Natural Born Tourists

Tom Birkner, Early Morning R&B, 2013

When a vacation rental doesn’t live up to expectations, when that “charming cottage hideaway” turns out to be a shed, one family’s solution is passive-aggressive guestbook commentary.

My husband, sons, and I thoroughly enjoyed a wonderful vacation and all the nearby restaurants where we ate every meal because your cottage’s kitchen offers no pots, pans, drinking glasses, dishes, knives, forks, or spoons.—The Homer Family, Windsor, Conn.

Vineyard Haven was as charming as your listing promised. It’s also wonderful that you’ve been able to preserve your home’s antebellum charm, especially the mattresses which appear original to the property, complete with traumatic-birth stains. Maybe mention those next time, too.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.

Sorry about all those phone calls regarding the refrigerator. We now understand that it’s more of a thought experiment than a functional appliance. Kind of like the Schrodinger’s cat paradox, except replace “cat” with “beer.” Is the beer inside the refrigerator warm or cold? Who knows? It cannot be directly observed, so is unknowable. At any given time, the beer inside this refrigerator may be cold and refreshing, but when you open the ice box it will surely be warm as horse piss. So what’s the solution? Go to a bar for a beer instead! Thank you for helping teach my kids about quantum physics. I’d appreciate a credit for the cost of spoiled cold cuts.—Pete Homer, Windsor, Conn.

I duct-taped the fuck out of your Ladder Toss because that shit was falling to pieces every time I wrapped my balls around it. You’re welcome.—Andy Homer, Windsor, Conn.

Loved Cape Cod. Really appreciated all the beach toys provided. Though maybe consider changing the name of this cottage from “Whispering Sands” to “Cacophony of Bodily Sounds.” Or fix the walls so they extend all the way up to the ceilings???—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.

Clam neks look like peniseses—Timmy

This place has more exposed knob and tube than the uncut version of “Magic Mike.”—Pete Homer, Windsor, Conn.

Thanks for a lovely stay. Your cottage may be modest but hey, it’s more affordable than a cruise! And more hygienic, too! To my knowledge, no one in our family contracted norovirus or Legionnaire’s disease during our stay here. Thanks again.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.

Dear Lawrence Family: Truly a unique house you’ve got. Your bedroom décor was a little too “snuff film” for our tastes, but don’t worry – we all slept comfortably on the dining room floor, amid the charming bug husks. I will follow up by email re: the deposit refund.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.

Thanks to all the mildew in your ancient washing machine, we spent our vacation smelling like ass.—Andy of Ass

To other guests at this cabin who may be reading this: Our 15 year-old awoke in the middle of the night with a troupe of wolf spiders reenacting the Red Wedding scene from “Game of Thrones” on his pillow. Kind of a spoiler, actually, since we’re only on season two.—Pete Homer, Winslow, Conn.

Discovering your East Hampton home on this visit was a truly unexpected gift. The way the six mildewed shower curtain liners surrounding your old-fashioned claw foot tub clung to my body brought me back to my early childhood. Like, “birth canal” early. Now having relived and conquered that trauma, I feel completely rejuvenated and ready to return to work on Monday.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.

This article was originally published by The Morning News

Sex on the Beach: A Risk Assessment

“If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the Cape/ You’re the love that I’ve looked for, come with me and escape” – Rupert Holmes, Escape (The Pina Colada Song)

Beach sex is one of those things that sounds great in theory, and looks terrifically appealing when performed by carefully trained professionals under strict OSHA guidelines, but in the unpracticed hands of randy amateurs it is absolutely fraught with danger.

Before you and your partner drop your bathing suits on some remote spit of sand and start getting it on, consider the following:

Chafing – risk degree: High

There’s a good reason 99% of intercourse happens on a bed or the kitchen table or the hood of a Mustang: no abrasives!

If you’re beach sex-curious and a newcomer to the scene, first try this: go to your local hardware store and buy a pack of the coarsest grit sandpaper you can find. Then take it home and rub it vigorously on your bits.

Note – this practice can only approximate the wildly unpleasant sensation of beach sex. Actual sand grain size will vary, depending on your geographic region. Beaches of the Caribbean are fine and soft, albeit crowded with tourists and a challenge to privacy. Beaches in Maine are more remote, but very rocky. If you’re conditioning for sex on a Maine beach, forgo the sandpaper and smash your bits with a large boulder instead.

Sunburn – risk degree: High

Do not fuck with the sun. It is bigger than one million Earths and 10,000 degrees and just a hop skip away, astronomically speaking, and it will toast your lilywhite nether regions faster than a marshmallow on a campfire.

And don’t go thinking a dab of sunscreen’s going to help you, either. They do not make an SPF high enough to shield your dainties from this kind of spontaneous combustion. Enjoy the sex while it lasts, because you are going to spend the next three weeks slathered in aloe.

Bug Bites – risk degree: High

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “sunburn? I’m not getting a sunburn! I’m having sex on the beach AT NIGHT!” Good plan. Don’t forget the DEET!

After dark, the beach is veritably teeming with blood-suckers: midges, chigoes, no-see-ums, sand flies, mosquitoes, insurance salesmen, vampires named Ray, they all rise up once the sun goes down and will LITERALLY eat you alive. And not in the good, “sex on the beach” kind of way. In the exsanguinating way.

If you’d rather your baby maker didn’t resemble ten miles of rough road the next morning, might want to schedule some sex on the Motel 6 credenza instead.

Nesting Terns – risk degree: Medium

You know that scene at the end of Hitchcock’s The Birds where Tippi Hedren gets mauled by birds? If you end up having the sexy sex too close to that spot on the beach where the terns are nesting, that’ll be you. Except you won’t be wearing a fashionable trench coat and waving a flashlight. You’ll be naked. And sunburnt. And probably covered in bug bites. And you’ll have sand in your hoo-haw. In other words, a real shit show.

And one more thing: If the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service catches your naked, sunburnt, bug-bitten ass tip-toeing through the nesting reserve of migratory birds, they’ll slap it with a $15,000 fine and throw you in jail for six months for good measure. Then you’ll be having penniless jail sex. Super duper not sexy.

Dog Walkers – risk degree: Medium

If confronted by a dog walker during beach sex, it’s best practice to ignore them. If they linger too long or pull out their smartphones and begin filming, stop having sex and pretend like you’re not naked and strike up a conversation with them about their dog – its breed, age, temperament, vaccination schedule, that sort of thing. They’re likely to be quite gregarious for a while, until it dawns on them that they’re chumming up to a couple (or more) naked, sandy strangers on the beach. Then they’re likely to grow very uncomfortable very quickly and excuse themselves and shuffle away. Though not before they’re dog has eaten a nesting tern.

Drowning – risk degree: Low

Sex in the ocean is highly impractical. First of all, no leverage. Second of all, shrinkage. Third of all, sharks. The list goes on and on. Be real – unless you’re a scuba porn enthusiast, or Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity, rolling in the deep is not for you.

Crustacean Attack – risk degree: Unknown

Probably not an immediate threat, but when the lobsters finally do rise up to take control of the world, you will definitely not want to be caught with your pants down. Having sex. On the beach.

Ben Carson Retracts His Retraction

I was offered a full scholarship to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.

Did I say “scholarship”? It wasn’t actually a scholarship. But I was accepted at West Point.

I never even applied to West Point. Which makes it all the more outstanding that I was accepted at West Point.

Right. Not an acceptance, technically speaking. More like an informal offer.

OK, OK, I never received an informal offer from West Point. I’m not even sure where West Point is. Somewhere west, I’m guessing.

Though I neither received a full scholarship nor an informal offer from West Point, I have seen Saving Private Ryan five times.

My staff has informed me that I have not seen Saving Private Ryan five times. The movie I’ve seen is Shaving Ryan’s Privates. Five times.

I have achieved the level of Prestige Master in Call of Duty: Black Ops II, Xbox 360 edition.

My bad. I don’t own an Xbox, and I’ve never played Call of Duty. What I meant to say was, I own an Atari 2600 and I kick ass at Lunar Lander.

The Atari 2600 is not mine. It belongs to my nephew. I do have the high score on Lunar Lander.

Correction. My nephew has the high score on Lunar Lander.

I did beat my nephew at Stratego one time.

When I was a kid, I constructed elaborate military battle scenes with my G.I. Joes.

Alright, I only had one G.I. Joe. His name was Steve. There were no elaborate military battle sequences.

Unless you count that time G.I. Steve and Barbie were getting it on like horny Yorkshire Terriers and my mom busted into my room.

And she found out I drew pubic hair on G.I. Steve with a brown magic marker.

Did I say Steve? I meant Barbie.

Did I say a brown magic marker? I meant a green magic marker.

Did I say when I was a kid? I meant yesterday.

Josh Duggar Apology Statement, Edit #14

“After getting caught in the Ashley Madison leak, Josh Duggar has issued three revised statements … and counting.” – People.com, 8/21/15

I have been the biggest hypocrite ever. While espousing faith and family values, I have secretly over the last several years been viewing pornography on the internet and this became a secret addiction and I became unfaithful to my wife.

While this is painful and humiliating to admit, especially coming so soon after my last public apology for sexually abusing children including two of my younger sisters, it is only the tip of the iceberg of my moral transgressions. So in the Christian spirit of contrition, and on the exasperated direction of our family’s publicist, please also accept my apologies for the following:

• I pee in the shower.
• I use the confessional booth dad built in the garage for my own personal vaping den.
• I’m a fiend for Cosmopolitans, the pinker the better.
• That snappy collection of leather belts from the Gap aren’t just for holding my Dockers up; they also come in handy for autoerotic asphyxiation.
• I’m into anal play.
• I’m into model trains.
• I’m into anal play with model trains.
• I herniated a disc while attempting a particularly tricky self-fellation maneuver.
• I have played “hide the salami” with an actual salami.
• I never miss an episode of Fresh Air.
• I regularly diddle Peanut, the family Labradoodle. In my defense, Peanut is the age of consent if you’re counting in dog years. Judging by the waggly tail, he also appears to enjoy it.
• I Snapchat naked selfies to Harry Styles.
• Though I stand accused by my family and have staunchly maintained my innocence, the time has finally come for me to reveal the truth: I did, in fact, fuck the Thanksgiving turkey. And the candied yams.

In short, my depravity knows no bounds.

I am so ashamed of the double life that I have been living and am grieved for the hurt, pain and disgrace my sin has caused my wife and family and Peanut and Jesus, and most of all Harry Styles and all those who profess faith in Him.

The last few years, while publicly stating I was fighting against immorality in our country, I was hiding my own personal failings, along with my Girls Gone Wild DVD collection, and the aforementioned salami.

As I am learning the hard way, we have the freedom to choose our actions, but we do not get to choose our consequences. I deeply regret all hurt I have caused so many by being such a bad example, as well as the cancellation of our family’s television show, which has put a serious crimp in finances and made it so I can no longer afford my weekly sensual massage (ps – I miss you, Sumiko!).

I humbly ask for your forgiveness. Please pray for my precious wife Anna and our family during this time.

Sincerely,

Josh Duggar

Halloween Tricks for Post-Millennials

Necco Wafers? Really? Diminutive Knight, prepare the flaming bag of poo.

Then

Ring and run.

Now

Steal homeowner’s Apple ID, delete their iTunes music library, fill instead with entire collection of 26 Kidz Bop albums.

Then

Toilet paper a tree.

Now

Photoshop homeowner’s face on naked selfies of disgraced New York congressman Anthony Weiner. Snapchat to all area middle school friends, plus local and regional news organizations.

Then

Egging a house.

Now

Hack homeowner’s Facebook. Share Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” video repeatedly.  Frequently comment on other people’s posts using nothing but stickers. Retroactively “like” every James Franco post ever. Thoroughly alienate family and friends.

Then

Smashing pumpkins

Now

Phish homeowner’s online banking password. Launder their life savings through shadowy offshore accounts. Use money to buy a shitload of Xbox games.

Then

Shaving cream attack

Now

Remote-activate homeowner’s webcam. Secretly record hours and hours of video featuring homeowner in embarrassing, unguarded moments. Launch most successful YouTube channel ever.

Then

Flaming bag of poo.

Now

Flaming bag of poo.

The Love Song of S. Patrick Tabb, Sixth Grade

Poppin’ wheelies

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky,

Well, more like early evening actually,

My mom wants me home before nine;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

Upon our Huffys with banana seats,

And bitchin’ ape hanger handlebars;

Streets that lead down to the beach,

To a place called the Wianno Club

Where they’re having a kids’ dance tonight;

There’s a girl there who I want to see…

Oh, do not ask, “Who is it?”

Let us go and pay a visit.

 

In the room the children come and go

Talking of Mork & Mindy, their favorite show.

 

The light fog that settles on the ocean,

And curls like smoke over the beach,

Conceals a shark the size of a school bus;

Have you seen the movie Jaws?

Based on a true story, right here on Cape Cod;

There’s a lady skinny dipping on the poster,

About to be eaten by a shark;

You can see her boobs and everything!

I want one for my bedroom.

 

And indeed there will be time

For the light fog that settles on the ocean,

And the shark that eats the naked lady,

And for me to figure out how to get one of those posters;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

They’ll recognize us, some of them anyway,

The ones from our fifth grade class, for sure;

Time for you and time for me

To put on our disguises,

Our sunglasses and fake moustaches;

What do you mean, you forgot them?!

You are the worst wingman ever.

 

In the room the children come and go

Talking of Welcome Back, Kotter, their other favorite show

 

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?”

Do I dare ask her to dance?

What if everybody stares?

(They will say: “Look at his greasy hair!)

My cut-off corduroys, my “Keep on Truckin’” tee,

My tube socks not quite covering the scabs upon my knees,

(They will say: “How can he be so skinny?!”)

Do I dare

Ask her out on a date?

In a minute there is time,

Although maybe we should turn around. It’s getting kind of late.

 

For I have known them all already, know them all:

Every episode of Gilligan’s Island, and The Monkees, too;

I have measured out my life with Mountain Dew;

Have known the boring summer days on end,

Have driven my bike by her house a thousand times,

Though she never comes out, it’s true,

What else is a sixth grade boy to do?

And how should I presume?

 

Shall I say things to impress her,

Say I’ve seen Star Wars 27 times, and draw cartoons?

Shall I say I found a diamond ring in a box of Cracker Jacks,

And once I ate three dozen macaroons?

 

I should have been a hermit crab

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas,

Either that or shark food.

 

Here we are, Wianno,

Country club for the well-to-do,

Tennis whites and golf caddies, blue blazers in the dining room;

Do you hear that music blaring?

Blondie’s Heart of Glass;

Do you see those boys in chinos and collared shirts,

And girls in bright sundresses?

Do you think they’ll let us past?

(They will say: “Not so fast.”)

 

Should I, after coming all this way,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

Should I demand they let us in?

I have no idea what I would say;

We would be shunned forever

For our ruinous etiquette;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

I have seen that snotty kid Brad in the tasseled loafers snicker,

And in short, I’m reconsidering.

 

Let’s stay here for a while on our bikes,

Let’s keep our distance,

You keep watch, see if she comes out,

While I practice popping wheelies.

 

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

If she had met me at the door with a wave and a smile,

And after some small chat,

She called me “Steve”?

That is not my name at all. That is not it at all.

 

No! I am not Steve, nor was meant to be;

I am Sean; from school,

Quiet, shy, the one they call “four eyes”,

The one who brings his lunch every day

In a greasy paper bag,

The one who cannot climb the rope in gym,

“Sean, Sean, the leprechaun,

Went to school with nothing on,”

Remember me?

At times almost ridiculous –

Almost, at times, a fool.

 

I grow old…I grow old…

I wear the bottoms of my Toughskins rolled,

Because my mom buys them too long.

 

Should I wash my hair more frequently?

Should I lose the “Keep on Truckin’” tee?

I could dress in Lacoste and Bermuda shorts, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the rich girls singing, each to each.

 

I do not think that they will sing to me.

 

It’s getting late,

The sky above the ocean’s turning red,

If we leave now we can make it home

To catch the end of What’s Happening!!

And then it’s time for bed.

The Ten Commandments: An Agnostic’s Deconstruction

1. I am the Lord your God. Thou shall have no other gods before me. Unless it’s Tom Waits.
   

   The Two Commandments

2. Thou shalt not make thyself an idol. Look what happened to poor Taylor Hicks,  playing county fairs and weddings at the Elks.
3. Do not take the name of the Lord in vain, for chrissakes.
4. Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. Especially Iron Man.
5. Honor thy father and thy mother, otherwise they’ll be dicks when you ask them for money.
6. Thou shalt not kill or murder, unless it’s a cow, chicken, or other tasty barnyard animal and it represents thy dinner. Free pass if thou art vegetarian. Then you’re just killing plants.
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Exceptions include extramarital sex with preordained celebrities whose names must appear on a laminated card, notarized by thy spouse and kept in thy purse or wallet at all times.
8. Thou shalt not steal. Burning friends’ CDs or downloading from bittorrent sites doesn’t count. That’s called SHARING, a kindly behavior encouraged in kindergartens around the world.
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Also, don’t bear thy soul or thy private parts to thy neighbor. You’ve got to live next door to that person, for chrissakes.
10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. This commandment is no problem for me, since my neighbor’s wife is a horror show.

Prototype Submissions for New Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation Condom

Not your run-of-the-mill jimmy protector

“One of the (Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation) projects listed on the group’s website Tuesday calls for submissions to ‘develop the next generation of condom’. The foundation is offering $100,000 in grant money to fund any group that can come up with a prototype ‘that significantly preserves or enhances pleasure, in order to improve uptake and regular use.” – CBC News, March 26th, 2013

Smoker King – Incorporates authentic, barbeque-style “ribbing” for greater pleasure and post-coital snacking. Could be a contender. Legal has expressed some concern over liability for soiled sheets.

The TARDIS – This condom appears commonplace when removed from its foil pack, but slip inside and users discover a sprawling, tropical vacation resort complete with Infinity pools, free drink coupons and a lifetime supply of Bain de Soleil. A clear front-runner, though we’re still searching for one research participant who defected during usability testing.

Hoover Dam – Talk about a reservoir tip – this one has room for recreational boating. The extra latex costs alone make this a non-starter.

Lube and Go – Lubricated inside and out, this condom is greasier than fried dough at a carnival. Residual benefits include a free, 10-minute oil change for your motor vehicle. Throw in a complimentary radiator flush and this could be the “dark horse” favorite.

Knotty-by-Nature – Misspelling of “naughty” was apparently deliberate; Steve from R&D now hospitalized with penis tied in sheepshank.

Microsoft – Odd “Windows” –style tip makes glans look like Cyclops pressing face against plastic wrap. “Safe to Remove Hardware” message keeps popping up in the middle of intercourse. Orgasms followed by “blue screen of death”. Disqualified.

Jeeves – This condom also serves as a personal butler, capably handling light housework, meal preparation and general accounting. Patented “White Glove” design is a clever feature, though four extra sheaths make user look like a cow and considerably impede sexual congress.

Red Eye Willy – Designed for hot sauce enthusiasts, this condom substitutes habanero pepper for spermicide. Rockets straight past “warming sensations” all the way up to “penis melting” on the Scoville Heat Units scale. Cool package design, but target market is way too niche-y.

Morning Wood – Strong value proposition – “Enjoy morning sex and still be on time for work!” Product features are very intriguing: prevents STDs and unwanted pregnancy, brews coffee, fixes breakfast, shaves your face and freshens your breath with a minty fluoride rinse. However, baggy fit reminds us of old pajama bottoms, and our English muffin was burnt on the bottom. Pass.

Ten-foot Pole – Potential customer base consists of one guy named Stanislaw living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Investigation confirms he’s been married 22 years, with three teen-aged kids and a vasectomy. Market penetration could be a problem.

Puds n’ Suds – A condom that provides reliable protection while also pressing shirts, Woolite-ing delicates and de-pilling your sweaters? Looks like a winner! Careful to not mix lights with dark colors or your junk will get all streaky.

Match the Business Leader with Their Fashion Fetish

Much too much has been said on the significance of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg’s hoodie (see here, and here, and here, and holy shit please make it stop).

Yes, Mr. Zuckerberg wears a hoodie – the same hoodie, every day, rarely laundered. Every news story written about the guy mentions the hoodie. It’s a journalistic obligation.

And because the traditionally hidebound Business Journalists of America are sworn by oath to only associate hoodies with shiftless, irresponsible teenagers, Zuckerberg’s hoodie clearly signifies his immaturity and ill-preparedness to run a successful public company. Some even go so far as to blame Facebook’s disastrous I.P.O. on the hoodie.

It’s unfortunate, really, that a simple, sporty cotton garment should be so publicly vilified. I mean, it’s not like Zuckerberg wears a trench coat. That would really be stupid and unsettling. But here we are, left to ponder the fashion accessories that reside in the closets of other wildly successful business leaders. And turn them into a fun and educational matching game. Concerned neo-socialists will print this out and post it on their very expensive refrigerators.

On Fiscal Cliffs and Free Trade Glory Holes

Justice Ginsburg casts her vote on Citizens United

You’ve probably heard of the “Fiscal Cliff,” a popular term used to describe the forthcoming expiration of tax breaks and implementation of spending cuts that could plunge our economy off the proverbial precipice and into another devastating recession.

Catchy phrase, catastrophic implications – it’s nothing new. There’s a grand, old tradition employing features of the landscape as metaphors to describe pivotal turning points in America’s political history.

The Internal Revenue Code Root Wad

When the 83^rd United States Congress sought to reorder and expand the country’s tax system, they sagely hired Dutch graphic artist M.C. Escher to do the job. The result was the Internal Revenue Code of 1954, a clusterfuck extraordinaire of chapters and subchapters, paragraphs and subparagraphs, annotated punctuation marks and tessellating footnotes and provisions addressing trusts and estates, capital gains, estate and excise taxes, reorganizations, liquidations, lobotomies, prostate exams and Ben Franklin’s porn stash. So harrowing was the outline, Escher exhausted every conceivable combination of letters and numbers known to man in its organizing and was forced to identify the Code’s later sections and provisions using a byzantine system of saucy-seeming hand gestures, covert winks and tongue clicks.

The outcome essentially guaranteed that people who could afford big, fancy lawyers and personal accountants would prosper greatly at the expense of people who could not. Congress of course loved it and wasted no time signing it into law.

The Environmental Protection Hedgerow

Seldom heard tapes archived in the Nixon Library capture the erstwhile president carping to advisors, “Nuke the fuckers!!” Historians believe he was referring to a chemical manufacturing plant situated upwind from La Casa Pacifica, Nixon’s presidential hideaway in San Clemente, California.

With a blight threatening to kill his prized shrubbery and all conventional, pesticidal treatments exhausted to no avail, Nixon determined that pollutants from the nearby company were to blame. Dismayed to learn his executive privileges excluded the authority to personally incinerate their production facility with a nuclear bomb, Nixon pulled out all the stops and ordered the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency instead, thereby establishing the federal authority to regulate and enforce laws that protect the environment.

The offending chemical manufacturer was subsequently shuttered and the San Clemente shrubberies temporarily saved, only to succumb a few years later to a prolonged bout of negligent watering.

The Mideast Peace Monadnock Hump

On September 17, 1978, U.S. President Jimmy Carter, Egyptian President Anwar Sadat, and Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin emerged from 13 days of secret negotiations at Camp David to announce their successful agreement on the framework for what would later become the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty. The meetings at Camp David would have wrapped up in half that time were it not for a foreign policy blunder that threatened to undo the fragile accord.

While on a bathroom break and sequestered in a men’s room stall, Prime Minister Begin overheard an aide to the U.S. diplomacy team confuse the Temple Mount, a holy site situated in disputed territory and a flashpoint of Mideast tension, with a position he’d seen in his wife’s dog-eared copy of The Joy of Sex.

Carter is credited with salvaging the peace treaty, wielding his resolve and an endless supply of peanut-based confections like a cudgel of unity. It also helped that he hid Begin and Sadat’s car keys, preventing them from leaving until agreement had been reached

The North American Free Trade Glory Hole

The 1992 campaign for the U.S. presidency was a hotly contested and bitterly fought, three-party affair. One of the central issues of debate was international trade, specifically the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), and whether it would help or hurt the American economy. In early campaigning, independent candidate and Texas billionaire Ross Perot employed some colorful verbiage cribbed from the oil industry of his home state, whipping up supporters with the rallying cry “WE WILL NOT BE MEXICO’S GLORY HOLE!” His intended message – that Mexico would siphon jobs from the U.S. in the same way an oil company siphons petroleum from a well (aka, a “glory hole”) – was muddied by the metaphor’s raunchier meaning, as Democratic presidential candidate Bill Clinton smugly pointed out in a televised debate when he said , “I know glory holes, I’ve worked with glory holes. Mr. Perot, the United States is no glory hole.”

The Judicial Beaver Dam

In January 2010, the Supreme Court handed down its 5-4 ruling in the case of Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission, upholding the constitutional right of corporations to spend embarrassing sums of money in the interest of swaying political campaigns.  So galled were the dissenting minority, Justices Stevens, Ginsburg, Breyer and Sotomayor took refuge in the Court’s Chamber, walling themselves behind an impregnable barricade of antique furniture and marble busts. When they finally emerged three days later they were, to a person, characteristically professional and discreet; however, the vehemence of their closed-door protest was more than hinted at by the indelible marks of gnawing teeth which permanently marred Chief Justice John Roberts’ seat at the Court’s raised, mahogany bench.