Magic Portal to Skinny, New You Is Full of Tongue, Teeth and Stuff

Wouldn’t it be great to lose weight without giving up any of your delicious favourite foods or grunting and sweating through hours of tedious exercise? It turns out, the magic gateway to the slim and sexy you has been right under your nose all along.

That’s right. Now you can Talk Yourself Thin™ using the same pie hole that got you into this mess to begin with.

Using our patent-pending Talk Yourself Thin™ system, the pounds will float away on a breeze, like advice given to your kids.

How is this possible? It’s science. Exhaled breath is mainly made up of water. Heavy, heavy water. In addition to that, it contains more than 250 chemicals, and chemicals weigh a lot. Talk enough and you’ll blow those unwanted pounds right out of your system.

Want to drop a pound? Recite the Gettysburg Address out loud 16 times. Want to lose more? Explain Bitcoin to your dad, or “being woke” to your gran.

“But wait,” you say. You’ve been talking your whole life and you’ve still got enough spare blub to sculpt a handsome lard baby.

Well, sure you do. You’ve been talking all wrong.

Think about it. When do you talk? You go out for a gab over drinks and nachos with friends. You talk with family over meals. You conflab with coworkers over donuts and muffins. And, you’ve been inhaling the calories of everyone you talk with. In short, you have been keeping your body in balance.

The secret to the patent-pending Talk Yourself Thin™ system is long, pointless conversations with yourself. “But I’ll look crazy,” You say. Yes, crazy sexy.

Do you like eating? Do you like talking? Then you’ll love Talk Yourself Thin™.

Talk Yourself Thin™ was developed by Skinny Dreams Ltd. These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA and for all you know may be true. Not available in stores.

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Golf and Marriage: Don’t let your new husband use my clubs

In golf, as in marriage, a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.

 

About 30 years ago — the same year I took up marriage — I started playing golf. Today I shot a 122. For those unfamiliar with golf scoring but who know how to keep score in marriage, let me put it this way. Today I left every toilet seat up, forgot our anniversary and her birthday, dropped dirty underwear on the kitchen floor, left the cap off the toothpaste, forgot to pick up the kids, insulted my mother-in-law, drank milk from the carton. And on the par five ninth hole I slept with the nanny. I did everything wrong that can be done wrong.

My favourite golf joke:
Why do they call it “golf?”
I don’t know. Why do they call it “golf?”
Because “fuck” was already taken.

If my marital performance was still as bad as my golf game, I would have been smothered in my sleep decades ago. Unfortunately, mercy killing in golf is discouraged as ungentlemanly.

Golf and marriage follow a similar trajectory. It seems like a good idea at the time. You jump in. It’s much harder than you expected. But with practice and patience you get better. You deal with things as they come up. Impossible pin placements. Water and sand hazards. You learn from mistakes. You correct behaviours that lead to painful outcomes. Or you avoid them. You know you’re never going to hit that three-iron or make that flop shot, so you play it safe to avoid a snow man or a cold shoulder. Eventually your missteps become fewer.

A relevant side note:
A former colleague of mine (@bethteitell) recently wrote a brilliant piece for the Boston Globe about one of the issues couples start discussing later in life – what the surviving person needs to know when the other partner dies first. It can be read here.

The golfing corollary is to discuss what happens to your clubs when you die, which reminds me of another golf joke.

A husband and wife are lying awake in bed late at night, talking about the important things spouses talk about in the quiet darkness at the end of the day, like whether you put out the garbage, turned on the dishwasher or killed the spider in the laundry room, and removed its carcass.

Husband: If I die first, do you think you’ll remarry?
Wife: Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like to think about those things.
Husband: (After a contemplative pause) I think you should remarry. I’d hate to think of you living out your days alone.
Wife: OK, if you say so. Now go to sleep.
Husband: (Another contemplative pause) Do you think you’d live in this house?
Wife: What?
Husband: You and your new husband. Would you live in this house?
Wife: (a bit impatient) I don’t know. Sure. We’d live in this house.
Husband: (Contemplative pause) Would you sleep in this bed?
Wife: (chuckles and decides to play along) Yes. I like this bed. It’s comfortable. I’d keep this bed.
Husband: (pause) I guess that makes sense. OK, good night.
Wife: Good night, you moron.
Husband: (Pause) Just one other thing. Live in the house, sleep in this bed, but don’t let the new guy use my golf clubs. I really don’t want him to use my golf clubs.
Wife: (No pause.) Oh, don’t worry about that. He’s left-handed.

I like to think I have gotten better at marriage; become a better husband. But someone else has to make that call.
I know I have not become a better golfer. There is data. Scores don’t lie. Golf’s goal is to achieve the lowest score you can.

This fact tees up another interesting comparison between golf and marriage. Both are more enjoyable when you don’t keep score. So I try to learn from my mistakes, stay within myself, not swing too hard, savour the good shoots and let go of the bad ones. And all the while, enjoy the walk with a great companion.

One more golf joke:
Two golfers are ready to play on the 11th tee as a funeral procession motors passes by. The first player stops, removes his cap, and bows his head respectfully as the hearse passes.
“That was a really nice thing to do,” the second golfer says. “It’s good to see there is still some respect in the world.”
“Well, it’s only right,” the first golfer replies. “I was married to her for 35 years.

 

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Trump Does Canada, Final Chapter – The End Game

We pick up our story from when we last saw the earnest and magnificently maned Canadian prime minister. President Trump had just dropped a bomb on him. He was planning a takeover of Canada, hostile or otherwise.

“Listen, my friend,” said Trump. “I know what you’re thinking but it makes sense. The Canadian economy is in the toilet. Has been for a long time and will be for a long time. The Russians are knocking on your northern door what with global warming making all the North Pole mineral wealth available.

“And, it’s not me saying this but I’m hearing more and more from world leaders everywhere, Canada is just irrelevant. You don’t pull your weight in any international organization. You’ve got no military. Rosie O’Donnell is more productive at an all-you-can-eat buffet than your whole economy.”

“Mr. President, I’m afraid I must disagree most strenuously with your assessment,” Trudeau responded.

“Disagree all you want, JT. . Basically, you’re just taking up good real estate, and I know what to do with real estate. Together, we’d be the biggest, richest country in the world. Well, we’re already the richest country in the world but I’m letting you into the club. Canadians will be in the game instead of sitting on the sidelines.”

“No, no, absolutely no, that is insane on so many levels that I don’t even know where to begin. Canada is a sovereign nation. We’re your closest ally and biggest trading partner. You’re joking, right?”

“I never joke. Ask my wives. Ask their lawyers. Ask their lawyers’ wives. Look my friend, I understand that you feel you have a family heritage to protect, and I respect that. Your father was prime minister and he sounds like a guy I would really like. Choking out that protestor … well who hasn’t wanted to do that. And when he smashed in the burglar’s face with a statue, well that was just scrappy, my friend. You know I once hit Michael Bloomberg so hard the little turd’s head spun like a top for a week.

“But this works for you. And when I say ‘taking over,’ I don’t mean by force. No, no, no. We’ll compensate you. The United States of America will pay $1-million to every Canadian household to buy their interest in all Canada’s public assets. That’s $7-trillion, and at a much lower tax rate than they’ve got now. Everybody gets to keep more of it. That’s America trickling down on Canadians.

“But more importantly, Justin Trudeau goes down in history as the man who made everyone in an irrelevant and, let’s face it, hopelessly crappy little country, into a safe, wealthy American. They’ll build you a statue. Hell, I’ll build you a statue. Where do you want it? It will be a fantastic statue. The best statue ever built.”

Trudeau, whose mouth had been hanging open in utter amazement, pulled himself together.

“First of all, that wasn’t my father who choked the protestor,” he said, trying to control the rage growing inside him. “My father is the one who pirouetted behind the Queen of England. You know nothing about Canada.”

Rising from the conference table, chest out, shoulders back, leonine head of hair held high in defiance – a statuesque pose if ever there was one, the young prime minister was emphatic.

“Canada is not for sale, and the international community will not allow your meddling. The UN will not allow it. NATO will not allow it. The British Empire will not allow it. And Canadians will not allow it.”
Trump pursed his lips for a moment before speaking.

“C’mon, my friend. You know the UN is as hopeless as Ben Carson at a personality contest. All those idiot diplomats will sit around smoking their hookah pipes or whatever it is they do while living rent-free on the most valuable property in the world, on the East River in Manhattan.

“They will pass some lame, cry-baby resolution about how big and bad we are even though every one of them knows America saved all their asses at one time or another. Then you know what will happen, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“You will veto the resolution in the Security Council,” Trudeau answered in a soft voice.

“We’ll veto the crap out of it and then I’ll cut off American funds to those useless ingrates, kick them out of their luxury rent-controlled American digs and redevelop that site into the finest casino you’ve ever seen. The next time you see foreigners in Turtle Bay they’ll be losing big-time at my tables because they are natural-born losers.

“Listen, Justin, my friend, this is going to be the 21st century version of the collapse of the Berlin Wall. It’s just as inevitable. Most Canadians already choose to live a stone’s throw from the U.S. border. Most of them buy their groceries in the U.S., and they buy their gas in the U.S., and they watch U.S. TV and U.S. movies. They want to be Americans. We’re just making their dream come true. Tear down that border, Mr. Trudeau. Tear down that border.”

Trudeau’s eyes were wide with amazement. He shook his head in disbelief. “Mr. Trump, I will never agree to this. Canada will never agree to this.”

“Well, Justin, you don’t have to agree but it would be a lot smarter if you did. My generals tell me that when I say ‘go’ it will take less than two hours to neutralize more than half of your military’s ability to defend itself, and within four hours we’ll be mopping up the last of your fighters in the Arctic.

“Let me show you something. I believe you know my Secretary of Defense, Chris Christie. Never met a donut he didn’t like. You’ve got donuts in Canada, right? Chris, will you explain the tactical map on the big screen to our guest?”

“You bet I will, Mr. President,” said Christie, rising from the table and scampering to the front of the room. “About the carpet bombing …”
“Stand down, Chris. There won’t be any carpet bombing. These guys have assets we want. They are our friends.”

“Yes sir, Mr. President. Mr. Trudeau, do you see that red dot marked CVN 73, sitting off the coast of southern Maine? That is the aircraft carrier USS George Washington. Right now its captain and crew think it is getting ready to put in at the Naval Yard in Portsmouth for some repairs and upgrades. But we say the word and the George Washington could be off the coast of your biggest city in whatever that eastern province … Admiral Rollins?”

Christie looked back to an aide for help.

“New Brunswick, Mr. Secretary. The USS George Washington could be sitting off the coast of St. John, New Brunswick in about four hours, sir.”

“You’re damn right, Rollins. So there’s 100 advanced warplanes and all kinds of missile launchers that your New Brunswicker, or New Brunswickians or whatever will be waking up to.”

“And Admiral Rollins, what’s that red dot with the label CVN-70, off the coast of Washington state,” Christie said.

“Sir, that is the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson, sir.”

“And that’s another 100 fighter jets and all kinds of missiles that will be aimed at all those drug addicts and shoe bombers in Vancouver.”
Trump motioned his defense secretary to sit down. “Now imagine all your constituents in Toronto. I’ve been to Toronto. Nice city. I have a hotel there. It’s a great hotel. The best hotel in Canada, according to all the big guidebooks. All my hotels are great. Imagine the good people of Toronto waking up and looking out over their lake to see a couple of US destroyers, and Black Hawk attack helicopters buzzing the shore.

“And see all those other dots and numbers off both coasts and up in the Arctic … Rollins, how many other dots are there?”

“The tactical display shows 37 naval attack vessels, including nuclear submarines, guided missile destroyers, cruise missile destroyers, and much more.”

“Much more, did you hear that,Mr. Trudeau? We’ve got stuff I didn’t even know about. Lasers. We’ve got lasers. No joke. And drones. Hell, we don’t even have to put a single soldier in harm’s way. And Christie’s just dying to close down the bridges.”

“Rollins, what does Mr. Trudeau have to work with?”

“The Canadian Navy has a dozen frigates, only half of which are fully operational in Canadian coastal waters.”

“How many aircraft carriers, destroyers?”

“None, Mr. President. Absolutely no long-range defense or meaningful command and control functionality.”

“Submarines?”

Rollins smiled and quickly covered his mouth to conceal the lapse in professionalism.

“Three, Mr. President. Victoria class. Pretty good boats but we know where they are at all times. They can be easily neutralized.”

“Fighter aircraft?”

“About 100 CF-18s are available to defend the homeland. It’s a good fighter with well trained pilots but no match for our Raptors and Super Hornets, and the airframes of their 18s are so old the wings will fall off in a dog fight.”

“Look, this is absurd,” said the prime minister, running his hand through his luxurious locks. “We’re not a military nation. Canada’s role is peacekeeping. Of course we’re not a military match for the United States but there is no way you are going to attack your closest neighbour – your Canadian friends and family. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Actually, we would,” the orange-hued president responded. “I’m a deal-closer. I make the best deals in the world, and this is a great deal. So unless you cooperate with our acquisition we will take it by force. Just watch me.

“Anyway, Mr. Prime Minister, I’m sure when we’re done here today you will agree this is the right thing to do,” the president said, turning back to Trudeau. “And if it makes it easier to swallow, you can call it a merger.” More like a leveraged buyout, Trump thought, but no need to point out to Trudeau that Canadian assets would pay for the acquisition. Hell, Canada may even pay for the Mexican wall.

“To paraphrase one of your predecessors, Mr. Trump,” Trudeau said, “read my lips. This is not going to happen.”

“Oh, this is happening. You know the great American Albert Einstein,” Trump said. “He was a pretty smart guy. Maybe as smart as me in some ways, but he never made any money off his brains. He once said: ‘Is it me who’s crazy or is it everybody else?’ Now it wasn’t Einstein who was crazy. It was Einstein who invented the atom bomb. You call that crazy? And I’m not crazy either. Crazy doesn’t get elected president of the United States.”

“Respectfully, Mr. President, I have to leave now,” Trudeau said, pushing back from the boardroom table. “We are a sovereign democratic nation. We are a people …”

“No you’re not,” Trump interrupted. “Half your people were born outside of Canada. That’s what happens when you have no immigration policy. And most of them came to Canada hoping to sneak into the US. So, right off the bat you know that at least half your population is going to be tickled pink at this news. And I think the number will be much bigger than that.”

“We are a nation built on the strength of immigrants, just like the United States,” Trudeau shot back. “A nation built on the principles of freedom and self-determination, just like the United States. Canada stands for something. It’s an idea. A set of ideals. Canada stands for diversity, for tolerance, for acceptance. The very opposite of the things you stand for Mr. Trump. The very opposite of the fear-mongering, divisive America you are creating.”

“Well then you should tolerate and accept this offer,” the president responded.

“We will not,” Trudeau responded. “We are different people, with a different history, and different values. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s 2016. Civilized, developed countries don’t invade each other. Especially countries with the long history we have of working together.”

“History disagrees with you, Mr. Trudeau. And I make history. The last time we invaded Canada was like a hundred years ago. World maps change every year. And this isn’t your worst option. Canadian intelligence wouldn’t tell you this because Canadian intelligence is stupid, it’s the dumbest intelligence in the world. My intelligence, which is real intelligence, the best intelligence if you ask anyone, is that it’s us or Russia. The world’s a changing place and no one can afford to stand by and let one of its richest properties be squandered by a bunch of indecisive, soft losers.”

“When the international community hears about this you will find that you have made America a pariah state, Mr. Trump. No civilized nation will trust you, or do business with you. You have gone too far.”

The president smiled through pressed duck lips.

“First my good friend in Russia is going to absorb the Ukraine and some of the other former Soviet countries, and if you don’t side up with us, they’ll come skating over the North Pole and it will be game over for you.”

“Are you forgetting Mexico,” said Mr. Trudeau, looking down at his hands. “It’s a problem you actually ran on. Why aren’t you doing this to Mexico instead?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Justin. One step at a time. But you think big. I like that. Maybe you can be in charge of the Mexico take over for me. But what I care about right now is Canada. Are you in or are you out? Give your people what you know they want and bring them peacefully into the greatest nation the world has ever known, or watch as a hostile takeover unfolds and it will be ugly.”

The Prime Minister stared at his hands in silence. One minute passed. Then another.

“Justin?”

“US or Canadian?”.

“What do you mean?” Trump squinted.

“A million each, U.S. or Canadian?”

 

Chapter One: Trump Does Canada: Koranada, A Queer and Present Danger http://bitly.com/29ZrDTa

Chapter Two: Trump Does Canada, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow http://bit.ly/2abN613

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Trump Does Canada Part 2 – Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Three months into President Trump’s first term, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau attends the first official meeting of the two leaders, in the White House Oval Office. Media wags dubbed it the Blow-Dry Summit. The president chuckled to himself the first time he read that. Yeah, hair today, gone tomorrow, pretty boy, he thought.

“Mr. President, congratulations on your victory,” the boyishly charming Canadian prime minister said at his first official call on President Donald Trump. “The American people have embraced your message and your business experience. I’m looking forward to a productive, business-like relationship.”

“Welcome to the new Trump W House,” the president beamed. “How do you like what we’ve done with the place? Taken an 18th-century pile of rubble and turned it into a real five-star, luxury seat of government, fit for a king.”

Trudeau had seen the gold dome that had been added atop the south portico, emblazoned with “TRUMP W,” and a half-dozen coloured lasers shooting off into space. A little much for his taste but maybe he was just being too Canadian.

“We’re going to add two rows of fountains down the south lawn. It’s going to be spectacular. This is going to be the best seat of government in the world. Someone’s finally giving the American people what they deserve.”

“Yes, umm, yes, that is really something,” Trudeau said.

“Yeah, those W Hotel people tried to sue us for trademark infringement but they are going to be busy, what with being audited for the last seven years.”

After a photo opp and brief social niceties, President Trump stood.

“Hey, I have an idea. I’ll bet you’ve never seen the W’s Situation Room. Let’s finish our first meeting down there. It will be historic.”

Trump moved to a door in the curved wall of the Oval office and waved Trudeau to follow. The president led the way down a corridor from the Oval Office. A pair of Marine guards on either side of the door to the Situation Room, sharp in their dress blue tunics and black-brimmed white hats, snapped to attention. Their commander in chief waved a half-hearted salute in return and one of the Marine guards unhooked the burgundy velvet rope that hung between two brass stands in front of the door. Trump led the young PM into the room.

“No cover charge for heads of state.”

“Very impressive,” said the young prime minister, looking at a wall covered in monitors and streaming information. “But it seems we may be interrupting a meeting.”

In fact, it seemed most of President Trump’s new Cabinet was seated around a large boardroom table. Tall, busty waitresses in tiny Roman togas served cocktails.

“No, no interruption. This meeting is for you.”

“Cocktails in the afternoon? Are we celebrating?”

“Well, I guess we will be, but the cocktails are just part of my new plan to make the Trump W into a profit centre. There’s a three-drink minimum for meetings here. What will you start with? We’ve got an amber TrumpAle. Maybe Some TrumPinot. Or we can go right to the TrumPain. Can’t spell it like champagne because the French get mad, and we don’t want that. But mine is much better, anyway.”

“I’ll stick with water, thanks.”

“Okay, but we have to charge you for the drinks. Rules are rules. Tracy, will you get Justin a cold TrumpAgua?”

The Situation
“Justin, may I call you Justin? Better than calling you Jeb, what a boob,” he laughed. “You probably know I’m a straight shooter. That’s what the American people expect from me and that’s what works best, so I’m just going to come right out and say what’s on my mind.”

“Of course, Mr. President. Let’s do politics different than our predecessors. Let’s just be honest with each other.”

“Justin, I like you. I met your mom once at Studio 54 and she was hot. I probably had sex with her. I had sex with all the hot ones, you know, with my big hands. Hey, maybe you’re my son. Wouldn’t that be something? Could be. People think you’re hot, so maybe you got that from me. But I don’t think so because the truth is, you’re a loser. No offense. You’re a loser from a loser-nation. So I’m going to bring you onto a winning team. The United States is going to take over Canada and you’re all going to be winners.. We’re all going to be one big happy family. You can even call me dad. I promised to make America great again and there’s no reason Canada can’t be a part of Greater America.”

Trudeau felt like his head was spinning. Maybe there’s something in the TrumpAgua, he thought. Maybe he’s still at home in bed at 24 Sussex.

To be continued…

(To see Part I, http://bitly.com/29ZrDTa)

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Sophie’s Husband’s Choice Part I, The Secret Agent

“You betcha,” said Vice President Sarah Palin, rising from her chair in the Oval Office. “You can count on me, Mr. President.”

Barely a month into his term, President Donald Trump had just brought his new vice president in on the first of what he promised the American people would be a steady stream of audacious actions that will make America great again. (Former Vice President Mike Pence turned out to be a little too Christ-y to be useful. “I’m a Christian, Conservative and Republican, in that order? Not in my White House.” )

Pres. Trump had already announced that Americans are now safer than they have ever been, government is leaner than it has ever been, Hillary is more imprisoned than she has ever been, and he has been awarded a double Nobel Peace Prize, which is more than twice as good as a regular one. His popularity was at an all-time high, according to Chief of Staff Ivanka Trump. Now it’s time to do something bigger than any president had ever done. Something huge.

On the campaign trail, Trump focused on building a wall to keep Mexicans out. Playing to fears of rapists, murderers, terrorists and the browning of America by illegal immigrants, Trump’s wall-power carried him to victory.

And it served as a classic misdirection. He always knew the real value is in Canada. The Mexican wall was a diversion. Grab that northern oil wealth and it will be true energy independence for America. No more making nice with sheiks and mad men (although that Vlad knows how to have fun. Vlad the Impaler, that’s a good one. Note to self, keep him away from Ivanka.) The next Arab country that sends a terrorist onto American soil will experience retribution on a biblical scale, if the bible had nuclear winter.

“It was the giant Yao Ming who said ‘Only powerful people have liberty,'” the president told his veep. “Have you ever seen a powerful Canadian? I mean, those people are a joke. You know most people don’t know I beat Yao in a game of HORSE. True story. He’s got a terrible set shot. An absolute loser. But I don’t tell that story because I’m a humble guy. The stories I could tell…

“Anyway, we are going to do what that stupid loser Mr. Dolly Madison was too incompetent to do in 1812. We’re going to take over Canada,” the president told Palin. “It’s an insult to the great American patriots who kicked British butts off our soil. An insult to George Washington, Abe Vigoda, John Kennedy, the Beatles.

“And it’s a threat to America’s greatness. You’ve got jihadi johnnies just lined up in the woods along the border, pulling on their long-john bombs over their mukluks and firing up their suicide dogsleds to destroy our great country. You know I won the I-Did-A-Rod dogsled race three years in a row. I had to stop competing because losing so much was making the Eskimos depressed. Whole towns stopped eating their blubber. It was so sad, really. Anyway, you’re going to help me put down Canada, like so many Ben Carsons going down for a nap.”

“You betcha, I am, Mr. President. That country is a queer and present danger” Vice President Palin responded. “Pot-smoking, homosexual-loving, beaver-hat-wearing bunch of terrorist sympathizers, each and every one. Might as well call it Koranada. Not God-fearin’, child-rearin,’ American beerin’ folk like you and me, that’s for dang sure. I don’t know what they believe in but it ain’t the red, white and blue, or granny’s butterscotch pudding or our lord and savior Jesus H. Christ. What do you want me to do, Mr. President?”

“That’s great, that’s great, you’re a real American. When the time comes, Sarah, you’re going to be our secret weapon. Our neutron bomb with a fantastic rack. And I have seen all of the best racks in the world. I have seen racks that are so huge they’re in different time zones. Really, that’s absolutely true, but the lying media won’t report it. So, we’ll send you on a cross-Canada “Be-A-Part-of-Great” tour and you’ll Stockholm Syndrome those moose-sucking American wannabes. They’ll be lining up for their U.S. passports and Obamacare Lite cards while we drain every last drop of oil and water out of that dump. You can ride a snowmobile can’t you?”

“Can an Eskimo squeeze wine outta berry-season grizzly scat? You betcha, Mr. President. In Alaska we call it the Babymaker. A six-pack of Bud tall boys and a Skidoo with heated seats.”

The president stood and motioned Vice President Palin to the door. What was I thinking with that Pence idiot, he wondered. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, dismissing Palin. “This is going to be like taking a nomination from an idiot.”

Stayed tuned for Part II, “The-Hair-Today-Gone-Tomorrow Summit”

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A Father’s Day Confession — The Seven Daddy Sins

By Geoffrey Rowan

For almost every father I’ve known, nothing brings more happiness than fatherhood. It feeds our souls in the face of inner devils, ambitions, victories, defeats and even the sports channel. On Fathers’ Day, it is we who are thankful – that we get to be fathers. Sure, bring on the ties, cologne and dog-eared books from the discount bin but even if the day passed unrecognized, we would feel we won life’s lottery.

That said, the way we feel may not always be reflected in the way we act. “I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions,” said the writer Augusten Burroughs. “Me too,” said I.

In the interests of coming clean, I freely confess to these seven deadly sins of my flawed fatherhood efforts – the seven daddy sins.

Sloth – As you always suspected, I was not sound asleep and unable to hear the baby crying. Sorry.
Lust – But I was awake enough for that.
Gluttony – Once you have developed a taste for gnawed, drool-coated teething-biscuit ends, you have lost any claim on dignity. Mac-and-cheese from the kitchen floor, baggies of stale Cheerios and crushed cheese sticks in every pocket, and who put Oreos and Fudgeos in the grocery cart? I did.
Pride – Thank god my kids are better than yours.
Envy – Why aren’t my kids as good as yours?
Anger – I literally had just fallen asleep when you decided to see who could hit the highest note the loudest.
Greed – I want to hang onto this forever. Don’t you dare grow up.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, from one imperfect dad on behalf of compadres everywhere, thanks for every day, and happy Father’s Day.

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