Are you supposed to send checks to people who retweet your Twitter tweets and ponies to the people who give you Facebook likes, or vice versa? I need to know soon, because the ponies out back are getting really loud.
How can we have a SHRED of respect for so-called “Millenials” when they, overwhelming, have no idea who the Marx Brothers are?
How can Cher STILL be on tour? Surely every gay person in the world has seen her like 17 times? And she is, what, about 95 years old?
Do they cancel your Man Card when the “rehab workout” your physiotherapist recommends involves rolling on a tennis ball and lifting a bottle of shampoo? I am asking for a friend.
Do you people have any idea how hard it is to walk around all day long, interacting with people and doing stuff, while pretending not to be a curmudgeon dinosaur? I am also asking this for a friend.
Why does anyone care if Madonna’s old bottom is hanging out or she occasionally falls down the stairs?
Why do I bang my head every single time I go under my desk to retrieve one of the 900 things I drop every day? This is not exactly synchronized swimming.
You try not to judge people unless you have walked a mile in their shoes, but how do you explain the Rev. Al Sharpton? And Hillary. And the Brucilla Kardashians?
Has anyone, ever, even one time, gotten more than one use out of a tube of Super glue? Follow up question. Has anyone who ever used Super glue NOT glued their fingers together? And by “anyone” I do not mean women.
If the Supreme Court had voted for Al Gore way back when, and he, not Dubya, had been elected president, are you trying to tell me there would be way more polar bears and way fewer jihadists? Really?
Hypothetically speaking, anywhere in the world, is there a single woman who is not, how can we put this delicately, insane? I am asking on behalf of all men, everywhere.
If you put $10 worth of gas in the car, how can it not cause the needle to move even one mili-micron?
How can the people who work with the Speaker of the House refrain from scratching him with a nail to see of the orange will come off?
If we all agree to pay $18 in advance, can the next Avengers just include the Hulk beating the crap out of Loki?
If there was a terrible, horrible, global flood, and you were trapped high on a mountain in a huge air-tight warehouse, with thousands of cases of Oreos and beer, would it really be that bad?
If you have never watched even one complete episode of Game of Thrones, Mad Men, Breaking Bad or Modern Family because, in large part, you find their teasers stupid or offensive, is your U.S. passport automatically cancelled? And if that were to happen, would you really care?
If Hillary wins in 2016, or is is 2018, we forget, will she block off half the White House for William Jefferson Fitzgerald Roosevelt Clinton, his trampoline and a squadron of gurly aides, or will she just kill him? There could be a lot of votes in this decision.
Would it be so wrong to build a large wall around Washington, D.C. and on, say, Inauguration Day, when everybody who is anybody is there, flood the place and, when it dries out, just let Tim Tebow be President? Or king, maybe? As we recall, there is some precedent for this flood thing.
Theoretically speaking, if we had an an annual spring cull of teenage boys with the big black orbs in their earlobes, creepy tattoos and baggy pants… Okay, this is not a question. This is a proposal. Who’s with me?
And if it does not stop raining in Oklahoma very soon, will the Sooner Schooner look like this next year because, damn, ya’ll?
Before there were iPods and iPads and computer games, there was the back yard tetherball pole and high jump pit.
Back in 1968, when I was 12 years old, I spent hours and hours and hours playing tetherball — trying to develop the perfect serve.
But the really serious athletic training involved the high jump.
That’s because I was inspired by Olympics high jumper Dick Fosbury and his Fosbury Flop.
That summer, I stood 4-ft-4 tall, on a stretch, and I was determined to jump that high.
I’m relaxing in the recliner.
Reading. Sort of. Zzzzzzzz.
Hearing aids are out.
Because I do not want to be disturbed.
But then I hear something disturbing.
It was crappy, cold, rainy weather.
Bumper-to-bumper, rush-hour traffic on Blockhouse Bay Road, my thoroughfare going home.
All I could think about was taking some Panadol, and crashing out with a heating pad on my aching neck.
So much bloody traffic.
Then I saw him.
A really old man, broken down on the other side of the four-lane road.
I could see that his front left tire was flat; that one of those emergency Jap tires was up on the sidewalk.
And the really old man was trying to remove his flat “tyre”, as they say in New Zealand.
Judging by his flustered face and exhaustion, I figured he must have been hard at it for some time.
I thought to myself, “surely somebody is going to stop and help that old man.”
When I was young, the headline above referred to waking up with a monstrous hangover.
Today, it refers to being back in the world after a weekend of immersion in a spiritual retreat called the Eucharistic Convention.
I feel sort of like a sponge whose every pore had been filled with water, and then squeezed dryer than dry.
The hangover cure for me today is the same as way back when – hair of the dog that bit you.
But now, instead of that “hair” being booze, it was spending the morning with a wise, old priest.
I have a thing for wise, old priests. Priests who have suffered. Priests who are holy.
If you came expecting post-Easter humor, you’re a week too early.
This week, friends and neighbors, features the Eucharistic Convention, a major Catholic event that we’ve helped organize for years.
Before you flee in horror, check these people out.
Bob and Freda Narev – When Bob “Narewczewitz” was nine years old, “home” to him and his mother was the horrific Theresienstadt concentration camp in Poland. When they were liberated in 1945, Bob was one of only 150 children who made it out alive. Freda, from an Orthodox Jewish family, spent the last years of the war hiding on a farm, “living as a Catholic” to escape the Nazis. Bob and Freda somehow made it to New Zealand, met, raised a family and received the highest awards possible for service to the Jewish and general communities.
Roy Schoeman was born outside of New York City to Jewish parents who had survived the Holocaust. Roy received his Jewish education and formation under some of the most prominent Rabbis in contemporary American Jewry. He went to MIT and then Harvard Business School, where he received an MBA magna cum laude. He joined the Harvard faculty and quickly became a ‘rock star’ professor of marketing. He lost his faith, but then had several supernatural experiences (sort of falling into Heaven), and eventually converted to Catholicism. His first book for Ignatius Press, Salvation is from the Jews: The Role of Judaism in Salvation History, was a surprise best-seller.