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I resist the wisdom of crowds. I was too young for Woodstock, too old for Woodstock II, and am way way too old for Lollapalooza. I’m leery of big movements that promise solidarity, bliss and transcendence. But I do know a good time when I see one.

And all the lethal speculation around someone’s unexplained absence over Labor Day was one of those times.

How many bottles of champagne were socked away in anticipation? How many ballrooms booked for the party? How many crates of fireworks, mortars and rockets were picked up across the state line and brought into the garage in hopes that the speculation about this prominent person was accurate?

Oh, what a joyous time to be alive!

Then, like a bout of dysentery, he came back, with no explanation of the radio silence that I ever learned of. The most attention-starved person in the world suddenly shut up, and the reasons for his absence — welcome though it so manifestly was — were nowhere to be found. If it were President Joe Biden, speculation would run rampant about slipping on an area rug or getting locked in a closet.

But for this stain on the country, this festering boil, this embodiment of every American pestilence, we all just waited with a beer in hand and a match to the fuse of the $7,000 fireworks array we just bought and assembled. We are waiting still.

So where was the orange Shitgibbon during that weekend? Some possibilities:

A “Christmas Carol” story of redemption? The problem with this is contained in the word redemption. After the Labor Day weekend, he came back and threatened Chicago with federal troops. Redemption means as much to him as to a Moray eel. But if he had been in fact visited by 3 ghostly guides to a better character, I’m betting he greatly enjoyed revisiting his youth, as Dad told him stories about Klan meetings and evicting tenants. I picture the Ghost of Christmas Past with the face of Roy Cohn, giving him advice on punishing enemies. The scenes of cheating contractors and obtaining concrete from the mob during workers strikes heartened the would-be magnate. As well as avoiding the clap at Studio 54. Not many lessons to be found here.

Present day? Stuck in meetings where cabinet members debase themselves completely, telling him was a good boy he is. Redirecting hurricanes with the stroke of a Sharpie. Trying not to turn his back on JD Vance and hiding scissors and letter openers. Not much to be learned there, either.

The Christmas Yet to Come? He wants to get into heaven so badly that he’s printed his name on Bibles to enhance name recognition at the Pearly Gates. He’s planned everything out well. I think he’s hidden some poison pills in his will that will have him laughing at his surviving family for a while. And the afterlife couldn’t be more cold and lonely than any night he’s been in the White House.

So, no big whoop. On Christmas morning, if there were a small poor child outside his window, he’d call out the National Guard.

A visit to Dante’s Inferno? The journey down the rings of Hell would’ve taken much longer than these three days. Among the many people suffering the anguish of the damned, Shitgibbon would’ve known most and stopped to shake hands and laugh at every one of them. He’d also spend time bragging about how he could spruce the place up with gilded boulders and stalactites.

Alien abduction? It’s a comforting theory, and amusing/appalling to think aliens would think he was our glorious leader. What if he were lifted into space from the roof of the West Wing, or the patio of (god help us) the Rose Garden Club? The initial anal probes would’ve released toxic gases that even the most advanced ventilation systems couldn’t handle. After a day or two of cruising around with the windows open, the aliens might administer a cognitive test, which Shitgibbon would ace: “Alien. Beepy machine. Probe. Vaseline. Another alien.” Then, realizing what a waste of time it was, they’d dump him off and return to mutilating cattle.

He might have spent some time working on his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize, but I bet ChatGPT couldn’t stop vomiting.

Or Shitgibbon was met by a man in a trench coat named Morpheus, who revealed that humanity is unknowingly trapped inside the Matrix, a simulated reality created by intelligent machines. After first mistaking Morpheus for Tim Cook, Shitgibbon later admits, “I’m cool with that.”

“No, wait, this is really a BAD thing,” explains Mr. Fishburne.

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So, what now? At the very least, many more of us now know the early signs of stroke and the treatments available, and how those treatments manifest themselves in the body. This will come in handy to rescue people we actually care about.

We can also take solace in the fact that most of our fellow citizens have their priorities straight, and still know how to have a good time.

Make sure to store your fireworks in a cool, dry place. And keep your champagne chilled. You’ll want to avoid the big runs to the store later.

Last Saturday I attended the Minnesota State Fair (“The Great Minnesota Get-Together”). My past stories of the fair’s excess and bonhomie were enough to attract to the Twin Cities not only my wife (who then could also visit our daughter and future son-in-law) but also my niece and her boyfriend.

I’ve been 3 times now, and hope to hit double-digits before I die. My daughter who now lives up there has been to the fair 7 times. A friend in NYC who was raised in the Twins flies to the fair almost every year. She’s in her 60s.

It is THAT kind of experience. There’s something for everyone.

Are you an itinerary planner? Check that box.

Do you love exotic and/or experimental foods? Check.

Do you love doughnuts, beer, corn dogs or other important staples? Check.

Do you love midway rides? Check.

Do you love seeing the pride of people who work on crafts in the long winter, just for the possibility of winning a ribbon? Check.

Do you love lumberjack skills shows (like my wife, something I discovered as her nails dug into my knee during the chainsaw competition, giving me a new inferiority complex to deal with)? Check.

And do you love swimming in a sea of humanity, brought together by that ancient human need to cluster, mingle and hobnob? Even on a Saturday when the place is teeming with people walking around stuffing their faces and talking on their phones absently? People from the Amish to the Somali to the corn-fed 4-H kids? Check that box, Gordie.

For comparison, I’ve only been to 2 other state fairs. We visited the Illinois State Fair back in 1992 (I remember because it was an election year and people were carrying around empty shopping bags emblazoned with the faces of George Bush and Dan Quayle). My only memory from it occurred in the new products tent, where hucksters were pulling people in to try new miracle gizmos, sauces or financial deals. Very Harold Hill. One guy was selling an attachment for your vacuum hose with a spinning blade inside that would give you a haphazard trim. Suck your hair up into the vacuum hose and snip it off. One old woman with long stringy hair was cajoled into trying it. She had been through a lot in life, it was obvious, and this was just one more insult. But the haircut was free!

Sometime in that same era, my wife and I visited the Texas State Fair. It’s the only real competitor to the MSF, but it’s open a few weeks longer, so the attendance numbers are hard to compare. I remember their 50-foot-tall mascot, BIG TEX, who waved his arm and said something garbled that at one time clearly stated, “Howdy, folks.” (Big Tex has since gone into structural rehab.) At this fair, I was introduced to the walking taco, which was nice. But frankly, the place was too big, dusty and breaking down. Not unlike the state itself.

(We’ve also been to the half-state fair in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula at Escanaba. It was, well, underpopulated.)

But the MSF has ruined me for visiting any other state fair. The fairgrounds in St. Paul are tidy, the buildings are a beautiful white and yellow art deco style, and everything looks well thought-out. And the officials keep it up, because the MSF draws more than 1.9 million people into the state over 12 days. That brings a lot of cheese into the Twin Cities, figuratively and literally.

The biggest attraction of the MSF is, of course, the food. And while some of it is gigantic (and thus brings to mind an American Gargantua), the more interesting things to eat are innovations. Our breakfast was an explosion of flavors:

Food stands and restaurants that have been around for a while love to attack the imagination with such marvels as Deep-Fried Ranch Dressing:

Minneapolis’ amazing ethnic mix brings out cuisines like this Hmong innovation, Shrimp & Crab Toast on a Stick:

A new favorite BBQ stand, RC’s BBQ, offered a new Hawaiian-style pork dish that was tender and tasty, sweet and salty, called the Hula Kalua:

As well as the standby Hot Hen, with shredded smoked buffalo chicken, bleu cheese fondue, jalapenos, green onions, tomatoes, bleu cheese crumbles and chips. This was a 4-person dish:

There was only one of our crowd with a truly cast-iron stomach, and he had a go at the Uncrustaburger, which used deep-fried Uncrustable PBJs for a bun:

And to end the day, Soft Serve Royal Raspberry beer and a bucket of Sweet Martha’s Cookies.

While walking off all these calories, we marveled at the livestock large and small, the draft horse competition, the huge fish in the DNR pond, the old farm equipment, the Rescue Dog Stunt Show, the Miracle of Birth Center, and the beauteous Seed Art:

And row after row of meticulous crafts, farm products and homemade foods:

To go to the Minnesota State Fair every year would be excessive. That’s what it’s there for. That’s what I plan to do. It is the very, very best of the Midwest.

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I wrote this early Wednesday, and then that happened.

THAT being the semi-regular story of some deluded soul opening fire on innocent schoolkids praying in church. This time it was in Minneapolis. Next time it will be at another innocent place. Down the street or around the corner from you, me or any of us.

Minnesota has had its share of violence and heartbreak in recent years. George Floyd and the riots after his murder. The murder of State Rep. Melissa Hortman and her husband, and the shooting of State Sen. John Hoffman and his wife the same night. And now these kids, along with a pair of 80-year-olds who were attending mass.

This will not diminish my love for Minnesota and the people I’ve met there. It just adds one more thing to the To-Do List, after we remove the fascists in power, repair what we can of the federal government, and figure out ways to stop people from being alienated and left out of the national dialog. And THEN maybe we can make baby steps toward gun control.

That is, if the ammosexuals can stop protecting themselves from “tyrannical government overreach” (where you been this year, guys? Still looking for you out there, as the government rounds up people just looking to earn a living!) and not get in the way.

Eight weeks without writing…

It had many good points, but it ain’t all beer and skittles.

Have you ever read the aphorism: you can tell you’re a writer when the pain of writing becomes smaller than the pain of NOT writing? I thought it was some hogwash, but no more. Now, the burden of not writing hangs over me like a teetering boulder on a rainy day, with warnings of earthquakes in the area.

I don’t know exactly WHAT I want to write, so a quick remedy for that is to post to Substack. Thank you for helping ease my burden. Sorry for this sloppy drivel. I promise to be more considerate in the future. Until I’m not. Again.

I have ideas. I have 4 distinct projects in various stages of completion right now, and need to start selling them. I have to maintain the ongoing baseball doggerel site BARDBALL, so I could check last night’s box scores and come up with something (oh, and this weekend witnessed the first MLB game umpired by a woman. How’s THAT for cool, especially in these days of cowardice and recidivism?) Limericks about groin injuries don’t just write themselves.

It hasn’t been that I’m incapacitated or stricken with grief or anything. This summer was made up of weeks of what people insist is important: recharging, rejuvenation, regrowth, things like that. It’s been a terrific two months: overseas trips, family gatherings, a trip to see my daughter in a hilarious play at the Minnesota Fringe Festival (sold most tickets, voted Audience Favorite). Ain’t bragging, but facts is facts.

And still, more than ever before, the writing has been nagging at me like a case of dysentery lingering (see reference to “overseas trip” above). One factor might be my birthday at the end of the month. I’ll be turning 65. Age is just a number, so my Snapple cap says, but that’s an age that starts lots of conversations about retirement and slowing down and mortality. And I just have many many many more ideas in me that have to materialize. I’ve gotta get cracking.

65 looks like a soft deadline to me, the date on which you have to hand your teacher your draft outline. But that means playtime is over. It’s time to knuckle down. How good am I at pulling all-nighters these days, if the last all-nighter might last 15-20 years, God willing? I guess we’ll see.

If you know me, you know I don’t like to get airy-fairy about writing. It’s my job. Some days I love it (only after the fact), some days I hate it. But if I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done. Characters, scenes, ideas and insults to good taste will not make it into the world if I don’t sit down and craft them.

I’m not talking about the Brothers Karamazov here. I’m talking about clown detectives and rebuilt undead teenagers fighting Nazis and Dracula. I don’t think I have to worry about the broad ethics of getting on the list for Oprah’s book club.

But to quote Otter from the cinematic classic “Animal House,” “This situation absolutely requires a really futile and stupid gesture be done on somebody’s part.”

And I’m on Team Bluto: “We’re just the guys to do it.”

On my overseas trip in June, I tried so hard to block out what is going on in America. Tried and tried, but failed. Yet all around me were messages that Life goes on. We were visiting a secular country led by a politician who was elected democratically a few years ago, and has spent his time wrenching the country to the right and trying to stay in power indefinitely. But the country continued on. The power games of insecure men played on, but the country endures. And has great food, BTW. Dysentery notwithstanding.

The plague and rot that the Orange Shitgibbon spreads has continued since my wife and I got back, but in my eyes has changed from horror to farce. Paving the Rose Garden so he can put up cheap lawn furniture. Stealing trophies from FIFA. Shouting from the roof at reporters. What a pathetic idiot.

Of course, what’s more pathetic are the people and institutions capitulating to him and his minions. Columbia University. The Columbia Broadcasting System (“Yes, sir, please give us a monitor to keep us from saying anything you don’t like. What else could a free press ask for?”). Feckless Mario Cuomo kissing his ass, trying to get elected mayor of a city that HATES HIS GUTS.

Don’t these toadies see how this is going to play out? They are going to cause terrible damage (they already have), but spinelessness doesn’t get you anywhere. By the end of the year, Shitgibbon is going to be gibbering to his gilded cherubs in the Oval Office, in a display that will make the midnight Nixon talking to paintings look Aristotelian. Couchfuck McGee (to use Jeff Tiedrich’s immortal nickname) is sizing up where to insert the dagger. And when the Lying-Racist-Pedophile-in-Chief is gone, there’s nobody to take his place. No one has the charisma to keep MAGA going, and all the flatworms in government will be playing Pig Pile when he oozes out of his mortal coil. It won’t be pretty, and not unentertaining, but it won’t be permanent (and there will be elections or there will be riots, guaranteed).

We citizens can’t do everything in this shit-blizzard, but we can all do something, and push and push until this regime of ignorance and racism and twisted religiosity tumbles. I’ve chosen my battles, fighting with my time, attention and money. You need to choose yours and stick with them. (I know, you probably are. Kudos. Do not comply.)

Also as part of the resistance, I’ve chosen to continue writing my silly stories and comics with the most gusto I can muster, because conformity is a danger to watch for in a fascist state. Conformity is a passive fear that will allow the retrograde efforts to disappear our gay and transgendered siblings to work. Conformity will allow White nationalism to further poison our communities and institutions. Conformity will allow Mike Johnson’s wet dream for America to take root.

But there are a LOT more of us than there are of them. Use every chance you have to remind them of that, and flip them a big, multicultural finger.

This is a vast, wonderful, maddening goddam country. Do you think a failed casino owner and TV pitchman is going to mold it to his demented will, no matter how many sycophants and greedheads in tailored suits try and help?

And I know I speak from a position of privilege, but I can’t change that. My heart is torn by the images of immigrants and citizens being kidnapped because of the color of their skin. Many people will lose their lives because billionaires have managed to buy themselves a government that will let them continue to pollute, exploit and evade responsibility. I can never be glib about that.

I also speak with a voice of optimism that this vast, stupid, ungovernable country will right itself and move forward.

There. Not much of a rant, but sometimes the fear of a rant that’s sloppy or incomplete will seize up the writing muscles. Thank you for reading this far, and please do your best to enjoy the rest of the summer. Finish that big meandering book. Call that friend who needs a beer with you, or who has moved far away. Be strong and resilient.

And get ready to stand for what the moment requires.

Trump targets PBS. HBO evicts the Muppets. Classic children’s TV needs to rethink its message or it will no longer be our preferred video babysitter.

SESAME INDUSTRIAL PARKWAY

In this informative, fast-paced show, kids will learn the skills they’ll need to get along in the new, re-shored economy, like counting overtime hours and controlling your pee until breaktime. Those tiny nimble fingers shouldn’t be wasted on clapping and drawing and holding hands—they’re needed on the looms of America’s reborn textile industry!

“Sunny day, working all clouds away…”

KA-BLUEY!

Australia will always be our preferred locale for post-apocalyptic struggle. In the spirit of George Miller (creator of the “Mad Max” pantheon, as well as “Babe the Pig”), Bluey and his pals will show how the fight for survival on a post-nuclear landscape is always better with friends. Emotions are okay to have when you watch your world burn!

THE COAL-FIRED ELECTRIC COMPANY

Crypto and Artificial Intelligence are our future, and they both need lots of energy. But what happens on cloudy days? Clean, beautiful coal will create the power to broadcast this show, which shows pre-teens the fulfilling careers that involve digging in the dirt with their hands and blowing the tops off Appalachian mountains.

OLIGARCHY ROCK

This lively animated music series explores how American government works now, with fun sing-along songs like “The Money Laundromat on the Corner,” “Jailing the Opposition Jig” and “Access! Who Wants Access?!” All songs created by AI and available on Spotify.

U.S. Grant and the builders of America.

THE MAGIC HOMESCHOOL BUS

Mrs. Frizzell (partner in a traditional marriage, of course) takes her large brood and a couple neighbor kids on adventures that explain patriotic history, American exceptionalism and solid Christian values. No science lessons or DEI content here—there are too many root causes of the Civil War to learn!

DORA THE SELF-DEPORTER

Cutie-pie Dora, along with her monkey pal Boots-on-the-Ground, teaches kids survival techniques as she tries to find her way through the jungle back to her homeland. ¿Donde es la border patrol?

WHERE IN THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IS CARMEN SANDIEGO?

Your guess is as good as ours.

Big changes ahead that you will never notice.

(Originally from my Substack page.) When the Necrosis Zone mystically merged with your reality through violent galactic conquest last quarter, we at the Reverso Cabal did it with valued customers like you in mind.

Now your previous reality can take advantage of the improved service, market synergies and streamlined soul-eating dynamism that are the hallmarks of Necrosis Zone culture. Soon, you’ll begin to see changes in your monthly account statement that will reflect the changeover to your new Reverso-Reality account.

As a long-valued customer of your former reality, your compliance is important to us. We at the Necrosis Zone know you have many choices in the market – or so you’d like to think – and we plan to take advantage of that. Realistically, your only choice now is our Reverso-Reality. Our only goal is to make you love it as best as possible within your obvious limits.

WHAT’S NEW IN THE REVERSO-REALITY?

The merger of the Necrosis Zone and your reality will simplify your life in many ways. No more worrying about which leader to trust, which religion to follow, or which philosophy can guide your life. They’ve all been replaced by our basic Everything Is Fine™ plan, which lets you get on with life, quickly and without hesitation.

We’ve worked hard to make sure your transition to Reverso-Reality is completely seamless. Your typical day and your reality outlay will be the same, as long as you stay focused only on what’s directly in front of you. The things you’ve come to rely on – a sense of hope and progress, an appreciation for good people, satisfaction for hard work, a feeling that strong vision and sustained effort leads to desired outcomes – will still be there on the surface for all to see. Enjoy them and take comfort from them if you need to. We’ll keep doing our job. The outcome is the same: synergy!

WHAT CAN I LOOK FORWARD TO IN THE NEW REVERSO-REALITY?

In the new Reverso-Reality, you will be able to work, play, and live your life without the hassles that came with the previous reality. You’ll never have to worry again about job loss, displacement or having enough saved for retirement. Your family will be safe and happy in the extraction pods next to you. Just keep living your life, all the time! We’ll do the work on our end to make sure that disruptions and setbacks never reach you so you can keep working 24/7—how’s that for productivity!

You’ll still enjoy the simulacrum of a full, satisfying life, while we extract the life essence you produce for our own special projects. You’ll never even notice it’s missing. Meanwhile, that extra essence goes toward research, manufacturing, resource extraction and conquest to the furthest edges of consciousness. You’ll be part of a vast reality-harnessing system that will make things better for everyone (the Reverso Cabal most of all). All you have to do is trust us.

Have we mentioned synergies recently? Because there’s a lot.

WILL MY MONTHLY COSTS GO UP?

Your monthly costs will stay the same, and in many cases go down. Your lifetime costs in an abstract sense will see a dramatic change, however, which we will outline in a later email, if you’re still able to pay attention.              

WAIT, IS THERE SOME HIDDEN TRICK TO ALL THIS?

Not on your life! We at the Necrosis Zone have been completely transparent about our plans, our organization and our attention to you. And we will continue to be. Turning you into a soulless drone and extracting your life essence to keep everything going is what we do! It has worked in countless galaxies and parallel realities, and it will work for you.

And even if there were a hidden trick, the results are the same. Your gods and heroes have been defeated, Hope strangled and Consciousness paralyzed – and the result is the Everything is Fine™ Plan! We offer the best reality around. Just ask anyone. We’ve eliminated the competition for your soul, quite literally, and pass the savings of time and worry to you. There’s nothing we can’t do – for (and with) you!

I LIKE MY OLD REALITY. CAN I SWITCH BACK?

Sure! We won’t say no. If it brings you peace of mind, go ahead. Be advised, though, that you will never know whether you actually are switching back to your old reality, or just think you are. That’s the beauty of Reverso-Reality! At no additional charge, we’ll tell you what you want to hear and continue with our plans anyway. How’s that for a bargain?

The end result: This fait accompli becomes a GREAT accompli!

And synergy!

WHAT SHOULD I DO IF I HAVE QUESTIONS?

It’s natural to have questions about such a new, exciting system of being farmed for 100% of your life essence. Don’t worry, we have planned for every contingency. Your questions, when you can even formulate them, can be sent to gapingvoid@reversoreality.net, and they will be deleted in the order received. We’ll also sign you up for our twice-daily newsletter, which reiterates the information in this letter in slightly different wording, so you will always be informed about the same repeated things. And that’s important.

Congratulations on reading these terms of service to the end. It’s quite an achievement, and a legacy to be proud of!

We here at Reverso-Reality value your business, while acknowledging that you cannot take it anywhere else. Welcome to the Necrosis Zone team! You’ll love it here, you’ll think!

Now, please return to your pod.

Some “novel legal theories” dictated by a certain sitting president.

• Start introducing myself as the long-lost twin Earl (must be classy name!), then gradually assume the persona.
• Invent a time machine (Call TESLA!) to go to 1937 and push FDR’s wheelchair down the stairs. No FDR, no 22^nd Amendment!
• Create a new number – gerf – and decree it shall always be counted between 2 and 3, then run for a gerfian term.
• Scientifically transplant brains with Barron. So amazing, so incredible, everyone will forget about 22^nd AND Article 2 Section 1 Clause 5. (Nobody knew there were so many Constitutional clauses! Weird!)
• Get funding for presidential cloning up to speed.
• Create an AI based on my books and speeches and writing and set it loose on the country. Pure distilled me!
• Break, ignore and shit on every other article in the Constitution, so that violating the 22^nd seems like the least of the country’s worries. (Hello, armed and billeted CLONES!)
• Run for Speaker of the House (EASY PEASY), then murder the President and the Vice-President (With luck it will be Vance and someone else who knows too much)
• Take the Tesla Time Machine again, back to 1776 in Philadelphia. Insert exceptions into the text of the Constitution for “stable geniuses” who happen to be president. (How could they stop you? All low-IQ individuals – Wharton not founded until 1881!) Pray that Tesla Time Machine doesn’t blow up on way back.
• Announce the Constitution has been misplaced by radical bureaucrats in the National Archives, and until it’s found, no changes allowed. NO TAKEBACKS!
• Leave it to Vlad, like always.

Shitshows. We’ve all seen ‘em. We’re all in one now. But how to judge the finest of shitshows? I delve into the subject in the latest issue of The Toxic Avenger. This and all your favorites from Ahoy Comics are on the stands at your LCS now!

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People shout, What a shitshow! You nod in agreement, not wanting to be contrary, but inside you shrug. You know what you are seeing is a thoroughly forgettable shitshow. A meh shitshow. A cobbled-together, prefab, disposable shitshow. A shitshow for chumps.

Because you know your shitshows. You consider yourself an expert, a connoisseur of the genre. You not only appreciate the finest shitshows, you’ve been writing a blog for 14 years rating the commentary tracks and behind-the-scenes specials on the world’s greatest shitshows. Nothing slips by you regarding shitshows. We get that.Subscribed

We are here to tell you today, this is the most complete and utter shitshow you have ever experienced. Hundreds of experts have spent thousands of hours, day and night, across six continents to present you with the shitshow you only saw in your dreams.

This is what you, the discerning shitshow aficionado, have been waiting for.

We hear you scoff and cluck your tongue. “’Complete and utter’? I’ve heard that before.”

Then let us explain.

When we say “Complete,” we mean it. No facet of this project was thoroughly thought out. No preparation was careful, because everything was done on the fly. No testing was ever done, or even conceived of. A good shitshow reeks of incompetence, neglect and hubris. You’ll get all this and more, in this complete and utter shitshow:

• Incompetence? Not a single expert was employed, consulted or spoken with. Years of careful analysis and terabytes of data were ignored. And to take it to the next level, we opened up our “Comments” section and incorporated every suggestion we found there.
• Neglect? It would be impossible to neglect this shitshow more and still be able to present it to you. We cheaped out on materials. We disregarded industry standards. We hired technicians who were all 4 months from retirement and couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about anything. Then we withheld the pay of those technicians, so they sabotaged everything they could on the way out.
• Hubris? No need to be modest, we are the top shitshow producers in the world. We couldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, but we would anyway. No one tops us in hubris.

“Hold on,” you say, “what besides your hubris gives you the right to call this an ‘utter’ shitshow?”

All right. In your mind, place yourself in the middle of this shitshow. Look to the left, then to the right. Look above. Look below. Look in any direction. You’ll see, hear and feel nothing – not the hope of anything else – but this shitshow. It is absolute. It is unadulterated by optimism or relief. Your imagination breaks just trying to think of anything other than this shitshow.

Friend, it is as utter as utter can get.

Shitshows come and go like this latest fashion. There exists a whole industry to promote shitshows to us, presenting themselves as the shitshow of the moment, the shitshow du jour, the NOW shitshow. This raises your expectations, of course, but always leads to disappointment. If everything is a total shitshow, then nothing is.

When your child asks, “Daddy, is this a shitshow?” what will you be able to say? Because of our digital era and late-stage capitalism, your child has been robbed of the chance to endure a complete and utter shitshow.

Until now.

Are we overhyping this shitshow? You be the judge. Contact us now, and we will deliver this complete and utter shitshow in 10 regular installments. Once the delivery of the complete and utter shitshow is done, we’re confident you’ll vouch for its quality. We’re so confident, no returns or refunds will be available. Customer representatives were never hired. And as you read this, we are getting ready to move to Delaware.

We said it was the complete and utter shitshow. We know you’ll agree.

We’re shitshow people. Just like you.

This post originally appeared on my Substack page, The Bung & Gargle.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everybody!

And to my Irish immigrant ancestors who came to Chicago just in time to deal with the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, I salute you. You came over with only the tattered clothes on your back, leaving economic misery, high child mortality and memories of Black ‘47. You put up with virulent bigotry and exploitation in America, and within 2 generations, you owned a couple of two-flats. But that wasn’t too bad at the time, for immigrants. It was actually pretty good.

My Chicago-Irish bona fides: One of my great-grandmothers was a servant girl for Potter Palmer, the wealthy hotelier. Family legend has it that she served people fleeing the Great Fire hot coffee in the Palmers’ china cups.Subscribed

My great-grandfather was a cop on the beat. His son worked in shipping at the stockyards, riding a horse to meet the trains as they brought cattle in boxcars from the farms of the Midwest. He later made money on weekends selling insurance to other Irishmen, a well-worn path to the middle class at the time.

By that time, they weren’t Irish, they were Irish-Americans, that strange hybrid that evolves over time with every ethnic group. They had no more connection with Ireland than with Mt. Everest, though they’d offer to punch you out if you brought it up. An identity formed in the push-pull of “what the old folks say,” where you went to church, what career you pursued, which high school/college you attended, and which nearby ethnic group gave you the most trouble.

(I grew up in Dearborn, Mich., surrounded by Polish- and Italian-American families, and not a few French, who maintained strong ties to Canada. I had no idea that this ethnic mix would be a concern for my parents in the 1960s, but back in the Chicago ‘hoods they came from, it definitely was. And let’s not even get into race. There was enough animosity among white ethnics without examining, y’know, ALL of American history. Dearborn was always a segregated city.)

I don’t consider myself an Irish-American. There was always too much baggage. I’m not Catholic anymore, despite 12 years of parochial school. I married a woman of Dutch ancestry (she’s 100%, so I did feel quite Irish-American when I met her grandparents! Like, Dennis Leary Irish). The teams for both my grade school and high school were named Shamrocks.

Had I grown up here in Chicago, down in the Irish-American enclave of Beverly, I might feel a stronger connection with the heritage. I’d also feel the suffocating effects of hanging out still with the guys I went to grade school with, secretly drinking at kids’ baseball games, hearing stories of juvenile embarrassment for the 100th time, wondering what any other kind of life would be like. Uncles getting plowed at weddings and fist-fighting with their own kids. Aunts making you feel guilty that you didn’t make more of yourself. Cousins with long memories and sharp tongues. Who knows, I might still be Catholic.

And now we head into the Irish-American holiday of St. Patrick’s Day, a time for day-long drinking and shamrock deely-bobbers. Green-beer-a-palooza. Amateur Hour. Don’t get me wrong, I think America needs more excuses for drinking (and after the last election, we’re getting more and more).

The drinking starts early in Chicago, as people line the State Street Bridge to watch the river get dyed green. Many people don’t believe it’s a thing we do here, but it is. It was started in 1961 by the plumbers union, who used to use the dye to find leaks in the river. It has grown into a bigger and bigger event over the years, but still handled by the union.

A downtown parade follows, but since they’ve moved most parades from crowded State Street to the edge of Grant Park, it’s cold and windy and not as much fun. There are also 3 other parades in town, on the northwest side, near Midway Airport, and down on the southwest side. The southwest side parade, in the aforementioned Beverly neighborhood, is the biggest and showiest of them. Maybe this year I’ll make it down there, though it’s almost an hour’s drive and among people who started drinking early to watch the river get dyed green.

If I go, it will be strictly a sociological expedition, with minimal drinking. Sorry to sound like a sourpuss. I don’t own much greenwear or a Notre Dame sweatshirt. I’ll be eager to see how many traits associated with Irish-Americans are on display there.

The commitment to social justice, support for the underdog, joy in song and literature?

Or drinking, fighting, cursing and racism? At least I’ll have no cousins there to watch out for. They all had the gumption to move out.

These sound stereotypical, but strains of truth lurk behind most stereotypes. There are worse ones to be found in the world. No one ever says Irish-Americans are bad drivers, for example. Look at all the experience we get driving police cars and fire trucks.

Embodying some of these stereotypes wouldn’t be a bad thing, either, at least the ennobling ones. But it’s difficult to pick and choose.Subscribed

Singing? For our entire lives, my mother has told my brothers and me that we can’t sing. “What are you trying to sing now?” was often heard around the house. Years ago, a supervisor humiliated her during her student teaching, telling her, “Never sing in front of a classroom of children again.” This still comes up in conversation 70 years later. That kind of grudge-holding is pretty Irish, I’ll give Mom credit. (In the meantime, my brother has sung on Broadway, and I have managed a song or two onstage in Chicago, and no one was lynched. Looked at one way, it’s sheer stubbornness, but at another, it’s perseverance.)

Storytelling? My family is not particularly rich with the gift of gab. My English-Irish-American father like peace and quiet around the house. “If you’re talking, you ain’t thinking,” was one of his mottos. He also once, in all seriousness, asked us all, “What do you think the dinner table is, a time to describe everything that happened during the day?”

Support for the underdog? As far as the loud advocacy of social justice, Dorothy Day doesn’t have to worry about competition. We lean left and help feed the hungry at church, but we don’t make a big show of it. That would be embarrassing.

For all these reasons, the arrival of St. Patrick’s Day always gives me mixed emotions. Watching underage college kids try little dances and drink themselves into oblivion isn’t “celebrating Irish culture” or the “many contributions the Irish have made to America.” It’s just a pagan springtime fertility rite in the trappings of a complicated ethnic identity, wrapped in Lucky Charms. I’m proud of that culture, but leery of it at the same time. But like most hyphenated American environments (thank God) it will soon be watered down so much that nothing will be left except theme bars and grocery store specials. Then maybe we can get on with the business of being decent Americans to one another.

Really, I wish we celebrated St. Joseph’s Day (for Italian-Americans) and Casimir Pulaski Day (for Polish-Americans) with equal gusto, so the whole of March could be one long party, full of food and drink and Catholic guilt.

Because, let’s be honest, the stereotype holds:

Irish-Americans can’t cook for shit.

Originally appeared on my Substack page, The Bung & Gargle

It’s brutal, trying to meet women in this town. I mean, it’s always been bad, but now? Sheesh. It used to be, you had to be good looking, with a great job and a big salary and prospects for more. Your own apartment in a cool part of town. Friends who could get you into clubs and parties. That was the baseline, that was minimum.

Now, you have to be completely on your best behavior at all times. No flirting, no off-color comments, no suggestive bottle fellating, nothing.

That’s why, when I go out, I always take along the 16th president of the United States.

Not the currency, dumbass. (As if five bucks would get you far anyway.)

Long tall Abe himself. The best wingman around.

Why? For one thing, Abe attracts attention. That stovepipe hat always gets comments, and even if they are nasty ones, he can turn things around in that self-deprecating way he’s got and have everyone laughing in no time. It’s uncanny. I mean, some women get positively freaky about the hat, right? Could it be Freudian? It wouldn’t work for you or me, but Abe owns it. They go bananas for his self-confidence and his urge to seem even taller.

And y’know how the biggest guy at the bar always attracts a fight from some dick trying to impress? Some punk will try and provoke Abe, and he’ll just chuckle and say, “Those who look for the bad in people will surely find it.” Before you know it, it’s all singalong “Lean on Me” time and shots all around, and I get points because he’s with me.Subscribed

But why is he a good wingman? Because no matter how much women bat their eyes at him, he never seals the deal. He’s just not going to take one home, right? No matter how many jokes about the big hands and feet, he’s always a gentleman. ‘Cuz he’s a Midwesterner, Illinois or something. You might think he’s slow, but it’s just a cultural thing. Then as he ponders the situation, I can come in and….

Not to get disgusting. I can be a gentleman, too, if I work at it. But you know. After a few drinks, it’s better to have a gentleman with you, is how I look at it.

Abe’s friendly, unpretentious, kind of a romantic brooder. They ask him what he’s so worried about. “Oh, the parlous state of our union,” he’ll sigh. Deep, right? But it also doesn’t allow for much follow-up, so you can just nod along and pretend to be in the conversation. And the women all get drunker, and when it’s closing time, who are they going to go for? A 55-year-old warty depressive with Marfan syndrome in a scratchy wool suit, or yours truly, who wrestled two years in high school? I mean, when he moans about his unstable wife, it gets their sympathy flowing, but soon it’s like a dude bitching about his ex, and they get tired of it, and I pop up talking about “This is Us” and the sitch takes its natural course FTW.

Look, I feel for the guy. He’s seen a lot. Sometimes he gets bit by what he calls the “black dog”, in which case I buy him a Margarita and tell him the fruit juice will help. I also call him “railsplitter”, cuz it cheers him up to remember simpler times. He’s a country guy, but, like, the real thing, right? No pre-stressed trucker hat or anything.

And he comes up with all those great quotes that just leave people’s jaws on the floor. Even I get impressed. “I hold that while man exists, it is his duty to improve not only his own condition, but to assist in ameliorating mankind.” I mean, in a crowded bar, you can’t even tell what he’s saying, but you know it’s something deep. Gravitas, man. And your phone gets a workout looking up things like “ameliorating.”

And then he’ll turn around and say something corny like, “A woman is the only thing I am afraid of that I know will not hurt me” or “If I were two-faced, would I be wearing this one?” Only from him, it’s not corny, it’s sincere. Yasss!

But sometimes, on a quiet night at the bar, Abe’ll look at me and wonder why we stick together. “My great concern is not whether you have failed,” he’ll tell me, “but whether you are content with your failure.”

“Don’t get all judgey on me, bruh,” I’ll say. “Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse.”

Then Abe’ll get all quiet, like he’s had a premonition. He’ll look at the ground, rub his chin a little, and finally say, “That’s ‘President Bruh’ to you, douche.”

My friends Steve and Sharon Fiffer started a marvelous site a year ago called STORIED STUFF, where people show the various precious objects in their lives and share the story. He asked me to write one about baseball, so here are my random thoughts attached to an old autographed pill. To see the post in the original site, and to check the many other cool pieces of people’s personal memorabilia, visit Storied Stuff here.

This circus wagon toy from Fisher-Price was one of the most well-built and elaborate playthings I can remember from childhood. The wagon, which contained a multitude of pieces, had wooden bars, working wheels and entrance hatches both front and rear. I’m certain my brothers and I used it as a surfboard, go-cart and mule wagon many times, without inflicting any noticeable strain. Inside the wagon was all the rigging needed to put up a show: ladders, washtub platforms, trapezes, and a yellow center ring with a smooth side and a slotted side.

The circus itself had 11 performers. A camel and giraffe and show horse. A baby bear and a puppy. A monkey with a pipe cleaner tail that in no time snapped off of his wooden body. A seal with a red ball to snap on its nose. A ringmaster who looked like he enjoyed his drink (but remember, drunkenness was funny back then). And of course, a clown.

While I don’t remember getting this wagon as a gift, I do remember that this was basically mine alone, not shared with my older brothers. I spent many hours putting together performances with these and with any other character laying around: a GI Joe, a rubber orangutan, an orange, a swizzle stick.

A few days after President Kennedy was shot, Sacred Heart Church held a special memorial mass. My mother walked up to church and left us three in the care of a neighbor. While she was gone, I decided that all the characters in the circus needed a bath and dumped them in the bathroom sink. That is why the paper adorning the characters peeled off badly, ruining the resale value of the whole set 50 years later.

Apparently, our Scottie dog Tammy smelled some peanuts or cotton candy on this figure and treated himself to some circus food.

And this might be one reason I’ve never been afraid of clowns.

My friends Steve and Sharon Fiffer started a marvelous site a year ago called STORIED STUFF, where people show the various precious objects in their lives and share the story. He asked me to write one about baseball, so here are my random thoughts attached to an old autographed pill. To see the post in the original site, and to check the many other cool pieces of people’s personal memorabilia, visit Storied Stuff here.

This baseball was signed by all of the 1973 Detroit Tigers. I sprayed it with lacquer before my hands wore off the ink of all the signatures. This spherical madeleine is for:

–all the neighbor ladies (Mrs. Moran, Mrs. Galer, Mrs. Caccavo) who knew baseball and knew the players, and taught me a lot about dedication

–Father Bueche who was in charge of the altar boy ranks at church and took us down to Tiger Stadium occasionally, before being removed in scandal later

–all the men in the dark recesses of The Bengal Bar on Michigan Avenue—though I could never see you, I heard your shouts and laughs, and marveled at the tawdry pleasures of adulthood, and wondered who painted that near-psychedelic tiger on your vestibule wall

–the dozens of transistor radios — silver, aqua, cherry red, as the fashions changed — that I used to listen to Ernie Harwell

–the high school Dad’s Club dads, who always managed to snag a dozen of these baseballs to raffle off on new parent night, gladhanders my dad never could stand

–my mother, who pushed my dad constantly to take me downtown to a ballgame

–my dad, who only very late in his life finally told me he much preferred basketball over baseball

–Willie Horton, “Willie the Wonder,” always my favorite player, home-grown

–and Jim Ray, signing right next to Willie, about whom I remember absolutely nothing.

Let’s pause and raise a glass of cheer
To the closing of a horrid year

(Without our loved ones in the room,
We’ll have to give our toast on Zoom.)

Headaches and heartbreaks too long to list
In our own Annus Horribilis

Nor will all be fixed overnight
Like switching off the Christmas lights.

But you would have called me cray
If I’d described all this…STUFF… in May

The crisis has stretched on and on
But still we need to soldier on

Think of all we have endured
Grab your loins, get set to gird.

The one way out of this is through.
We all know what we have to do.

Stay safe, keep faith, be kind to each other,
Soon we’ll gather, sister and brother,

And sing “Auld Lang Syne” and dance and spoon
On or about the 12th of June.