Month: December 2021

The last two years battle tested us. 2022 better watch its ass.

This year started with an insurrection–a scene in which angry protestors, having just attending a rally in which former President Donald Trump said their votes were effectively silenced–violated the United States Capitol.

We actually had to debate whether a woman breaking into the Speaker’s Lounge during an invasion was “murdered” by Capitol police. We actually had to debate whether the people who broke windows to get in and threatened to kill the Vice President of the United States, were invited in by the same Capitol Police officers some of them wanted to kill.

We had vaccines and for a while, it was cool to remove your masks if you were vaccinated. Then we had Delta. And as Delta faded, we got Omicron. Both variants not only added to the numbers of sick and dying, but also renewed the ongoing foodfight about masks and now, vaccines.

As of this morning, case rates for both Florida and the country are higher than they’ve ever been–and the trendline is almost vertical. The Omicron severity rate seems much lower than previous rates. The death rate in Florida is as low as it’s been since July. Nationally, it’s high, but nowhere near the numbers we saw during the initial wave or last winter.

But it’s still early in our Omicron story, and as many people will almost gleefully proclaim, there’s still time for plenty of death.

We have an exploding wildfire in Colorado to take our mind off the Covid news. And inflation. And whispers of pending economic doom. Microplastics in our food are causing an increase in bowel diseases. And there’s a doomsday glacier in Antarctica that’s poised collapse and cause the sea to rise dramatically.

This was the year that was supposed to cleanse our palettes.

Next year we have several unused letters in the Greek alphabet, additional booster shots, and mid-term elections to look forward to–not to mention the unofficial start of the 2024 Presidential campaign. That won’t start until November 9, so there’s a little time to breathe.

Those are the things we can foresee. We don’t know what we don’t know. About the only thing that hasn’t happened is an alien invasion. The aliens have already seen the story where Jeff Goldblum destroys them with a Mac, so we have to assume they’ve accounted for that.

In other words, we’re screwed.

How will we get through this year?

The same way we got through 2021. And 2020. And any personal years of hell before that.

We need to take care of ourselves, but if recent history has shown us anything, we’re remarkably resilient. If you watch movies, you know that what’s happened the last two years should’ve destroyed society. We should be driving around the desert in armored cars by now, using the people who piss us off as hood ornaments.

If we reacted the way the movies say, this would be the guy who cut you off in the parking lot.

And yet, here we are. Still largely functioning as a society. Still helping each other and being civil to each other.

That’s pretty bad ass. That makes me a bad ass.

You, too.

No matter what the New Year brings, we are battle tested. We are ready for whatever shit 2022 throws our way.

Ain’t we just?

John Madden, CTE, and the blind spots we all have

It pissed me off when Paul Lukas, in Uni-Watch, implied that the leather-helmet iconography for the All-Madden team hadn’t aged well, considering the CTE brain injuries that have been so prevalent recently in the NFL. It seemed like he was going out of his way for a point that could’ve been made another time, but it’s his website. In fairness, I referenced CTE in my post about Madden, as well–saying it was another point for another day.

Today’s that day.

When I Googled Madden and CTE, I found another person with a Twitter following who overtly made the point: Madden–and specifically his video game–glorified the violence that caused CTE.

Starting with 2012, Madden NFL started to include concussions as a game injury that would result in a player being removed for the rest of the game. In a 2014, Washington Post article, Madden was quoted in an NFL roundtable as saying that kids as small as six or seven should play flag football and learn technique.

“They don’t need helmets — they can play flag football. And with flag football you can get all the techniques. Why do we have to start with a 6-year-old who was just potty trained a year ago and put a helmet on him and tackle?” he said.

He also disagreed vehemently that a coach could be certified in technique in the 90 minutes required by the NFL Heads Up program. “I was a coach,” Madden said, “and I put a lot of education and experience into coaching. . . .  How long does it take to get a certificate?”

And the following tweet showed video from a 1993 playoff game in which Madden said players with concussions “shouldn’t play anymore” and unfavorable compared the league’s protocols at the time with boxing, which called for a one-month layoff for concussions.

I posted this information in the comments on Uni-Watch, and to his immense credit, Paul updated his post with the information and a shout out. Marcy Wheeler said these statements prove her point. In subsequent posts, she brought up the point that Madden made a lot of money glorifying a game that resulted in CTE injuries.

While the point of this post is about Madden, it’s also about us. We all have blind spots. For Marcy Wheeler, the woman behind the emptywheel Twitter account, hers was apparent with John Madden and the NFL. By lobbying for safety Madden both proved her point and continued the status quo of glorifying the game. The question becomes one of whether it’s morally defensible to love football and make money on it, while pushing for change? Did John Madden have a moral obligation to walk away from the game?

Would that have created more change, faster? Or is this just a blind spot for Marcy Wheeler.

If you consider this a blind spot for her, it comes with history attached. According to her subsequent tweets, she suffered concussions herself as a rugby player and had a former teammate die on the field. Trauma like that can change your views.

We all have areas where our views are changed. When something brings you significant pain, it can feel like a moral obligation to push your point to the masses. So if you disagree with Marcy Wheeler, maybe she should receive grace as a result of her loss.

But its also worth questioning unshakeable devotion to a narrative, regardless of facts, lest the wrong people benefit and, God forbid, win.

Paul Lukas did that questioning. I don’t always agree with him, but I respect his willingness to question his narrative, even when they’re just a side note in a respectful article.

Marcy Wheeler used any argument against her point as proof that she was completely right and the people making the points were not terribly bright.

If the point is to make people think about football and its relationship to CTE, Paul Lukas has a credible position to start that discussion. Marcy Wheeler seems more interested in smugly showing off how morally upright and correct she is.

John Madden made it fun. We need more fun.

With John Madden’s passing yesterday, and our increasingly tenuous hold on a golden era in storytelling weakened a little more.

The 1980s are overrated in a lot of ways, but sports broadcasting isn’t one of them. Every NFL Sunday, whether CBS or NBC had the late game, you were guaranteed entertainment, even if the game wasn’t great. I was an AFL/AFC guy–there used to be a difference–so I preferred the velvety voices of Dick Enberg and Merlin Olsen. But as good as they were Summerall and Madden were better.

In the decades I’ve been watching football, Madden and Summerall were clearly the best.

Pat Summerall did everything you could do in football. He played the game, was a studio host, and then moved fluidly between color and play-by-play. In his pairing with Tom Brookshier, though he was technically play by play, the line was fluid. CBS had lightning in a bottle with Madden and after a difficult pairing with Vin Scully, he fit well with Summerall, who recognized what Madden brought and let him set the tone in the booth.

The pairing was perfect and result was magic every Sunday afternoon for more than two decades.

People my age are blessed when it came to the games. We got to see Monday Night Football erupt into a barren pre-ESPN sports television landscape with a mini-Super Bowl every week.

We got to experience Summerall and Brookshier before Madden came along. We got to see Madden break through the staid Xs and Os approach of previous color men (including Summerall). And along with Enberg and Olsen, NBC gave us the criminally underrated pairing of Don Criqui and Bob Trumpy.

In baseball, we got to experience seven seasons of Vin Scully on a national stage, and a couple decades of Tony Kubek. (Let’s just ignore ABC’s baseball efforts as part of this discussion.)

We got Keith Jackson enjoying the college games in a way that transferred to all of us. Whoa, Nellie, that big hoss made Saturday afternoons fun.

We got weekends of fun and wonder–excellence we could look forward to every week, even if our teams were bad. (My teams were bad a lot.)

It was a time when the medium had matured enough to take itself a little less seriously. It was also a time before TV could measure closing speed and spend time between plays on instant next-gen analytics (sponsored, of course).

It was a time when fun was allowed and fun was enough. Most of those guys have passed. Those who haven’t, have retired.

As with anything, Madden’s act aged. By the time he was done, he didn’t have the same command of the game he’d closer to the time he coached. The six-legged turkey (with a duck inside it with a chicken inside that) had become your dad’s schtick. Telestrators with voiced sound effects seemed out of sync with a game that took itself more seriously and seemed to want a more controlled product in the booth.

Football is less fun now. All the sports are. They’re more polished, more corporate, more Joe Buck-centric.

John Madden hasn’t called a game in 13 years. Younger fans today may be surprised that there’s a guy they named the video game after. They probably have no clue that guy won a Super Bowl as head coach and had the best winning percentage of any coach with at least 100 wins. That he coached the Raiders to seven AFL/AFC championship games. That he won 16 Emmy awards and called 11 Super Bowls for four different networks.

One comment I saw said that he made it easier to ignore CTE-related head injuries that the NFL either knew about or should have. Maybe that’s true. It’s also a discussion for another day.

No matter what was happening, for three hours on a Sunday afternoon, Pat and John made it fun.

Coming within hours of the passing of Desmond Tutu and Harry Reid, there might be a desire among some to minimize what John Madden meant. Tutu and Reid are important, each for their own weighty reasons.

Madden was important because fun is important. We need more of it. And we need more guys like Madden to help us find it. Cause when you got guys and they can help you find fun, then BOOM, you know, everyone has fun.

There was a time when it was possible for everyone to have fun.

I am *not* getting a booster-induced ass-kicking every ten weeks (except I prolly will, if need be)

Last week, I got tested for the Covid. I had a dry cough and a runny nose and we were spending Christmas with the in-laws. When I got the negative results back, I felt blessed for those kick-ass Moderna antibodies and T-cells running around my body. If you combine the days I felt horrible for both shots, I gave up seven days–a full week–to Covid protection.

Last week, that seemed like a good deal.

Two days later, studies released in the UK that said booster effectiveness against Omicron lags after ten weeks.

My immediate knee-jerk response: I am not going through that bullshit every ten weeks.

I have got to make golf balls that look like this

The second shot kicked my ass hard for two days. It was the sickest I’ve been in twenty years. The booster didn’t hit me as hard, but it took five days before I felt decent again. And then I had a fibro flare, which may or may not have been related.

At the time, they were talking about boosters every six months, which would allow me to have blissfully horrible Memorial Day and Thanksgiving weekends. Now I’m supposed to maybe do this every ten weeks?

Ten weeks is a long time in Covidworld. Findings may change by the beginning of February, when my ten weeks is up. Omicron may peak by then and start heading toward the graveyard of history, making 2022 the end of our long worldwide nightmare. Or the Pi or some other variant may exist by then and push us further into hunker-down mode.

I’ll think hard about sacrificing five days every ten weeks. My employer allows unlimited sick leave, but culturally, you don’t take a full sick day. A ‘sick day’ typically means attending calls and keeping the lights on and resting with whatever time remains. If I get the shot on a Friday, that’s a weekend shot to hell plus three work days.

That won’t prevent a self-righteous Covid guardian–the kind who knew this would happen–from blithely deciding the price is so minor that it doesn’t merit mentioning. Not when the overall health of society hangs in the balance. Of course, she (and they tend to be women), will probably also say she suffered, too. Her arm was sore for a whole day–and she gladly embraced that pain. And she did it for me and everyone else.

And, of course, in spite of the three shots I’ve gotten so far, to some, any reluctance will make be a dumbass anti-vaxxer who’s keeping us in the Covid shadow forever and causing hundreds of thousands to die.

(Here’s a hint: shrill screaming about how much people suck never convinces them that you’re right.)

In the end, if getting shot up is the right choice, I’ll do it. And knowing me, I’ll feel a bit of guilty for having mixed feelings about it.

My 2022 New Years Resolution is to have said the word covid for the last time before the end of the year (and not because I died). Like most other resolutions, I don’t expect it to happen.

If you treat people like subhuman cretins, part II

I know a guy. Given that we’ve never met in person, he’s more an online acquaintance than a friend.

He’s a Southern liberal who used to be a newspaper columnist. He got death threats for daring to voice his filthy, Commie, treasonous opinion in America, the land of the free. Because it’s brave to anonymously threaten to kill someone.

When your life is threatened, that threat extends to the lives of the people around you. If someone takes a shot at you in a restaurant, and your wife is there, maybe she dies, too. If someone comes after your car with the kids in the back, they could die, too.

It wouldn’t be a reach to think that maybe instead of killing you, they’ll take them instead. Killing lasts a second; guilt is forever. That’s the power of a death threat. It works on you without anyone having to raise a finger. And that’s why people who hate freedom use them.

The goal is to force you into compliance. To silence your voice and make sure you and people like you never speak again. It’s the tactic used by tyrants and thugs–not patriots in a free society.

My acquaintance reacted to yesterday’s post. I knew of the death threats already, but he also listed the things he’d been called. The list was long and probably sanitized for my benefit.

I have no doubt that he’s encountered threats I can only imagine. I also suspect he was put off by my post–and he had a right to be.

Unless there was any ambiguity, in a free society, we don’t tolerate that kind of shit. Everyone–from the ghost of Rush Limbaugh, to AOC, to the guy who said “Let’s Go Brandon” to Biden on Christmas night, to my acquaintance–all should be able to present their point without fearing for their life and the lives of their family members.

In The Magnificent Seven, Calvera (the bad guy) says that if God didn’t want his victims to be sheared, he wouldn’t have made them sheep. That line is supposed to anger us. It’s supposed to make us root a little harder for the good guys and the villagers.

It’s not meant to be a model for suppressing ideas you don’t like. It’s not supposed to be how you view those you can coerce into silence, ironically, in the name of freedom.

I understand why people flock to Trump. I don’t understand why they tolerate the significant plurality of his followers who believe freedom is best achieved at the barrel of a gun or the path of a weaponized car. I don’t understand why they rationalize those who would enforce silence and conformity via coercion.

I don’t understand their tacit acceptance of domestic political terrorism.

When it comes to free expression, I stand with my acquaintance. And I understand that if you’re the one holding the gun today, there’s every chance it’ll be pointed at you tomorrow.

If you treat people like subhuman cretins, don’t be surprised when they reject your message

The post on a popular Democratic message board said, “As a former nurse, ret(ired) psychiatrist, I use(d) to feel badly about rejoicing when these moron(s) bit the dust, but I cured myself of that feeling.” This was in reaction to an anti-vaxxer’s death. No one disagreed with the post or called the poster out. A couple agreed.

Let’s make it simple, so unenlightened people like me understand, if you rejoice in my death, I won’t seriously consider your viewpoints. It’s not hard.

This is part of the reason why people gravitate toward Donald Trump. It’s part of the reason “Let’s go Brandon” is popular and, in fairness, far more restrained than many of the things Trump haters said about him.

“Let’s Go Brandon” is grotesque, but Robert DeNiro was a hero for saying “Fuck Trump” at the Tony Awards.

There’s no shortage of self-justified hatred dressed up as virtue on either side in today’s political feces hurricane. I’ve spent a good number of posts the past two years calling it out on what passes for the right. Let’s not pretend they’re alone in it.

From the time Ronald Reagan seemed like a better option than Jimmy Carter, enlightened intelligent people around me did me the great service of telling me how stupid I am. After all, they’re the ones who should really be tasked with the heavy lifting of running a democracy. Especially since as a conservative, reading Peanuts is a test of my intellect. (I’d read Doonesbury, but my lips get tired.)

It started benignly enough–idiot, moron, too stupid to breathe. Occasionally, someone would throw in Nazi because why not? Supporting the Strategic Defense Initiative was just like gassing millions of Jews.

In that context, conservatives rallied around new media. Rush Limbaugh became a force (though I always preferred Gordon Liddy, followed by Don and Mike). The conservatives who gathered to listen to Rush at lunch weren’t country dumbasses. They were professionals. They were accomplished. They were educated. In DC, where I worked at the time, they met at Ruth’s Chris. We even got to enjoy Alex P. Keaton, a flawed but largely non-bigoted Conservative, treated with respect by his PBS-employed father.

We aren’t in Columbus, Ohio (where Family Ties was set) any more.

I have family members who support Trump. For the record, I disagree with them. Their elevation of a single guy over a set of principles concerns me. But I understand why they support him.

They’re decent people with a long record of going out of their way–often at risk and expense–to help others. But when they listen to leading Democratic politicians, they hear absolute dismissal of them and everything they’ve done to build their lives and help build this country. They hear people identify people like them as exemplifying everything wrong with the country and the world.

They’re the type of people the whose death would result in unrepentant joy from the former nurse and retired psychiatrist. Donald Trump opposes people like that nurse. He wouldn’t have to demonize her; her own words do that. Why would my family members not support someone who opposes people like that nurse?

My third-party vote in 2016 was driven in part by Democrats condemning me for daring to think incorrectly (that is, differently than they do). Some directed me how to vote. A few actually said I stole a vote from Hillary Clinton by not casting it for her.

It was MEEEE!!!!!

As a principled, moderate Republican, I, too, have been torched with all the -ists and -phobes. I’ve been dismissed to check my privilege for daring to state a political opinion that wasn’t sufficiently enlightened. And, yes, I’ve been called a Nazi. Because opposing tax increases and speech codes is also exactly like murdering millions of Jews.

All of this by people who seem to think I should leave the heavy lifting of thinking, public policy, and reading multi-syllabic words to them. Unlike me, they understand and use words like intersectionality and can talk about the evils of heteronormative society, so I should keep my drooling, cisgendered pie hole shut.

Somehow we went from trying to convince others that our ideas were right to demanding conformity because, well, you’re a morally bankrupt, drooling idiot, so shut up and do what I say.

Though I’ve spent a lot of posts on this august blog decrying such tactics on the right, they’re hardly alone in their approach.

When you can’t manage Christmas joy…

I gotta be honest. God feels very distant and uncaring this Christmas.

We’re supposed to be all joyful because God chose to come down and be with us when he didn’t have to. Emmanuel, God is with us (celebrated in a song that, quite honestly, sounds like funeral dirge.).

I feel immune to joy right now, having gotten my ass kicked (unjustly) by anyone who didn’t get exactly what they wanted when the wanted it in the manner they wanted it without having to expend effort to get it. Might makes right.

I have a big stick. If you weren’t supposed to get smacked by it, you wouldn’t be there within stick-swinging distance. I demand recompense for the fact that I felt the need to hit you with my stick.

On a seemingly unrelated note, a few weeks ago, a guy said he couldn’t go to a Gary and Shannon live event because he had Bible study–they were doing the book of Habakkuk. In most instances, a mention of Habakkuk on a highly rated radio show a continent away from me wouldn’t cause a hiccup in the grand scheme of things.

Gary and Shannon

But they went into the book a little–it’s a guy bitching to God about how bad things are. He a lot of people have sticks and everyone else might as well be a pinata. And they get to do that because that’s the way of things. And no one really gives a damn, as long as they get what they want, don’t have to wait more than five seconds to take a right at a stop sign, or their third-party technology issue is fixed less than the completely unacceptable sixteen hours.

God never really answers these complaints, except to say that everyone’s gonna get an ass-kicking. It’s just that the new ass-kickers will beat up the people with the sticks along with everyone else.

Seems like the perfect book for 2021, so I read it. Then I read it again. Then I did a couple of devotionals on it. Because depression and being a Jets fan would seem to demand a book in which God just decides that everyone sucks and needs a good thrashing.

Wait til your Father gets home

Merry Christmas, by the way.

If a book were to accurately reflect my view off the world right now, this would be it. Until the very end. The last few verses are amazing.

Even though the fig trees have no blossoms and there are no grapes on the vines; even though the olive crop fails, and the fields lie empty and barren; even though the flocks die in the fields and the cattle barns are empty; even though my football team is decades away from relevance, let alone the playoffs, yet I will rejoice in the Lord! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!

As my pastor points out, we aren’t to rejoice because of all of this stuff. The and yet indicates that we should rejoice in spite of all this stuff.

Christmas is hard for a lot of people. A friend of mine lost her father yesterday. Others face the first Christmas with an empty chair at the table. Some are shut in again this Christmas. Some are just trying to squeeze one more holiday out of a dying relationship.

And some can’t help but seeing an endless void of gray.

Kinda hard to rejoice when this is your outlook

There’s nothing I can say about that, except that I understand waking up Christmas morning feeling empty and worn out. I understand what it’s like to try really hard to capture a taste of the joy only to watch it from behind a thick glass plate.

I know what it’s like to feel raw inside when it’s time to feel joy.

It sucks. There’s no way to sugar coat it.

I can’t quite manage rejoicing in the Lord. I’m still wandering through the thick heavy fog, assuming that somewhere it’ll break. That passage helps.

If you need help, get it. Please. You’re not a curse on the world (the Jets are).

But if you’re trudging along doing your best, you’re carrying a burden a lot of others aren’t. If they saw inside you, if they understood the weight you carry, they’d be impressed that you’re carrying it.

God didn’t come to live in a climate-controlled mansion in Beverly Hills. He didn’t part the traffic like in Bruce Almighty. He came to a primitive rural area, at a primitive time. He eschewed comforts he could’ve created for himself.

If he sought out discomfort, he’s not unfeeling toward yours. Or mine.

I don’t know why he doesn’t fix it. But I feel like even if I can’t rejoice, the effort’s still valuable. The fact that hosts on a secular radio show in Los Angeles led me to that could be a coincidence.

But maybe it’s God throwing a bone.

If you can’t have a Merry Christmas, I hope you get at least a moment of joy.

You deserve it!

Living. In fear.

As many Christmas travelers woke up this morning, they got an unpleasant surprise. Because of the Covid, Delta and United have canceled more than 200 flights between the two carriers. So far, at Tampa airport that’s causes almost no impact, but given how flight issues cascade, that pattern may not hold.

And with Omicron expected to get worse before a peak sometime in February, this won’t be the last time life gets harder because of it.

Here we go again–living in fear.

But we’ve been living in fear–even the people who proclaim they don’t want to–for almost two years now. We know how to do it.

As much as the Covid time has sucked–as much as people have lost (and some have lost a lot)–if you think about it, there has to be something that’s brought you joy since March 2020. For me, just the existence of baseball last year, even though the Mets sucked. It was fantastic to watch games, even if it was in a stadium full of cardboard cutouts.

When people spoke about living in fear, they concentrated on fear. They didn’t want to live in fear.

As this’ll be around a while longer, I want to live in fear. There’s nothing wrong with fear. If I saw an angry grizzly bear or a careening car or a guy with razors for fingers, I’d be afraid. That fear’s a diagnostic that allows me to take actions to keep living.

It isn’t stupid to have a little fear over a disease that’s killed more than three quarters of a million people in less than two years.

Even if this is the last major variant, it’ll wreak havoc for the next three months or so anyway. We could lose our minds over masks or vaccinations or the fact that our flight’s cancelled and we’re stuck in a terminal with a mess of other angry people who’re worried, tired, and frustrated. Or we could accept that by Easter, this part’ll be over.

Who am I to talk? I got cranky with the Publix guy over chocolate chips.

Well, that’s part of the picture, too. It’s a lot of stress. Perfection isn’t possible. Don’t kill yourself when you don’t achieve it.

We have no choice in at least one more round of Covid. But it’s not new anymore. We’ve done it enough to know the surge will end.

Maybe this time instead of living in fear, we do our best to live in fear.

Yay. A Covid sequel. Now we get to hear the same arguments, only louder.

Noted virologist Bill Gates assures us that the worst part of the Covid battle is yet to come. Montreal is limiting gatherings to six people. Universal Orlando is re-instating mask policies. The NFL wanted to cancel three games this week because of Covid; the Players Association pushed back so the players would be paid. And the new Spiderman movie made almost $900 million in box office sales.

Omicron is here. And we get to listen to same arguments the same people have been shouting for two years.

It’s a song, not guidance for discussing the Covid.

Once again, the loudest among us will find news sources and analysis them agree with, accept them as fact, then loudly beat us to death because their message is so. freaking. important.

On one side, you’ll get to hear the word “sheep” a lot (or the more virulent variant, sheeple). Why are you doing anything? The science and data seem to showing that Omicron is like getting a cold. A minor cold. It’s really like just sneezing once or twice. Tucker Carlson said so.

As soon as you say this word, you lose.

From there, we’ll go down the usual ratholes about freedom and rights and how this is conditioning us to go passively in the coming Communist regime, run by AOC and a cabal of your favorite Hollywood stars (whose work you should reject in favor of good, talented Americans like Scott Baio and Kirk Cameron).

I’m coming for you. With masks.

Depending on the person, you’ll hear about nanobots and conspiracies and how brilliant Joe Rogan is. Freedom demands we take medical advice from the guy who used to feed people hissing cockroaches on Fear Factor.

America’s doctor

The other side is equally predictable. Their addiction to fear porn will make them wax poetic about all the other countries who did the intelligent thing by following science and confining people to their homes for months.

They’ll proclaim that they knew Omicron was going to happen and how they’ve been right about everything since the pandemic started. (Except airplane travel, kids returning to school, the Super Bowl, Lollapalooza, baseball season, college football, etc.)

They’ll get in your face to over your cloth mask (said with maximum derision to make sure you get the point). If you don’t wear a surgical mask, you might as well drink a steaming cup of Covid tea. They’ll hit you with the absolute count of people who weren’t wearing masks at the grocery store and how the checker’s mask didn’t cover his nose. (They let the manager know and posted a very direct note on the market’s Facebook page.)

They’ll proclaim their absolute love of science and how they follow the CDC–unless the CDC doesn’t do what they want, in which case, it’s the WHO. (If that happens, asking them if they’ve completely abstained from alcohol, as recommended by the WHO.)

Part of a WHO infographic. Killjoys.

Maybe they’ll talk about greed and proclaim stupidity of the common morons. Just look at sports and all those knuckle-draggers who go to football and NASCAR. Unmasked, most of them. Probably unvaxxed and boostered, too. Those events are happening just so the sports…ball…league….things can get richer. Do you know how many teachers we could pay with what the NASCARs make? Do you?

Which is more important? This, or cars driving in circles?

Look at how we recklessly re-opened businesses when we could’ve taken away Elon Musk and Richard Branson’s ability to go to space and paid everyone to stay home.

And don’t get them started on vaccines. There’s no reason for anyone to not be vaccinated and boostered. Sure it made you sick for a few days, but they can judge for you that even the hesitation for future boosters is selfish.

And look how many stupid people who went to see Spiderman. A comic book movie. If you’re going to risk death, at least you should watch something culturally nourishing with subtitles or with Meryl Streep in it.

America’s treasure.

And regardless of which side you listen to, eventually, the rant will get around to Donald Trump. <Insert hackneyed argument here.>

Happy holidays!

I’ve seen this movie before. And while it didn’t have Meryl Streep, it’s completely devoid of superheroes.

It was just a bunch of scared, noisy people getting in the way of the rest of us who’re just trying to live our lives.

Christmas Lexus commercial I’d love to see

“Dude, it’s nineteen degrees outside and my feet are warm, I am not going outside.” She sat on the couch, her legs curled under her, the way women do. She cradled a cup of steaming coffee, letting her hands soak in the heat.

“Come on sweetie. It’ll be worth it.”

She shook her head. “We stayed up until two frigging thirty putting toys together. I had too much wine last night. I’m finally warm. In seven minutes, the kids will be up and this’ll be a hurricane of wrapping paper and noise. And the Advil hasn’t kicked in.”

I bounced on my feet, my excitement pushing back my headache.

“Come on. You have your robe on and your slippers. It’ll just be for a minute.”

She glared at me, but her resolve was faltering. I could tell.

“Please?” My tone was almost begging, which was risky.

But when her shoulders fell slightly, I knew I was okay and my bouncing in place increased. My smile almost exploded.

She shook her head and got up, leaning over and placing her coffee on the end table. She was almost regal in her movements.

“You’re an idiot.”

In case you’re curious, that means she loves me and though she doesn’t want to show it, she’s excited.

“This better be good.” Her words were stern, but she was smiling.

“I can’t believe it. I’m so excited.”

I waited until the last second, until she was right by the door (which was conveniently windowless–and though we always open the drapes in living room, on this day, we chose not to. It’s not contrived at all.).

She shook her head again and smiled and I opened the door.

Her mouth fell open and she practically stumbled forward.

And there it was. Speeding ticket red. Sleek. Shiny. With a leather interior, bluetooth integration, and stereo that made you feel like you’re in an opera house.

“Ohmygod…”

“Right?” I said.

“Ohmygod…”

“It’s got seat warmers.”

“Ohmygod…”

I jumped in place a little.

“You got me a car?”

“I got you a Lexus, baby.”

She turned to me and I imagined the sex we would have when the kids finally crashed. It would be amazing. I felt a little stirring below.

“You got me a car.”

“I got you a Lexus.” I gazed upon my masterpiece.

“You. Got me. A car.”

“A Lexus.”

The pain was sharp and almost made me stumble off the steps.

“You got me a goddamn car?”

My mouth opened and nothing game out.

“Do you understand that I spent the entire frigging year keeping track of our finances so I’d know if we were getting a damn refund? Do you know how much time I spent on the frigging budget?” Then, with each word she punched me again. “You. Frigging. Moron.”

“But it’s a Lexus.”

“I’m happy with the Toyota, you idiot.” Two more punches.

“It’s got seat warmers.”

“Oh, my ass is plenty chapped right now!” She punched me again.

It’s not fun to get locked out of the house on Christmas morning when it’s 19 degree and there’s snow.

Cordell & Cordell is an international domestic litigation firm focused on men’s divorce and all other family law practice areas. We have attorneys in your area willing to help you when things don’t work out the way you intended. Just go to cordellcordell.com.

The writer of this commercial and characters are not lawyers. They are non-legal satirists.