Monthly Archives: January 2018

But I’m No Super Genius…or Are I?


Watching cable news lately is a bit like walking into the home of parents with third graders. There’s gonna be crap on the fridge.

Similarly, you’d think Sean Hannity and Tucker Carlson had just spawned  a pre-teen after Donald Trump’s fitness “test” at the White House. You can almost see them jostling for fridge real estate, so Junior can see who posted his latest masterwork.

First, try to get that image out of your head. Sorry about that. No one should have to picture either of those fleshy men copulating.

Now, though, consider the awkward position in which that doctor must have found himself, as do all people caught in the orbit of Trump: Utter the ridiculous, or pack. Do even the most ardent Trump supporters believe that, with a few fewer Big Mac and Filet of Fish sandwiches a day, he could live to 200?

For some reason, that sounded particularly absurd, if there’s a way to distinguish one utterance from another. We expect a press lackey to proclaim the Earth’s largest inauguration. We expect a toadie to hail Trump as the force to “revolutionize reality TV.” We’d even expect neo Nazis and the religious right (sorry for the redundancy) to, well, vote for him. You expect crazy shit.

But this doc probably has friends. Maybe doctor friends. What do they say when he comes to poker night? Do they tease him for a Biblical diagnosis? Raise the nickel-a-hand game to $5,000 a card? SeanTuck either didn’t know or didn’t care, so proud were they with Donnie’s perfect score.

Just for kicks, I looked up the Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA), a test usually given to Parkinson’s patients. While lots of folks have reprinted the image above, what’s interesting is the stuff below: the rest of the test. So here it is. All of it. Try NOT to get a perfect score: 

Now, for some factslaps our baboon-in-chief could likely not read, let alone know:

  • In the Norwegian town of Longyearbyen, it is illegal to die.
  • In a study following the lives of 19,000 kids for 10 years, video games had no negative social behavior effects on the children.
  • In 2010, a group of 15 monkeys escaped a research institute in Japan by using trees to catapult themselves over a 17 ft high electric fence.
  • Stifling a sneeze by clamping your nose and mouth shut can rupture your throat.
  • During the Columbine massacre, two 20 pound propane bombs were planted in the school cafeteria right before lunch. Had the bombs not fail to detonate, it’s estimated that 488 students would have been killed or severely injured.
  • A sophomaniac is a person who’s under the delusion that they are extremely intelligent.
  • In 2015, a man sued Red Bull stating that after 10 years of consuming the product, he received no wings, enhanced physical nor intellectual performance.

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Confusing Shitholes for Pieholes


A special factslap edition, particularly for presidents from shithole frontal lobes:

  • Haiti is the second oldest independent nation in the Western Hemisphere, after the United States.


  • The place where Hitler killed himself is now a children’s playground.
  • Jackie Chan trains his stuntmen and pays their medical bills out of pocket.
  • Cacao plants are slated to disappear by as early as 2050 thanks to warmer temperatures and dryer weather conditions.
  • Director Guillermo del Toro owns a house called ‘Bleak House’ in which there’s a room with a never-ending rainstorm projected onto all windows and audio to match. He often uses this room to write.
  • In China, 171,000 people perished in 1975 due to the collapse of the Banqiao Dam, an event hidden from the world until 2005.
  • Phonophobia is the fear or aversion to large sounds.
  • A 2017 study found that the faxaccounts for 75% of the country’s medical communications.
  • In France, it is illegal to to publish photographs of handcuffed suspects, as they are not to appear guilty until proven so.
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United We Stand, Together We Fall


Dearest Samuel,

I never know what to say to you on this day. It’s by no means a birthday, just the opposite. I guess it’s an anniversary, though not nearly as celebratory; “happy” belongs nowhere near this sentiment.

Yet, here is today. It’s hard to believe we’ve been together 18 years. We’re legal! Well, to vote and crack skulls in the name of country. We’ll have to wait another three to commemorate our skull crackery with a beer.

It’s been a helluva year, but I’m glad to report your kidney and pancreas remain in the dutiful service of Life, the only religion I know.

Every time I go to the doctors, they’re impressed with our union. One told me that medicine didn’t really begin pancreas transplants in earnest until 2008! That makes us guinea pigs of sorts. They even have trouble finding the scar.

I don’t.

I met a man on Christmas Day that made me think of you. Not in appearance or lifestyle: He kept all of his belongings in a shopping cart, which was amiably guarded by the thickest pit bull you’ve ever seen. The man, too, was thick as a sequoia.

But, like his companion, he wasn’t nearly as fearsome as he appeared. In fact, we shared a brief Christmas Day conversation. He barely spoke English, but I could at least make out that he was fatigued. The real world had clearly gotten to him.

Like you.

The more we tried to communicate, the more I saw the weight of Things on his shoulders, like the faded gray and orange backpack he carried. Even though the day was cloudy, he never took off his cheap Ray-Bans, dollar store shades with neon orange temples (he must like that color).  But when I gave him some money, he reached under the glasses to wipe his tears. Then he began to sob.

Then I did. So there we were, weeping outside a 7-Eleven like 12-year-olds who’d just seen The Beatles but were trying to play it cool. Where’s Hallmark when you need them?

We shook hands, and he and his buddy trundled on, shaken but unbroken.

Like you.

We had a brief scare with sepsis this year. Confession: I haven’t been that nervous on the gurney since we met. Yet, every time I go in, every time a doc tells me what we’ll undergo, the thought of you brings me a peace. I know that two will face This, not one. There’s gotta be strength in numbers, right?

In fact (confession #2), I even use our tandem to bullshit. Whenever someone asks me whether I’m nervous or frightened about something, I love to respond, “Motherfucker, I carry the dead.”

Yet other than that first word, every one that follows is a lie. Including the bravado: I probably am nervous or frightened about something.

But I find sure footing. Because you carry the living.

Thank you.

See you tomorrow.



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