You’ll Never Be President, Charlie Brown.

The words of Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump could make you hate even the sweetest, most kind-hearted Peanut.

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7 facts that sound like they can’t possibly be true (and also they are not actually true).

I actually learned a lot from the Buzzfeed article entitled, 30 Facts That Sound Like Bullshit But Are Totally True. I discovered that Barbie’s full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts. I learned that hippo milk is pink. And I now know that Saudi Arabia imports camels from Australia.

You, on the other hand, will learn nothing from the following:

• While it’s true that Mr. Clean’s first name is Veritably, it’s not true that he gets super cunty at parties after just a couple beers.

• Armadillos almost exclusively give birth to other, smaller armadillos.

Screen Shot 2015-10-30 at 4.49.01 PM• A tomato is a fruit, a strawberry is not a berry, and One is not the loneliest number. It’s actually 4. It turns out, after 7 ate 9, he had a thing with 4’s wife. Eventually, she left him and now the two of them rent a little garden apartment in Venice where they sell their self-produced pilates videos on the boardwalk.

• After October, the NFL is ending their Breast Cancer Awareness campaign, forcing all flamingos to return to their original color, Mango Tango.

• Humans share 50% of our DNA with bananas. But bananas don’t share shit with anybody because – as everyone knows – bananas are assholes.

• Yes, an octopus has three hearts, but he is incapable of love after that long weekend on the Vineyard, and he’d really rather not talk about it.

• The dot over the lowercase i is called a tittle. The curve in the J is called a dickamajig.*

*Ironically, the word dickamajig contains both a tittle and a dickamajig. And also, that’s not irony.

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Rickie Lee Jones Lyrics or Things I Say When You Wake Me Out of a Really Deep Sleep

rickie_snl_chuck“I dreamed of Cher, She came to us in Babylon”


“They was a rapping the flat scat Diamond dialectos of points and taps Between the chicken and the back”


“It bakes and hardens like an old Dream under the front porch”


“I don’t even remember If i have on any underwear”


“I said this was no game of chicken You were aiming your best friend That you wear like a switchblade on a chain around your neck I think you picked this up in Mexico from your dad”


“I was just resting my eyes.”

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The lost lyrics of Rupert, the hypochondriacal, manic-depressive 6th Beatle.

♫ ♪  Desmond has a barrow in the market place

Molly is the singer in a band   ♫ ♪

♫ ♪   Desmond says to Molly, “Girl I like your face”

And Molly says, “Piss off, creep.”

The end.

♫ ♪   Well my heart went boom

When I crossed that room   ♫ ♪

Is it hot in here?

And what’s this shooting pain in my left arm?

♫ ♪   Listen

Do you want to know a secret?   ♫ ♪

♫ ♪  Do you promise not to tell?

Whoa-oh, oh I’m so lonely 

Something in the way she moves,

I think it might be rickets

♫ ♪   We all live in a yellow submarine,

with only 12 minutes of oxygen left

♫ ♪   ob-la-di ob-la-da,

life goes on,   ♫ ♪

and on,

♫ ♪   one disappointment after another,

until you die, broken and alone.   ♫ ♪

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Welcome to the new Microsoft Cloud-Based Virtual After-Afterlife, A.K.A., Heaven2. (It’s a working title.)

What happens when the afterlife reaches capacity?

“Sorry, we’re full. Have you tried Limbo?”

We humans have been dying for years. Like, literally dying. Passing away. For millions of years. Billions of us. And we’re still dying. Every day, every second. Mothers and fathers and grandfathers and second cousins and hot dog vendors and movie stars and their pets and other assorted sentient beings like that rabbit you ran over without even a second thought because you absolutely had to get down to the Stop’n’Go for a 6.5oz. SunnyD and some smokes. (His name was Terrence, by the way. He had a family.)

Anyway, that’s a lot of death. And there comes a point when there’s not much room left. You know, space. In Heaven. It doesn’t exactly go on forever up here in The Hereafter. There are limits, borders, Maximum Occupancies determined by the Fire Marshal using the general rule of thumb of multiplying width-in-feet by length-in-feet, then dividing the answer by thirty-six to arrive at a basic occupancy figure. In this case, a gajillion.

Now, we’ve known about this for some time, since the late 1840s or so. But back in the day when humans thought the stars were just little holes in the sky that offered us a glimpse of God (and a subtle reminder to not throw that rock at that other pre-Neaderthal), this place was all halos and harps as far as they eye could see. You could really spread out, you know? But then y’all just kept dying. You’d fall in a hole or slip and bang your head on the bathroom sink and hey, that lion looks friendly enough and gee, I wonder what these really bright red berries taste like. (I don’t know, maybe if we were a little smarter we could’ve gotten a few more centuries out of this place.)

So we started increasing life expectancy down there and coming up antibiotics and heart medicines and lactaid tablets and for awhile, things were looking up. But then the unexpected retirement of St. Peter in 1967 sealed the deal. The guy at least had some standards, but ever since his apprentice Reggie took over, it’s like everybody gets in.

Finally, something had to be done. A committee was formed, its members tasked with figuring out what that something might be. I was put in charge.

Day one, somebody suggested we annex some farmland in Iowa. Been there, saw the movie.

L. Ron Hubbard had an idea that had something to do with earning points or medals or ribbons and something about a rocketship, but it was just too weird and the rest of us were all, “Dude, really? Nobody’s gone fall for that shit.”

And then one day, somebody – I think it was God’s youngest (long story) Julian – came up with the idea of just killing people off. You know, like just shooting them. You die, you go to heaven, you’re having a blast running around with Evel Knievel and your second grade teacher Miss Encarnacio, and then one day, somebody comes up to you and says it’s your time – again – and pow, you’re dead. Again(Personally, it’s a bit too M. Night Shamalan for me, but for now, it’s all we got.)

So any day now, people are going to start dying up here. (We’ll begin with those who kicked their initial bucket before the fall of Mesopotamia, by last name, A-through-F.) After this second death, your soul will rise once again, but this time you’ll be off on an all-expenses-paid trip to Heaven2.

And while budget cuts did not allow for “pearly” gates, the teak with mahogany inlays looks really nice thanks to Jesus’s brother-in-law (long story) who took over the family business.

We look forward to welcoming you to The Deuce, opening day tentatively scheduled for July 1, 2021.

Meantime, we’re sending everybody to Myrtle Beach.


The Management

P.S., In case you’ve been wondering, it looks like you’ll have to give up on your dream of becoming an angel. The Council stopped accepting applications back in 1955. Though nine open slots still remain, one is reserved for Buck Henry for putting up with Warren Beatty’s shit, and the other eight will be going to those girls from Victoria’s Secret.

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Top Ten Last-Minute Gifts For Mother’s Day

10. Wear a hat.

9. Don’t smoke the pot.

8. Did you look?

7. Taste it before you say you don’t like it.

6. Don’t put your eye out.

5. Know better.

4. Wipe that smile off your face.

3. Don’t try on someone else’s glasses.

2. Did you really look?

1. Socks that pick their own goddamn selves up.

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My father, Fran Tarkenton™.

My biological dad wasn’t around much. Growing up, it was pretty much me, mom and my imagination. Don’t get me wrong, marching band aside, I wasn’t a social pariah or anything. I had lots of friends, and there were all kinds of kids in the neighborhood to play with – though it was a bit of a circus freakshow.

The Rodmans were alright, I guess. I think they were in some sort of benign cult centered around eating a shitload of Count Chocula and never, ever fucking sleeping. And there was the kid down the street named Dreck. I swear to God. Dreck. That’s some bad gentile parenting right there. The Walker kid scared the crap out of me. Imagine Eddie Haskel with access to cigarettes and bottlerockets. And of course there was “Bobbie Jay” next door, whom we’d all quickly tire of. (Trust me, the whole “Can Bobbie Jay come out and play” -thing gets old fast. Though he would later enjoy a renaissance of sorts when we discovered the concept of relentless ridicule and that Jay rhymed with gay.)

But as far as immediate family there at 23 Michigan Court, it was just me and mom. That is, until the day she unknowingly came home with an honest-to-goodness father figure.

Francis Asbury Tarkenton, then quarterback of the Minnesota Vikings, was known for his super-human scrambling moves and winning a grand total of no Superbowls. He would go on to host the TV variety show That’s Incredible! and do something or another with infomercials I think. But in perhaps his greatest career move, he would lend his name to the finest toy ever: Fran Tarkenton’s Automatic Quarterback.

Now, I hesitate to call it a “toy,” this glorious opportunity for a fatherless only-child. It was a wondrous contraption, about three feet tall, with a green plastic case, a steel arm sticking out the top, and a plastic “hand” (that, of course, looked nothing like a hand) to cradle a football. Not exactly from the Steve Jobs School of Product Design, but holy crap could that thing throw that football (“football” only in the sense that this hollow, plastic object was brown and roughly football-sized and football-shaped). Short passes, long passes, touch passes, it had some sort of timer thing on the side so all you had to do was crank it up and run your little ass off. It was everything I ever wanted.

And yet it was somehow… more.

At the time, I wasn’t looking for a role model, some sort of surrogate dad. No thanks, I’m good. One less person yelling at me, the better. Besides, I was more of Bert Jones kid myself. But every Saturday morning, I could almost hear him…

“Come on, boy, let’s go out and throw the ball around. Okay, right. I’ll throw it, you just run and catch it. Or more often than not, chase it down, pick it up, run back, put the ball in my freakish plastic hand, crank it back up, set the timer and run out again. And by the way, occasionally – and for no apparent reason – I’m just going to throw it over the fucking fence.”

Yeah, my new father figure was awesome. His only real flaw was that he couldn’t do much else. For starters, my mother wouldn’t let him in the house. And we couldn’t exactly take him to the pool or bowling. I’m pretty sure he would’ve killed someone. Probably Bobbie Jay.

Still, Dad™ was always there, rain or shine. (Though not so much with the rain.) We played. We laughed. We cried. Mostly it was just me for those last two, the latter when he hit me in the goddamn eye at least a dozen times. Good times.

I haven’t seen him in years. Not since I was 13 or so. And I have no pictures him. In fact, I can’t even find a mention of him on the Internet. And no one I know has ever heard of him. But he’ll always be there – in my memories, in my heart – throwing me those perfect spirals, teaching me how to run routes. But most of all, teaching be how to be a good dad to my own kids. To always be there for them, even if just to toss around a hollow, brown plastic thing that only loosely resembles a ball.

And on those days when they’re in school or off with friends, to stand in the corner of the garage and wait quietly.

Thank you, Fran Tarkenton’s Automatic Quarterback. I love you.

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