How some jackass ruined my morning

You ever have one of those mornings that starts perfectly? Yesterday I was out at breakfast with my first wife (never gets old does it dear), enjoying coffee, omelets, sunshine and the fleeting illusion the universe wasn’t out to screw me. It was peaceful.

Then we walked back to my 2024 Audi Q5 — the first new car I’ve owned in twenty years — and drove home. Once parked in our driveway, I happened to look back at the car and BAM: There it was— a dent. Front left fender, surgically placed right along that beautiful, sharp body line Audi engineers probably spent months perfecting. And just for extra points, a lovely scrape underneath. It's like someone aimed for the most painful spot possible and nailed it.

Clearly what happened was while we were enjoying what I like to refer to as longtime married couple chat over my Louisiana hot link omelet, someone decided to give my car a little kiss right in the paintwork.

What’s that you say? A note? That’s just crazy talk. No note. No apology. No shred of decency. Just a hit, a scrape, and the undeniable confirmation that people suck.

Now, you have to understand, I didn’t buy this car on a whim. I’ve spent the last twenty years nursing along secondhand "it builds character" vehicles.

Alright, they were certified Lexus vehicles, but you get my drift.

Since I bought the car last June, I’ve been in new car mode, treating it like a work of art. I've parked a quarter-mile away from grocery store entrances, dodging rogue shopping carts like they were incoming missiles. I’ve warned passengers not to swing car doors open with reckless abandon. I’ve kept all the windows down when I’ve had a bag of In-N-Out in the car so as not to lose that new car smell.

And despite all my vigilance, some random jackass managed to pull off what months of obsessive caution was trying to avoid: damage.

Of course, since it's an Audi, fixing a little dent and scrape won't be some quick, $50 "pop and paint" job. No, it's going to involve an insurance claim, a deductible that’ll make me question my life choices, and probably two weeks of driving a rental car that smells like wet dog, cigarette smoke and broken dreams.

I’ll feel better when it’s fixed.

The car will be restored.

The lines will be sharp again.

Balance will be restored to the force.

But my opinion of humanity? That’s never getting buffed out.

Assume the worst

It’s time to stop pretending. Donald Trump isn't just a political aberration. He’s a clear and present danger to the security of the United States, and we must operate under the assumption that he's handed over the crown jewels of America’s intelligence to Vladimir Putin.

This isn’t some wild conspiracy theory. This is a strategic reality we must face now, because the consequences of doing nothing are catastrophic.

Let’s look at the facts—the real ones, not the alternative ones. The Felon-In-Chief has had numerous private conversations with Putin—no American officials or recorders present. He’s publicly sided with Putin over his own intelligence agencies. He’s shared classified information with foreign adversaries in the Oval Office. He’s degraded our global alliances, gutted key agencies and treated national security as if it were a game for his own benefit.

If this were happening in any other country, we wouldn’t hesitate to call it what it looks like: a national betrayal.

We have to assume Russia knows everything. Our military contingencies. Our infrastructure vulnerabilities. Our intelligence assets. Our cyber defenses. All of it. If we operate under any lesser assumption, we are inviting disaster.

We must overhaul our entire approach to defense and intelligence, not because our systems failed, but because the tiny-handed man entrusted to protect them quite possibly turned them over to a hostile autocrat.

Whether for personal gain, blackmail, or delusional admiration, the result is the same: Putin, a ruthless strategist, most likely knows more about our playbook than Congress does.

Enough talk. Enough op-eds. Enough political cowardice. Every single member of tRump’s former Cabinet who saw what happened behind closed doors has a moral obligation to speak out. Not tomorrow. Not in a memoir. Now.

The U.S. Senate needs to do something they needed to do a long time ago: grow a spine. Stop hiding blindly behind partisanship while a foreign dictator plays chess with our national defense. Invoke the 14th Amendment. Support criminal investigations. Shut down any attempt to let this president increase his power.

This is not just a crisis of intelligence. It’s a collapse of courage.

History is watching. The world is watching. And if we don’t act decisively to hold Donald Trump accountable and rebuild the security he's compromised, we will lose far more than elections. We will lose the trust, strength, and sovereignty that define the United States.

Nothing to see here

Here we go again. I find myself staring at this blank screen, waiting for inspiration to strike. Or perhaps a gentle nudge from the universe that says, “Hey, try writing about this.” But no such luck. And here I am. Again. Writing about having nothing to write about.

After a couple thousand or so blogposts, I have to ask the question: have I officially emptied the well? Have I said everything I need to say? Have all the words been used up? Do I need to start communicating exclusively in interpretive dance? (Don’t tempt me—I will do it and it won’t be pretty).

Truth be told, the world continues to provide plenty of material. The problem is, none of it is particularly funny these days.

We’ve got Cadet Bone Spurs speedrunning the destruction of democracy. The Constitution? Holding on by a thread. Institutional norms? Shredded, torched, and fed to whatever lives in the basement at Mar-a-Lago.

Meanwhile, my attempts at humor feel like bringing a water pistol to a four-alarm fire.

So, here I am, once again writing about how I have nothing to write about. I’ve done it before (here), and I’ll do it again. (See? I’m already repeating myself.)

While I wait for either inspiration or full-blown existential despair to light a fire under me, allow me to direct you to some wordsmiths who do have something to say: Rich Siegel over at RoundSeventeen and Jeff Eaker at Kingdom of Failure. Both are far more talented, far funnier, and quite possibly better-looking than me.

Okay, I’m joking about that last one. And maybe one of the other two. After all, no one’s under oath here.

Is there really nothing left to say? Or, more importantly, how many more times can I get away with writing a blogpost about having nothing to write about.

Stay tuned. Hopefully it won’t be for nothing.

To President Volodymyr Zelenskyy,

The people of the United States owe you an apology. You’ve led your nation with courage, dignity, and unwavering resolve in the face of immense adversity. And yet, instead of the steadfast support and respect you deserve, you were subjected to humiliation, manipulation, and betrayal at the hands of an American president unworthy of his office.

Donald Trump does not represent the values of the American people. He does not embody our commitment to democracy, our dedication to justice, or our belief in the power of alliances.

Instead, he represents the worst of us: the corruption, ignorance, greed, cruelty, and cowardice we as a nation have struggled to overcome. His actions have not only disgraced our country but have also undermined those who stand on the front lines defending democracy—including you and the brave people of Ukraine.

His treatment of you, from his extortion attempt in 2019 to his most recent in front of Vladimir Putin was appalling. Instead of standing beside you as a true ally, he sought to use you as a political pawn, prioritizing his own interests over the security of your nation and principles of international law.

And now, he’s gone even further, publicly diminishing Ukraine’s struggle, parroting Kremlin propaganda, cutting off desperately needed aid and showing the world once again his loyalty lies not with the free world, but with its adversaries.

For this, we are deeply sorry. We are sorry for the disgraceful way you were treated. We are sorry America failed, in that moment, to be the ally you needed. We are sorry you were forced to navigate not only a brutal war, but also the reckless whims of a man who has no understanding of honor or sacrifice.

And we are sorry for those in our country who continue to empower him, despite the damage he has done and continues to do.

But please know this: millions of Americans stand with you. We see Ukraine’s fight as our fight. We respect your leadership, admire your resilience, and remain committed to supporting your nation’s struggle for freedom. The America that values its allies, defends democracy, seeks justice—that America is still here, and we will not let the monumental failures of one small, vile, ignorant man define us.

We pledge to continue standing with Ukraine. And we pledge to ensure our nation never again abandons its allies in their time of need. Slava Ukraine.

With deepest respect and regret, The American People Who Believe in Honor and Democracy.

Taco ‘bout taste

I’ve heard it said perfection is an illusion. And I subscribe to that belief, especially when it comes to relationships, parking spots and my ability to fold a fitted sheet. Well, apparently there’s one more thing it applies to. Finding the perfect taco in Los Angeles.

A fool’s errand? Maybe. But if there’s an impossible dream worth chasing, it’s one wrapped in a warm corn tortilla.

Here’s the thing: Los Angeles is a taco mecca. And its cool cousin Long Beach is no slouch either. The options are endless: street vendors, mom-and-pop shops, taco trucks with lines longer than the DMV.

Each taco has its own personality. Some spicy and unpredictable (like my high school girlfriend). Others rich and comforting (see previous joke). There are hard-shell and soft shell. Open and closed. Trying to choose a favorite is like trying to pick your favorite child, which, frankly is easier on some days than others.

I’ve tasted the smoky al pastor. I’ve savored shredded beef so tender it brought a tear to my eye, and a permanent stain to my shirt.

And the fish tacos? If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

But how can just one be THE taco? It feels wrong when they all bring something special to the table (see what I did there?).

In my search I realized something: every day in L.A. is Taco Tuesday. There’s no waiting for a specific day of the week—great tacos are available, at all hours, in all places. You can have a breakfast taco in the morning, a carnitas taco at lunch, and a late-night street taco after an evening of bad decisions.

And there lies the beauty of this City of Tacos. Just when you think you’ve found the one, another contender pops up, winking at you from the next food truck. Or calling your name from a modest taqueria tucked behind a laundromat.

I don’t want to spoil the end of the story for you, but I haven’t found the perfect taco. The search continues, and every bite is its own reward.

Viva la búsqueda. Long live the search.

Chat room

You know them. You’ve met them. You probably have one or more in your life right now.

The Never-Ending Talker. The person who operates under the principle silence is the enemy, and words must flow like a broken fire hydrant in July.

The good news is you never have to worry about holding up your end of the conversation. In fact, you don’t even have to participate. You can just nod, throw in the occasional “oh wow” or “that’s crazy” or “Can you believe it?” and they’ll take it as a heartfelt invitation to continue.

The bad news is they can’t take a hint. You can start backing away, inching toward the exit and they will follow. You can check your watch. Fake a phone call. Hail a taxi, hop in, roll up the window and drive off and without a doubt they’ll already be in the passenger seat, mid-sentence.

If you find yourself trapped in an endless monologue, here are some survival tactics:

1. The Mirror Technique – Repeat their last sentence back to them as a question. This creates a loop that momentarily stuns them.

2. The Strategic Yawn – Yawning is contagious. If they start yawning too, there’s a slight chance they’ll pause to wonder why they suddenly feel exhausted.

3. The Sudden Fake Emergency – “Oh no! I forgot I left the oven on in 2007! Gotta go!”

4. The Disappearing Act – If all else fails, just vanish. Learn the fine art of the Irish Goodbye—slipping away unnoticed while they’re still mid-sentence. Don't worry about offending them. People have been slowly backing away from them all their lives - they're used to it. They might not even realize you’re gone until they finish their story, which could take anywhere from 20 minutes to several lifetimes.

You have to admire their stamina. But at the same time, you have to be wishing there was an off switch. We all have chatty friends like this, and it doesn’t make them bad people.

I don’t know what your position on this is. Mine is next to the nearest exit.

Not bowled over

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the Super Bowl wasn’t just a game. It was an annual event for those of us who couldn’t tell a touchdown from a turnover, but could debate for hours whether a talking baby or a chimpanzee in a suit made for a better ad. Super Bowl commercials were legendary, a showcase of daring, innovative creativity where brands threw millions at the screen and somehow made it work.

Now it’s like watching a billion-dollar trust fund kid start a DJ career—so much money, so little talent.

I remember the days when a Super Bowl ad had cultural staying power. The best ones lived rent-free in our minds for decades. They weren’t just commercials; they were events. Apple’s “1984,” the Budweiser frogs, Old Spice turning deodorant into performance art.

Fast forward to today, and we’re left with a parade of warmed-over celebrity cameos, desperate attempts at nostalgia and punchlines that land with all the grace of a buffalo on roller skates.

Comedy in Super Bowl commercials used to be sharp, fresh. Now brands think if they just jam enough random celebrities into a 30-second spot, hilarity will ensue. Instead, we get a confusing mess where the product is an afterthought, wedged between three forced catchphrases and an overpaid A-lister who’s clearly wondering if this is worth the humiliation.

Case in point: This year’s crop of commercials felt like an AI-generated script where the prompt was simply “funny?” with a shrug emoji. The formula is painfully predictable—add one washed-up 90s star, sprinkle in a nostalgia reference and season liberally with over-the-top CGI. Voila! You’ve just burned $7 million on airtime for something people will forget before halftime.

And yet, amidst the wasteland of uninspired content, Jeep’s commercial featuring Harrison Ford stuck with me. Here’s a guy who can sell anything by simply showing up and looking vaguely disinterested. But somehow, Jeep managed to turn that into gold, blending his authenticity with the product in a way that felt natural, honest and actually enjoyable.

There used to be a time when people pretended to watch the game just so they could see the commercials. But that era is dead. Now, it’s just a wasteland of corporate money pits where ambition goes to die.

I suppose there’s always hope for next year, but let’s be real: the golden age of Super Bowl commercials is over. The magic is gone, replaced by desperate marketing teams green-lighting anything that might go viral, regardless of quality.

Until then, we’ll have to settle for watching the actual game—which will definitely be more exciting than watching another forced celebrity endorsement do their impression of a Tesla—crash and burn.