Boo

 

      I love Halloween.

      Yes <<sigh>> I know, I know...it’s a holiday allegedly drenched in Satanic roots, replete with all sorts of horrifying images meant to invoke fear in mortals: ghosts, goblins, witches, Hillary, blah, blah, blah.

     

"I love Halloween because it is my favorite of all the holidays and was invented by an ancestor of mine, Phineas Trump Barnum, who was married to my great-great grandmother, Livinia Warren who left that loser first husband of hers, General Tom Thumb, who I don't think was even a general at all but a charlatan, a fake, a phony, and drifter in the circus-or was that a carnival?-but it was too bad, sad, really, that P.T. never got the credit he deserved because the election of 1876 was rigged and the newspapers claimed Halloween was an invention by Democrats which anyone with half a brain would know was a lie, but my loyal followers and I know the truth and know that I plan on unveiling my latest costume as Florida Governor which will no doubt terrify anyone stupid enough to answer their door even though I was going to go as a doughnut but Chris Christie scares me."

  

    Rather than surrender to the Dark Lord(or Donald Trump-I could never get that straight), the politically correct observe the holiday via “Fall Parades”, “Autumn Parties”, or “Insert-Festive-Name-Here Celebrations.”

      The hand-wringing crowd also prefers that children not dress up as traditional spooky characters; instead, they like to see non-threatening alter-egos such as “Insurance Salesman”, “Foot Doctor”, or “Blue Man Group.”

Or Dylan Mulvaney

      Oh, c’mon!  I remember taking my kids to a pre-Halloween celebration.  Not once did I sense the icy grip of Lucifer on their pillowcases full of Snickers and Jolly Ranchers.  Somehow, I doubt the Devil resides in clowns and ballerinas.

      Extortionist Trick-Or-Treating aside, it’s just a fun day for kids to dress up and go (ok, let’s call it for what it is) pandering door to door for goodies.  I’m not going to begrudge them a chance to have fun just because some simpering ninnies think the day glorifies evil.

Might wanna steer clear of this, though.

Or this.

      Halloween was a big deal when we were kids.  We began planning what we were going to wear and where we’d visit before school even started.  I remember…Superman, Green Hornet, Spiderman (yes, even then), Hulk, Frankenstein, Mummy, “Glow-In-The-Dark Skeleton”, Underdog, and “Criminally Insane Druggist” (which never caught on for some reason).

"Wait. You mean I could have glowed in the dark?
Why, you cheap bastard!"

      Unlike nowadays, we were never bird-dogged by our parents as we ran like lunatics throughout our neighborhoods, feasting on insane amounts of chocolate.

      We knew the unwritten Halloween codes: only go to houses with their lights on, be on the lookout for needles in the Milky Ways, don’t bother with the convent, avoid Mr. Mraz’s house, and take only one piece of candy from the bowl of those too lazy to hand them out themselves. 

Why, uh, surrrrrreeeee. 
We always followed that rule. 
Suckers.

      Oh, and fling eggs at the houses of those who dared to hand out apples, popcorn balls, pennies, and ketchup packets.

      We couldn’t get enough of what we saw as a great deal.  So, from six o’clock (or dark-it HAD to be dark) until nine, we went knocking on doors hoping we’d score enough candy that our arms would go numb from lugging around our sacks (Of CANDY!  Keep it clean!).

    Since we went to Catholic School, we had an additional good deal because the next day was All Saints Day.  To those “in the club”, so to speak, that meant November 1st was a “Holy Day of Obligation” and so, a day off from school.

    Our “holy obligation,” of course, was to shove candy down our throats when we got home, wake up, eat some Sugar Smacks, inhale more Three Musketeers, watch cartoons, and make fun of the public school kids as they trudged off to class.

     

The same public school kids who'd hang us
from stop signs by our underwear come November 2nd.

      

"Which is exactly what you'd deserve, ye cheeky scamps, for deserting the Lord for Reese's, Snickers, and Mounds!" 

Or Almond Joy. 
You know, the kind with nuts.

     My point is, what’s wrong with a holiday that gives children a chance to play dress up, carve pumpkins, and gorge themselves on goodies which are doomed to become petrified lumps of sugar in a bag on top of the refrigerator?

      Nothing.

      After all, Satan doesn’t like Peanut M&Ms.

"Hey, I have allergies! FU!"

Goodbye Columbus

 

"I said to sitta you assa down! We onna goddamna boat!!"

     I love October.  The air is redolent with the sweet aroma of burning leaves, high school gridirons thunder with the sound of fiercely-waged contests to push that pigskin across the goal line, Christmas lights-incredibly-start going up, and early-morning frosts whisper of the coming winter.

    October also gives us a chance to celebrate the exploits of an intrepid band of explorers who set sail from Barcelona in search of a western route to the fabulous wealth of the East (yeah, I know, going west to get east doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, either.).

    As a bonus, the tenth month of the year also gives us a chance to bemoan the rape and pillage of a pristine wilderness by voracious European murderers.

     Hang on while I remove my tongue from my cheek.

    So, in recognition of their accomplishments, mailmen get the day off and shopping malls trot out their very best Columbus Day displays of new bed linen (“Buy now!  Just think how comfy the ‘Santa Maria’ would have been if they only had these sheets!!”).

    As a holiday, though, Columbus Day doesn’t rank up there with the Big Four of Hanukkah, Christmas, New Years, and Canadian Thanksgiving.  It doesn’t draw in the romantics like Valentines Day, the patriots like the 4th of July, or even the corned beef and Guinness crowd like St. Patrick’s Day.

    More times than not, we hardly even know it’s happened until the evening news greets us with, “Happy Columbus Day!  You evil white bastards.”

    My family has for many years celebrated each holiday, no matter how innocuous.  For example, on Presidents’ Day, we used to dress up as our favorite Commanders in Chief until my brother spoiled it for everyone two years ago when, dressed as Joe Biden, he fell down the stairs.

Thank goodness he didn’t sniff the mannequins at Kohl’s, though.

    We never did much to commemorate the day in 1492 when Ferdinand and Isabella’s favorite Genoan set foot in the New World and proclaimed, “I claim this land for the King and Queen of Spain.  And Wal-Mart.”   

    In order to make it easier for everyone to properly observe one of the most significant accomplishments in world history (right behind invention of “The Clapper”), might I offer the following ways to celebrate Columbus Day:

10.  Slash the tires of those obnoxious, know-it-all “Vikings were here first!” punks at the Leif Eiriksson Community Center.

9.   Try to convince anyone that parrots, corn, and coconuts are just as valuable as jewels, gold, and silk.

8.   Go to the local casino, extend a heartfelt apology, drop a bundle at the craps table.

7.   Put on a wrinkled raincoat, chew on a cigar, try to figure out who put the poison in Miss VanDyver’s highball...oh, I’m sorry, that’s how to celebrate COLUMBO Day.

6.   Gather together all the history books at the library, cross out all references to ‘America’ and replace them with ‘Chrisville.’  Draw moustaches on any pictures of Amerigo Vespucci.

5.   Bring Christianity to your neighbors, claim your street for your family, pass out blankets riddled with smallpox to the homeless, and shake down passers-by, insisting they tell you where their gold is.

4.   Go to the local All-You-Can-Eat Chinese restaurant dressed as Columbus, walk in, and shout, “So, HERE’s where you people were all hiding!”

3.   Forward a petition to the city council demanding equal time with Labor Day.

2.   With your friends, build a scaled-down replica of Columbus’s fleet, drift aimlessly on the town pond, and claim YWCA summer camp for Spain.

1.   Once more dressed as Columbus, visit a deforested national park (or strip mine), issue “Ooops, my bad!” statement to the press.

    There now, I hope this list inspires you to do something other than complain when you can’t use the drive-up window at the bank. 

    It’s a shame Columbus Day has been deemphasized so much over the past few years in the misguided spirit of politically-correct revisionism. 

    Or revulsion at guys who wore tights and had scurvy.

     I’m not sure.

    I’m sad to say it’s now little more than listening to lying blowhards like Elizabeth Warren bitch about how her people have been beaten down by the man.

    As for me, I plan on doing the day up right.

    I’m gonna go get me a cannoli.    

 

Never Forget

  Every year, for the past the past twenty-one years, I remember where I was and the friends that I lost that day.

It will stick with me until the day I die...

            It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon of September 11th (a sad commentary: we don’t even need to identify the year anymore) when my maintenance supervisor stuck his head into my room to wake me.

            “Sir, someone just flew a plane into the World Trade Center.”

            Minutes later, I watched, horrified, as a second plane struck the South tower.  And then, as both of the monstrously huge structures tumbled to the ground as if kicked by a petulant child.

            My unit and I were participating in a multi-nation exercise at the Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland (this explains why it was the afternoon).  A round-the-clock operation, the Keflavik Tactical Exchange gave us a unique chance to evaluate each other’s capabilities should we ever needed to flex our respective militaries.  Little did we know that we were preparing for a type of war which belonged to the past.

            Because the 21st Century came roaring into each of our lives on that late summer day.

            Naturally, the exercise was immediately cancelled.  Foreign aircrews (funny that I call them “foreign’” since we were actually foreigners, too) beat hasty returns to their home bases.  We had to remain in Iceland, because American airspace was closed indefinitely.

            Station security forces went into their highest readiness posture.  Watch teams at the main gate beefed up, rings of barbed wire cordoned off perceived sensitive areas, and armed patrols roamed the perimeter.

            My watch teams and I, on the other hand, remained at our billeting.  Only in Iceland for the exercise, we were considered non-essential personnel who’d only get in the way.

            And so we spent the next few days.

            I received a worried phone call from my wife during this time.  She fretted over my safety.  I assured her that I was fine but omitted the fact that I was more concerned for her and the kids.

            You see, my family lived only a couple hours from New York and only a few from Washington.

            The ensuing few days was a frantic search for whatever updates we could glean from the news and how in the world we’d get ourselves and thousands of pounds of equipment back home.

            Most importantly, we desperately wanted to know how we could get into the fight.  Whatever the fight was.

            Four days later, U.S. airspace was opened to military traffic.  As I glanced through the window of the Navy patrol plane which took us home, I was struck at how empty the sky was-with the exception of the one plane which approached us as we crossed into the United States.  It came no closer than a few miles before it disappeared.

            I think it was a fighter aircraft.

            What’s more, the radio circuits, normally full of the cacophony of countless air traffic controllers, were eerily silent.  The only ones “on the air” were the handful which guided us home.  All else were hushed into silence.

            Our route of flight took us just south of Manhattan, well out of sight of land.  At that distance, even at the altitude at which we were flying, it was impossible to see any of the city skyline.

            But, we did see a huge pall of gray-brown smoke lingering in the air like the death shroud that it was.

            As we touched ground at the Willow Grove naval air station, there was nobody to greet us.  There really wasn't much of anything by way of an acknowledgment that we were back.  Somehow, it seemed fitting.

            After all, we all had something much more important to do.

            Go home to our families.

 

In memory of:

Commander Bill Donovan, USN

AW2 (NAC/AW) Joseph Pycior, USN

and the thousands whose only crime was going to work that day. 

 

Big Boned

  As much as I don't like Trump and think he will be a disaster in the general election, I also think the zoftig former governor of New Jersey has an even worse shot of hearing "Hail to the Chief" when he thunders into the room.

   Still, having a "heavier-than-average" Chief Executive is not without precedent (which rhymes with "president."  Fun With Words!).

  At 330 pounds (or so), William Howard Taft holds the distinction of heaviest American president (which rhymes with "precedent."  Fun With Words!).

"So, Mr. President, I've heard you have some words of encouragement for Governor Christie in his quest for the Oval Office?"

"Why, yes I do.  And thank you for having me on your show, Ms. Obscure News Reporter who Penwasser found during an internet search.  Why, yes, there is precedent..."

"Which rhymes with "president."

"Fun With Words! Anyway, there have been big-boned residents of the White House.  Take me, for example, my size did not prevent me from holding office.  Finding my penis, perhaps, but not being Commander-in-Chief."

"But, that was before the internet and 24/7 news coverage."

"You make a valid point.  But, I could be the governor's VP.  Imagine the campaign slogan, 'Tons of Fun and a Chicken In Every Pot.  Unless We Eat It First.'"

"But...you're dead."


"Okay, valid point."




Meanwhile, at Dunkin'....


"That's right, two dozen munchkins.  Wait. 
They're the small ones aren't they?  Make that three dozen."

Fun With Joey

 I said it years ago: the dude is a comedy gold mine.

"Hey, listen Barack.  No joke, when I went to London, I expected to meet Queen Victoria.  God save her, man!  So, who's the decrepit old geezer I see?"

"You're looking in the mirror again, Joe."

Just Another Day

 

Had yet to master the art of reading when otherwise engaged.

Happy Birthday to me.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t expect a flood of congratulatory messages or even expressions of, “Good Lord, you’re still alive!?”  My ego, as big as it is, realizes that not many of you will be inclined to do so. 

After all, there’s a lot going on in the world which is far more important than me.  Like a war in Eastern Europe, a former president facing jail time, and whether a can of Bud Light can automatically change your gender.

In fact, were it not for Facebook notifications, scarce few of you would even take the time to wish me a happy day.  Even though it would only take a few seconds to offer me said “happy day” message.  Would a few seconds kill you?

Joke’s on you, though.  My Facebook account is set up so that my birthday won’t even be displayed.

Or sexual preference.   But, suffice it to say, I don’t drink Bud Light.

I really don’t like to make a fuss over what is, in reality, just another day.

Although, today and tomorrow are Amazon Prime days.  Which I’m sure is just a coincidence.  Still, if you wanted to mail me a gift, you could save some money.

More to the point, I doubt many (or any) of you will take the time to read this entire hideous post all the way through.  If nothing else, most of you will just check in to see what kind of pictures I’ve inserted.  Or you’ll read just enough so that you can leave a comment intended to fool me into thinking that you had read this entire thing.

That’s okay, because that’s exactly what I do.  Except for your posts.  I read them in their entirety.  Swear to God.

So, why am I even writing this (providing you got this far)?   Well, I’ll tell you this.  It’s not because I hope to reap a financial windfall.  Or impart to you some little kernel of wisdom, wrapped deeply inside an entire post of nonsense (that much is sure).

No, I think I’m writing this as some sort of catharsis to blunt the realization that my best days are behind me.  I’m not even middle-aged anymore.  Unless, I was going to live until 130.  Now, that may work for Keith Richards, but not me.  I’ll be spoken of in the past tense long before that.

Face it, to use a golf metaphor, I’m on the 17^th hole of life.  And the 18^th hole is a par 3.

NOTE:  If you don’t understand how devilishly clever that line is, you don’t know golf.  And are probably young enough to think electric cars are cool.

MORE GOLF:  Actually, I love electric vehicles.  As golf carts.

Anyway, I’m probably just going to run my mouth about my birthday until my fingers snap off from exhaustion on my computer.  Like I said, most (or all) of you aren’t even going to read this or, if you do, are waiting to find something upon which to comment.

Sigh…okay, I’ll give you something.  Which was the saddest movie moment for you?  I’ll go first.  Mine was when Spock died in Star Trek II.  Until he came back to life.  Until he died again in Star Trek Beyond.

"The fuck you say!"

Feel free to comment.  If any of you are still here.

Turning 65 (if you’re math smart, you would have figured that out with the “middle-aged” comment) has left me introspective.  It is the last of “milestone” birthdays.  To wit:

2:  I get out of diapers.  To which I'll eventually return.

"No joke."

5:  I started school.  Which only involved crayons and naps the first year.  Those tricky bastards.

13:  I became a teenager.  Zits included, free of charge.

Those.  And an incredible sense of fashion.

16:  Driver’s license.  Also, boners become unpredictable and relentless.

18:  Legal adulthood.  And legal drinking age.

To the generations that followed ours, please accept my sincere apologies.

21:  The real legal adulthood.  Including drinking age (once again, my apologies).

25:  The age when I could get a credit card.  Yes, yes, I realize younger people can do it now.  I really hope that makes up for that drinking thing.

30:  Nothing particularly noteworthy comes to mind, but 30!!??

35:  I could be president.  Meh.

So could he.
BFD

50:  At the time-“My God, I’m FIFTY?????”   Now:  “Fifty?  Fifty would be nice.”

61:  Boners are like common sense in Washington.  Infrequent.

This makes me sad.

62:  I retired and started collecting Social Security.  Yes, early.  Screw it.  Money’s money.

Actually, 67 is the last “milestone” year.  That is the year during which you’re considered to have reached full retirement age.  After that, my choo choo is lurching toward its final destination.

As I look back on my life, I realize that…regrets?  I have a few, but then again too few to mention (apologies to Frank Sinatra.  Whose choo choo has reached its final destination and been taken off the tracks).

My first regret was after my first experience with alcohol (“Tab?  That’s not Tab!”) as a high school junior.  It was embarrassing, so embarrassing that my sister laughed at me, so I won’t go into any detail. Probably no surprise, it involved a girl.

My biggest, totaling my car forty-three years ago, bore something of a silver lining.  As bad as it was, it resulted in my remaining in the Navy.  True, I got out for a bit a few years later, but the Navy made a tremendous  impact on my life.  Considering no one got seriously hurt and my career wasn’t torpedoed (couldn’t say the same nowadays), I’ll chalk that up as an ultimate good.

Although, it was hell for a little bit.

My first marriage?  Well, while it seemed little more than dating on steroids which eventually failed, it could have ended in disaster.  Thank goodness we didn’t reproduce.

My second marriage (yeah, I’m a player) also wound up on the rocks.  However, that could have really been bad.  But, it wasn’t.  If nothing else, it resulted in two of the joys of my life:  my son and daughter.  And, since my ex-wife and I are on friendly speaking terms, that is a regret which really isn’t a regret.

I regret leaving the Navy before I was able to serve two years in the rank to which I was selected.  On the other hand, I really don’t regret it all that much because I would no longer be separated from my kids.  And that was a good thing.

My only regret, which has no positive aspect, was hurting someone who didn’t deserve what she got.  I won’t go into it here, on the off chance that one of my friends, finding themselves impossibly bored,  reads this.  It’s possible, nay likely, they’d figure out who  I’m talking about.  Since this happened a little over five years ago, the hurt is still fresh.  And that’s something I truly regret.

My joys?  Luckily, they outweigh regrets by a long shot.  Since I’m considerate of my audience (both of you), I won’t go into a long spiel about what they are.  In short…

1.        My children.  If the goal is to give the world something which is a little better than yourself, mission accomplished.  I couldn’t be prouder of my little boy and girl (who aren’t so little anymore).

2.       A woman who, despite my dismal marital track record, treats me better than anyone ever has.  For some reason-mental illness?-she wants to be my wife.  For that, I am beyond grateful.  And remember?  Player.

3.       My career.  When all is said and done and the book of my life is being written (written  mostly by me.  See Shag Carpet Books), the chapters on the Navy will be some of the most significant.  After all, without the sea service, I wouldn’t have near the stories I have.

4.       My family.  Beyond the kids, I have a wonderful family.  More than once, I’ve been told how blessed I am that I have a amazing family network.  With the exception of our father, noted crazy person,  my family continues to shape who I am.  My brothers, sister, aunt, and cousins bring me great happiness and comfort.  And amazement that they even talk to me.

Well, I would say that about wraps it up.  You know, now that I have written this, it really was a cathartic exercise.  When I started writing, I was a little depressed at the prospect of becoming eligible for Medicare, with my  erecti brown hair a fond memory.

Little blue pills half off at CVS

After reading a…sort of… brief summary of my life, I realize that I have led a blessed one.  I know that I have a lot to look forward to.  No, not baldness.  But, the peace which comes from relishing family, friends, and the adventures which await.

That, and getting the senior discount at IHOP for, hopefully, decades to come.

 

THANKS TO ALL WHO’VE HELPED ME LIVE A LIFE WORTH LIVING.

 

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

I have got to finish this book.  It's fascinating.

Interesting Thought

 

    When I was still in the Navy, and still had brown hair and everything worked  I often took business trips (look, just because I was in uniform didn't mean I didn't have business trips).  Whenever I would took a flight somewhere, I headed to the bookstore after the TSA strip search.

    There I would buy a Diet Coke and an issue of National Review.  I was rarely able to find the magazine anywhere else, so I took the opportunity to purchase William F. Buckley's brainchild to "review" the goings-on in the nation (huh, so that's how they came up with the name.  Clever).  Anyway, each issue was fairly lengthy and often took me an entire flight to finish.

Wonder how they came up for the name of this magazi......ohhhhhhh.

    Since retirement, though, I haven't had the opportunity to travel much (I did plenty from 1976-2005, thank you very much).  As a result, I didn't get a chance to peruse my favorite Conservative publication much.  Occasionally, I'd find it at Barnes and Noble.  But, that was about it.  You could forget finding it at Wawa or 7-Eleven.

"No, but we do have mummified hot dogs, coffee that could strip paint, and farts disguised as hoagies wrapped in cellophane." 

    So, it was with that in mind that I decided to purchase a yearly subscription.  That way, I can examine each story at my leisure without having to worry about finishing it before landing.

Or getting the stink-eye from that woke scold in front of me.

    The National Review is no fan of Donald Trump, that's for sure.  To them, the Big Cheeto is the second coming of Benito Mussolini or, at the very least, a circus clown in a three-piece suit who stores a trove of classified documents in his toilet.

"But, I at least made the trains run on time."

    While I don't subscribe to every bit of their anti-Trump invective, I'm no fan of the man from Mar-a-Lago.  I wasn't during the 2016 primaries and I'm certainly not now.

"So, you're telling me there's a chance...'

Yeah, no.

    However, the latest issue (pictured at the top.  You're welcome) featured an article which went to the very heart of the effects the Trump train will have on the 2024 election.  I found myself nodding my head in agreement with pretty much everything it had to say.

    While I won't regurgitate everything (once again, you're welcome), it made some cogent points which would be worth your time to examine.

    Basically, the writer feels that Trump, even though he'll probably walk away with the GOP nomination, would be a disaster in the general election.  Despite what a lot of my friends (and stranger friends on Twitter) think, I agree with this.

    You've probably heard most of the writer's arguments.  But, he pointed out something that I had not considered.

    Dukakis, Gore, and Hillary failed to win the presidency for the Democrats (I would also add Kerry and Mondale, but why pile on?).  Guess who was not offered a return trip to the Dem nomination?  Dukakis, Gore, and Hillary.  

For the life of me, I never understood why Dukakis didn't resonate with the voters.

    It seems that the Democrats never hand the ball to a one-time loser, once they, uh, lost.  The writer gives grudging admiration to the smart way they play politics.  You could make the case that Gore and Hillary lost by razor thin margins, but the fact is, they did lose.

    Thank you for playing.  Now take your whiny sour grapes and dread foreboding of environmental doom elsewhere because we're not putting you on the field anymore.

And promising book career.

    Donald Trump who, despite his pompous bombast, has been on a losing streak.  A very good case could be made that his ego and big mouth cost the Republicans control of the Senate in 2020.  What's more, the purported red wave last year may have been tamped down because of Trump's inability to shut his piehole.

"Quite frankly, the losers at National Review have no idea what they're talking about because their magazine was started by some dead guy who had a speech impediment and, to be honest, I'm not a fan of people who aren't living anymore or who had a speech impediment if they even were alive even though some mental defectives would claim that William F. Buckley didn't have an impediment at all but spoke like an upper-class white guy which I clearly am not because I identify as an orange guy who wouldn't drink that Clydesdale piss disguised as Bud Light and who just leases that big airplane which doesn't contribute to climate change because our engines are fueled by Cheetos.  CHYNA!"

    Okay, many of you believe that Trump didn't lose the 2020 election.  In that case, I have nothing to say to you because you've convinced yourself.  Like hardcore Leftists, your partisan goggles and hero worship render you incapable of objective thought.  

    Personally, I think his personality was so repellent that a good many didn't pull the lever for Orange Julius last election.  This includes me.  Mind you, I didn't vote for Snowy Joe (I'm not insane).  Rather, I went for the Libertarian candidate.  That said, I don't believe the Delaware Department Store Dummy got 81 million votes, either.

    The reality that the Democrats are far better at playing the game than the Republicans does not bode well for any shot of common sense and wresting control of the White House away from a decrepit old man.  Who may decide to launch nuclear strikes just because they're no longer making episodes of Matlock.

"And those damn kids lighting bags of dog poop at the front door."

    I never considered that, once you lose as a Democrat, you'll never get a chance to run for president again.  Republicans, on the other hand, seem hell-bent on throwing The Donald back into the race.

    The writer made another very good point:  just because you're anti-Trump doesn't automatically mean that you're pro-Biden.  The two are mutually exclusive.

    Needless to say, I hope I am wrong about all of this.  But, I have a real fear that we'll have to deal with four more years of Progressive insanity.

    In any case, if you find yourself at the airport, you'd do well to pick up a copy of National Review.

    Just make sure no woke lunatic spits in your Diet Coke.