The Supreme Court, Rosh Hashanah, and Underpants Poker

You may be asking yourself this very moment, "Gee, Bear, it's been six weeks since you've posted anything - what gives?" Let me tell you something: Blogging is really hard work. I've been sitting at my computer for weeks now struggling with the next snarky comment, made up factoid, meaningless statistic, or whether to fall back on the Hollywood Infotainment Media Conglomerate Cocksucking, or Spirited Refutation of said Cocksucking. I can't even mine my old posts for a nugget that screams out for deeper exploration. Not that I'm opposed to nugget exploration, mind you, it's just that my published body of work leaves a lot to be desired. Not that I wasn't busy, with the needs-much-work Master's thesis, teaching with a new principal looking over our collected shoulder, and the eagerly-awaited impending fatherhood. How can you blame me? You guessed it: Underpants Poker. Sounds much more perverted than "online poker playing," ya? "Gosh, Bear. I bet you're just saying that. You're not really in your underpants, right? You've showered and dressed like a respectable citizen and are merely going for a laugh - or a disturbing image, right? Right?!?" Well, no. I am most certainly in my underpants. Imagine that, a blogger in his underpants. In the middle of the day, sitting right here in my underpants with little guitars all over them. Points for matching the guitars with the faded blue of my t-shirt? How about points for listening to the "Family Guy: Live in Las Vegas" album on my mp3 player? What, a dog singing a love song called "Dear Booze" isn't funny? Who are you, Jackie Mason? And that brings me to my point. God bless the Jews. Or G-D. Whatever, I've got the day off. So what if I have thesis work to do - reading Casper Weinberger's memoir in my underpants is worse than anything else I've thought about all day - except that thought of my pregnant wife wearing a French-maid outfit, sans caleçon, and dusting the living-room. Actually, that's a pretty great thought. Do they make French maid's outfits for pregnant ladies? I know I can't find one (by the way, there was a 20 minute gap between those sentences while I frantically googled - see I wanted to type the link for my wife to conveniently click on, but I've been foiled. I did find this, though, which I like much, much better. This is what goes on inside my head, folks. Sometimes perverse, always entertaining. Speaking of perverse, how about a Supreme Court nominee with no judicial experience? Sweet Jesus. I'd say the shrub has lost his mind, but I'm pretty sure there wasn't much up there besides Karl Rove's radio transmitter. Where's the Democratic Evil Genius? Rove needs an enemy. Even Maggie Simpson had the baby with the one eyebrow (name? Gerald. Yes, I knew that without looking it up). I nominate myself. Everyone always told me when I was six years old I'd make a great dictator. Why not? Oh yeah, weed and porn. No national operative status for me. Of course, if you listen to my friend D., court decisions won't mean much after the weather has its way with us. ("It's all about the water, man! Water, not oil! Do you really believe we'll have the energy resources to desalinate the fucking ocean?!? Maybe turn the water off when you brush your teeth." I told him I brush my teeth in the shower while I'm waiting for the conditioner to work). Back to the court, I don't trust this woman. I don't trust any woman who appears to have gone without orgasm for forty-two years, and neither should you. I say, if you can't picture a Supreme Court nominee bumping and grinding covered in Bosco on the kitchen floor, then they can't be on the court. Yes, that means you Ruth Bader Ginsburg, you sly minx. No discussion. Who needs voting records? Apply the "Bosco Kitchen Tile" standard, and the court will be your friend, protecting civil liberties and interstate commerce all the live long day.