Well, it’s the Ides of Mart™, and this coming week marks two important anniversaries. The first is the 32nd anniversary of my having tricked a Norwegian-American smoke-show of a girlfriend to hitch her marital wagon to my star, despite the fact that I was an English major with severely limited earning potential and pedestrian looks at best.
But my heart is pure (relatively), and I could make her laugh, and other males apparently suck way more than me, so I was able to beguile her. And this week, as we celebrate nearly a third of a century, I will tell the lame joke that makes her groan every year: “This week we’ll be celebrating 25 happy years… and we’ve only been married for 32, so that’s a pretty solid ratio.”
The patience of women is an eternal mystery, and one for which I am extremely grateful.
The second important anniversary this week – of course – is the one-year anniversary of “15 days to slow the spread.” I’m grateful that in my state of Florida – and as the saying goes, I wasn’t born here, but I got here as fast as I could – that 15 days lasted only about 4 months of semi-complete lockdown.
For the poor, benighted souls trapped in blue states with power-hungry Dem governors, that 15 days has now lasted 12 months. If Joe Biden were still with us and had his way, that 15 days would last at least 15 months, and likely 24, and possibly longer, if any extra dishonest political gains could be squeezed out of their cruel and un-scientific lockdowns.
I got my vaccination last week. So you know what that means: in addition to being immune from criticism, scorn, and lame personal attacks from humorless leftists, I am also not going to be taken out by covid. Now if we can just get those scientists cracking on turning mockery, and a diet of red meat, ice cream and scotch into longevity, there’ll be no stopping me!
I’d like to thank President Trump, for shepherding through a vaccine in 8 months, after 142,000 MSM partisans, Dem politicians and mentally-challenged rage-a-holics (but I repeat myself) spent those 8 months assuring me that that could NEVER be done… when they weren’t insisting that they were full-blooded Indians, and ordering the Fang-Fang Bang-Bang off the carry-out menu down at the Chinese Communist Party Golden Dragon restaurant.
Maybe those last two were just Grandma Squanto (#wemustSTILLneverstopmockingher) and Eric Swallwell. But all the rest of them were just “Following the Science™.”
Because I’m not a scientist and don’t know any better, I guess I now have to accept that Bruce Jenner was the most amazing female athlete of all time, we can definitely predict the temperature at 4:27 p.m. one-hundred-and-five years from next Wednesday, and the first covid vaccines are going to be here in the late fall of 2022.
I’d also like to thank the super-villains down at Big Pharma who managed to set a land-speed record coming up with a vaccine, even though they had to do so without the sage advice of Dr. Fauci. Who was too busy standing on a stack of phonebooks to pose for magazine cover photos, and appearing on CNN, where he praised the incredible job that Andrew “We’ve taken Grandpa to a Farm Upstate Where he Can Play all Day with Other Covid-Positive Octogenarians” Cuomo was doing.
Speaking of being thankful, I would also like to share with you two incidents I came across this week that put a smile on my face.
The first story comes to us out of India, the colorful land of unpronounceable and unspellable names, friendly tech support folks who implausible claim to be named either “Andrew” or “Emily,” and hilarious cartoon characters who can no longer be voiced by white actors. Because racism.
But if I asked you what country you associate with cock fighting – and if anybody even thinks about making a joke about any Dem politician, fundraiser, or supporter who definitely did not kill himself in prison, I will turn this car RIGHT around, mister! – most of you would say “Mexico.”
And then you’d be cancelled.
Because, as I may have mentioned before, racism.
Anyway, it turns out that Indians also fancy the occasional cockfight. But sadly, there is now one less Indian fan of what, for all I know, they call “the sport of kings” in India. Because last month, 45-year-old Thangulla “Hello, I’m Andrew, what can I help you with today?” Satish was killed by a fighting cock.
Not because they were in the ring – or the cage, or the pen, or the rink, or whatever they call a cockfighting enclosure in India – as opponents in a bout sanctioned by the ICFA (the Indian Cockfighting Association, duh).
It turns out that Thangulla (and if you just thought “Matata,” you are not alone) owned the bird in question, and was preparing him for the fight by strapping a 3-inch long, razor-sharp blade to the rooster’s leg.
I know: what could possibly go wrong?
Well it turns out that the rooster fatally slashed his owner. And before I can ask the rhetorical question, “Where would you LEAST like to be slashed by the knife on your fighting rooster’s le—” every male reading this column just shouted out, “GROIN!”
Allow me to introduce a quote from the story by turning toward the big board and doing my Richard Dawson impression: “Survey says…”
“A man who tied a knife to the leg of his rooster for an illegal cockfight was killed after the bird panicked and stabbed him in the groin…”
Yada yada yada, Thangulla bled out.
This quote should elicit several immediate thoughts:
1.HA! HAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!
2. If at your funeral, one of your neighbors asks your family how you died, and they mumble, “He suffered a fatal groin injury in a cockfight,” those neighbors are going to wonder if you had badly misunderstood how a cockfight is supposed to work.
3. The bird “panicked” and then stabbed him? Really?
If you were a rooster and your owner took you for a drive down to the local rooster rink, and you found yourself staring at a ‘roided up rooster who looked like a cross between John Cena and Mick Jagger, and you turned to your owner and said, “Andrew, what’s going on here?” And your owner said, “I’ll explain in a minute. But first I’m going to attach these razor-sharp blades to your legs.”
Do you really think your traitorous owner would die because you “panicked?”
Because I’m thinking that the rooster would give his owner the same narrowed-eyed, baleful stare that the giant rooster who regularly fights Peter Griffin on Family Guy gives him right before things kick off.
In other words, I think that it was cold-blooded murder!
Cue the “Etymology Minute” theme song: “And THAT’s the origin of the phrase, to “cold cock” someone. (Boom! Dad joke catches you like a crisp jab when your arms were down to protect your ribs.)
Anyway, I hate cruelty to animals, so that story makes me laugh.
I have one last animal story for you this week. I was watching a Real-Life police show, and one segment showed a high-speed chase of a Biden voter who’d robbed a store at gunpoint, shot at a cop, and then fled in a stolen car.
When he eventually fled on foot, the cops released a K-9 (my favorite part!), who promptly fulfilled the purpose for which a wise God created him. He raced across a yard, leapt at the perp and took him down, then started treating his arm like a leftist treats the constitution.
The cops surrounded him and started to pull the dog free, and the thief was screaming, “OW! OW! OW!” like he’d just gone three rounds with the Marvin Hagler (RIP) of Indian fighting roosters.
As the cop who had been shot at came within earshot of the whiny little thief, his body cam caught what might be the best cop quote I’ve ever heard, delivered in a perfect, sarcastic deadpan: “Oh, listen to his less-than-lethal ‘ow’ bullsh#t!”
That is a great line. And I’m going to think of it every time I hear some hysterical leftist cry-bully weeping over mis-gendered potato-related toys, or genocidally-evil Dr. Suess books, or someone alone in a bass boat 2 miles off the coast who isn’t wearing a mask.
“That’s some top-shelf less-than-lethal ‘ow” bullsh*t, right there!”
Avenatti/Thangulla “Matata” Satish, 2024!