Republican presidential candidate Herman Cain. "What is it, Mr. Cain?" I responded in that aggravated yet resigned way that people offer when they know they have to get up but would rather stay asleep.
Herman Cain spoke in his customary halted manner, focusing intently on every syllable, "David, we need to stop 50 Shekel from taking over the world." 50 Shekel was a former Jewish parody rapper turned Jew-for-Jesus singer.
Since Jesus was apparently Jewish, there had been a revival of interest in Judaism among evangelicals. In fact, many had been converting to Judaism, but maintaining Jesus as their messiah. This gathering movement sought out 50 Shekel and anointed him as their leader.
"David, we must stop him." It made a lot more sense that I was involved in this mission than in the Bosnian diplomas one. I hated 50 Shekel. He was my arch-enemy. I disliked the hypocrisy of his claiming to be a Jew-for-Jesus- particularly after previously asserting his pride in being Jewish- for a Jew, by definition, does not accept Jesus as lord. 50 Shekel had also once called me a terrorist. But more than anything, I hated him because he was a really shitty musician.
"You're right, Mr. Cain, what's the plan?" Herman Cain straighten up from his hunched position over me still lying in my bed and stared straight ahead, which was about three feet over me, as if about to give a great visionary speech. "How do you stop a Jew? You must think like a German. That is why I will implement my Nein-Nein-Nein Plan." I wanted to stop 50 Shekel because he was attempting to change the very essence of being Jewish. I abhorred the Jesus part. Herman Cain despised the Jewish part. But we had a common goal and I saw value in working together.
As I got dressed and Herman Cain drove us to the airport, he explained the essentials of his Nein-Nein-Nein Plan. Jews could not eat pork, use electricity during Shabbat, and covet their neighbors. They had to say "no" to each of those things. If we could make that difficult, people might start abandoning their Judaism. They were converts and did not have history or ethnicity to fall back on. All they had was their religious belief. If we could break that, we could stop the wave of evangelical conversions to Judaism and break 50 Shekel's power base.
We needed to find a few select and influential communities and flood them with pork-only restaurants, fill the television stations with Jackie Mason marathons during Shabbat, and move in sexy neighbors. It would be a challenge, and the plan didn't make much sense, but on three and half hours of sleep it seemed like the only thing we could do.
On the plane, Herman Cain began drinking. He looked at me red eyed and spouted, "Listen niggahead, I like you, you're alright," and winked at me.
Part 2
Sunday, October 09, 2011
The Bills are 4-1
The main problem the Philadelphia Eagles had today was that they tried to circle the wagon. And we all know that no one circles the wagons like the Buffalo Bills!
The Bills offense is impressive. One weakness is that the offense goes into a shell in the fourth quarter when the team once had a big lead in the game. That wasn't the case against Kansas City in week 1, but it has been the past two weeks.
The defense gives up a lot of yards. It's not a bend-but-don't-break defense because it gives up a lot of points too. But it creates a lot of turnovers which makes up for other deficiencies, particularly with such a potent offense.
The 2011 Bills remind me of the Super Bowl Bills to some degree. Those teams also gave up a lot of yards yet created turnovers. This year features a semi-hurry up offense and is pass-first, utilizing the RB in the air. But both teams could run well when needed. Both teams were solid on special teams.
One difference is the privileged draft position the early '90s crew came from. This year's version includes castoffs and passed-ons. We'll see if this year's team can reach a similar amount of success as the glory teams of the past.
The Bills offense is impressive. One weakness is that the offense goes into a shell in the fourth quarter when the team once had a big lead in the game. That wasn't the case against Kansas City in week 1, but it has been the past two weeks.
The defense gives up a lot of yards. It's not a bend-but-don't-break defense because it gives up a lot of points too. But it creates a lot of turnovers which makes up for other deficiencies, particularly with such a potent offense.
The 2011 Bills remind me of the Super Bowl Bills to some degree. Those teams also gave up a lot of yards yet created turnovers. This year features a semi-hurry up offense and is pass-first, utilizing the RB in the air. But both teams could run well when needed. Both teams were solid on special teams.
One difference is the privileged draft position the early '90s crew came from. This year's version includes castoffs and passed-ons. We'll see if this year's team can reach a similar amount of success as the glory teams of the past.
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 1)
"David, wake up! We have to go. Now!" My eyes opened, but my mind was still half-closed, trying to make sense of the words in a sleep-induced haze. The reflection of light cascaded off of a black man's bald head. The man was hunched over me, his glasses hanging precariously on his nose. He had a full black mustache and a look of urgency on his distinguished face.
I wiped the crust out of my eyes in an effort to stall and allow my brain to clear itself of the dust. When I opened my eyes again, the man became more than his mere features. It was Herman Cain, Republican presidential candidate.
"David, we have to go. We need to get these diplomas to displaced Bosnians so they can make a life for themselves abroad after the war is over. I have a plan- I am the only one of us with a plan- but we have to go now." My confusion wafted back across my mind. All I could muster was a timid, "What year is it?"
"It is 1992. We must go now."
On the plane ride over to Sarajevo, Herman Cain explained the details to me. He had a backpack filled with BAs, BSs, MAs, MSs, Phds, and MDs. We needed to get them to their rightful owners. Bosnia had become a hopeless war-torn land. Its educated citizens were hoping to emigrate and needed their degrees in order to prove their worth in their new nations.
As we landed in Sarajevo, I heard gunfire aimed at our plane. The danger of what I was entering flooded into my blood. Herman Cain saw my fright and looked over to me with a reassuring smile. "Relax. I have a plan. It is a good plan."
"What is it?"
"It is based on the Chilean model. We will look in the phone book for the names on these diplomas. These people will likely not be home. So we will try to call their relatives and neighbors to locate their whereabouts and then return their diplomas to them." It didn't seem like much of a plan, but the uncertainty and illogic of war left me too petrified to think of anything better.
"Mr. Cain, I have one question?"
"Yes, what is it?" Cain asked in his usual upbeat and fragmented manner.
"I thought you hated Muslims. Didn't you say that, should you win the presidency, you wouldn't have a Muslim in your cabinet? These Bosnian diplomas seem to belong to Muslims. What gives?"
Cain screwed up his face as if shedding a mask, "Howda fuck should I know, it's your dream." And just that quickly, Herman Cain's robotic tone, complete with fully enunciated syllables, had melted into a comfortable and aggressive replacement. "Oh," I answered lamely.
Herman Cain and I spent the next few hours cooped up in Sarajevo’s Holliday Inn making phone calls and arrangements to return the diplomas. The plan was mildly successful in that we would relinquish all of the diplomas. Whether or not their rightful owner would eventually be the recipient, we didn't know. It could be a neighbor hoping to cash in on someone else's achievements or a person who by happenstance shared the same name with the educated Bosnian. Frankly, it wasn't a tremendously well-thought-out plan.
Every call that Herman Cain made went the same way. Each sentence was in a singsong fashion and choppy, providing enough time for every word to be pronounced properly and to allow it to sink in. "Yes. Is [name] there? Do you know where [name] might be at this juncture? I have [name's] diploma and would like to return it to [name]." At that point, either the other end of the call would hang up or make an arrangement to pick up the diploma.
We managed to return all of the diplomas at great peril. When it was all over, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, one thing still bothers me. It's not why you and I needed to perform this particular task. It's not the time traveling." Herman Cain's hand rested on his chin, displaying a thoughtful posture. "Well, what is your question, David?" he asked calmly.
I took a breath and asked, "How did you get all of those diplomas?" Herman Cain's smile grew as large as the impact of the Bosnian war, "Niggahead, it's your dream." A giant lump the size of 400 years of history formed in my throat. But I realized that, in a sense, it was Herman Cain's history, so I guess it was ok for him to say that word. I decided to take it as a term of endearment.
At that moment, I woke up. Back in America. Back in 2011. Herman Cain was tied with Mitt Romney for the lead in the national polls of the Republican presidential race.
I wiped the crust out of my eyes in an effort to stall and allow my brain to clear itself of the dust. When I opened my eyes again, the man became more than his mere features. It was Herman Cain, Republican presidential candidate.
"David, we have to go. We need to get these diplomas to displaced Bosnians so they can make a life for themselves abroad after the war is over. I have a plan- I am the only one of us with a plan- but we have to go now." My confusion wafted back across my mind. All I could muster was a timid, "What year is it?"
"It is 1992. We must go now."
On the plane ride over to Sarajevo, Herman Cain explained the details to me. He had a backpack filled with BAs, BSs, MAs, MSs, Phds, and MDs. We needed to get them to their rightful owners. Bosnia had become a hopeless war-torn land. Its educated citizens were hoping to emigrate and needed their degrees in order to prove their worth in their new nations.
As we landed in Sarajevo, I heard gunfire aimed at our plane. The danger of what I was entering flooded into my blood. Herman Cain saw my fright and looked over to me with a reassuring smile. "Relax. I have a plan. It is a good plan."
"What is it?"
"It is based on the Chilean model. We will look in the phone book for the names on these diplomas. These people will likely not be home. So we will try to call their relatives and neighbors to locate their whereabouts and then return their diplomas to them." It didn't seem like much of a plan, but the uncertainty and illogic of war left me too petrified to think of anything better.
"Mr. Cain, I have one question?"
"Yes, what is it?" Cain asked in his usual upbeat and fragmented manner.
"I thought you hated Muslims. Didn't you say that, should you win the presidency, you wouldn't have a Muslim in your cabinet? These Bosnian diplomas seem to belong to Muslims. What gives?"
Cain screwed up his face as if shedding a mask, "Howda fuck should I know, it's your dream." And just that quickly, Herman Cain's robotic tone, complete with fully enunciated syllables, had melted into a comfortable and aggressive replacement. "Oh," I answered lamely.
Herman Cain and I spent the next few hours cooped up in Sarajevo’s Holliday Inn making phone calls and arrangements to return the diplomas. The plan was mildly successful in that we would relinquish all of the diplomas. Whether or not their rightful owner would eventually be the recipient, we didn't know. It could be a neighbor hoping to cash in on someone else's achievements or a person who by happenstance shared the same name with the educated Bosnian. Frankly, it wasn't a tremendously well-thought-out plan.
Every call that Herman Cain made went the same way. Each sentence was in a singsong fashion and choppy, providing enough time for every word to be pronounced properly and to allow it to sink in. "Yes. Is [name] there? Do you know where [name] might be at this juncture? I have [name's] diploma and would like to return it to [name]." At that point, either the other end of the call would hang up or make an arrangement to pick up the diploma.
We managed to return all of the diplomas at great peril. When it was all over, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, one thing still bothers me. It's not why you and I needed to perform this particular task. It's not the time traveling." Herman Cain's hand rested on his chin, displaying a thoughtful posture. "Well, what is your question, David?" he asked calmly.
I took a breath and asked, "How did you get all of those diplomas?" Herman Cain's smile grew as large as the impact of the Bosnian war, "Niggahead, it's your dream." A giant lump the size of 400 years of history formed in my throat. But I realized that, in a sense, it was Herman Cain's history, so I guess it was ok for him to say that word. I decided to take it as a term of endearment.
At that moment, I woke up. Back in America. Back in 2011. Herman Cain was tied with Mitt Romney for the lead in the national polls of the Republican presidential race.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
The NFL's New Holocaust Education Program
In light of recent events, everyone associated with the NFL will be required to take the new Holocaust Education Program. Lessons will revolve around these key issues.
1. If you are ever forced to hide in the attic of your agent's mansion to avoid the media who want to interview you because you've recently left your pregnant wife for another woman, do not compare your situation with Anne Frank's. It's important to note that had Anne Frank been discovered by authorities (who did not have to respect privacy laws), Anne Frank would have died, not been merely inconvenienced by a third rate reporter from the Sacramento Bee.
2. Be wary of Hitler references. There will be virtually no circumstance where it is appropriate to compare someone in the NFL to Hitler. Comparing Hitler to someone outside of the NFL should also be approached with caution. Remember, Hitler is responsible for the deaths of 11 million people through the Nazis' systematic dehumanization of several groups of people. So, comparing Hitler with a leader you don't like is often akin to comparing Peyton Manning with Curtis Painter.
3. Better yet, don't make any comparisons with the Holocaust. People interred in concentration camps were treated as slaves, forced to perform difficult work for virtually no food until they were too sick. Then they were gassed. More than that, the Nazis constantly attempted to dehumanize these victims by making them stand out in the cold during role call for hours among many other degrading acts. A person in a concentration camp was under constant threat of death.
4. Ask a Jewish friend about their family history. Avoid agents and lawyers. Descendents of Holocaust survivors tend to want to help people, not steal your money, so ask your doctor and social worker instead; they likely had family in the Holocaust. They can add a personal touch to your ongoing Holocaust education.
5. Visit the US in Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC. Come with an open mind, an intellectual curiosity, and plenty of tissues!
1. If you are ever forced to hide in the attic of your agent's mansion to avoid the media who want to interview you because you've recently left your pregnant wife for another woman, do not compare your situation with Anne Frank's. It's important to note that had Anne Frank been discovered by authorities (who did not have to respect privacy laws), Anne Frank would have died, not been merely inconvenienced by a third rate reporter from the Sacramento Bee.
2. Be wary of Hitler references. There will be virtually no circumstance where it is appropriate to compare someone in the NFL to Hitler. Comparing Hitler to someone outside of the NFL should also be approached with caution. Remember, Hitler is responsible for the deaths of 11 million people through the Nazis' systematic dehumanization of several groups of people. So, comparing Hitler with a leader you don't like is often akin to comparing Peyton Manning with Curtis Painter.
3. Better yet, don't make any comparisons with the Holocaust. People interred in concentration camps were treated as slaves, forced to perform difficult work for virtually no food until they were too sick. Then they were gassed. More than that, the Nazis constantly attempted to dehumanize these victims by making them stand out in the cold during role call for hours among many other degrading acts. A person in a concentration camp was under constant threat of death.
4. Ask a Jewish friend about their family history. Avoid agents and lawyers. Descendents of Holocaust survivors tend to want to help people, not steal your money, so ask your doctor and social worker instead; they likely had family in the Holocaust. They can add a personal touch to your ongoing Holocaust education.
5. Visit the US in Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC. Come with an open mind, an intellectual curiosity, and plenty of tissues!
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Deconstructing Hank Williams's Comments
Hank Williams Jr. compared Obama and Boehner playing golf to Hitler and Netanyahu playing golf. He later elaborated that Obama is the enemy.
As you know, I love a good Hitler reference as much as the next guy. In fact, just a few days before this controversy, I taunted another owner in my fantasy football league, "It's time to destroy a guy who has been mistaken for my twin and actually likes pulpy orange juice. You know who else has been mistaken for my twin and liked pulpy orange juice? Hitler."
The problem with Hank's Hitler metaphor is that it made absolutely no fucking sense. No matter what side of the political divide you're on, I don't see how Obama and Boehner playing golf together is bad. So, he's making a really stupid point to begin with.
But the use of Netanyahu is really where a simple Czarist pogrom turns into a Hitler-like holocaust. Netanyahu is, of course, the Prime Minister of Israel. Israel existed only after 1948. Hitler died in 1945. Netanyahu himself was born in 1949.
But even if we enter some mythical land where Netanyahu is the Prime Minister of Israel while Hitler is in power in Germany, playing golf could be a positive thing. For Hitler, it would be a good PR stunt. For Netanyahu, it would be a chance to humanize Jews in Hitler's eyes. At the very least, it's an opportunity to beat Hitler at golf and further dispel his belief in the superiority of the Aryan race.
How Obama and Boehner relate to any of that is totally beyond me. Much like the brown-haired guy on Fox and Friends who isn't Steve Ducey, I just can't wrap my head around the metaphor. But then again, I'm not hammered right now.
As you know, I love a good Hitler reference as much as the next guy. In fact, just a few days before this controversy, I taunted another owner in my fantasy football league, "It's time to destroy a guy who has been mistaken for my twin and actually likes pulpy orange juice. You know who else has been mistaken for my twin and liked pulpy orange juice? Hitler."
The problem with Hank's Hitler metaphor is that it made absolutely no fucking sense. No matter what side of the political divide you're on, I don't see how Obama and Boehner playing golf together is bad. So, he's making a really stupid point to begin with.
But the use of Netanyahu is really where a simple Czarist pogrom turns into a Hitler-like holocaust. Netanyahu is, of course, the Prime Minister of Israel. Israel existed only after 1948. Hitler died in 1945. Netanyahu himself was born in 1949.
But even if we enter some mythical land where Netanyahu is the Prime Minister of Israel while Hitler is in power in Germany, playing golf could be a positive thing. For Hitler, it would be a good PR stunt. For Netanyahu, it would be a chance to humanize Jews in Hitler's eyes. At the very least, it's an opportunity to beat Hitler at golf and further dispel his belief in the superiority of the Aryan race.
How Obama and Boehner relate to any of that is totally beyond me. Much like the brown-haired guy on Fox and Friends who isn't Steve Ducey, I just can't wrap my head around the metaphor. But then again, I'm not hammered right now.
Sunday, October 02, 2011
The Bills are 3-1
This was a tough loss to swallow. The Bills were up 17-3 over the Bengals at halftime. The Bills had finished the deal against KC in week 1 and, of course, had two thrilling second half comebacks the last two weeks.
But credit needs to be given to the Bengals, who paid us back for the Bills comeback last season. They have a really good defense that held the Bills offense in check for the first time all season. The Bengals have a good running game and Dalton- though inexperienced- is surely no bum. The Bengals have finally transformed into a Marvin Lewis specialty after all those years of being pass-happy with Palmer and Ocho.
With the game tied at 20, Dalton scrambled and game up short of the line to gain, making it fourth down. It did appear that the refs spotted the ball a little short of where Dalton had stretched the ball. But, upon review, the refs moved the ball way too far, over the yard mark, whereas the ball didn't reach the yard mark before his butt hit out of bounds. The Begals were awarded the first down and went on to kick the winning field goal.
It's hard to win on the road in the NFL and the Bengals are not a bad team. Still, when a good team is up by two TDs at the half, you'd like to come away with that win.
But credit needs to be given to the Bengals, who paid us back for the Bills comeback last season. They have a really good defense that held the Bills offense in check for the first time all season. The Bengals have a good running game and Dalton- though inexperienced- is surely no bum. The Bengals have finally transformed into a Marvin Lewis specialty after all those years of being pass-happy with Palmer and Ocho.
With the game tied at 20, Dalton scrambled and game up short of the line to gain, making it fourth down. It did appear that the refs spotted the ball a little short of where Dalton had stretched the ball. But, upon review, the refs moved the ball way too far, over the yard mark, whereas the ball didn't reach the yard mark before his butt hit out of bounds. The Begals were awarded the first down and went on to kick the winning field goal.
It's hard to win on the road in the NFL and the Bengals are not a bad team. Still, when a good team is up by two TDs at the half, you'd like to come away with that win.
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Troy Davis and Anwar al-Awlaki
It doesn't matter if you're an American citizen, if the government wants you dead, you will die. Troy Davis and Anwar al-Awlaki could be you or me if we say the wrong thing.
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