So I arrive in Idaho for Weekend At Spud’s, he whisks me home from the airport, and the first thing he shows the Visiting Jew is a large, outside oven. Classy, dude, classy. We then proceeded to bash our livers into the size and consistency of a walnut with some pretty classy spoiled grape juice and perhaps a few brown spirits, as well as raise our cholesterol to four digit levels with our usual cooking. The best part was going produce shopping; it was just like our old days in California, where the cashiers would knowingly smile at the two guys sharing a shopping cart and obsessively selecting produce. This time, add the matching Glibs masks. If I didn’t find that hilarious, I would point out that gay guys don’t dress this badly. But it gave us cred at the Proggie shopping venues.

Speaking of which, here’s a jarring segue to birthdays, including that of a guy who wasn’t one of the Wright Brothers; the great-great-grandpa of Instant Pot; the greatest cartoonist EVER and don’t even bother fighting me, it’s objectively true; my historical celebrity crush; a writer who, let’s admit it, was very uneven;  and a fun general named after a zit.

Speaking of zits, here’s some news stories.


Portland says, “Hold another beer.”


“The man is a genius- he reads from a Teleprompter out loud.”


Native American wisdom.


There’s a Harambe joke in here somewhere.


But were they wearing masks? That’s the important question.


“Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!”


See, UPS can do anything that we used to rely on postal workers to do.


Old Guy Music is Tool because, well, Tool.