Here’s the deal. I am going to start an advice column. Like Dear Abby. Except for I’m a man, not a woman. And very few people will read mine. And instead of answering questions, I’m just going to try and explain stuff to the really dumb people in our country.

I suspect there were always a lot of dumb people in America and it may just be social media that has stupidity trending. I’m not as concerned by the sheer number of morons, I’m more worried about the increasing number of people who seem to be proud of their own stupidity. People (many wearing matching red hats) seem to revel in the fact that they don’t know much. This is strangely alarming. I fully accept that the vast majority of these people cannot be helped. They will continue to believe what they please, proudly ignoring facts, words, numbers and/or pictures. If you show someone a photo of a cat and they grin and scream, “Dog!” Well, there may not be much we can do about that. But this column is designed specifically for that minority of idiots who secretly don’t want to be idiots anymore. There must be at least a few of you out there. This one’s for you.

HD wallpaper: cat, mammal, dandelion, flower, grass, whiskers ...

Cat or Dog? Put your guess in the comments.

Dear Idiots,

Do you think that we WANT to stay inside for months? Do you think that we WANT for businesses to fail and people to be out of work? Just like you, we want things to get back to normal as quickly as possible. The difference is, we’re trying to help things get back to normal as quickly as possible, while you are protesting against shelter in place orders. I’ll say it again – we want the same thing, but what you’re doing is actively working against the thing you want. You see, when you refuse to help the cause and insist on roaming about, you’re spreading Covid-19 and making it even longer until we can get back to normal. You still don’t get it? Okay, how can I explain this?

It’s like you have some cookie dough and you want a cookie. We’re suggesting that we bake the cookie dough. We don’t get the cookie immediately. It takes time. We have to be patient. But all you have to do is wait…and then you’ll have a cookie. That’s our approach. Baking the cookie dough. While your approach is to take that cookie dough and smear it all over the walls while screaming, “Lock her up!” You see how that isn’t helping?

Cookie Dough |… | Flickr

This is where cookies come from.

Dear Idiots,

Being born a millionaire does not make you good at everything. It makes you lucky. When Donald Trump claims to be the best at everything, he’s mistaken. He’s the best at nothing. And actually the worst at a handful of things. Like being President.

Your first clue that he’s not the best at everything is that he claims to be the best at everything. Here are just a few of the things he’s claimed to know better than anyone else: TV ratings, ISIS (“I know more about ISIS than the generals do”), social media, the visa system, renewable energy, taxes (“I think nobody knows more about taxes than I do, maybe in the history of the world”), money, borders, construction, technology, Democrats, and drones (“I know more about drones than anybody. I know about every form of safety you can have.”)

Now, idiots, does this really sound like the words that would come out of the mouth of the person who actually was the best at everything? Take your time…you see it now, right?

Smart people know to look for help from other potentially smarter people. Dumb people think they have all the answers. Now I know this is tricky because, as idiots, you fall into the latter category, but that’s what this advice column is all about. We’re trying to help you be just a tiny bit less of an idiot. Baby steps. So just sit with this for a while. Take some deep breaths and read it again.

Do you really think that this one man is the foremost expert on every single topic in the world? Remember, this is the same man who created Trump Steaks, Trump Airline, Trump Mortgage, Trump Magazine, Trump Vodka, Trump University, Trump Network, and Tour de Trump. You know what these have in common? Yes, they all have his name on them. He likes to put his name on things. It’s like a toddler calling out, “I did that! Dog!” But the other thing the items on this list have in common is that they’re just a small sampling of Trump’s many failed businesses. So think about this real hard…if he knows the most about everything, why does he fail at almost everything? It’s tricky, right? Here’s a hint: it’s because he DOESN’T know very much at all. One way you can tell is if you listen to him talk. Ever. About anything.


Dear Idiots,

Science is real. It’s a real thing that most of the world doesn’t question. It’s totally real. Not sure what else I can say about that.

Here’s the deal. If ever there were a time where the world needed me to start blogging again, it was last summer. But I missed that opportunity, so I’m doing it now.


And I am back with a bang. I have landed an interview with the President of the United States of America. It was surprisingly easy. I called the White House and they asked, “Are you with The New York Times, The Washington Post, CNN, MSNBC, NBC, ABC, CBS, The National Review, BuzzFeed, The Daily Beast, Huffington Post, or the Des Moines Register?” When I told them I was not, they said I could speak with him right away.


And here’s how it went…


Trump approaches, extending his hand.

McBee, “Please don’t shake my hand.”

Trump, “Oh, right, social distancing.”

McBee, “Yeah. That too.”


McBee, “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me in these difficult days.”

Trump, “Are you kidding? Haven’t you seen the numbers? My new show is a ratings hit. People are saying, I don’t know who, but I’ve heard people say, could be me, probably isn’t, but could be, could be that I’m the one saying it, but people are saying that I’m bigger than the Bachelor. And not just in girth.”

The Bachelor TV Show: News, Videos, Full Episodes and More | TV Guide

McBee, “Wait…are you seriously bragging about the ratings you get when you talk about a pandemic that is killing people every day?”

Trump, “Listen, I felt it was a pandemic long before it was called a pandemic. And that’s even more impressive because I don’t know what that word means.”

McBee, “So, if you knew it was a pandemic before anyone else, then why were you calling it a hoax and saying that it was completely under control?”

Trump, “That’s fake news.”

McBee, “How so? You are on camera saying all of those things as recently as weeks ago.”

Trump, “Let me explain this to you. Fake. News. This news is fake because it is news that I do not like. I blame Obama.”

McBee, “I’m sorry, what does Obama have to do with this?”

Trump, “No one talks about this, okay? No one talks about the real issue here. Do you know that Obama left the White House three years ago? He just walked right out. I know because I saw it. He walked right out the door and left me here to be president. This is all on him.”

McBee, “Okay…I can see that. But, as inexplicable as it is, you are now president. And I think people want to know if you’re going to start following the advice of experts.”

Trump, “First of all, I have the best experts. Nobody has better experts. I have the best experts in the world. Which is why I don’t have to listen to anybody.”

McBee, “You do realize that actual people will die because you continue to just make stuff up every day?”

Trump, “Don’t be nasty, okay? That’s a mean and nasty question. Why doesn’t people only ask me nice questions? The questions should be like – why are you so good at everything? And why are you so rich and great? These are the questions you should ask, okay?”

McBee, “At this point this isn’t really about you.”

Trump, “I don’t understand.”

McBee, “This pandemic is a global issue. There are bigger things to think about. It’s not about you.”

Trump, “I don’t follow.”

McBee, “You are not the most important part of this story. It’s not about you.”

Trump, “Nobody’s tougher on pandemics than Trump. No president is better than Trump.”

McBee, “Wait…you do realize that you are Trump, right?”

Trump, “The lamestream media and the do-nothing Democrats, and the I-believe-in-science losers all said that Trump couldn’t do it. But Trump did it.”

McBee, “Did what?

Trump, “We are perfectly prepared for this. We were prepared for it when I said it wasn’t real and told people it was just a hoax by the Democrats, and we were prepared the next day when I said that I always knew it was a pandemic and that the Democrats are big butt-faced idiots. The media continues to not treat me fairly by printing the words I say. How is that fair? I say things and then they tell people what I say…that’s not fair.”

McBee just stares, dumbfounded that anyone could still support this man.

Trump, “I never get credit for all of the things I do. Ever since I was a little boy and my Dad gave me my million dollar weekly allowance, I’ve used his money to turn it into slightly less money. But nobody reports on Trump’s wins. Why is the media not telling people the truth? Do you know that there were zero Corona cases in America in the first two years of my presidency? Nobody’s reporting on that.”

McBee, looking around the room at various aides, “How do you listen to this all day?”

Trump, “People are saying I don’t know who but it’s me, people are saying that I am handling this crisis perfectly. Somebody said that on a scale of one to ten, I get a ten. And I don’t like numbers, I don’t understand them, but that’s the biggest number there is.”

McBee, “But you downplayed this pandemic when you could have been preparing for it.”

Trump, “Anybody that needs a test gets a test.”

McBee, “That’s definitely still not true.”

Adult Easter Bunny Suit Costume | Party City

Trump, “We have the best tests. I made them myself. All of the scientists were saying that I did so good at the tests. I don’t know, maybe I just have a natural ability for it. But the tests are here, the cure will be here on Easter. People are saying the Easter Bunny is immune because he’s not Asian. So that’s happening. And it’s happening fast. And it’s good. And we’ll have zero cases. And my daddy loved me more than money.”

McBee, “Okay, you’re really slipping here, and I don’t have a lot of hope you’ll be able to answer this one, but I have to ask about the fact that, despite warnings, you fired the pandemic response team in 2018. Kinda feels like they could have been useful, huh?”

Trump, “I don’t take any responsibility for that. I don’t take responsibility for bad things. That’s for losers. I prefer Presidents who only take responsibility for good things. And when there aren’t good things, make them up.”

McBee, “You seem not to have a very good sense of reality. Can you please start letting literally anyone but you start making the decisions?”

Trump, “The China Cough won’t be here because we said that the planes couldn’t come here. I did that. Nobody else could handle this like me. I did a very bigly job. Perfect.”



Here’s the deal. It’s that day again. That day where I remember I have a blog and it’s my responsibility as one of the nation’s top three million bloggers to write at least once a year. After all, this blog has 325 followers. 9 of which are humans. And it’s for that reason that I must churn out a few half-assed paragraphs on New Year’s Eve.

So let’s talk briefly about Wang Chung and their one big hit – Everybody Have Fun Tonight. Is that the most generic rock song title of all time? Could they be any less specific? And they didn’t give much more thought to the words within the song…

Image result for wang chung

Opening lyrics, “I’d drive a million miles, to be with you tonight.” A  million miles? I know they’re musicians, not mathematicians, but this is ridiculous. It is, for example, 2,789 miles from NY to LA. So let’s say that the person they wanted to be with was on the opposite side of the country…and they drove all the way there to be with them tonight…and then drove back because they realize they’d forgotten, say, their favorite pillow…they would then have to drive back and forth an additional 358 times, to retrieve their other 357 favorite pillows, to have driven a million miles.

The Guinness Book of World Records lists the longest road trip as a couple who has been driving around the world in the same Toyota Land Cruiser for over thirty years…and they’ve logged just over 450,000 miles. I guess my point is, you can’t drive a million miles to be with someone tonight. You could, I suppose, drive a million miles to be with someone about sixty years from tonight.

Other lines I don’t care for, “The words we use our strong.” Yep, a million miles strong.

“Rip it up, move down.” I believe the thought process here was, “Hey, up is the opposite of down, so, yeah, the other words don’t have to make sense.”

“Deep in the world tonight, our hearts beat safe and sound.” Deep in the world? What does that mean? Are they hanging out in the Marianas Trench? And if you were in the Marianas Trench would you really feel safe and sound?

But that’s not my real complaint. My real complaint is that the chorus instructs listeners to “have fun tonight” and to “Wang Chung” tonight. This is just meaningless and lazy. They couldn’t come up with something to say, so they just popped the band name in there. That would be like hearing, “I can’t get no, satisfaction…I can’t get no Rolling Stones.” Terrible.

Turns out that Wang Chung (or Huang Chung) is Chinese for yellow bell. So it’s, “Everybody have fun tonight, everybody yellow bell tonight.” How do you yellow bell? They didn’t even bother to choose a verb. It’s unacceptable.

Honestly, I like Dance Hall Days better…let me just check the lyrics on that one…”Take your baby by the hand…” – so far, so good – “…and make her do a high hand stand.” What? I mean…what?!?

Image result for hand stand

“Baby, hold my hand, I just want to be close to you tonight…and, now I command that you do a hand stand. Don’t ask questions, I’m Wang Chung!”

They go on to sing, “Take your baby by the heel, and do the next thing that you feel.” The only thing I would feel is that I looked like an idiot, leading my woman around by tugging on her heel and then insisting that she invert her body. Who takes anyone by the heel? I’m guessing English is their…fifth language?

Whatever. It’s almost time to ring in the New Year. Here’s to a lovely 2019 in which no one grabs you by the heel or asks you to drive a million miles for them. I hope you all have a great time yellow belling tonight.

Here’s the deal. I just remembered I have a blog. I’ve had this blog since 2011. And if I don’t post something in the next few minutes, I will have gone all of 2017 without posting. That just seems wrong.

Fortunately, as it turns out, there is something that’s been bothering me for quite awhile.

Image result for rumpelstiltskin

If you don’t know the story of Rumplestiltskin, here’s the basics – A miller wants to impress the king, so he tells him that his daughter can spin straw into gold. Intrigued, the king calls for this girl and puts her in a room with a whole bunch of straw and a spinning wheel and tells her that he’ll kill her if she hasn’t turned all of the hay into straw by the morning. She has no such skill and thinks she’ll die, but this strange little dude appears and offers to spin the straw into gold for her in exchange for her necklace. The dude turns the straw into gold. And the next day the king puts her in another room. This continues until she has nothing left to trade to the magic little dude. So he says he’ll turn the straw into gold in exchange for her firstborn. She has no choice and agrees. The king now marries the girl, they have a kid and the dude comes back to take the kid. She begs him to reconsider and he says that only if she can guess his name within three days can she keep her child. For two nights she guesses every name she can think of to no avail, distraught, she wanders into the woods and sees the little dude at his house dancing and singing that she’ll never guess that his name is Rumplestiltskin. He shows up the third night to nab the kid, she correctly guesses his name, and he flies out the window on a ladle, furious at this turn of events.

Everyone caught up? Good.

So my first question is…what the hell?!?

Let’s start at the beginning. If you want to impress someone, why would you claim your daughter can turn straw into gold? No one in the world would believe that.

“Oh, your little girl made the honor roll? Big deal. My Claire can turn straw into gold. I don’t have to work, I just send her out to the barn and we’re rich! Yeah, you heard me right. Wait, where is everyone going?”

And, if you did live in a world where that kind of thing is believable, then you especially shouldn’t go around claiming such wonders. That’s the number one way to get your daughter kidnapped by some stupid rich dude (I’m pretty sure it’s how Trump married Melania).

Image result for melania trump gold

Now, from the king’s perspective, if you think this girl has this awesome magical power – is your best approach to threaten to murder her? Who knows what other powers she has? Maybe she can turn kings into oats. You don’t know. I’m just saying you catch more flies with honey than death threats.

And what about the part where the girl marries the king? It’s hard to think of ways to make some of these fairy tales any more sexist. What did that proposal sound like?

“Babe, sorry about taking you away from your lunatic father, and locking you up against your will, and forcing you to work through the night and taking all of your money, and for saying that I would kill you, but, you know, how about you and me get hitched?”

And, from Rumplestiltskin’s point of view…why are you trading a room full of gold for a necklace. You seem to have absolutely no sense of value.

“Aye, I’m a magical imp. And I’ll trade you this suitcase of one million dollars for that spoon of peanut butter…if you dare.”

If you can spin straw into gold, why are you staying up all night and bartering for trinkets? This guy is an idiot. And if his end game was all about getting this baby, why does he even give her a chance to guess his name? You’ve already won, Rumpy, just take the kid and walk away. And, on top of all that, the only thing he has to do so that she doesn’t guess his name is spend his free time at home yelling out his name in a catchy little ditty.

Amazingly, the part where he flies out of the room on a ladle makes the most sense of the whole terrible story.

That’s it. Sorry, but I’m in a rush to get this out the door in 2017. Plus, I’ve just convinced our President that my nephew can turn chewing gum into silver and I’m anxious to see how it plays out. Happy New Year.



Here’s the deal. A few days ago I got a coupon in the mail for one dollar off my purchase of –



I have no idea what a2 milk is. I’ve never heard of it before. Then again, the dairy case at my grocery store gets more confusing every day. The choice used to be: whole, 2%, 1% or skim. And, to be honest, I didn’t even fully understand these choices. 2% of what? Or is it 2% milk…and, in that case, what’s the other 98%? Generally these choices were color coded and I typically made my decision based on which hue I found most appealing.

Now, of course, there’s almond milk, soy milk, coconut milk, cashew milk, rice milk, and many, many more. I don’t have the faintest notion as to how one gets milk from an almond – but this stuff is increasingly popular, so I can only suppose that someone out there is sitting on the world’s tiniest stool and placing the world’s tiniest bucket under an almond and milking it.

Every day I hear a report that one of the above is healthiest for me, followed by a report the following day that reveals that the previous day’s report was entirely incorrect and I should, in fact, drink something else entirely. Meanwhile, all I want is for my cereal not to be dry.

Remember those simple days when the milkman would drop off a bottle every Sunday? Me either. But I’ve seen it in movies. The milkman dressed from head to toe in white with a cool milkman hat and a smile that is borderline creepy in its excessive joy. Regardless, it was certainly a simpler time. The milkman never asked if you wanted unsweetened vanilla flavored soy coconut milk. He never asked anything. He just kept smiling and incessantly bringing you bottles of milk…come to think of it, I don’t recall ever having asked him to brink milk. What’s with that guy?

I’m way off track. The point is, there are too many milk options. I don’t need this many choices. And now, I’ve got an inexplicable coupon for a2 milk.

My coupon informs me that this particular milk comes from “cows that naturally produce only the pure A2 protein.” As if that is at all helpful.

It further offers the following diagram –


So, apparently, regular milk comes from half gray, half purple bovines, whilst this new and improved product comes from the special all-purple cows. What kind of madness is this? I’m supposed to go buy something I’ve never heard of based on a barnyard coloring book? This is the least informative graphic ever.

You know, I don’t care if the milkman was psychotic, I just want someone to bring me a refreshing liquid to pour on my cereal tomorrow morning. I don’t want to have to search through the dairy case like it’s a Where’s Waldo book. I don’t want to have to compare and contrast the most recently milked nut. And I don’t want to have to figure out the difference between purple and multi-colored cows.

Screw it. I’ll just have oatmeal.

Here’s the deal. I got married yesterday. It’s a pretty good story if you’ve got a few minutes (actually, it’s a pretty good story regardless of how much time you have…how busy you are right now has absolutely no bearing on the quality of this yarn). I’m going to start where most of my favorite stories start – at the beginning.

I met Heather in high school. I could try and be really romantic and pretend like I remember the very first moment our eyes met, but I haven’t a clue. I can rarely remember where I left my keys, how can I be expected to remember something that happened in the late eighties? But we did meet there. Probably on the school bus as she lived less than a mile down the road from me. This was rural Virginia, so the bus ride to school each day was almost an hour – which left us plenty of time to date and fall in love.

But we didn’t do that. Instead, I focused on growing a mustache and writing my blog (unfortunately, blogs hadn’t been invented yet and this turned out to be a huge waste of time), and she focused on using Aqua Net to try to set the record for biggest hair in Nelson County. It was a simpler time. We were merely friends in high school who were in a few school plays together and then lost touch after graduation.

Twenty years passed.

I experimented with goatees, mutton chops and some McBee facial hair originals.

Her hair was reduced to a normal volume.


We reconnected via social media. She did some light stalking and I, having not been pursued by a member of the opposite sex since the Carter administration, remained completely oblivious to the fact that she was flirting with me. But I eventually caught on and we became a couple. One of our first romantic outings was a trip to Disneyland in 2012 on a rare day of Southern Californian drizzle. Southern Californians get frightened when water falls from the sky, so they mostly stay indoors until the meteorologist reassures them that the sun is back and will remain so for the next 207 days. Which meant that we had the run of the park. Splash Mountain had no line at all at one point and we rode it again and again without ever exiting our buoyant log. It was a fantastic day.

Other stuff happened.

We briefly tried living on the East coast (the water that falls from the sky there is sometimes frozen! Terrifying!). I asked her if she might like to get married. We ate lots of pizza.

So. We actually got engaged in February of 2014 (I planned a scavenger hunt that culminated in her digging a cylinder out of the snow between two pine trees in the moonlight – it seemed romantic at the time, but it ended up being fairly labor intensive for her…not sure that proposals should include manual labor, but it worked out in the end). We entertained various ways and times we’d get married, but little life things kept popping up and we put an actual ceremony on the back burner.

This past year, work became more stable for me and it was feeling like the right time to have the government officially recognize the fact that Heather and I were committed to getting the tax breaks that every heterosexual deserves.

We decided to just do a small wedding for ourselves. (We love our families, but they insist on living in the wilderness of Virginia despite the fact that it’s on the entire other side of the country and has really spotty wi-fi). Besides, neither one of us cared for the pomp and circumstance that often accompanies a ceremony. All too often the bride and groom end up overstressed and lose focus of why they’re having a wedding in the first place (to get the tax breaks every heterosexual deserves, duh…I’ve repeated this joke, just to make it abundantly clear that I find it absurd that any person should get any additional rights based on who they prefer to make out with). Above all, we wanted it to be fun.

We thought about Vegas. Have Elvis marry us. This sounded cool until someone informed me of the fact that Elvis Presley had died many, many years ago and the guy who would marry us was nothing but (and this is 100% true) an impostor! I don’t know how he gets away with it legally, but whatever.

Will Atkinson, an Elvis impersonator, in Oxford, Miss. on Wednesday, November 9, 2011.

                 But it looks just like him…

Then I remembered our trip to Disneyland. Why not get married in the happiest place on Earth? Well, I’ll give you one reason. You can only get married in Disneyland if you purchase one of their wedding packages that start at Way-More-Money-Than-I-Would-Ever-Spend-On-A-Wedding and go all the way up to Way-More-Money-Than-I-Have-Ever-Seen-In-One-Place-Except-For-In-Movies-About-Bank-Robberies-Gone-Wrong.

But then I thought…what about a covert Disney wedding? What about a covert Disney wedding while actually on the Splash Mountain ride? What about a covert Disney wedding while actually on the Splash Mountain ride with an eight-tier, vanilla hazelnut cake with chocolate ganache, pistachio mousse and butter cream frosting? Then I thought – it totally won’t work with the cake, but other than that – yeah. This could be epic.

Just one problem. Who would we get to officiate this wacky sneak wedding? So, back to the past for a moment. From 2001-2007, I worked in LAUSD classrooms. This was a great job because (a) I made a lot of awesome eight-year old friends and (b) working in an elementary school made me feel like a genius because I knew so many more of the answers than the students. I was lucky, because the school I worked at just happened to be full of mostly super cool kids. I’ve roughly stayed in touch with some of them through social media. One of these kids, let’s call him…Danny (because that’s his name), had posted a lot of photos of himself and his gal pal at Disneyland over the past year. So I ran it by Heather and we thought, what the heck – let’s call him up and say, “Hey, remember the tall guy sitting in the back of your grade school classroom that kept shouting out all of the answers with astounding accuracy? How would you like to get ordained online and marry that guy to his former high school cast member and stalker on a log flume ride in a super secret wedding in two weeks?” And the craziest part? He said sure.

So Heather and I got the marriage license. Danny got ordained. Alex (Danny’s girlfriend) probably said, “Okay, who is this again? And what are we doing? And…oh, we’re going to Disneyland? I’m on board.” Heather created some signs to hold for our wedding pictures courtesy of the Splash Mountain photo booth. I wrote the ten second vows for Danny to read on the thirty seconds of the ride that we could videotape before descending into the splash portion of the mountain. And we all giggled to ourselves – this is really fun.

And yesterday we did it. Alex hid the signs in her backpack. We got into a log with two other random people who are probably still saying to themselves, “Nah, they didn’t really just get married on that ride. Did they?” We went up the first hill and as our log eased into the water, Danny said, “We’re gathered here today in this log to celebrate one of life’s great rides – marriage.” Then he asked us if we took each other. And darned if we didn’t. Then we smooched. Then Alex said, “Wait, which button do I push to record?” Then Heather told Alex which button to push to record. Then Danny said his stuff again. Then Heather and I said our stuff again. Then we smooched again (bonus smooch!). Then the guy behind us thought, “What the hell is going on in the front of this log?” Then Alex grabbed the signs from her backpack and handed them back to us. Then we went down the first drop and we got unbelievably soaked – I thought our log was going to sink we were taking on so much water. Then I fumbled with my cell phone and managed to take three pictures of Heather’s shoulder, the back of my hand, and a dark blur which could be anything. Then we went up the hill for the big drop, readied our signs and this is what we got –


Sure, we could have walked down an aisle and had a bouquet and all those other things you see in the movies about beautiful weddings that take place before a bank robbery gone wrong…but I really like our story. It’s fun and quirky and unique. Yes, we all got drenched – but it’s certainly better to have cold feet after a wedding than before. Yes, our wedding photo includes a couple from Iowa (or so I tell myself) who have no idea why the rest of the people in their log seem to be operating with military precision – but I love the idea that our unconventional tale will spawn others. And, yes, we didn’t get a chance to register – but that doesn’t mean you still can’t send us a gift. Seriously. We’re accepting gifts.

So that’s the story of what I did yesterday. Feel free to share it with others. We are living in a world that could stand a few more stories of love and fun and generosity. All of which we experienced yesterday. Because when we take the plunge…we really take the plunge.

Here’s the deal. The earliest evidence of people using an adhesive dates back to the Middle Pleistocene era where stones were glued together using tar. That’s right, from the beginning of time humans have said: I must have food, I must have shelter, and I really want to stick this thing to that thing.

And here we are, 200,000 years later, and we still haven’t gotten it right.

For most of us, our first experience with adhesives is the paste that kindergarteners use as a tool for classroom art projects and a nutritional supplement. I don’t know what teachers expect, the container comes with a small, plastic tasting spoon. But don’t worry about the paste sticking to the child’s internal organs – this paste doesn’t stick to anything.

Next, we move on to Elmer’s glue – most useful for creating a secondary skin, wherein the gluee covers their fingers in glue and then, once it dries, peels it off. Again, it comes off quite easily due to the fact that this adhesive rarely adheres. Unless you’re gluing one piece of paper to another piece of paper, Elmer’s won’t do the job. And how often, after the age of eight, do we really find ourselves needing to glue one piece of paper to another piece of paper?

As adults, we develop more sophisticated glue needs. But do we really have any good options? There’s carpenter’s glue, Krazy glue, fabric glue, and glue sticks (which just remind me of the push-up popsicles I used to enjoy as a youngster…why do all the glue companies want kids to eat the stuff?) But I’ve never had a satisfying adhesive experience with any of these.

And if we go straight to the strongest stuff – super glue, it’s pretty terrifying. Here’s the actual warning label from a brand of super glue, “Possible cancer agent. Exposure may result in nausea, headache, confusion or instability. May be harmful by breathing vapors. Exposure may cause kidney damage.” All I wanted to do was repair this cracked picture frame, but now if I don’t hold my breath from the moment I open up the glue, my kidneys will fall out. The risk/reward ratio just isn’t there.

And then, of course, there’s the opposite side of the story. Who hasn’t had this happen –


That’s right, every glue I’ve ever purchased has the fastening power of cold oatmeal, but every single company that affixes labels to products has access to an ultra-glue that can’t be removed without the aid of an industrial-strength vat of chemicals and superhuman powers. (Non-stick pan my tuckus!)

Oh, and I almost forgot – glue guns. Who’s the genius behind this one? How about a device that spews burning hot viscous liquid out of a gun? Glue guns. From the makers of Deadly Acid Face Cannon.

I know what some of you are going to say – what about tape? Tape? Tape?!? Surely you jest. How is it that we’ve developed the technology that allows for subatomic particles to be fired at each other so that they smash together at rates approaching the speed of light, but we can’t develop a tape dispensing system that doesn’t result in me spending twenty minutes searching for the end of the tape each and every time I use it?

Yep, that’s it. I’m through with glues, tapes, pastes, and all of their adhesive brethren. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Here’s the deal. Like a bear with a snooze button addiction, I’ve been on an eight-month blog hibernation. But nothing will wake you up in a cold sweat quite like the most alarming political candidate of a lifetime. But Donald Trump transcends politics. People can argue over political ideas. Fine. But this isn’t about that. Because he doesn’t have any political ideas. He has almost no ideas at all.

Look, all public figures misspeak and have gaffes. Over the course of years in the spotlight, mistakes will be made. But Trump is a whole different category. In researching this post I came across an article in Vanity Fair called, “Seven Terrifying Things Donald Trump Has Said in the Last 36 Hours.” Pretty incredible. This man says more ignorant, hateful, braggadocious things before breakfast than most people will say in a lifetime.

And what is Trump’s central qualification for this surreal presidential bid? His business success. He never tires of talking about how he makes great deals, how he’s the biggest, HUGEST, best businessman in the whole universe. But he doesn’t often talk about the forty million dollar inheritance that got him started. I don’t know about you, but I have a suspicion I might look a little more successful myself if I had a forty million dollar head start on life. His father gave him more money than most people see in a lifetime and made him president of his real estate company…being born ridiculously rich – that was by far the best deal Trump ever made. In fact, there was an article written about how Trump would be as or more rich today had he merely invested his inheritance…so he is exactly as successful as he would be had he not done a single thing.


But I’m not here to try and make a joke out of Trump – he’s doing a much better job of that himself than I could ever hope to do. I’m just here to assemble some of his verbal low points. And to reinforce the fact that, this November, Americans will have a very important, tough decision: whether to vote for Hillary Clinton, or to vote against Donald Trump.

  1. “I will be so good at the military, your head will spin.”

The great thing about Donald Trump is that he’s great at everything. EVERYTHING. And anything he’s not great at he will soon be the absolute best at. When asked a number of foreign affairs questions that he could not begin to answer, he simply reassured us all that, at some point in the future, he will know everything about everything. (If he has the power to immediately be the best at anything, I just don’t understand what he’s waiting for)

  1. “How do you define leadership? I mean, leadership is a very strange word because, you know, some people have it, some people don’t and nobody knows why.”

Exactly…except for the fact that volumes of books have been written about what makes a good leader. People will disagree, but a lot of thought has been given to this subject. It is, therefore, perhaps a little alarming that the man who is vying to be one of the most powerful leaders in the world has no real idea of what might make a good leader. Then again, I’m sure he’s confounded by strange words he can’t figure out on a daily basis.

  1. “I think I am actually humble. I think I’m much more humble than you would understand.”

Is he bragging about his humility? Donald Trump is the opposite of the Terminator. Instead of a machine that has become self aware, he is a human who is entirely unaware.

  1. “I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose any voters, okay? It’s, like, incredible.”

A wildly rare moment of clarity for Trump. Even he can’t believe what he’s getting away with.

  1. “Sorry losers and haters, but my I.Q. is one of the highest and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.”

Yes, a sure sign of intelligence is the constant insulting and belittling of everyone you come into contact with. Mocking the handicapped, judging every female only by appearance, insulting any and everyone who crosses him in even the slightest way – it all reeks of exceptional intellect. As we all know, Einstein was famous for wandering the streets and yelling about how stupid everyone else was.

  1. “Two Corinthians 3:17, that’s the whole ballgame.”

As you’ll likely remember, this is Trump speaking to the Christian Liberty University and claiming to be a HUGE God type guy. He later explained this unusual reading of the bible verse, “It’s a very small deal, but a lot of people in different sections of the world say two, and I’ve had many, many people say that to me. My mother, as you know, was from Scotland, and they say two.”

I agree with the beginning of his statement – it actually was a small deal. But the real problem here is that it perfectly demonstrates Trump’s complete inability to admit any mistake. Trump smacks us in the face daily with his glaring, obvious mistakes…and he defends each and every one of them like a toddler covered in cookie crumbs insisting he doesn’t even know what an Oreo is. It would be so easy to say that he misspoke, but instead he insists he was treating the audience to a Scottish interpretation of the scripture. And who are the “many, many people” who confirm each of his delusions? Oh, Donnie, you’re endless attempts to recover from your gaffes only makes you all the more ridiculous.

  1. “My fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well documented, are various other parts of my body.”

Trump is the first candidate since…ever…to twice refer to the size of his penis in presidential debates. (And did he just say that the size of his genitals are “well documented”? Does he have reams of reports on his girth stashed under one of his solid gold couches? Has he hired a journalist that dedicates all of his time to measuring Trump and typing up graphs? What the hell is going on here?) I have never known any human being so insecure (finally, something he actually is the best at). He can’t let any small criticism go, he has to fight to prove that every part of his personality and body is HUGE.


  1. “I know words. I have the best words.”

I’m sure you do. If only you could just once remember to use them.

  1. “Happy Cinco de Mayo! The best taco bowls are made in Trump Tower Grill. I love Hispanics!”

This is a man who thinks that after claiming that the vast majority of all Mexican immigrants are criminals and worse, thinks that a picture of himself with a taco bowl will make everything all right. Reminds me of the time Roosevelt said, “Sorry about those Japanese internment camps. I’m eating sushi! I love Asians!”

  1. “She does have a very nice figure. I’ve said that if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

Not only is this one of the most disturbing things one can imagine a man saying about his daughter, it wasn’t even misunderstood or taken out of context. Trump states, “I’ve said that if Ivanka weren’t my daughter…” so the fact that he has thought about dating his own daughter is something that he talks about often. Dear Trump supporters, a few questions – How? What? Why? Holy shit, wwwhhhhyyyyy?

  1. “I’m speaking with myself, number one, because I have a very good brain and I’ve said a lot of things.”

This was Trump’s response to the question of who he’s consulting on foreign affairs. Wow. It’s a humdinger. You’re absolutely right, Mr. Trump. You have said a lot of things.

Here’s the deal. Long term reader (I wish I could make that plural) of this blog are probably wondering – is the guy who typically writes about sporks, unicorns, states with boring shapes, pomegranates and yodeling about to write a humorous take on miscarriages? Yes. Yes he is.

Let me just say this – I firmly believe that there is no subject that cannot be joked about. That being said, the more serious the topic, the more careful one ought to be. It also lends more credibility if you have some experience with the subject matter. But finding a way to laugh through pain is an essential part of the human experience. That and root beer floats. At some point, everyone should have a really good root beer float.

Note: Even though I am constantly writing about my opinion on very silly things, I rarely have discussed any of my actual life in this blog. Everything that follows is real.

About two months ago, my fiancée peed on a stick. To be perfectly honest, she does this much more often than either one of us would admit to in polite company, but this time it was a special stick. A voodoo stick that can amazingly tell if the urine it’s absorbing is that of a pregnant woman or that of a non pregnant woman and/or confused man. When this magic stick said, “Pregnant urine!” I was immediately cautiously optimistic.

You see, the first time a stick delivered us such news (about 18 months ago), I was a little quick on the celebration. I believe I contacted my best friend and family members within three minutes of the pee stick’s verdict. Somehow, I had purchased a stroller within seven minutes. And was checking out colleges by the end of the hour. Unfortunately, the pee stick doesn’t know the future, and we experienced a miscarriage a couple of weeks later.

Until this happened to us, I had no idea how common they are. Correct or not, I took some solace in this fact. “Look,” I reasoned, “We weren’t singled out. Many, many people have experienced this.” Perhaps this is not logical, but if something bad happens to me that also happens to a lot of other people, I find it more reasonable – it had to happen to 20% of the people, I can’t expect to dodge all of life’s most common tragedies. But if, say, I were attacked by a Bengal tiger that had escaped from a travelling circus, I’d be quite miffed. “What are the odds?!?”  I would cry out in the ER room as they bandaged up the gash in my left thigh and tested me for various rare Bengal tiger type diseases. “No one gets attacked by an escaped Bengal tiger,” I would bemoan my fate, “I’m so freakin’ unlucky!”

Nonetheless, a miscarriage is not fun. It is sad. It’s as if, as potential parents, you begin to slowly inflate this balloon with all your hopes of an imagined future with this child, and then someone just walks up out of nowhere and pops your balloon. And there’s nothing you can do but slowly watch it deflate. What could have soared is gone in a moment. And, frankly, I was afraid it would happen again. Thus, I was cautiously optimistic.

Throughout all of October I found myself afraid of another miscarriage. I would cringe anytime she displayed any slight looks of discomfort. Yes, it was usually just gas (not her gas, mind you, it was her distress at having to suffer through mine), but I felt like any twinge of pain from her could be the bad news we both had ever present in the back of our minds. Plus I heard that a travelling circus had lost a Bengal tiger…

Look, I believe that a positive outlook can manifest itself physically, so we certainly didn’t dwell on the negative. Quite the opposite. We began to talk about names. She had a dream she was playing with our daughter. I put up a top-notch tiger fence.

And then it happened.

Bleeding. Pain. Emergency room.

Here’s the strange thing I’ve noticed about pain of all types – most everyone thinks that theirs is the worst. Most people wear their pain like badges, they like to say things like, “You can’t imagine what I’ve been through,” they like to secretly feel that their pain is extra special. I sometimes wonder if this isn’t part of the problems of our world. How often are we just using other’s suffering in order to compare it to our own?

You see, sitting in an emergency room with someone you love and watching them suffer is not an easy thing. For anyone. And we weren’t seen immediately. We had to wait for other people. Other people who had other pains. Of course there was part of me that just wanted to clear the room, I just wanted to make an announcement for everyone with their scrapes, and bruises, and aches to just get out of the way so that our pain could be attended to. Because pain makes you hopeless. It reminds us of how little control we have.

But she did get to see a doctor. And the pain (as it almost always does) dissipated. The physical pain goes first. The emotional pain lingers longer. But it all escapes eventually with the air from the popped balloon.

We were over two months pregnant this time, which made it more difficult. It felt more real before it was taken away.

But she’s okay. I’m okay. We’re okay. And I don’t feel like wearing my pain like a badge. Yes, I’m writing this and putting it out into the world. Perhaps it’s therapeutic. Part of me hopes it could possibly help someone else who’s experiencing something similar. And part of me just really liked the joke about me farting. But I’m not here to say, “Woe is me.” (I’m also not trying, by the way, to judge anyone who does have that response. It feels like a perfectly natural response to have.) I didn’t even realize when I started writing this…but what I want to say (speaking only for myself) is that my pain is not special.

My pain is not special.

And by saying that, I’m not trying to diminish or fail to recognize the loss. I cried. I had heart ache. That was real. But it’s not unique to me. I don’t get to own that pain alone.

I just think that maybe there’s an outside chance that this is a good way to view the world. That this might help us relate to each other a little better. My mom has a unique way of virtually always finding the positive in a situation. I’m not as accomplished in this arena, but I try and do it when I can.

So I try to see the positive.

And I’ll try to share that feeling.

And, honey, I’ll try and fart a little less.

Here’s the deal. Candy is a hot button topic this time of year. All the celebrity parents are dishing: What treat are you handing out this year? Full size or fun size? Healthy or decadent? Are Kit Kats in or out? But whatever your opinion on candy dispersal, we can all agree on one thing. White chocolate is ridiculous.

Let’s clear up one point first – everyone likes chocolate. To not like chocolate is not a valid opinion. It doesn’t have to be your favorite food, you can enjoy it in moderation, but you have to enjoy the taste of chocolate. It’s what separates us from the lawless apes. And that brings up a number of questions. Why would anyone go and invent white chocolate? Why are we still producing white chocolate? And, what the hell is white chocolate?


I don’t know about you, but I go to the Huffington Post for all of my chocolate news, and they report that, “White chocolate doesn’t qualify as genuine chocolate because it doesn’t contain chocolate solids. White chocolate is typically made from a blend of cocoa butter, milk solids, sugar, milk fat, and lecithin – a fatty emulsifier that holds it all together.” Sounds like Frankenstein’s monster confection to me. Cooked up in some lab by a mad scientist with a half eaten Snickers on a slab connected to electrodes that run first to a corpse brain and then to a lightening rod on the roof. No thank you.

And, frankly, it sounds racist. Of course, you run the risk of anything sounding racist when you pop the word white in front of it. White supremacy. White power. White Christmas. (“Why can’t I invite my friend, Jose, to the Christmas party, Dad, it’s just not fair!”) I imagine a bunch of honkey lawyers and doctors sitting around their country club saying, “Yes, this Hershey’s bar is tasty, but it’s just so darn dark. Isn’t there any way to make it both delicious and whiter?” The answer is no. There isn’t a way to do that. When you make it whiter it tastes like crap.

Chocolate is so damn good. Why are we messing with it? No one’s trying to market a purple banana or a silver watermelon. Let’s just leave it alone alright?

It’s just wrong to serve people this impostor food. Telling someone you’ve got chocolate for dessert and then offering them white chocolate is like telling people you’re going to take them out to see a comedian and then taking them to see Tom Green. A cruel, cruel joke.

And let’s not forget that it’s not even chocolate. Why not call kale green chocolate? Why not call aluminum foil metal chocolate? Why not call Bernie Sanders socialist chocolate? You can’t just run around adding chocolate to your name to make you look better. Chocolate has a long, important history of tasting delicious and it shall not be sullied by these misnomers. So join me, friends, let us toast with a Twix and never give into this little white lie.