Entry 670: Bi-National

My wife’s mother and aunt escaped from the Nazis. It’s a long story involving trains and boats and English people, but none of that is important for the purposes of this post.

All you need to know is that their escape from Germany entitles the next two generations of their family to become German citizens. This works in somewhat the same way as legacies at college. If your father went to Yale, you’re in, even if you’re an idiot. If your mother was born in Germany, you’re in, even if your knowledge of German culture is limited to owning a copy of Der Struwwelpeter, inarguably the most demented children’s book ever published, featuring stories with morals such as: if you suck your thumbs they will be cut off; if you leave your gun laying around while hunting you will be shot at by giant rabbits; and if you don’t eat your soup you’ll be dead within a week.

Where was I?

Right–German citizenship.

So my wife Barbara and her two sisters, Karen and Gwen, decided it would be a good idea to take Germany up on its invitation, especially since, with our new President, it sometimes seemed as though it might be advantageous to, shall we say, have another country in their back pocket.

The first step in the process was getting a copy of their mother’s birth certificate from Horb, the German document elf. No wait–Horb is not a person (or an elf), but a town in the German state of Baden-Württembergnot, in the Administrative Region of Karlsruhe, in the District of Freudenstadt, in the…oh, hell–let’s just think of Horb as the document elf.

Once the birth certificate arrived from Horb, it was just a matter of making an appointment at the German consulate in Manhattan. The night before their appointment, Karen (who’s living with us while her house is being remodeled) and Barbara decided not to go, ostensibly because President Trump was at that time having a bit of a verbal skirmish with Angela Merkel to the point where, when they were pictured together, you could just tell that Merkel wished she was a giant rabbit with a rifle.

That wasn’t the real reason, though. The real reason was that they realized they’d have to get up at six in the morning to make their appointment, and it suddenly didn’t seem that important to be able to add “Frau” before their names.

Also Barbara was a tad nervous about the whole dual-citizenship thing.

“What if they cancel our U.S. passport when we get our German one?” she said. “What if Trump starts a war with their prime minister and they don’t let us back in the country?”

“I think she’s a chancellor,” I said.


“The head of Germany is the chancellor.”

“What if they ask me what the head of Germany is called? What if there are other questions like they ask when you try to become a U.S. citizen?”

I said, “Isn’t it a birthright sort of thing? I don’t think you have to renounce your U.S. citizenship or know anything about Prussia.”

Barbara didn’t look convinced.

“It’s just something to have,” Karen reassured her. “We’re entitled to it, so we might as well get it.”

So now they’re scheduled to go to the consulate in July. If anyone from the NSA, CIA, ICE or Homeland Security is reading this, please note that their intentions are totally innocent and they love America just as a mother loves her charming but underachieving child who is always making bad decisions. Also, if Trump gets out of hand, we want to be able to go somewhere with good beer and good cars. That leaves out Canada.

If the sisters someday go to visit Horb, I hope he will make them feel welcome, and I especially hope that, while they’re away, President Trump does not initiate a very specific travel ban for dual citizenship sisters and their children.

I really don’t think I’d look good in lederhosen.

See you soon.

Disclaimer: Not all dialogue is 100% accurate. Some comments may have been altered for comic effect.

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Entry 669: Deportation May Be Too Good for Them

There has been a lot of discussion in our country lately about immigrants, and I think it’s about time I added my opinion to the debate.

I think we should send them all back where they came from.

I should clarify: When I say “all,” I mean all those from India who reside in Evart, Michigan.

Actually, when I say “from India,” I mean they at least sound like they’re from India. I guess I could make sure by asking them to spell a difficult word, but that would be stereotyping. (And, by the way, congratulations to Ananya Vinay, winner of this year’s Scripps National Spelling Bee, and the 13th consecutive Indian-American champion.)

Oh, and when I say “reside in Evart, Michigan” (as I did the paragraph before last), I mean that they at least work in Evart, Michigan. I don’t know where they actually live. Come to think of it, I don’t know that they necessarily work in Evart, only that they work for a company in Evart. Come to think some more, with the technology available, they could be working for the company in Evart while actually being in India.

That would make it difficult to deport them.

So, to reiterate my stance on immigration: I want to deport everyone from India, or who sounds Indian, and who lives in, or works for, a particular company based in Evart, Michigan. If that describes you, I want you out of the country immediately, and possibly shot on sight, even if you’re reading this while comfortably ensconced in your home office in Bangalore, or even if you’re an American citizen, or even if your name is Richard Longmire III whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and you happen to do a terrific Indian accent.

The key thing that puts you on my deportation list is your association with that company in Evart.

Unfortunately, I do not know the name of the particular company whose employees I wish to evict from America and perhaps murder in cold blood. All I know about it are two things:

  1. Its phone number is 231-836-7565.
  2. It is very annoying.

According to the town’s website, Evart is an “outdoor recreational paradise along the Muskegon River.” And yet, many of its citizens seem to spend most of their time indoors, calling me. If it keeps up, I may soon be able to say that I have heard from all 1,903 of Evart’s citizens. Or at least all the Indian-sounding ones. The website doesn’t show that Evart has a motto; I’d like to suggest “Mumbai on the Muskegon.”

You see, virtually every day, my phone rings, and the caller ID window says “Evart MI 231-836-7565.” I have clients in Michigan, and, although they’re in Grand Rapids, the first couple of times Evart called, I thought it might be one of them calling from home, since I have no idea how far Evart is from Grand Rapids.

“Hello, sir,” said the first caller with his Indian inflection, “I am calling regarding the problem with your computer.”

Since this happened to be one of the rare days on which I was not having a problem with my computer, I hung up.

The next day, Evart called again. “Hello, sir,” said the second caller, a woman this time, “I am calling regarding the problem with your computer.”

“Stop calling,” I replied, and hung up.

I catch on quickly, so when Evart called on the third day, I answered with “I am NOT having problems with my computer!” to which the caller replied (and I swear this is true), “Hello, sir. I am calling regarding the problem with your smart TV.”

Since then, as the Evartians kept calling, I have gone through four of the five stages of dealing with telemarketers:

  1. Slamming
  2. Ignoring
  3. Cursing
  4. Emitting a high-pitched noise somewhat similar to that made by a fax machine.

The fifth stage, of course, involves purchasing one of those aerosol air horns and blasting it directly into the receiver.

I did a reverse lookup on 231-836-7565, trying to get the name of the company, but instead found a bunch of telemarketing complaint sites groaning (see below) about persistent calls from that number.  So I guess I’m not the only one they’re calling.

And, yes, I’ve read all the online tips advising to get on the DO NOT CALL list, and to be careful not to say anything to these guys, especially the word “yes,” because they record it and then use your voice to get credit cards or some such thing, and so now I’m back to ignoring Evart, but I really think a much better solution to my problem would be to deport the Bombay bastards.

Even if they’re from Detroit.

See you soon.

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Entry 668: Maybe It Really is All a Game to Them

Last Wednesday America was introduced to yet another lunatic with a gun, and we were treated to a rare instance of bi-partisan accord in Congress when just about all of our elected representatives were able to agree that they didn’t like being shot at.

You may recall that one James Hodgkinson, President of the Illinois chapter of the Bonkers for Bernie Fan Club, opened fire while Republicans were practicing for an upcoming baseball game against the Democrats.

It was, indeed, tragic. Long after the horrible events had transpired, the news showed footage of the practice field, now populated by investigators instead of players, and strewn with balls and other equipment left behind in the race for safety.

My first thought was about how sad that abandoned baseball field looked.  I was briefly reminded of the lyrics of an obscure Paul Simon song “Night Game”:

There were three men down
And the season lost
And the tarpaulin was rolled
Upon the winter frost

But then I thought of an even sadder image than an abandoned baseball field: a baseball field with politicians playing baseball on it.

I’m sorry–the optics just don’t work for me. First, I can’t picture these people in anything but suits or golfing attire. And second, well, check out at this picture–it looks like the starting line-up for an Old-Timers Game from the 1950’s, and let’s just say it doesn’t appear that they invited anyone from the Negro Leagues.  I don’t think I’d like watching a bunch of rich old white dudes play baseball.

I also started wondering if, when the game was played, any of the following might happen:

  1. Would there be a souvenir stand selling bobblehead dolls of the players and, if so, would anyone recognize the irony of a Republican bobblehead?
  2. Since there were only two women on the rosters (both Democrats), would the other players discuss women’s health issues between innings?
  3. Would the Republicans have more players than the Democrats?
  4. If there was an argument, would Mike Pence be there to cast a deciding vote?
  5. Would Democratic pitcher Rep. Cedric Richmond (Democrat-La.) intentionally throw at Rep. Tom Rooney (Republican-Fla.) just because?

I looked it up and, incredibly, they’ve been playing this game since 1909. It wasn’t played during wars or the Depression, and Speaker Sam Rayburn ended the game in 1958 because he thought it had become too physical. Contrary to popular belief, it was not because Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. (Black-NY) was spiked by Strom Thurmond (Racist-SC).

The game resumed in 1962 and has been ongoing ever since, although it has not been without a scandal or three. In 1972, listening devices were found in the Democrats’ dugout. In the late 1990’s, there were allegations of performance enhancing drugs recommended to players by Bill Clinton, who almost always got at least to second base. And in 2010, there was Weiner-gate (right), which was not about the hot dogs sold at the game.

Despite the shootings, this year’s game was played Thursday night, and none of the events I listed above occurred. The Democrats won 11-2, breaking an historical deadlock. Before Thursday, each team had won 39 games and there had been one tie–the infamous 26- inning game that went late into the night because of a filibuster and was finally called.

In a post-game interview, one Democrat said, “Everybody gave it 39-47 percent out there. It was a total team victory, and I’m just happy we got even for the last election.”

Also, there is no truth to the “fake news” that all the umpires were Russian.

See you soon.

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Entry 667: Giant Pander

In September of 2015, I did a post about a nauseating-sounding product called Rainbow Doritos. It was just like regular Doritos, except it came in colors that were even more horrifying than the radioactive orange-red of Doritos Jacked Ranch Dipped Hot Wings flavor. I’m talking about purples and greens, which everyone knows do not occur on chips found in nature. There was also an accompanying explanation:

“We are honored to partner with the It Gets Better Project® to create our boldest chip yet. Each bag brings rainbow-colored chips inside and an inspiring quote on the outside.”

At the time I said that the whole thing was rather disingenuous, since the stated purpose was to benefit an organization for LGBTQ* teens, but the promotion did not even contain the words lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered or queer. Not even the name of the organization had any of those words in it. How could Doritos be doing something for the LGBTQ community without mentioning the people in that community?

Cynical me thought this might have something to do with Doritos not wanting to offend its core audience, the FFF community.**

Other marketers have tried this rainbow thing with varying degrees of success,  especially around Pride Days, which are celebrations for LGBTQ folks.

Heterosexuals don’t have a day like that, because, really, we have nothing to be proud of.

Anyway, I don’t do this very often, but I’m writing today to commend a company, if not exactly for its sincerity, then at least for its creativity. That firm is Mars, Inc., parent conglomerate of The Wrigley Company, owner of Skittles®.

Skittles, you see, had a problem. What, after all, do you do to make a statement for Pride Day if your product is already multicolored and your slogan is already “Taste the Rainbow™?”

Well, you could say something like “Skittles has been the Official LGBTQ Candy All Along,” but that might be too much of a long-term demographic commitment instead of a limited-time promotion. (“Honey, don’t eat that–it’s just for non-heterosexuals.”) Or you could do a whole campaign based on “Taste the Pride. Taste the Rainbow,” although, in that context, it might sound a tad unsavory. I mean, it’s bad enough that we don’t know what the hell a rainbow tastes like–now we have to worry about the flavor of LGBTQ pride, too?

Last year, and again this year, Skittles has, perhaps advisedly, gone in another direction. They unrainbowed their product. This was their open letter about it:

“So this is kind of awkward, but we’re just gonna go ahead and address the rainbow-colored elephant in the room. You have the rainbow … we have the rainbow … and usually that’s just hunky-dory.

“But this Pride, only one rainbow deserves to be the centre of attention—yours. And we’re not going to be the ones to steal your rainbow thunder, no siree. That’s why this weekend, we’re giving up our rainbow.”

Like the Doritos campaign, there is still no inclusion of the words gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or queer, but at least you get the feeling they’re overtly talking to LGBTQs.  Or unicorns.

I know what you’re thinking: “How does a major corporation put out a message with such an obvious spelling error? Did they not have a proofreader on board to correct ‘centre?’”

Geez, what a stupid comment! That’s not the spelling error! “Rainbow-colored” is the spelling error. It should have been “rainbow-coloured.” Because this campaign ran only in London.

As of yet, Skittles has not introduced its uncolored candy in the U.S.  (They have come up with an “America Mix,” even though, at this point in time, many Americans are severely lacking in pride, if not in their country, then definitely in their government.)

One reason why Americans may not experience these monochromatic munchies any time soon is that certain, um, sensitivities, seem somewhat heightened here on this side of the pond. This didn’t occur to me because I am relatively sane and because I was thinking about this product as “non-colored Skittles,” but evidently, some folks thought of them as “white Skittles.” (You can see where this is going, right?)

Yes, that is correct. The Twitterverse exploded with accusations of racism. Which does not bode well for next January, when stores have their white sales.

See you soon.

*Is it my imagination, or do they keep adding letters to this?
**Fat Football Fans, although I may be generalizing.

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Entry 666: The Merch of Time

Recently my wife and I went to see one of our favorite bands that you’ve never heard of. It’s Delta Rae, you can listen to them here, and if you ever get a chance to see them live, they put on a great show.

But this post isn’t about them.

It’s about their opening act. Well, not their opening act, but opening acts in general, and an epiphany I had about them that night at the Delta Rae concert:

I’m too old for opening acts.

At my age, when I buy tickets for an eight o’clock show, I’m perfectly happy if the performers I purchased tickets to see come on stage about 8 o’clock, play for an hour and a half, return for the obligatory encore, and end by 9:45 so I can be home in bed by 10:30 which, if I’m being honest, is already well past my usual bedtime.

In fact, I could even live without the encore. What’s that all about anyway? Why do acts do that? Everybody knows they’re going to come back out, especially since they haven’t played one of their big hits yet. Why do they make the audience beg for it? Just include that song with the set and eliminate the 10 minutes of beseeching applause. It’s getting late, damn it! Plus, the people in front of me might not sit back down, and I’ll have to stand through the whole encore, which almost always includes one song you’re supposed to clap along with, or bop to, and I don’t have any sense of rhythm whatsoever, so I look ridiculous trying to do either.

Where was I? Right–the opening act.

So we get to the theater at eight, even though we know there’s an opening act and even though I know I don’t like the opening act because I listened to her online.  This perverse punctuality is the result of a genetic mutation or something that almost literally prevents me from being late for anything. For me, being “fashionably late” means being only five minutes early.

I understand why they have opening acts, at least traditionally. It was a way for new artists to reach an audience. And I actually have bought the music of quite a few people I originally saw as opening acts. I even remember, back in the early 70’s, seeing James Taylor at Madison Square Garden and one of the opening acts was Carole King!

But that was so far away.

There’s really no reason for opening acts now. New artists have no trouble reaching audiences and creating huge fan bases through Spotify and various social media. If the main act’s record company wants to introduce a new band, they could just print “And So-and-So recommends Up-and-coming so-and-so” on the ticket, and fans could go online and listen at their leisure which, in the case of the Delta Rae concert, I did, and didn’t like the music, and showed up on time to see her anyway because of my aforementioned affliction.

So there we were, in our seats by eight o’clock, sitting though an opening act who not only played music I don’t particularly care for, but insisted on telling stories (all of which seem to involve alcoholic beverages) between each song. She also interrupted herself two or three times with commercials to “come on out and meet me at the merch table in the lobby” where she’d be happy to sign her CD for you in case she ever becomes famous.

Okay, so she finally plays her last number and acknowledges the half-hearted round of applause, which may be in appreciation of her finishing rather than her singing, and I head out to the bathroom. Then I get back to my seat, bottle of water in hand, and join the rest of the audience in reading email on my phone while the roadies set up for the main act.

Here’s a pet peeve. If the opening act is one or two people with guitars at the front of the stage, why does it take the roadies a half hour or more to set up for the headliners when the opening act is done? I mean, all the instruments have been right there all along, behind the “special guests.” They had to already have set up everything earlier for the sound check. So what has the woman with the guitar done to upset the delicate arrangement of instruments and microphones and amplifiers so that it takes so much time to set everything up again? Plus, because of that bottle of water I purchased at the beginning of intermission, by the time the crew is just about done, I have to go to the bathroom again.

You may remember I mentioned at the start of this post that I am old.

So it’s 9:15 by the time the people we came to see appear on stage, and they do their hour and a half set, plus the ten minutes of begging in the dark so they’ll come back for the encore, replete with my awkward and clueless bopping, and instead of being in bed by 10:30, I’m first leaving the theater at 10:45.

All because of the freakin’ opening act.

See you soon.

P.S. In case the concert ad above got you wondering who Jo Mama was and where you can hear her music, you should know that Jo Mama wasn’t a “her,” it was a “they”–a band consisting mostly of musicians and girlfriends and spouses who were on the tour anyway. And, by the way, check out those ticket prices!

P.P.S. In case the concert ad above got you wondering what the hell “Joshua Color Video Magnification” was, you should know that it was not a band, but rather a precursor to jumbotron screens.

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Entry 665: Let a :-) Be Your (—‚

I just don’t understand 21st Century communications.

I don’t get why people LOL at their own remarks. First, they’re never that funny. Second, it’s poor comedic form to laugh at your own joke.

I can’t figure out how abbreviations get invented. I mean, somebody must have been the first to text “BRB” and leave the person they were texting wondering what “BRB” meant. I imagine some poor guy just having hit “SEND” on “Wanna have sex 2-nite?” while the other person was simultaneously texting “BRB.” “But, Julie,” he would say to her when he showed up at her door later that evening, “you told me to bring rubber bands.”

I don’t know why people are completely unable to talk about texting without moving their thumbs. They’ll be saying, “And so I texted Judy yesterday…” and their thumbs will be flying around in mid-air. I literally have never seen someone not do this. I’ve sometimes wondered if they would be able to continue talking if I held their thumbs.

I’m always puzzled when people “LIKE” sad posts. You say “My dog died yesterday” and you get 130 “LIKES.” What kind of asshole friends do you have, anyway?

I definitely don’t understand why people spend 20 minutes texting information back and forth when the same information could be communicated with a 30 second phone call. Is the sound of a human voice that offensive?

And why the hell do people publicly share personal stuff on Facebook? As an example, I give you Cyndi Nail. I have no idea who Cyndi Nail is, but she evidently belongs to the same Shetland Sheepdog Facebook group that I’m in. Recently she shared a link to Ashleigh and Johnathan Chad Fauver’s TheKnot.com wedding website. Of course, I also do not know Ashleigh and Johnathan or why, judging from the photo, Ashleigh is marrying the winner of the Larry the Cable Guy look-alike contest. I do not know why Cyndi Nail feels compelled to share this news with complete strangers with whom she has no connection other than, perhaps, a preference for cute, hyperactive dogs. Cyndi isn’t even a member of the wedding party! (I know this because, of course, I clicked the link.) I am, however, tempted to send the happy couple something from their registry (greedy bastards that they are, they registered at both Target and Walmart), possibly the $19.99 laundry basket, just so they can spend several entertaining minutes trying to figure out who the heck I am.

I’ll never become conversant with the etiquette and use of all the various social media. It makes me long for the good old days when being up to date on communications technology meant typing a smiley face at the end of a sentence.

At least that humble emoticon actually did something. It was punctuation, every bit as much as the parenthesis, dash and colon that built it. It said “I’m kidding.” It communicated a Monty Pythonesque “Wink wink.” And when people started getting creative with it, typing different facial expressions, it made you tilt your head and go, “Oh, yeah, it’s crying.”

Compared to all that, emojis are just lazy decorations, like a teenaged girl putting little hearts over her “i’s.”

And the emoticon had history, damn it. In 1912, Ambrose Bierce proposed “the snigger point,” a new form of punctuation to represent “a smiling mouth.” He drew it as a horizontal parenthesis. “It is to be appended,” he wrote, “…to every jocular or ironical sentence.”  Woodrow Wilson tried to use it once, referring in a document to “the war to end all wars ␣ “but, alas, the snigger point never caught on.

In a 1936 Harvard Lampoon article, Alan Gregg proposed (-) for smile and (–) for a bigger smile–cool, because you don’t even have to look at them sideways.

In 1969, no less a literary figure than Vladimir Nabokov said, in reply to an interviewer’s stupid query, “I often think there should exist a special typographical sign for a smile – some sort of concave mark, a supine round bracket, which I would now like to trace in reply to your question.”

Ouch! Those Russian writers really know how to throw a zinger at you!

The emoticon that ultimately came into use was first proposed way back in 1982 on the Carnegie Mellon University computer science general board as a way for people to communicate jocularity in their emails, which was deemed necessary because it was the only way you could know a computer scientist was joking.

So enjoy your emojis, folks, but let us never forget the emoticon. Because if we were to allow it to fade into oblivion, that would be truly :–(

See you soon.

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Entry 664: Word to the Why’s

Why it’s bad to be the President: I don’t usually find myself in a position of feeling sorry for Donald Trump, but you do have to kind of sympathize with a guy who gets an approval rating on an almost daily basis. I don’t think many of us could bear that sort of scrutiny in our lives. (“Mark doesn’t empty dishwasher; approval rating plummets!”)

Why you shouldn’t exercise: New research presented at the European Congress on Obesity showed that stopping exercise for just two weeks led to significant changes in body composition, including increases in total body fat and loss of skeletal muscle mass. This is precisely why I never exercise. If I never start, I don’t have to worry about what happens if I stop.

Why headline writers should be more careful: The headline read “Miley is rethinking her shows after bombing,” leading me to believe that nobody was showing up to her concerts, and that those who did were horribly disappointed. I truly felt bad for Miley, until I clicked through to the story and learned that her career had not tanked. “Miley Cyrus reveals how she’s rethinking her shows after bombing” read the actual headline of the article, “at Ariana Grande’s concert.”

Why wars get started: As previously reported in this blog, there has been an artistic disagreement going on in downtown Manhattan, where a “Fearless Girl” statue has been placed defiantly in front of a “Charging Bull” statue, causing the bull artist, Arturo Di Modica, to claim that the entire meaning of his piece has been altered. Now a third artist, Alex Gardega, has entered the fray, seemingly as an ally of the bull guy, by installing a small statue of a dog peeing on Fearless Girl’s leg. While he was forced to remove it after a couple of hours, it’s only a matter of time before a matador statue shows up to stab the bull, and then a pedophile statue is placed behind the girl, and then a butcher statue, and then an abusive husband statue, and so on until somebody drops an H-Bomb statue on the whole damn thing.

Why you should be careful what you sign up for: Team Trump has just launched a subscription service called Big League Box which will deliver an exciting “handpicked bundle of exclusive and vintage OFFICIAL Donald J. Trump merchandise” to your door every month. Judging from the picture accompanying the announcement, the merchandise seems to be caps, mugs, buttons and other stuff they still have laying around from the last campaign. I’ll skip the question of just how much Donald Trump merchandise even his most ardent supporters can hoard, and get right to the more intriguing query: What could they possibly send that could conceivably be described as “vintage?” A Trump steak? A Trump University student ID? A photo of Trump shaving Vince McMahon’s head at Wrestlemania? Oh, and in case you’re interested, each Big League Box will set you back $69. And, it bears repeating: that’s every month!

Why you shouldn’t quit your job to be in a movie: A pair of documentary film makers are searching for volunteers who will accept $250 a week for two years just to be filmed while deciding how to spend $250 a week. The movie is intended as a demonstration of the affect on people’s lives of “Universal Basic Income” (UBI), an economic theory that the world will be a better place if we removed financial stress with “a periodic cash payment unconditionally delivered to all on an individual basis, without means-test or work requirement.”  It will be interesting to see who they end up using in the film, because for some people, $250 a week would be a lifeline that enables them to, for instance, eat, while for others, it would be completely disposable income they can use for frivolous stuff, like a Big League Box subscription.

Why Catholics don’t need to appear in documentaries: Because they can follow the Pope’s advice for relieving stress, financial and otherwise. Each night the Pope writes down all his problems in a letter to Saint Joseph, then slips the note beneath a statue of the patron saint of workers and the man believed to be the father of Jesus. Studies have revealed that writing down your troubles can, indeed, relieve stress. And if you can’t afford your own statue of St. Joseph, you can just put your letters under a bottle of his aspirin.

Why Spell Check isn’t always helpful: Sometimes it’s because it makes ridiculous substitutions, like once when I wanted to say “autopay” and my iPhone changed it to “autopsy.” Other times, Spell Check can be totally stumped. President Trump is really good at that, like in his now-famous tweet “Despite the constant negative press covfefe.” As an experiment, I typed those exact words into my iPhone, and it had not a single alternative suggestion. It just put “covfefe” in quotes, as if to tell me “This is such gibberish, even Siri can’t make heads or tails of it.” Trump tried to make a joke of it the next day, writing “Who can figure out the true meaning of ‘covfefe’ ??? Enjoy!” Well, as a part-time humorist, I certainly am enjoying his presidency, but not so much as an American, or a human being.  However, considering the security leaks in his first few months, I kind of doubt that “covfefe” is some sort of secret code. From context alone, and with just my brain rather than some fancy algorithm, I’ll bet he was trying to type “coverage” but his thumbs got tired.

See you soon. Why? Because I like you.


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