It's Not a Tumor

Remember the 1990 classic Kindergarten Cop? Arnold Schwarzenegger has a headache and the kid who always thinks about death says, “It might be a tumor.” Schwarzenegger replies, “It’s not a tumor. It’s not a tumor. At all.”

Well that’s what I’m reminded of when I tell you from the bottom of my heart and soul that what is happening in Gaza right now is not a genocide: It’s not a genocide. It’s not a genocide. At all.

If you don’t know the definition of genocide, you’re an idiot. But let’s clarify anyway. As defined by the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment on the Crime of Genocide and adopted by the U.N. General Assembly in 1948, genocide is “acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group.”

The first key clause, if I may, is “intent to destroy.” Genocide, in its most simple form, is when one group of people intends to utterly destroy another group. To completely fuck them up. To kill as many of them as possible. To wipe them off the face of the earth.

The Nazis wanted to kill every last Jew. Hutu extremists wanted to kill every last Tutsi. Their intent was clear and the destruction they wrought was severe.

So let’s start with Israel’s intent. Is it the intent of those in power in Israel to destroy Palestinians? To completely fuck them up? To kill as many of them as possible? To wipe them off the face of the earth?

Absolutely not.

How do we know this? Because, quite simply, if Israel wanted to kill every Palestinian, it could. Are you familiar with the Israeli Defense Force (IDF)? It is one of the best (per capita, arguably the best) militaries in the world. It won in 1948. It won in 1967. It won in 1973. It’s taken its lumps for sure but the IDF is one of the most formidable armies in the world and trust me when I tell you that if the IDF intended to commit a genocide against the Palestinian people, it could.

Before I go any further, let me be clear that I am not celebrating the IDF or militarism or war or anything else associated with people dying. I lament the fact that Israel has been in a near constant state of war since its founding. I lament the fact that Palestinians have bore the brunt of the IDF’s victories. I lament the fact that all Israelis (including the ultra-orthodox schmucks, inshallah) have to serve in the IDF. I lament the fact that the IDF even exists. I wish Israel could be like Costa Rica and not have an army, and that Israelis could walk around super chill saying pura vida rather than super upset saying kus emek (Arabic for “your mother’s pussy”).

But, unfortunately, Israel has and needs a military. And, unfortunately, Israel’s military is so strong that if it wanted to commit a genocide, it could. But, fortunately, it does not want to.

So how do I know it doesn’t want to? How can I, with any certainty, speak to the intent of the IDF? Well let’s start with numbers.

The Nazis killed approximately 11 million people in the Holocaust, 6 million of whom were Jews. Hutu extremists killed approximately 800,000 people during the Rwandan genocide, most of whom were Tutsis. As of June 26, 2024, Israelis have killed approximately 35,000 Palestinians. Not for one second am I saying 35,000 is insignificant. It’s significant. It’s tragic. It’s beyond tragic. But it’s not a genocide. The death toll in Gaza is less than 5% of what it was in Rwanda and less than .5% of what it was in the Holocaust.

Scale also matters. The Nazis killed 6 million of Europe’s 9 million Jews. 67% reflects an intent to destroy. Hutu extremists killed approximately 700,000 of Rwanda’s 1 million Tutsis. 70% reflects an intent to destroy. Israel has killed approximately 35,000 of Gaza’s 2 million Palestinians. Does 1.75% reflect an intent to destroy? Hold that thought.

The second key clause of the definition of genocide is “in whole or in part.” 1.75% is, ipso facto, “in part,” right?

Yes, but let’s consider geography. In the midst of frickin’ World War II, the Nazis painstakingly killed 6 million Jews across millions of square miles in Europe. Bravo. Rwanda is much smaller, only 10,000 square miles (about the size of Maryland), so that made the killing a bit easier. But Gaza is downright tiny: 140 square miles (about the size of Philadelphia). In such a convenient location, wouldn’t you expect someone perpetrating genocide to have killed a more sizeable “part” of the population than 1.75%?

Oh, but Israel hasn’t had enough time to kill more Palestinians, you argue. Time? Do you know how long it took for Hutu extremists to kill 800,000 people? Three months. I won’t bother doing the math of how many people died each day, but I’m sure we can agree that the Rwandan génocidaires’ intent was crystal clear, as was the Nazis’ (train schedules, gas chambers, etc.). If Israel intended to commit genocide, eight months would be more than enough time, particularly in such a densely populated area as Gaza.

The Nazis had time, intent, and technology. They not only benefited from their world-renowned German culture of efficiency, but they also had the best technology in the world, including but not limited to carefully constructed crematoria, a strong relationship with logistics companies such as IBM, and, my personal favorite, Zyklon B.

Rwandans had neither time nor technology but when there’s a will, there’s a way. You know how most Tutsis were killed during the Rwandan genocide? Machetes. That’s right, hundreds of thousands of people were slaughtered in less than three months by wild, crazy, and committed machete-wielding fanatics.

And then there’s the IDF, one of the strongest, most technologically advanced militaries in the world. It has the capacity to go from 35,000 to 350,000 in weeks, but it doesn’t want to. Technology, yes. Geography, yes. Intent, no.

There is intent, you say. It’s just that the world won’t allow Israel to do what it wants to do. Ok, get the fuck out of here with that shit. Israel goes to war when it wants to go to war. Israel builds settlements when it wants to build settlements. Israel violates U.N. resolutions when it wants to violate U.N. resolutions. Israel does all types of fucked up things because the U.S. is its sugar daddy and “nobody fucks with the Jesus” (Big Lebowski). If Israel wanted to commit a genocide, there is little the world could do to stop it.

Speaking of the world, can we talk about South Africa for a moment? It was the first country to officially accuse Israel of genocide and I believe it is important to spend a minute on why these salty, self-righteous bastards did what they did. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, Israel sold weapons to the Apartheid regime, and the people who were oppressed then are in power now, and they are still bitter. I get it. I do. Israel made a huge mistake in profiting off of others’ suffering, and I completely understand why South Africa is pissed. But pissed does not mean accurate. In fact, it usually means biased and inaccurate. So, South Africa, I’m sorry about Apartheid, I’m glad it ended, I’m glad you have a (deeply flawed) democracy, and I think it would be best if you shut the hell up and stopped making wild allegations against other (deeply flawed) democracies.

Back to the death toll for a moment: Of the 6 million Jews who died in the Holocaust, pretty much all of them were innocent civilians. Of the 800,000 Tutsis (and Tutsi “sympathizers”) who died in the Rwandan genocide, pretty much all of them were innocent civilians. Of the 35,000 Palestinians who have died since October, approximately 2/3rds of them were innocent civilians. 23,000 is terrible. 23,000 is tragic. 23,000 is beyond tragic. 23,000 also means “in part” is now closer to 1%. I challenge you, dear reader, to find another “genocide” in the history of the world in which only 1% of the civilian population was killed.

Hundreds of Chinese protestors were killed by government troops in one day in 1989. Was that a genocide? I’ll raise you: Approximately 150,000 Japanese civilians were killed by two bombs in three days in 1945. Was that a genocide? Raise you again: More than 1 million Vietnamese civilians were killed by thousands of bombs in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Was that a genocide? We have to look at intent, we have to look at what “in part” really means, and we definitely have to look at context.

So let’s do that: Hamas is fully ensconced amongst the Palestinian civilian population. I know, I know, you’ve heard this argument a million times. But think about it for a second. The Germans plucked the Jews from society, transported them to remote, often rural locations, and killed them. Hutu extremists killed Tutsis wherever and whenever they could with zero shits given to collateral damage or innocent civilians. In fact, they were targeting innocent civilians. Israel is targeting extremists/militants/terrorists/rapists/bad guys who have completely embedded themselves in homes, businesses, schools, and, yes, even hospitals. In fact, they’re hiding under the civilian populations. (God damn geniuses.) One could therefore argue that Israel has done a good job of limiting civilian deaths to about 23,000. I won’t go so far as to make that argument, but I hope by this point we’re on the same page that what’s happening in Gaza is not a tumor, I mean genocide.

If you’re still not convinced, let’s talk about the trucks. Hundreds of aid trucks enter Gaza every week. Hundreds. Yes, that is fewer trucks than normal (there is a war going on, after all), but it’s still a lot. And, personally, if I were perpetrating a genocide, I wouldn’t let in one single truck. Letting trucks into Gaza, where Israel is allegedly committing a genocide, is like putting the Jews in Auschwitz, gassing them, incinerating them, and every other day or so bringing in train loads of borscht and matzah ball soup. Letting trucks into Gaza, where Israel is allegedly committing a genocide, is like forcing hundreds of Tutsis into a local church, setting the church ablaze, burying the charred bodies in a mass grave, and in the days before you burn them alive bringing them local coffee and cassava. Letting trucks into Gaza is either Israel’s ingenious genocide subterfuge or just another example of its desire to destroy Hamas and, if and when possible, lessen civilian suffering.

I haven’t even mentioned October 7th. May I? What group has ever needed an excuse to commit genocide? What group has ever waited to be attacked before it commits genocide? The Nazis planned the Holocaust for years. Hutu extremists imported weapons and disseminated propaganda for years. In contrast, everything happening in Gaza right now is a response to October 7th.

Actually, no, that’s wrong. I just realized that Israel has been planning this genocide in Gaza the entire time. Here was the plan: Accept a proposed Palestinian state containing Gaza in 1948; capture Gaza in 1967, occupy it, and build settlements; dismantle all settlements in and completely withdraw from Gaza in 2005; wait to be attacked in 2024; and then go buck wild. Yeah, that makes sense.

If what’s happening in Gaza is a genocide, it’s like no other genocide the world has ever seen. It is the most inefficient, ineffective, and idiotic genocide the world has ever witnessed.

I know, I know. You’re convinced. You agree. You’re with me. And you don’t care. You’re asking yourself why it matters if it’s a genocide or ethnic cleansing or a war or a just war or a counteroffensive or a tumor. I’ll tell you why it matters.

Because Israel sucks right now. It’s sucked for the last 20 years and it’s had major moments of suckiness for the last 100 years. It, like the United States, England, Russia, Japan, India, Egypt, South Africa, Brazil, and every other country in the world (except maybe Norway?) is far from perfect. It makes and has always made terrible mistakes.

Netanyahu is an absolute piece of shit and many people in the government right now are even bigger pieces of shit. They don’t care about Palestinians, and they certainly don’t support a Palestinian state. In fact, there are even those in the current government who very well might want to perpetrate genocide in Gaza, or at least look the other way if it occurred. But those voices are tempered by the majority of Israeli citizens and by those in the Israeli government who understand that neither Palestinians nor Israelis are going anywhere, and coexistence is the best and only option. We are right when we allege that Israel has been sucking, and we should demand accountability and progress. We are wrong when we allege that Israel is committing genocide, and we should demand truth and accuracy.

Ok, here’s why I really care: Because I care about history and I care about Israel’s place in it. I know Israel has already been and will always be criticized, if not downright condemned, for many of the mistakes it’s made. And I accept that. But I will not accept 50 years from now when someone writes a history book and states that Israel committed a genocide in Gaza in 2023 and 2024. The idea that a reasonable historian may one day write that makes me sad and mad, and I want my grandchildren to read the awful, terrible, tragic truth about the last eight months in Gaza, not inaccurate, politicized hyperbole.

I'm Dying

For 47 years, I never thought about death.

When I was 9, my grandpa was dying of a brain tumor and he moved to Denver to live with us for the final few months of his life. I remember one night I was in the bath and the water was warm, not hot. My grandpa came in to brush his teeth and forgot what he was doing. He stared down at the sink, frozen, for the longest few minutes of my life before my mom yelled upstairs to see what he was doing. He died shortly after, his funeral was sad, and I went back to playing baseball and video games.

When I was 19, my dad nearly died from a clot in his stomach. I flew home from college, visited him in the hospital for a couple days, and flew back. I was worried but optimistic. My dad got better and I went back to playing tennis and chasing girls.

When I was 29, I briefly considered my own death after attending the most wretched, soulless wedding in the history of wretched, soulless weddings. The rehearsal dinner was at a Maggiano’s in a strip mall, the groom was (is) a piece of shit, and I knew the marriage would last forever and be miserable the entire time. It was an existential moment for me, as I’d been with the Boss nearly five years at that point and needed to, as they say, shit or get off the pot. For the first time, I started thinking about death by asking what I was gonna do with the rest of my life.

When I was 39, my dad started dying of cancer. Though I talked to him on the phone nearly every day in the year leading up to his death, I rarely went to Colorado and I wasn’t that close to the details of his demise. I knew about the sores in his mouth after the first round of chemo but even now as I write, I can’t remember much else. The cancer wouldn’t go away and my dad called it quits after about a year when a tumor started growing out of his nose. We all went to say goodbye and I watched his heart stop after the doctors mercifully ramped up the morphine. Less than a week later, I started what would become the most challenging job of my life and completely buried my head in the sand. I talked to my mom most days on the way home from work but we didn’t talk about my dad much. I, in particular, generally avoided the topic of death. I was busy with work and four kids, and mourning my dad’s death was, in theory, important but, in practice, painful and distracting.

When she was four years old, Panini (15) went to a museum exhibit on Pompeii and cried herself to sleep for the next few months cuz, for the first time, she understood that death was real and that, at some point, it was coming for her.

None of that stuff ever mattered to me. Jaws didn't scare me and cancer was for the birds. I've always felt like the Black Knight from Monty Python's The Quest for the Holy Grail who, after getting two arms and one leg chopped off, yells, "I'm invincible!"

But then this past year, it hit me: I'm not invincible.

I'm dying.

I recently got my first colonoscopy. Despite a few hemorrhoids, the colon looks good. But, see, my dad died of kidney cancer, my paternal grandpa died of colon cancer, and my maternal grandpa died from a brain tumor, so let’s just say it runs in the family, I’m at high risk, and I'm probably dying of undiagnosed colon cancer.

If I'm not dying of colon cancer, I'm probably dying of diabetes. Last summer I went to the doctor for aforementioned colonoscopy referral and because I hadn't been to a medical professional since I was 18 (because those who are immortal don't go to the doctor), he decided to do a full check-up, including blood work. He discovered and informed me that my sugar levels were too high and that I was officially pre-diabetic. Pre-diabetes is pretty much the same as diabetes and diabetes is the number #1 killer in our country, so by the transitive property unless I stop grabbing handfuls of Crunch Berries, I am dying.

I recently got sick and it lasted for almost a week because I'm middle-aged, my immune system isn't what it used to be, and, well, I'm dying. I also refuse to take medicine because taking medicine would be an acknowledgement that I need medicine, and if I acknowledge needing medicine now, then fast forward 30 years and I’ll have one of those pill boxes with my daily meds which I need to take or else I’ll die.

I have the hips of an octogenarian, my thumbs hurt from texting, and I need to lift weights once a week or my little Auschwitzy body starts atrophying. I am vigilant about pruning my fungus-infused toenails and I have a reminder in my phone to cut my ear and nose hair on the first of each month. Sometimes it occurs to me to masturbate not because I’m horny but because a good friend of mine says that if I don't, I'll get prostate cancer and die.

I'm tired all the time. I get migraines if I don't eat, drink, or sleep enough, I fall asleep grading papers at my desk, and I nap in my car at work. On Thursday afternoons, in particular, you can often find me in the fully reclined passenger seat of a blue Nissan Leaf in the school parking lot. On Wednesday nights, due to low-intensity tennis and the consumption of one full beer, I get six hours of sleep rather than the mandatory eight, so I am barely functional on Thursdays. From the second I wake up, I am obsessed with my forthcoming nap, so much so I that I so carefully deliberate over my parking spot at 7:40am because if direct sunlight were to hit the passenger seat between 1:30pm and 2:30pm, my nap would be interrupted, I would get a migraine, and I would die.

I've given up on self-improvement (as dying people often do) and have thrown whatever remaining time and energy I have into teaching Panini how to hit a slice backhand and Broosevelt (10) how to shoot with his left hand. As you know from previous posts, they're no good, but I'm still way too emotionally involved and often wake up in the middle of the night obsessing over why they care so little, why I care so much, and how if Broosevelt doesn’t start wearing a cup when he plays baseball, he’ll get hit in the balls, he won’t be able to have kids, and the family name will die when I die.

I’m declining cognitively. I can't remember the names of any of OG's (13) friends. I read more slowly than I used to and the National Geographics are piling up. Word retrieval has never been my strength but it is now officially a weakness: In the past couple days alone, I couldn't remember the words "merge" or "silverware."

I’m way too emotional, perhaps because the Boss and/or I are perimenopausal. I cry watching Ted Lasso, the rage I feel when Broosevelt swings at a bad pitch seems unhealthy, and I get absolutely apoplectic when the Boss leaves a cabinet open in the kitchen.

I have one foot in the grave professionally. My students used to feel like younger sisters and brothers. Then they became my nieces and nephews. Now I’m older than most of their parents, they tease me for wearing my reading glasses, they give me blank stares when I reference Sixteen Candles or A Few Good Men, and they apply new meanings to old words such as sell, cap, and drip. I pity my students, I hate their stupid, anxiety-ridden, enabled/disabled generation, and I should probably stop teaching and start "volunteering" aka dying.

I’m psychologically trapped. As death is now imminent, I feel an urgency to write more, play more, live harder, etc. but I also feel the weight of death and the hopelessness of survival, so I don’t do any of those things cuz what’s the point. I'm obsessed with clickbait articles in my AppleNews trough such as "Can this Chinese fruit curb aging?" but I don't follow any of the advice. There's a safety recall on aforementioned Nissan Leaf but I refuse to take it to the dealer because I want it all to end like Thelma & Louise.

I'm all alone. The Boss tells me she loves me but is asleep by 9:45 every night after she and Panini watch Bridgerton without me. At Boni’s (10) soccer games, I sit as far as possible from the other parents. I don't play beer pong with the other 4th grade dads because I don't like beer pong or 4th grade dads. The only "friends" I do have are forced to see me every week because I reserve their tennis courts. Most Fridays end with a solitary walk-about in my neighborhood and falling asleep on the couch by myself halfway through an episode of an erotically underwhelming episode of Game of Thrones.

But worst of all, the true sign that I am old, alone, and dying is that my own children have abandoned me. I used to feed them, bathe them, and wipe their little butts. I used to take them to the blue park, make them peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and read them Goodnight Moon before they went to bed. We used to have Michael Jackson dance parties, play "Somebody That I Used to Know" on the piano together, and watch Goonies for family movie night.

Now they wipe their own butts and take out the Barbecue Lay’s whenever they want. Now they’re on their devices playing Fortnite or watching TikTok. Now they only talk to me when they need $10 or a ride to the Red Line. Broosevelt's the only one left who will still shower with me.

I find myself holding on for dear life to the 13-minute car ride to school with Panini each morning. I’m usually annoyed at her for being a couple minutes late and I shame her for her short shorts. She gives me a grade for the U-turn I make after we come out of the alley. Sometimes we listen to NPR and talk about Gaza, and sometimes we listen to 104.3 and "Back That Ass Up." Sometimes she gets mad at me for being so tired and quiet, and sometimes she lets me pet her head. Sometimes we argue over who gets to wear the giant sunglasses I keep in my car. Sometimes, randomly and sweetly, she says "Hello" and gently touches my cheek with her index finger. When I drop her off at school, she always asks to stay in the car for "just one more minute." I say no because I have to get to work but really I’m saying no because our time together is ending anyway cuz she’ll be off to college in two years and we won’t be able to drive to school together anymore and then I’ll never ever see her again and I’ll be all alone and dead.

At least sometimes I let her wear the sunglasses.

Purple Wristbands

Back in the day, the whistle blew, the other team threw the ball in, and you fuckin figured out who you were guarding. It wasn't that hard. 

Nowadays, the whistle blows, the 9-year-old YMCA Lakers line up at half-court across from the 9-year-old YMCA Celtics, and they all put on their stupid fucking wristbands. The kid on the Lakers with the yellow wristband guards the kid on the Celtics with the yellow wristband, the kid on the Lakers with the green wristband guards the kid on the Celtics with the green wristband, and my little Boni who plays for the Lakers and is complete trash at basketball and always needs to wear the purple wristband cuz she loves purple guards the kid on the Celtics with the purple wristband.

It's a fucking joke. The coaches make the kids point at each other as if to say, "You're wearing a purple wristband and I'm wearing a purple wristband, so I'm guarding you!"

It's shameful. And it teaches them nothing. In fact, it teaches them wrong. Cuz now instead of understanding that you gotta guard whoever you need to guard and that you need to protect the rim at all times and that you always need to see the ball and your man, you just run around like a fucking moron making sure you're guarding the kid with the purple wristband.

No joke, the ball could be on the right side of the court and a kid could be dribbling directly to the basket about to shoot a lay-up, yet there will be kids on the left side of the court who have absolutely no idea where the ball is because they're only paying attention to the kid who has the same color wristband.

It's a fucking travesty, and by "supporting" kids in this way, we are ruining them.

Here's another one: Broosevelt, my 9-year-old son who is actually somewhat decent at basketball, plays in a league that actually has some decent players but the league has a rule that you can't guard the other team until they get to the 3-point line. You can't guard 'em when they get the rebound and you can't even guard 'em once they cross half-court. You have to stand behind the 3-point line and wait until they make the first pass, and then you can finally play defense. 

Here's how this plays out: The other team shoots and misses, Broosevelt grabs the rebound, and there are two dudes on the other team right next to him. In normal life, Broosevelt would have to protect the ball by passing it, dribbling away from them, etc. But in this world of irony and stupidity, Broosevelt just dribbles up the court and pays no attention whatsoever to the kids on the other team running next to him because those kids can't touch the ball. So now Broosevelt has no idea how to protect the ball because he's never needed to protect the ball.

You know what else Broosevelt can't do? Cross the street by himself. You know what else? Make his own lunch. You know what else? Wipe his own ass. Just kidding, he wipes himself, but it is true that I still help him cross the street and that I still make him a sandwich every day. Yes, I contribute to this Culture of Enabling, but no longer. I might throw some turkey and cheese on a piece of bread for him but he will heretofore navigate on his own through traffic.

I heard a report the other day on NPR titled, "Shots can be scary and painful for kids. One doctor has a plan to end needle phobia." Are you fucking kidding me? "Needle phobia?" No one likes needles. Needles suck. But this isn't a "phobia." This is something kids are scared of because it fucking hurts, so how about instead of NPR lamenting the "distress parents experience at hearing their child scream at the doctor's office" and labeling it "emotional torture," we all calm the fuck down a bit and tell our kids, "Look, it's gonna hurt a little. You'll be fine. Stop crying." Our kids will say, "You mock my pain!" (Princess Bride), and we will respond, "Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something."

I "help" Broosevelt and Boni by pouring their Cheerios and milk. The Boss "helps" our kids by plying them with Advil at the slightest hint of discomfort. My students' psychotic parents "help" their kids by obsessively protecting them from a B.

We protect our kids from pain, and they're weak. We protect our kids from chaos on the basketball court, and they suck at basketball. We hold their hands when they cross the street, and they end up dead like a smushed Frogger.

Back in the day, normal parental love meant a healthy mix of affection and discipline. Nowadays, that's known as "tough love." Eventually, "tough love" will be known as "abuse" because "love" will mean letting full-figured Little Johnny eat a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and then demanding Little Johnny's principal be fired when he doesn't expel the two "bullies" who "body-shamed" our Little Johnny by calling him "fat."

More basketball: Broosevelt plays in another league which generally consists of kids who are borderline physically disabled. At halftime they give both teams two minutes to make as many lay-ups as possible. I'm cool with that. Seems fun. Keeps everyone active. But what I'm not cool with is that each team gets a point for every lay-up they make. So, if the score is 10-0 at halftime and both teams make 10 lay-ups, now the score is 20-10, and the team that didn't score a single fucking point in the first half is still down 10 points but feels much better about itself. They don't need to feel better about themselves. What they need is to feel like absolute shit for not having scored a single point so they go home, work hard, and become better basketball players.

Pain is a good thing. Pain motivates us. Pain makes us think creatively and problem-solve. If a B makes you cry, work harder. If losing hurts, play better. If you're about to get hit by a car, run. 

I'll tell you who can't figure out shit because her mother has never made her figure out anything: Panini, my 15-year-old incompetent. For years, yes years, the Boss gathered laundry from the floor of Panini's room, washed it, dried it, folded it, and put it back in Panini's room. Panini couldn't even be bothered to put it away, leaving it in piles scattered around her room. The Boss eventually said that if Panini didn't put away her clean clothes and put her dirty clothes in the hamper, she would stop doing her laundry. Panini didn't do shit, so the Boss stopped doing her laundry. Fast forward a couple weeks, and Panini literally had no clean underwear and was gathering dirty socks off her floor to wear to school. So what did the Queen of Enabling do? Buy her more underwear.

Everything that enables my kids has, in fact, disabled them. They ask Siri what 12 times 6 is because they can't do math. They use the Maps app to walk .3 miles to 7-11 because they, and I'm not exaggerating here, don't know north from south. They use Snapchat to "communicate" because they are incapable of talking on the phone, let alone being in the same room with another human being and making eye contact.

Some more basketball: Panini played on the JV basketball team this year at her high school. I repeat: high school. In a game early in the season, her team was getting its ass kicked. At some point I notice the clock keeps running when the whistle blows so, like the asshole dad I am, I yell out "Clock!" Happens again, and I again yell out "Clock!" No one pays me any attention and the clock keeps running. Turns out that there is a district-wide rule that when a team is losing by more than 30 points, the clock doesn't stop. In other words, they make the game go faster to avoid a total massacre. In other words, they make every girl on both teams play less basketball so all the girls on one team can feel a bit less shitty about themselves.

Look, I'm down with the "mercy rule" but only to a point. If a 9-year-old baseball team is losing by more than 10 runs after five innings, fine, call it. If a 12-year-old soccer team is losing by more than 10 goals deep in the second half, fine, call it.

Actually, no, fuck that. Make the soccer team that's winning make 20 passes before they can shoot. Take one of their players off the field. Make it so they can only shoot with their left foot. Would the losing team still feel humiliated despite all those adjustments? Yes. But at least they'd get to play more soccer. See, that's the issue: We're so hell-bent on "protecting" our kids that we've sacrificed play for pity.

Fuck it, more basketball: Late in the season, Panini's team was, once again, getting crushed. The opposing team scored a basket to go up by 27 points and Panini's coach looked over to the scoring table and said, "Just let it run." You heard me right: This skinny little fuck asked for the "mercy rule" to be implemented before it was supposed to be implemented. What makes it worse is that he wasn't trying to "protect" his players. He just wanted the game to be done because he's a shitty, uninvested coach who felt humiliated by the debacle unfolding in front of him for which he was primarily responsible. But all that's for a different blog post...

Back in the day, criminals wore handcuffs. Nowadays, kids wear handcuffs disguised as purple wristbands. Our kids don't have the freedom to fuck up. And learn.

I'm done making lunches.

Sorry, not sorry: Yesterday at Boni's YMCA game, the Celtics were beating the Lakers 20-10 and the YMCA folks told the Celtics coach he had to make his players make five passes before they could shoot. The score wasn't 40-3 or 55-12. The Celtics were winning by ten motherfucking points, tears were already being shed, and feelings were already being protected.

Enough already.

Privilege gives our children the opportunity to thrive, but some of us have so much privilege that we need to give our kids the ultimate opportunity: the freedom to fail.

Nathan Wilks

Nathan Wilks is a 38-year-old financial advisor who lives in Naperville, IL. Please feel free to google him, send him an email (as I did), and go to his home or place of work to learn more about him. I am using Nathan's real name because this motherfucker was brazen enough to use his real name in his efforts to cheat on his wife and scam my friend, Juanita, out of $100,000. He was semi-successful in his cheating and unsuccessful in his scamming.

Nathan, if you wanna anonymously do some shady shit when you’re on vacation in Thailand, be my guest. But if you’re gonna recklessly put your entire self out there, then I’m gonna put you out there too.

Juanita (not her real name) is a 45-year old project manager who lives in Glenview, IL. She spends time on various dating apps and recently met Nathan on Tinder. Juanita is divorced, has three children with two different dudes, and is therefore not the best judge of character when it comes to men. However, there will be no victim-shaming here and, as you will see, Juanita figured out that Nathan Wilks is a lying scumbag well before it was too late.

In April, Juanita and Nathan match on Tinder. His profile states that he is “looking for a relationship” and Nathan tells Juanita that he got divorced a couple of years ago. They eventually decide to meet for brunch at Egg Harbor in Oak Brook at 11am on a Thursday.

Juanita is impressed: Nathan is 6’2, physically fit, and handsome. After a few minutes, Nathan asks Juanita if she is on LinkedIn. Juanita says yes, and Nathan takes out his phone and invites Juanita to connect. Juanita figures Nathan is just networking, as financial advisors often do.

Nathan tells Juanita he is currently launching his own investment bank and that he’s very busy these days. He wonders, however, if Juanita would like to go on a “proper date" and asks what she is doing in the next few days. Juanita is enjoying her bacon, egg, and potato breakfast skillet and generally enjoying Nathan’s company, but she has two other dates planned, so she rainchecks.

After a week or two of underwhelming texts from Nathan (“Good morning!”, “How was your day?”, etc.), they set a date for a Wednesday night at J. Alexander’s, a contemporary American restaurant near Juanita’s house. Juanita appreciates that Nathan is coming all the way from Naperville.

The date goes well. Juanita is wearing her usual first-date outfit: jeans and a black v-neck which shows off her cleavage. Nathan is wearing a suit with a white shirt and a purple tie, which brings out the purple in his stylish tweed jacket. They sit at dinner for three hours, Juanita gets the prime rib, and they both drink old-fashioned’s.

J. Alexander’s closes at 10pm and there’s nowhere to go in Glenview, so Juanita invites Nathan back to her house. They have another drink, make out a little, and he leaves. Nathan is a good kisser and behaves like a gentleman.

Juanita and Nathan begin texting more frequently and Nathan seems more interested. They try to set up another date but Nathan says he is still very busy with the launch of his company. He is unable to make plans in advance and sometimes says “maybe tomorrow for lunch.” He also says that he can’t ever go out on weekends because his ex-wife has the kids during the week and he has them all weekend.

Nathan, I know of a lot of set-ups for divorced people, and this is not one of them. No dad takes his kids all weekend every weekend. Lie better.

Nathan offers to meet for a happy hour during the week. He again drives to Juanita, they meet at a bar for a little while, and Nathan bounces. Juanita thinks, “You drove all the way to Glenview during rush hour to hang out for less than an hour? Weird.”

Though Juanita would prefer to actually get together in person, they continue to text. Nathan shares details about his childhood: He’s from the South Side of Chicago, his mother was a crackhead, his brother spent time in jail, and he experienced homelessness.

Nathan, that’s some sad shit so, in this case, I actually hope you’re lying about some or all of it.

Nathan invites Juanita to invest in his business. Though Juanita knows there is no way in hell she is going to invest, she asks how many partners Nathan has, what the minimum investment is, and what the expected return is.

Nathan is dead serious about getting Juanita to invest; Juanita is not. She says, “You think I’m gonna give 100k to some dude I met on Tinder? Do I look like a crazy person?” She sends Nathan a link for the The Tinder Swindler. She gives Nathan her email but says that if he asks for her SSN, she’s out. 

She jokes, “Ok, I’m in. I give you 100k and then what happens?”

He says, “We meet up for dinner, we pop some champagne, and we go on a trip to celebrate.”

“Where?”

“Alaska!”

“Alaska?!? So you can push me off a cliff and keep my 100k? Fuck that. I just saw that story on Dateline!”

Nathan keeps coming on strong. He texts Juanita every day and starts calling her “babe.” They’re still trying to meet up for another date. Juanita’s daughter comes home from college, so she offers to go to his house. He responds, “Oh, I don’t know. My house isn’t very clean.”

Nathan, BRO, you’ve put yourself on Tinder and created this entire scheming lifestyle, but this is the best you can come up with? How about your house is being renovated or you have family in town? How about anything other than your house being dirty? If you’re gonna be this big of a bastard, you better up your game.

Juanita is now suspicious as fuck. First of all, this conversation occurred on a Monday and they were talking about going out later that week, so how does Nathan not have time to clean up his house? Second, if Nathan is really an investment banker, how does he not have a cleaning lady? Third, neither Juanita nor you nor I has ever met a man who wouldn’t leap at the offer of a woman to come to his house.

So Juanita says, “Look man. We’re not going out again until I see your place. Period.”

Nathan invites Juanita over for lunch on a Sunday. She pulls into the driveway and the house looks shabby. She meets Nathan at the door and he makes an off-hand comment about the lock-box on the door. He says he keeps it there in case his ex-wife needs to come by.

Nathan gives Juanita a tour. The house is kind of a mess with mismatched, outdated furniture. It feels sparse and neglected, especially for an investment banker. Nathan says this is the house that he and his ex-wife bought years ago when their kids were little. There are no women’s clothes in the closets, but Juanita feels very suspicious.

They go to lunch and, after 20 minutes, Nathan says he has to go pick up his kids. Juanita is confused. Nathan said he had dropped off his kids before she got there, so why would he need to go pick them up so soon? Jaunita is annoyed. She drove all the way out to Naperville for this?

Juanita gets home and immediately googles his address. She quickly discovers that the house is for rent beginning on May 15th. It is May 8th at this point. She also discovers that Nathan is not the owner of the house; he’s a renter.

Juanita looks up divorce records in Cook County and surrounding counties. There is no divorce record for Nathan Wilks and she presumes that Nathan is still married.

Juanita goes on Facebook and finds Nathan’s wife. Her profile states that she is married and there are recent pictures of her, her kids, and Nathan.

Juanita enters the Facebook group, “Are we dating the same guy?”, which she has successfully used before (and which was recently banned in Chicago because so many guys complained about it). Sure enough, Nathan is on there and someone has posted that he is married with kids and has attempted to con numerous people out of money.

In the meantime, Nathan has texted Juanita a couple of times and she hasn't responded. He writes, “What’s your deal?”

Juanita responds, “When are you moving?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your house is listed for rent. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

“Oh, it’s been for rent for a while. Bla bla bla. Bullshit bullshit bullshit.”

“Lies. You don’t even own that house.”

Silence.

Juanita finishes, “Are you done clowning now? 🤡”

Nathan, do I understand the desire to have sex with other women? Sure. But what I don’t understand is how you can put your entire personal and professional life at risk. What if Juanita (who, lucky for you, decided she has better things to do than fuck your shit up) had DM’d your wife, poured sheep's blood on your desk at work, or stood outside your kids’ school with a sign that said CHEATING ASSHOLE? You either hate your life and are subconsciously trying to self-sabotage or you’re just the stupidest motherfucker I’ve ever heard of. Best of luck to you.

I Wish Damar Hamlin Had Died

In a perfunctory, guilt-ridden spectacle, the entire world offered its "thoughts and prayers" to Buffalo Bills player Damar Hamlin back in January after he nearly died on a football field. It appears that millions upon millions of people genuinely love Damar Hamlin and care about his well-being.

I don't.

Hamlin suffered cardiac arrest after a vicious collision with a player on the other team. But I don't care about Hamlin's heart. I care about the hearts of the 400,000 Americans who die from cardiac arrest every year, most of whom suffered from heart disease due to the build-up of cholestrol and plaque inside the lining of the coronary arteries. The primary cause of this plaque build-up? Obesity. That's right; I care about those who suffer from the disease that affects 40% of Americans and is the #1 killer in our country.

Actually, I don't really care about them either.

I care about Micah Hyde, the player Hamlin replaced in the Bills line-up after Hyde himself suffered a season-ending neck injury. There are approximately 100 neck injuries in the NFL every year, and if you google Reggie Brown, Dennis Byrd, Mike Utley, etc., you can read all about the awful, appalling, atrocious paralyses and near-death experiences that occur regularly in the National Football League of Lawlessness.

I don't actually care about Micah Hyde. I'd never heard of him until recently. But I do care about Dane Jackson, yet another Bills player who was carted off the football field in an ambulance after a scary neck injury about one hour before Hyde's injury.

Just kidding, I don't care about Hyde or Jackson. I care about the real problem in the NFL which isn't neck injuries; it’s CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), a neurological disease resulting from repeated trauma to the head. A 2017 Boston University study found that 99% of brains from deceased NFL players were positive for CTE. In 2013, more than 4,000 former players sued the league, which ultimately settled for $765 million. That was nice, but I still feel nauseated when I think about former NFL player Junior Seau who committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart, presumably so his brain could be used for research on CTE.

The more I think about it though, the less I care about all the players who suffer and suffered from CTE. I mean, these guys chose to play in the league, right? They chose to play a violent sport and they chose to put themselves in harm's way. They knew the risks. Screw them. Everyone knows how dangerous football is. They shoulda known better. 

Damar Hamlin definitely shoulda known better. Hamlin was born in 1998 in cosmopolitan Pittsburgh, went to a reputable Catholic high school, and ultimately attended the University of Pittsburgh, a hub of learning and research.

The thing is though, zero people were talking about football players and CTE in 1998, and Hamlin was actually born and raised in McKees Rocks (part of the Pittsburgh metropolitan area), which had a median household income of $22,278 in 2010. When Hamlin was a kid, his dad spent three years in jail for selling drugs and three of his friends died from gun violence. So let's just say that neurological trauma was the furthest thing from Hamlin's mind and football may have seemed like one of the only ways out.

Still though, when Hamlin first put on a helmet, he must have known the risks. He must have known about the concussions, the neck injuries, the spinal injuries, the paralysis, the CTE, and the disproportionate share of former NFL players who commit suicide. He must have known, right?

Fuck no, he didn't know. And neither did Micah Hyde, Dane Jackson, or Junior Seau. Or any other current and former NFL player when they were six years old and made their first tackle. 

You know who else didn't know? Heisman trophy winner and former NFL All-Pro Bo Jackson. Remember him? "Bo knows football. Bo knows baseball. Bo knows..." 

In 2017, Bo Jackson said that if he had known about the risks associated with CTE, he never would have played football and that there's no way he would allow his kids to play today.

No, I don't wish Damar Hamlin had died. But if he had, I would hope that a silver lining of his death might be that you, the casual NFL fan, might reevaluate your life choices and decide not to put your eyeballs on the modern-day version of Roman gladiators.

I know 40-yard touchdown passes are exciting and that the Cowboys cheerleaders are pleasant to look at, but the NFL is, quite literally, killing people. Perhaps if Hamlin had died, he would have whispered, in his dying breath, "Are you not entertained?!?"

Is There Any Dolphins Still Alive?

Listen, Panini's my best friend and OG is my favorite and Boni is the Queen Goddess, but Broosevelt is my guy. I don't necessarily espouse the philosophy of bros before hoes, but only Broosevelt and I sit for hours in front of an NBA playoff game, give each other hi-five's when we fart, and cross the streams when we pee. We have a special relationship, he's a special guy, and I desperately want you to understand who he is. 

Broosevelt is a 9-year-old boy with fair skin and a blond head of hair. He weighed in at exactly 4 pounds when he was born and he is still short and weak. He just started being able to do push-ups in the last few months and his core strength is zero. He's got heart though. Every time I beat him in 1-on-1, he's like, "Another one!" Eventually he cries, but he always says it was worth it.

Broosevelt plays piano, enjoys math, loves geography, and is obsessed with statistics, names, numbers, addresses, and capitals.

Broosevelt is clearly like his father in many ways, but he is also very much unlike me: He is sensitive, anxious, and kind. He is nice to the boys and the girls, he hugs his teammates when they strike out, and he sometimes thinks about death before falling asleep.

A year or so ago, Broosevelt started asking questions. A lot of them. I don't remember when and I sure as hell don't remember why, but on some random occasion, Broosevelt looked up from his cream cheese and jelly sandwich and, with total sincerity, asked, "Is there any dolphins still alive?"

That question, in addition to countless other gems, led the Boss and me to start keeping a list of some of the insane shit he has asked. We are not the list-keeping type, but I believe that these questions will help reveal to you, my wonderful readers, exactly who Broosevelt is.

Saul freely acknowledges that he has, at times, misled, embellished, obfuscated, and perhaps even outright lied. Though some of the questions and conversations detailed in this post may seem truly unbelievable, they are all 100% accurate and real. Enjoy.

Broosevelt is curious. He has asked, "How do traffic lights work," "If you had a finger between your thumb and your pointer finger, what would you call it?," and "Can people eat squirrels? Are they yummy?"

Sometimes though, he's more clueless than curious. After two gout-inducing buffet breakfasts, Broosevelt asked, "Is bacon a vegetable?"

Rather than laugh in his face, I gave him three choices:

A. Bacon, like sausage, comes from pigs

B. Bacon, like lettuce, comes from plants

C. Bacon, likes corn, comes from the earth

He guessed C.

We make fun of Broosevelt for his cluelessness. Sometimes he gets upset. Sometimes he laughs it off. Sometimes he doesn't even realize he's being made fun of. On a random Monday night during a totally normal week of school, Broosevelt asked, "Is there school tomorrow?"

I said, "Yeah buddy, there's school tomorrow," and then his sisters and I proceeded to tease him for asking if there was school tomorrow because of course there was school tomorrow. The laughter died down and a few seconds later, Broosevelt asked, "So, is there school tomorrow?"

Sometimes Broosevelt is funny by accident. One night I was putting him to bed and he kept peppering me with questions. Finally I said, "Broosevelt, it's official. I can't talk to you anymore. Goodnight." And he said, "Oh, it's official, like the Bill of Rights?"

Sometimes Broosevelt is funny on purpose. A few weeks ago, I came home from work and asked him how his day was. He said, "Well, I tried to make a Minecraft cowboy but I made his nuts too big so it didn’t work out."

Broosevelt, understandably, thinks I know everything. He has asked, "Who is the best player on Paris Saint-Germain?" and "Who is the best WWE wrestler of all time?"

And recently he asked, "When was James Madison born?"

I responded, "I'm not sure. Some time around 1740?"

"No, I mean his birthday."

Broosevelt can be philosophical. He has asked, "Why is it not possible to travel through time?" and "I feel like when you’re living inside earth, it’s hard to believe that earth is round. Don’t you think?"

But he's also pragmatic (read: crafty Jew who understands the value of a dollar). Two days after Christmas last year, he said, "At what age will I need to buy people Christmas presents? Can it be after my Bar Mitzvah? Because I'll have more money then."

Broosevelt is honest and direct. As he was getting his ass kicked in a game of UNO, he groaned, "Ughhhh, I don't like people!" 

But sometimes he is confused and unclear. Broosevelt and I were watching March Madness, and Princeton was up by 15 on #7 seed Missouri after already having knocked out #2 seed Arizona in the first round.

Broosevelt exclaimed, "Man, Princeton is literally on fire!"

I said, "Nope, they're not."

A few minutes later when Princeton was up 20, he said, "Ok, now they're literally on fire!"

"Nope, they're still not."

"Yes, they are!"

"Broosevelt, if they were literally on fire, they'd actually be on fire."

And then Broosevelt was silent.

Sometimes Broosevelt just wants answers. One day he asked me, "Are aliens real?"

I said, "What do you think?"

"I think they're not."

"Ok."

"So are they?"

But sometimes Broosevelt is very far away, thinking his thoughts, unaware of the world around him. This past April, we were in California for spring break. In the middle of a long, spectacular drive along the cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway, Broosevelt said to the Boss and me, "Do you use Yelp?"

Sometimes it's hard to tell if Broosevelt doesn't know how to articulate his question or if he's just downright stupid. In February, he asked, "How are some countries better than ours?"

And then in May, while watching an NBA playoff game, he turned to me and asked, "Do most NBA players play with shoes on?

Sometimes Broosevelt is perfectly articulate and perfectly stupid. For his wax museum project at school, Broosevelt learned everything he could about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Though Broosevelt is fully aware that Abdul-Jabbar is currently over 70 years old, this past February, he asked, "Will Kareem start playing again since LeBron broke his record?"

Broosevelt is young and innocent. In a tv commercial, a man and and a woman started passionately kissing and then they got into bed with almost no clothes on and then the commercial showed a condom and Broosevelt said, "I don't think anyone's gonna buy that!"

But Broosevelt also understands the way the world works. He asked, "How is safti (Israeli grandmother) such a good cook? Does it come naturally?" 

And he likes to use a line he stole from his friend: "Martin Luther King wouldn’t have done all that if he were white."

Sometimes Broosevelt is smart when he's dumb. He asked, "Are all flags a rectangle?" and I judged him for his dumbness until I googled it and learned that Nepal has the world's only non-rectangular flag.

Sometimes Broosevelt is dumb when he's smart. A few months ago, he asked, "How long has the war in Ukraine been going on?"

I said, "About a year, I think."

"So like, since last January?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Do they use swords?"

From the moment the following question was asked through the time of writing, we still do not understand Broosevelt's intent. All we know is that we were an hour into Footloose, set in the early 80s in small town America, and as Kevin Bacon and the preacher were engaged in a tense conversation, Broosevelt asked, "Is this World War II?