Confessional. Back when I rooted for the Raiders and the Vikings of Bud Grant.

Amazing. Liberating. Neo-kidifying. I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE EAGLES AT ALL ANYMORE. Sanu(Rutgers) at the Bengals. Fitzpatrick(Harvard) at the Jets. Other people. My wife will let me know who they are. The great thing about getting old. Your wife will tell you who to be for. Sorry about the German. But the last time I heard “I’m Free” I had an 8-track in an MGB. We both broke down about back then. Couldn’t understand any language but Lucas Electrics. Which has never communicated successfully with anyone.

Saint Nuke, King of the Punks

Yeah. The longer text version is here. The audio intro is here:

Eminency is its own infallibility. Also a member of our family. We’re tickling one another in glee. The way the papacy should always be.

It used to be that even the Vatican loved babies.

It’s gonna be great. BFD. Me for President.

My room number is 3-2-1.

No. Not like that. I know what to say. Promise I do.

What I meant was, “Your room number is 321, and my Secret Service guys don’t all speak broken English. Because this is America.”

Or words to that effect. I mean, you think a guy like me with hair plugs and no brains or principles to speak of doesn’t know when it’s the Final Countdown?

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=NLhOoOrGFhs

Only the beginning of the clip is necessary (unless you want more laughs and gasps). Most of the youth audience will be more familiar with Dane Cook than Anthony Jeselnik. But Jeselnik is our subject today. The first two minutes of the video above are the most devastating takedown of one comedian by another I have ever seen. One comedian turning another into an utter joke is virtually unheard of. Yet Jeselnik accomplishes it with ease.

My purpose is to to direct you to a brand new Netflix original by Jeselnik. Here’s a trailer from YouTube.

I wrote about him back in 2009. I was right then, and I’m right now. Though I took plenty of heat for my opinion back then.

The Netflix concert is almost up to the minute current. He is a man at war with political correctness, triggers, micro aggressions, the assault of the censors on what comedy is and should be. He’s actually funnier than Lennie Bruce, though he has the same “should I laugh or not” reaction in the audience. Razor quick, utterly self-assured, not currying favor, but provoking and posturing like a latter day punk. He dares you to laugh at things you are certain are not funny.

Most interestingly, he continues Lennie Bruce style at the conclusion of the concert to explain that it is deliberate and principled, while still squeezing laughs out of the audience. He just might be the savior of standup comedy. And I’d never let him inside my house.

Why do I make so many dead baby jokes? Because they make me rich.

It’s fall. This is her fall topcoat. What can I say? I’m a guy. I have no say.

I honestly didn’t remember that Muffy came to us with a wardrobe.

She didn’t want us to take a picture from behind. But I insisted. I have no say but I sometimes get the last laugh.

Who gets a gigantic bed for an orange tabby? Nobody. But if you’re an orange tabby named Elliott you just help yourself.

Raebert would never hurt Elliott. But he does need reassurance from time to time. Nevertheless, he is a jealous lord.

Never mistake forbearance for weakness. That would be a grave error.

Grounded.

We wondered why Raebert was so anxious and yet standoffish last night. No surprise that the mail lady loves him. Most ladies do. But surprising alacrity on his part this morning when she popped the mail through the doorway.

The part of the instructions he did NOT eat along with the box said this.

Google Glass Features

Touchpad: A touchpad is located on the side of Google Glass, allowing users to control the device by swiping through a timeline-like interface displayed on the screen.[29] Sliding backward shows current events, such as weather, and sliding forward shows past events, such as phone calls, photos, circle updates, etc.

Camera: Google Glass has the ability to take photos and record 720p HD video.

My wife swears she didn’t order Google Glasses, and I know I didn’t. The little ones are too short to reach the phone, and Elliott is busy outside killing things. Which leaves us with one prime suspect. And the suspect photos he took before we observed his new eyewear. Judge for yourself.

Beds aren’t supposed to have cats on them.

He doesn’t like Elliott on his non-bedroom bed. Elliott doesn’t care, however.

Where breakfast and dinner show up. Mostly.

Well, Champ, we’re not the one who continually spills breakfast and dinner all over the carpet.

The best place is right behind Mommy’s desk chair. She yells sometimes, but it’s never as bad as Daddy’s cold barks.

Get over yourself, Rae. Cold barks are better than hot ones.

When you have to sit in the corner, this is the corner to go to.

You put yourself in the corner, Rae. We can never figure out why exactly.

When I’m bad they show me this. I don’t like flies.

Who does? But we don’t all run shrieking from the room like a little girl, do we, Raebert?

The Missus does not like photos taken of her from her unsuspecting behind (well, you know what I mean), and so the ground penalty will have to be commensurately unfair. No cheese products for a week, including Cheetos, Cheezits, Combos, Baby Bonbel, Brie, and your favorite imported Camembert. Maybe that’ll learn you, son.

Could anything be worse? All those women. Oh, the humanity.

***DEVELOPING***

My wife was just telling me that Hallmark stock has plunged by ten percent or more based on the latest revised (downward) profit predictions.

What can one say? How is it possible that American women have finally grown tired of the works inspired by the greatest of all female poets, Amanda Kittrick Ros

:“The Old Home” from Fumes of Formation

Don’t I see the old home over there at the base
Of a triangle not overcrowded with space:
‘Twas there I first breathed on the eighth of December,
In the year of Our Lord the month after November.

I’ve been told it was snowy and blowy and wild
When I entered the home as a newly-born child,
There wasn’t much fuss, nor was there much joy
For sorrow was poignant I wasn’t a boy.

I felt quite contented as years flitted on
That I to the coarser sex did not belong
Little dreaming that ever the time would arrive
That of female attire I would be deprived.

By a freak of the lustful that spreads like disease
Which demanded that females wear pants if you please,
But I stuck to the decentest style of attire
And to alter my “gender” I’ll never aspire.

During that hallowed century now dead and gone
In which good Queen Victoria claimed to be born
From childhood her modesty ever was seen
Her exalted position demanded when Queen.

She set an example of decency rare,
That no English Queen before her you’d compare
Neither nude knee nor ankle, nude bosom nor arm
Dare be seen in her presence this Queen to alarm.

She believed in her sex being loving and kind,
And modesty never to march out of line
By exposing those members unrest to achieve,
Which pointed to morals immorally grave.

But sad to relate when she bade “Adieu”
To earth and its vanities tainted with “rue,”
That centre of fashion, so French in its style,
Did its utmost to vilify decency’s smile

And mock at these garments which proved in their day,
At a glance-who was who-and wherein gender lay,
But alas! Since the death of our great and good Queen
That attribute “Modesty”‘s ne’er to be seen.

It wasn’t long after till modesty grew
A thing of the past for me and for you;
Last century’s fashions were blown quite aside,
The ill-advised folk of this age now deride.

The petticoat faded away as we do
In circumference it covered not one leg but two,
Its successor exposes the arms, breasts and necks,
Legs, knees and thighs and too often-the —.

She thought buttocks rhymed with necks but was too nice to say so. That’s the Hallmark hallmark.

And now we face the prospect of all the Hallmark stores closing down, one by one. The cloying cards, the cute fuzzy things, the made up holidays, all vanishing into the mist of third (or is it fourth?) wave feminism.

Don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I’m going to miss those cards and fuzzy things.

***DEVELOPING***

Oops. My wife just told me she was watching Walmart, not Hallmark, stock on the Dow.

Sad and awful, yes, you liberals. Who the fudge do you think you are?

Shouldn’t be a big mystery. Except to everybody in charge. He doesn’t care who you are. Equal opportunity offender. The bad uncle. We are all secretly hoping for the bad uncle. He doesn’t care if you’re black or white, male or female, Hispanic or Chinese or Russian. He’ll do a deal with you. And it will always be his goal to win. So he can bluster over the turkey at Thanksgiving. In Triump.

Why is Rush so gleeful? Because the dead headed ones inside the beltway still don’t get just how furious the rank and file Republican majority, which delivered both houses of Congress to their party, are the dupes of those who are shellacked and otherwise shiny sellouts to the cause of Democrat-Lite.

Stop. Nobody has yet discovered that a Hillary presidency would lead to fighting in the streets. A lot of us are just done with this shit.

The eternal companion of St. Nuke.

Want him, want him, want him. Not small animal safe? Our undefeated tabby Elliott would kill him.

He doesn’t have paws but clubs. He always always beats the shit out of them.

Why my wife says no. But I did steal his picture. Are you going to sue me? I think he could be the famousest greyhound ever.

Woke up the other night hearing a cat scream. Deerhound heard it too and woke up. Got up, turned on lights, explored the house, turned on the outside lights, called his name. No Elliott. Next morning, there he was. Untouched. He’s kicked every ass in the neighborhood, which I happen to know includes raccoons, groundhogs, red-winged Hawks, and roaming dogs. Every morning, there he is.

He’s taken over the sighthound bed upstairs. He has time on top of me every evening, much to the jealous consternation of the deerhound. They get along. The other night I watched him make a decision about following his mommy down the stairs. First thought he’d steer wide around the Rock of Gibraltar ass, then changed his mind and just jumped the first cousin of a dog I saw swallow a sparrow out of the air.

It’s all in how you play the game. His foster mama told us he was an alpha. Our first cat alpha, Mickey, put him in his place. Now there’s nothing to stop him.

He accepts that Raebert is the Alpha of the pack. But Elliott is the self-appointed gladiator. And he still chooses to spend his evenings with me. Go figure.

Not safe around small animals has everything to do with who the small animals are.

Something like a long defunct skinned crawfish beset by wriggling worms.

Probably, you think of fish and chips as a prehistoric British attempt at fast food, unspeakable fried junkfish and limp fried potatoes wrapped up in discarded sheets of tabloid newspapers. With some vile vinegar concoction as a condiment. No wonder gin is still the most popular beverage in the U.K. Its anesthetic effect on taste buds is its chief selling point in this context.

But things are changing. Since Americans no longer have any taste buds either, settling instead for the ravishing weed induced hunger known as the Munchies, the American art of packaging is creating a huge new market opportunity for purveyors of fish and chips in this country.

Behold the beauteous wrapping. It’s better than eating, right, especially in the swankiest restaurants in New York and lesser parts of the USA.

A new kind of arms race is on. Started, perhaps, by the Wall Street Journal.

Who wouldn’t pay $39.99 for this?

Game over? Hardly. In what could be a major campaign scandal this year, Donald Trump has put together a consortium of U.S. fish and chips sellers to purchase the complete newspaper output of the Boston Globe, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the L.A. Times, the Washington Post, and the New York Times as premium wrappers for the F&C entrees of Arthur Treachers, Applebee’s, and up-and-coming east coast titan Pat’s Pizza.

“This could well represent the kind of corrupt high-dollar bailout Trump supporters will not be able to stomach. This is by far the lowest election season exhibition of dirty politics I’ve ever been willing to look at,” said NYT columnist David Brooks, who was let go earlier today.

The deal may eventually expand to include the Chicago Sun-Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Miami Tribune. Feelers from the Des Moines Register and the Providence Journal have already been rebuffed.

A Trump spokesman said, “It’s just business. It’s not about politics but dollars and cents. Nobody reads these rags anymore. They just want to be seen carrying them around tucked against their Burberries and Fendi briefcases. Why not have something tasty inside? The ones who won’t make it aren’t about political leanings. They’re about no elitist glamor. Some kinds of fish wrap people will pay a premium for. Others they won’t.

“We’ve been calling and calling the Manchester Union Leader, for example. But nobody’s picking up on their one land line. And National Reciew isn’t big enough to wrap a fish in. Get over it. And did we mention Barney is a Communist? Good. You never heard it from me.”

In a final comment, the spokesman noted that certain newspapers may experience staff and editorial reduction. And certain franchises may undergo a name change.

Just imagine the power of the slogan “Trump Yourself.”

Brain Injury

Every day. Every goddam day. All my life I think. And think. And now I just want to be dumb. My wife still thinks I’m smart. Or so she says. She’s so kind.

The burn comes when you least expect it. Who wants a me who can’t think? Certainly not me.

It seems easy, I know.

Nothing happens in a vacuum. There was the XK-150.

It’s called evolution. Because there was the C-Type after that.

And then the D-Type. My favorite slot car.

And now we’re supposed to love the F-type.

Not sure I do. Keep remembering this.

1962.

Straight six engine. Best, most gorgeous sounding engine since the XKE.

Can’t have it. What I WILL get.

It’s all good. We live and we die. In that order.

It’s hell getting up mad in the middle of the night.

So I got up in the middle of the night, mad as hell. Sick to death of women claiming privilege when they haven’t actually done anything in the whole history of human history.

Mad, you know. No Blake. No Shakespeare. No Michelangelo. No da Vinci. No Mozart. No Lord Nelson. No Einstein. Just a bunch of whining bitches who once cobbled together a play called the Vagina Monologues. So I did a search for “hundreds of vaginas.” Guess what? I found it. Created by women. (You can make it bigger by clicking, guys. Same with what follows.)

Egad.

And it’s October now, so the NFL is all in shocking pink because of breast cancer. So I did a search for hundreds of breasts. I mean, it is what you want isn’t it? For all of us to see you as nothing more than so many vaginas and breasts? Found that too. Also created by women.

Who’s more obsessed? Men or women? I’m thinking women.

It was late. I was trying to particularize. Came up with the idea of searches for “one breast” and “one vagina.” You know. A distillation. Because women are individuals too, right? Unless they aren’t. The ones who aren’t know who I mean. Right?

So I got the idea one breast, one vagina.

One breast.

Don’t you like her smile?

One vagina.

Life is beautiful. In the particular, not the mass of masses. Don’t you like her smile?

The downside of being quick on the trigger is that you run the risk of being completely wrong. Which I was on the subject of Blue Bloods. For five years or so.

Sometimes a quip can become a trap. In college I heard a smart guy dismiss the entire career of Leonard Bernstein as a master of “slow conducting.” I’d made a similar quip in recent years about Tom Selleck, master of “slow acting.” (See? Not even being original.) My wife has been a huge fan of the series of Jesse Stone murder mysteries. I’m a fan of the golden retriever who keeps staring incredulously at Jesse Stone while he slooowly drinks scotch.

Then came all the promos for Blue Bloods. Selleck looked like he was on downers. So I never watched. I mean, is it credible that shrimpy plug-ugly Donnie Wahlberg could be the son of Magnum P.I.? What would mom have looked like? Janeane Garofalo? No wonder he slowly drinks scotch in this series too.

But the desperate need to avoid the news and the homosexual onslaught of contemporary TV series has thrust us into the embrace of Blue Bloods. Which is in many ways a typical police procedural/soap opera product. But it has one redeeming feature I find entrancing and beautiful.

Sunday Dinner

This is a show about Irish cops. Selleck is the commissioner of the NYPD. His dad is the retired commissioner. Selleck’s two surviving sons are cops. His daughter is an assistant district attorney. And the grandkids are as outspoken as the Irish always are. They all sit down to dinner together every Sunday. Four generations. They argue, they joke, they eat (what I’ve never been able to determine), and the abiding impression you get is just how lucky are these grandkids to have this ritual in their lives.

I love it. I wish every kid in this country could have the same blessing.

Daughter of the Champ. She punches.

But Ali has oh so many putative daughters as well. They’re all over television. They’re all good looking, usually not big, but always determined, articulate, and handsome as he is. Don’t believe me?

There’s Nicole Behari from Sleepy Hollow.

Loves her Brit-born American patriot.

And her sister, who from some angles is even hotter.

I’ve got her name somewhere. I just forgot it. Oh. It’s Lyndie Greenwood.

Then there’s Detective Carter (Teraji P. Henson) from Person of Interest.

She was upset about the guy in the suit.

And the equally short, nicely assed, tough tough smart woman in Z-Nation.

Kellita Smith

Holly Robinson from The Wire. Life is a bitch, especially if you’re a…

And this. Too bad to watch.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1GWR6xDPkmE

And HER.

Yes. We love them all. Conservative racists we. Cause we’re so completely awful.

She was hot hot hot. She was black. Oh yes she was. Amen.

Oh yes, it’s a dance they do, every day, these cats and dogs who live together. They are a pack, which is to say a family, and they love one another. Raebert is the leader somehow, which makes no sense but packs don’t have to make sense. What is he? The odd young’un who holds sway over all the oldsters, mostly twice his age. He cares the most. Odd is hardly the right word. I told my wife he understands everything I say. She took that with a grain of salt until last night or so when he was licking his leg and I said, that’s enough, stop licking and put your head down. Which he did. She stared at me and then at him.

Where were we? Raebert is upset at the loss of Cassie. He’s great at moaning and groaning on a good day. Now he’s almost lugubrious.

So young with so much on his shoulders.

So is Elliott. He’s the only surviving cat in the pack. Clinging wouldn’t be too strong a word for what he’s doing with me right now.

Last cat in the pack.

Rikki knows about death. We don’t want to vigil him. He’s a racehorse in the twilight. He keeps going because he’s a deer in the headlights and makes the headlights blink.

Rikki. Tikki. Tavi.

Muffy pretends she doesn’t care. She does.

Scotties are awful. Cute.

Eloise really doesn’t care. She’s the only one.

She can get out of that crate.

Death is the Omega. Life is the Pack.