Sex Work

I love whores.

Oof, that sounds wrong.

_____

I love prostitutes.

Still not great.

_____

I love sex workers.

Yeah, that’s better. 

Though “love” is misleading. I don’t love them like I love my wife or my children or my mom or my brothers. I love them like I love short people or Mexicans or ophthalmologists. I love them broadly and abstractly, in a generic humanity way, in a “Love makes the world go round” way, in a “Everybody Love Everybody!” Jackie Moon way, in a “Love thy neighbor way.”

The “neighbor” example is a perfect transition because a whorehouse, sorry, a brothel, sorry, a sex work entrepreneurial enterprise recently opened about 800 feet from my front door. True story. It was called Di Da Di, it was next door to a gas station, and it, completely conspicuously, sold sex: fluorescent facade; pink, bubbly letters; and signage that read “MASSAGE. SPA. CLUBHOUSE.” Clubhouse?! Sex work in the city of Chicago and elsewhere is normally marketed more subtly. Di Da Di was clearly selling blowjobs.

I watched Di Da Di’s doors open feeling not only surprised that sex work had become so commercially overt but also happy that the industry appeared to be continuing down the path toward decriminalization and destigmatization. Others, however, were not so pleased.

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I have a 13-year-old daughter and she has friends and those friends have moms and one of those moms is Allison, a white, Midwestern, Christian-type lady who has good intentions and is, perhaps unknowingly, a total hypocrite. Allison has surely donated to, purchased membership in, and/or canvassed on behalf of the Sierra Club, MoveOn.org, and/or the ACLU. She is a progressive. She works for some do-gooder non-profit. She believes in social justice, she believes Black Lives Matter, and she is a feminist…allegedly.

The Boss was recently sitting on our blue couch, looking rakish as usual, chatting with a friend, when I heard her say, “...like that place down the block where they give happy endings.” Now look, the Boss is worldly, wise, and an absolute wildcat on Saturday nights but, let’s face it, she’s kinda vanilla. So when I heard her mention “happy endings,” I was shocked.

“How the hell do you know about that place?” I asked.

“Allison told me.”

“How the hell does Allison know about it?”

“She’s a busy body.”

It’s true: Allison is a busy body. She pesters the principal about the reading curriculum, she bugs her neighbors about composting bins, and now she’s annoying everyone about the whores, sorry, sex workers down the block. And therein lies the hypocrisy: Allison believes in women’s rights. She believes that every woman should be safe, secure, and free. If I asked Allison, “True or False: Sex work should be decriminalized,” I’m sure she’d say true. And yet, when a sex work pop-up-shop popped up right up the road, she had that shit closed down right quick. Not in my backyard, she said. Sex workers can do their thing in the Gold Coast or out near O’Hare, but not in family-friendly Lakeview.

Hypocrisy 101.

_____

But let’s back up. Why does Allison, presumably, think sex work should be legal? Why do I think it should be legal? Why do many, if not most, educated, progressive, and Filthy Readers of Saul think it should be legal or, at the very least, decriminalized?

Well, first off, sex work has always existed and will always exist. Lonely cave men offered a shank of mammoth to starving cave women in exchange for some cave pussy. Roman senators frequented local brothels to relieve their stress of running the world. American soldiers in Vietnam killed hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese fighters and financed hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese sex workers.

Despite Sting’s protests, Roxanne put on the red light. Jamie Lee Curtis blessed my childhood in Trading Places. Julia Roberts showed everyone that Richard Gere is more than just a man with a gerbil.

Is sex work rooted in patriarchy? Of course. Is sex work an overall win for society? Of course not. But it’s happening, has always happened, and will always happen, so we can either criminalize it, pretend the laws are working, and push it underground, or we can accept it as a “necessary evil” and do our best to regulate, educate, and protect.

Here’s another reason Allison should support local business: America is already on the wrong side of history for abortion, democracy, and pretty much everything else, so we don’t need to be on the wrong side of this one too. Countries in which sex work is criminalized include the U.S., most of Africa, Russia, and China. Countries in which sex work is decriminalized or legal include most of Western Europe, nearly all of Latin America, Australia, and New Zealand. May just be a coincidence but I’m pretty sure more sex workers speak Mandarin than they do Kiwi.

Allison knows illegal sex workers have higher rates of sexually transmitted diseases. Allison knows illegal sex workers suffer from higher rates of violence, sexual and otherwise. Allison knows illegal sex workers are more likely to use addictive drugs and have unprotected sex. Allison knows sex work is bad, and she must know that marginalized, stigmatized, and criminalized sex work is worse. Instead of using the police to help protect sex workers, however, she called the pigs to shut them down.

_____

Saul has obviously done his research for this post and he came across this argument: To support decriminalizing the sale of sex would be to support prostitution itself. Well that’s about the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. Smoking is toxic but we permit and regulate it because we want fewer people to die of lung cancer. War is awful but we permit and regulate it because we want fewer innocent civilians to suffer. Abortion is tragic but we permit and regulate it because we want fewer women to use hangers.

I also came across this: The existence of prostitution anywhere is society’s betrayal of women, especially those who are marginalized and vulnerable because of their sex, their ethnicity, their poverty, and their history of abuse and neglect. I agree. The world fucking sucks and women have been subjugated since forever. But until their subjugation ends, there is no need to exacerbate their betrayal by denying them greater safety and security.

But sex work, like slavery and child labor, is fundamentally exploitative and the U.S. has done away with slavery and child labor. Yes, all of that is true but, unlike slavery and child labor, the demand for sex work has never disappeared. The market adjusted and learned to function without slavery. The market adjusted and learned to function without child labor. But despite hundreds of years of prohibition, criminalization, and stigmatization, the market for sex work persists. What do we do with exploitative markets? We regulate them. We make them as safe as they can be. We try to reduce harm.

And, yes, of course, we need to address the causes of those markets. We should fight for women’s equality. We should fight for women's economic opportunity. We should fight to end conditions that make women so desperate that they feel sex work is their only option. And until that day comes, we should fight to make a terrible thing a bit less terrible.

_____

I’m sure Allison was just trying to shield her children from the cruelties of the world when she had Di Da Di shut down. But in the process of doing so, she perpetuated another cruelty. So I ask you, dear reader: Are you Allison or Saul? Do you want the doors of Di Da Di shuttered or do you want the facade to be repainted, the electricity to be turned back on, and the juices to start flowing once again?

Murder in Mexico

Allow myself to introduce yourself to Yofi, Rafi, and their 3-year-old son whom we shall call Tofu because he is soft and stubborn like tofu. And though we do not yet know Tofu’s sexuality, if being gay were a choice, Tofu would most certainly choose to be gay, like his dads are and like tofu is.

Yofi is my brother-in-law and Rafi is his husband. In some ways, they are the gayest of gays: Yofi is an actor in New York and Rafi works in the fashion industry. Yofi dresses Tofu in striped clothing and Rafi sunbathes. Yofi grooms his chest hair and Rafi is French.

They’re not über-gay though: Yofi yells at his dad and Rafi drives aggressively. Yofi doesn’t shave every day and Rafi ogles women. Yofi sometimes speaks sternly to Tofu and when Rafi misses a high forehand volley, he screams putain de merde! (whore of shit!).

I share this information with you so you know a bit more about some of the murder victims discussed below.

_______________

Over the recent Hanukkah Holiday, my brood and I spent eight delicious days in a small town on the Peninsula de Yucatán in Mexico: beach and pool, sun and sand, swimming and snorkeling, showers and sex, Netflix and naps, chips and guac, tequila and lime.

There were twelve of us total. In addition to my clan of six and Yofi, Rafi, and Tofu, the Boss’ parents came, as they researched, arranged, and bankrolled the trip. The Boss’ other brother also came, as he is underemployed and technically a blood relative.

Twelve of us went but only two of us came back, as I murdered everyone who crossed the border.

Well, almost everyone.

________________

Murder can be a gift.

Murdering King Joffrey in Game of Thrones was a gift to the people of Westeros. Murdering a rat in my alley with my shovel was a gift to my neighbors. Murdering the Orange Man will be a gift to our great nation.

It was with this philosophy in mind that I decided to put the Boss’ borderline elderly parents (Baruch and Dvora) out of their misery. After spending the first three days on the phone dealing with a dead rental car, Baruch spent the remainder of his trip going in the pool a grand total of once and in the ocean a grand total of zero times. We played the party game "Mafia" a bunch and Baruch constantly tried to get himself killed even though the goal of the game is to stay alive as long as possible, something in which he has no interest: Baruch’s life insurance policy states that for the family to get paid, he needs to die before he’s 90.

Dvora also could not figure out how to enjoy herself. Rather than eating the delicious quesadillas de camarones prepared for us by our esclavo, sorry, our chef Edwin, reading in the sun, and taking longs walk on the beach, she took thousands of pictures of her grandchildren eating quesadillas de camarones, reading in the sun, and taking long walks on the beach. She then spent hours each evening three inches from her phone, obsessively editing those pictures. One night she tried to drink away her sorrows but refused to acknowledge she was drunk, instead brilliantly coining the term "alcohol-tired." It was clear Baruch and Dvora wanted and needed to die, so I poisoned their margaritas. Then, for good measure, as they googled "what to do when you’re poisoned," I blew up their phones cuz Hezbollah.

The Boss’ older brother (Schmulik) does not like the sun. Or the beach. Or the ocean. Or me. Or my mature, well-mannered, hygienic children, lol. I get it. I really do. I only wanted to help. So I told him we were going on a short walk down the road to a local cantina to grab one of those fruity drinks he likes but there was no cantina and there were no fruity drinks and Schmulik didn’t bring a hat or sunblock or water, and his flat feet started to hurt so he sat down on the side of the road and I told him I would go for help but really I just left him there and he died from sun exposure and dehydration, and the next day when I found him his body was swarming with hormigas de fuego (Mexican fire ants) having the best meal of their life. You’re welcome, Schmulik.

Was it emotionally challenging to murder the Boss? Definitely. I love (loved) her deeply and I never wanted my children to grow up without a mother. But the Boss just could. not. relax. Work back home was on her mind and Hanukkah gifts were on her mind and her lost luggage was on her mind. Have the kids eaten breakfast? Did we run out of hot water? Where is the snorkeling gear? I can handle the nagging. I can handle the anxiety. I just can’t handle when the Boss is unhappy so I suffocated her with my pillow while she slept (restlessly, I might add). As the carbon dioxide in her lungs reached a fatal level, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and silently said gracias.

Due to her vanity, Panini will one day die of skin cancer because she tans for hours every day. I wanted to save her from that slow, painful death but the truth is that I love her too much to kill her so I sold her to the local cartel de Sinaloa which can always make good use of a buxom teenager.

Someone who takes 5 minutes to get me a glass of water, 10 minutes to put on their shoes, and 20 minutes to go to the bathroom is doomed to lead a miserable life of failure so I ended OG’s life by simply not telling her to come downstairs for meals. She forgot to eat and she starved to death. It was bittersweet.

I didn’t mean to murder Broosevelt; I just wanted him to become a stronger swimmer. So we kayaked a few hundred meters out on the quiet Caribbean and I told him to swim behind the kayak as we returned to shore. He started off strong but I think he may have had a tummy ache from the seven churros he ate after lunch. I slowly watched his weak, white little arms stop moving, his floppy, misshapen legs stop kicking, and his beautiful blonde head sink below the water line. I felt sad but hey you gotta learn to swim and eat healthy, verdad?

________________

Yofi and Rafi’s deaths were more complicated.

For years I’ve been wondering if I married the wrong sibling. I mean, I’m not gay but if the dowry were substantial, I certainly could be. Yofi is handsome, he and I get along great, and at this point in my life I’m just looking for a companion, with or without nursed-upon breasts. So I made my move and Yofi responded positively. I ran my hands through his thick salt-and-pepper beard and he massaged my bald head. It was gay but not über-gay.

I thought we were alone but Rafi had witnessed our intimacy. To my surprise, he was excited, as it seems the fuzzy Frenchman had been eyeing me for some time. Fast forward 24 hours and the three of us were making margs, sharing flan with one spoon, and playing Australian doubles.

But then things got messy: Tofu used to have two dads but now he had three. He was told three different times to stop screaming; he was told by three different dads that he needed sunblock; he was told in three different languages to turn off Peppa Pig. It was like Three Men and a Baby except more like Three Mostly Gay Men and a Toddler Who Refuses to Eat His Vegetables or Share His Dessert.

I had no choice: I roofied Rafi’s drink. But before I was able to run the gas line into his bedroom, Yofi discovered Rafi's lifeless body and things turned Romeo and Juliet: Yofi thought Rafi was dead so he slit his own wrists with his $400 beard trimmer. Just as Yofi was about to bleed out, Rafi awoke, saw his not über-gay life partner drenched in blood, and started crying so viciously that his salty tears dissolved his buttery foie gras body. As he melted like Lumière, the singing, heavily French-accented candelabra in Beauty and the Beast, he whispered putain de merde!

Tofu looked at me with his big brown eyes and the face of a god damn angel, confused because his first two dads had just died and also because he didn’t know if he should speak to me in Hebrew, French, or English. I knew he had a Spanish-speaking nanny, so I saved the day and said, Está bien, mi amor. Yo hablo español.

Mis papás están muertos?

Si, mi amor.

Nothing else needed to be said. Tofu put his hand in mine and we walked slowly to the pool. He took off his floaties and gave me a long hug. I gently pushed him in the water and he drifted to the bottom. He died peacefully.

________________

The next day, I got on a plane back to Chicago, quickly went through customs, and took a cab home. As I unzipped my suitcase, a slender 10-year girl popped out and yelled, "Surprise!"

Turns out my little Boni had joined Panini for a few days with the cartel de Sinaloa, picked up a few tricks on "how to be a drug mule," escaped, and stashed herself away in my luggage as everyone around her started to disappear.

"Where is everyone?" she asked.

"I killed them."

"Muy bien. Can I watch Netflix?"

Panini's First Threesome

My friend Josh told me a while back that Saul's been a bit "heavy" the last few months: too serious, too somber, too political. He suggested I do a movie review of Challengers, the 2024 sports-romance film starring Zendaya and some pasty white boys. I'd heard some shitty reviews but also some good ones, and I'd also heard that Zendaya shows a lot of skin, so I figured why the hell not: I like tennis, I like movies, and I like skin.

Panini also likes tennis and Zendaya, so we decided to watch it together. The fact that we'd heard there were one or more threesomes in the film made it that much more intriguing because what father doesn't like to watch a good ol' ménage with his 16-year-old daughter? Game on.

Four minutes into the film, Zendaya is wearing nothing or maybe close to nothing. I honestly can't remember because I think I was watching Panini to see if she was watching me ogle a woman about half my age. A few scenes later, Zendaya is once again baring a healthy amount of flesh and Panini asks, "Do you think Zendaya is hot?"

"Hell yes, she's hot!" I ejaculate.

First off, Saul has permission to use any meaning of the word "ejaculate." Second, I didn't say that. Instead, I deliberately and thoughtfully approached my response to the question with a careful consideration of the facts at hand: Panini is a typically insecure 16-year-old girl slowly but surely discovering her own beauty; I'm her 48-year-old father who allegedly once chased a young lass or two but is now devotedly married to Panini's handsome 47-year-old mother; Zendaya is an attractive 28-year-old who makes millions of dollars every year for being a decent actor and smoking fucking hot.

Panini knows Zendaya is hot. She must know I think she's hot because she knows I have eyes and loins. So what is she really asking me? Why is she asking me? I can only presume it's because, deep down, she's measuring her own beauty against Zendaya's. Well that's just fucking stupid and I refuse to let her do that so I pull the oldest parenting trick in the book and say, "Do you?"

But back to the movie review: One poorly produced moment occurs when Zendaya is feeding balls to another tennis player using a semi-western forehand grip. If that doesn't mean anything to you, sorry not sorry. If you know tennis though, you just vomited in your mouth a little because you know that any self-respecting tennis player would never feed balls with such a grip and that any self-respecting director who cares at all about the legitimacy of his craft would never let his star actor feed balls with such a grip. I don't wanna say the film was dead to me at that point, but director Luca Guadagnino was gonna have to do a lot to regain my trust and attention...

Sure enough, in the very next scene, Zendaya is gratuitously rubbing lotion all over her half-naked body. It occurred to me to ask Zendaya if she needed any help, or at least make that joke out loud. But then I remembered my audience, my body-obsessed teenage daughter who is probably feeling insecure because her body does not look like Zendaya's and uncomfortable that her dad may be frothing at the mouth due to various alleged perversions. The awkward silence between Panini and me lasts the entire scene and the hush of Zendaya's lotion massage is piercing.

But back to the movie review: Guadagnino annoyingly breaks the fourth wall when Zendaya's daughter asks Zendaya if she can watch Spider-Verse in which, as you know, Zendaya starred. Maybe Guadagnino thought that if he promoted another Zendaya movie in his movie, he could get into her pants like everyone in the movie does.

The actual threesome comes in a flashback about 30 minutes in when a teenage Zendaya encourages two teenage boys to make out not only with her but also with each other. I stole a couple looks at Panini as the scene developed but couldn't tell if she was curious, cautious, and/or confused. I was.

Shirts come off, all three characters are sitting on the bed, and Zendaya sucks face with one boy and then the other. She then gently pushes the boys' faces towards each other and they start to make out, at which point Panini ejaculates, "I told you they were gay!"

For the record, both of these boys desperately want to have sex with Zendaya and they are not gay. There are, however, homosexual undertones throughout the film and what's a good ménage without some experimentation.

The straight and gay caressing continues for what feels like an eternity, and I shift positions on the couch. Panini doesn't move or blink. Finally, after an interminable 25-second silence broken only by the on-screen sound of active tongues, smacking lips, and gentle groaning, Panini asks, "Is this how threesomes work?"

Again, the facts: Panini is a 16-year-old girl who, as far as her father knows, has never been involved in any triangular excursions. I am her 48-year-old father who has traveled the world, been around the block, and allegedly experimented with a number of recreational activities. I am also the deeply devoted husband of Panini's strikingly handsome 47-year-old mother.

So this question feels like a no-win. Either I answer knowledgeably, which implies I am a filthy heathen and results in Panini having even less respect for me than she already does. Or I feign ignorance, which implies I am a giant loser and results in Panini having even less respect for me than she already does.

The PG-13 threesome lasts about two minutes but, to me, feels like half an hour of NC-17 smut. When it's all over, Panini looks at me and says, "She was in total control."

But back to the movie review: Zendaya's tennis strokes weren't awful but they weren't good. Apparently she worked with former professional tennis player Brad Gilbert for months beforehand. Whatever. The tennis scenes themselves felt like a video game: too fast, too flashy, too dramatic. The movie starts in 2019, jumps back to 2006, returns to 2019, jumps back to 2008, and so on and so forth. Guadagnino does a pretty good job with these time shifts but Panini was often more confused about what year it was than if threesomes need to be gay.

Halfway through the movie, there's a male locker room scene in which a bunch of professional tennis players are hanging out, unpacking their racquet bags, and, of course, engaging in "locker room talk." Men walk in and out of the shower, there are a number of visible butt cheeks, and there is definitely at least one detailed shot of a penis because I remember the voice inside my head screaming: Oh my, that's quite an impressive penis. Hmmm, it doesn't look circumcised. Do uncircumcised penises look bigger? I wonder if Panini saw that penis. Of course she did. I wonder if she noticed it was uncircumcised. Of course she didn't. Oh shit, has Panini seen a penis in real life? Oh fuck, have I been saying all this out loud???

But back to the movie review I guess: Creative storyline, good acting, some scenes too long and melodramatic, last scene way too long and melodramatic. 

Late in the movie, one of the male leads is sitting in a sauna, sweating profusely and wearing only a towel. The other male lead enters the sauna with, if memory serves, nothing but a towel slung over his shoulder. There is for sure a close-up ass shot and also maybe a dick shot but honestly I can't remember because trauma does weird things. The scene is deeply homoerotic, as the men sweat, stretch, and refuse to break eye contact. The tension mounts and it's clear that they're either gonna fight or fuck. I'm perfectly comfortable with naked men fighting in a sauna and even more comfortable with naked men fucking in a sauna but I'm not sure I can handle witnessing Panini witness this oiled-up, muscle-tensed, floppy-dicked sword fight.

But back to the movie review in case anyone still cares: B/B-.

The movie's climax (pun and spoiler alert) begins with Zendaya fucking one of the dudes so the other dude (her husband) will continue playing professional tennis. Zendaya instructs the guy to pull over his busted SUV, they stop in a dark, abandoned parking lot, the windows fog up, and the car starts to jostle as, presumably, the thrusting begins. Panini says nothing and I silently pray to the godless universe that Panini become a strong, independent woman who never demands physical affection in a dark, abandoned parking lot in a busted SUV with foggy windows.

By the end of the movie, it is clear that Zendaya is willing to do anything to get what she wants. Panini and I bandy about such phrases as "savvy lady, "manipulative bitch," and "homewrecking slut."

The film finishes and we reflect.

Me: "So what'd you think?"

Panini: "It was all right. Zendaya was so mean to them."

"I know, right?"

"It's like feminism though."

"Huh? How do you mean?"

"The woman is finally taking control of the man."

I don't know if a threesome is in Panini's past and/or near future but I am happy to report that, despite its flaws, Challengers has both empowered my teenage daughter and taught her never to feed with a semi-western grip.

I Just Forgot

There’s this kid’s book called I Just Forgot in which this porcupine-looking little critter keeps forgetting to do the most basic shit: bring his lunchbox to school, turn off the water in the bath, take off his wet shoes when he comes in the house, etc. Basically, he’s a stupid fucking idiot.

And so am I.

Cuz when I made my terribly inaccurate prediction two days ago, I forgot something as well: For most people, when it’s time to vote, one thing matters more than anything else.

If I’m Latino, I’m pissed about these illegal immigrants because I came here the right way, god damnit, and fuck these Venezuelans who don’t respect the law. The border is out of control, and Biden and Kamala haven’t done anything about it. Sure, Trump says some racist shit which I don’t love but I believe him when he says he’s gonna shut down the border and stop these illegals from coming. Fairness matters. I came here fair and square, I worked my ass off to succeed, and I’ll be damned if these Guatemalan fucks are gonna cheat the system.

If I'm Arab American, I’m pissed about Gaza. I know you’ll tell me that Trump would be even worse for Palestinians and, yeah, I don’t love his anti-Arab rhetoric, but hypotheticals and words don’t kill people. Weapons do. Biden and Kamala keep selling arms to Israel and Israel has killed nearly 40,000 people in Gaza. My people matter, and the Democrats are killing my Arab brethren, so fuck them.

If I’m a white Christian living on a farm in Iowa, I’m pissed about these homosexuals who talk about critical race theory and gender identity. Yes, black lives do matter, but the lives of my brother who’s a state trooper and my buddy who’s a fireman and my grandfather who died in Vietnam matter more. You can be gay inside your house, but don’t teach about it in schools. And don’t tell me a boy can be a girl. Boys are boys. Identity matters, and this half-black, half-Indian woman who seems friendly with the “woke” left threatens a lot of what I know and believe. Yes, Trump says and does some very anti-Christian things but I pray for him and I believe he will do his very best to keep this country on the straight and narrow.

______________

Okay, so everyone’s ultimately a single-issue voter: The Latino’s issue is fairness, the Arab American’s issue is family, and the Christian’s issue is identity. But let’s all be really honest about the single thing that matters most to nearly everyone: money.

I’d like to amend what I wrote above: For most people, when it’s time to vote, one thing matters more than anything else, and that one thing is usually money.

I forgot that. It’s embarrassing and ridiculous and shameful but when I predicted Kamala would win, I forgot that most people care more about their next pay-check than they do about pussy-grabbing. I thought Kamala was gonna win because I thought people cared about threats to democracy and women’s rights and corruption and racism and misogyny, and yeah people do care about those things, but people care more about how much their eggs cost.

Why did I forget? Because I’m a rich, out-of-touch asshole who is annoyed by his $700 monthly family gym membership but keeps paying it. I’m annoyed by the fact that Panini’s basketball uniform cost $300 but I paid for it and went on with my day. I’m annoyed that OG wasted $30 by buying the wrong-sized screen protector but I never checked to see if she returned it and didn’t think twice about her spending another $30 to get the right size. I’m annoyed that a gallon of organic milk (yes, of course, we buy organic milk) costs $9 but I still buy it. Basically, I am immune from inflation and I forgot that most Americans think about it every single day.

I figured women wouldn’t vote for Trump because he’s responsible for overturning Roe v. Wade. But I forgot that if I were a working-class waitress in Missouri, I wouldn’t really be thinking about my inability to have an abortion because that’s theoretical and abstract, and I have zero plans on getting pregnant. What I’m thinking about right fucking now is how big a tip this customer is gonna give me and whether or not I can pay for my 3-year-old’s day care. Biden and Kamala shuttered this restaurant, my only source of income, for years, so I’m voting for Trump.

I figured older people wouldn’t vote for Trump because they don’t want their grandchildren growing up in an ugly world that lacks civility and justice. But I forgot that if I were a 75-year-old retiree, I would want the inheritance tax to be zero and I would want the capital gains tax to be zero and I would want a tax break for my son’s small business. January 6th was terrible but I can’t afford a god damn gallon of regular milk with all this inflation, so I’m voting for Trump.

I figured your average Joe working-class American who lives in a suburb of Reno wouldn’t vote for Trump because he wants the West to stay wild. But I forgot that if I were trying to make ends meet by renting jet skis on Lake Tahoe or buying some stock in a mining company exploring the Sierra Nevada, then I’m okay with Trump rolling back regulations so we can do our thing out here. Yeah, I know it’s probably not the best for the environment and, no, I don’t fully trust Trump or like all the things he does, but I can’t pay for the treatment for my mom’s skin cancer from the high desert sun, I can’t afford to buy a god damn house because mortgage rates have been at 7% for years, and I sure as shit can’t afford $300 for my kid’s basketball uniform. So screw Biden and Kamala, screw all these regulations, and screw big government. I’m voting for Trump.

______________

One of the reasons Bill Clinton was elected in 1992 is because his campaign’s mantra was, “It’s the economy, stupid.” They knew that people care about their own livelihoods more than anything else, and they successfully reminded the American people of that fact each and every day. Whether or not you believe the economy has actually been rough these past four years and whether or not you think it’s the current administration’s fault, this is the perception of millions of Americans. It’s important to dig into why this perception exists and what to do about it, but we’ll shelve that discussion for now because I know we all have news updates to read, meals to make, and, most importantly, bills to pay. 

Reader of Saul: My apologies for forgetting something so important and making such a shitty prediction. I promise never to forget to take off my wet shoes again.

Wednesday, November 6th

I’m sure you fondly remember the scene in Revenge of the Nerds when Booger, Takashi, Poindexter, and other nerds stage a panty raid on the Delta Pi sorority. Lewis and Gilbert are running down the hall with black hoodies and black ski caps when Lewis yells, “This is gonna be a great year! Ha ha ha!!!”

That’s how I feel about Wednesday, November 6th. Whoever wins on the 5th, the day after is gonna be a fucking shitshow.

And I can’t wait.

If Trump wins, my dear old mother will drive 100 miles north to Wyoming, buy a gun in about four seconds, and break the record for oldest mass shooter in American history. If Kamala wins, my mom will immediately start criticizing her every move because everyone, and I mean everyone, over the age of 60 can’t fully accept a half black, half Indian female running the country. Even the most steadfast of elderly Liberals feel more comfortable with a president who has light skin, a grey head of hair, and a pair of testicles.

If Trump wins, my all-talk, no-action brother Darryl will once again talk about moving to Canada. If Kamala wins, he’ll continue prescribing wildly overpriced obesity medicine to his patients while naively advocating for single-payer health care.

If Trump wins, my libtard other brother Darryl will blame the not-left-enough Democrats for their complacency and corruption. If Kamala wins, he’ll blame the not-left-enough Democrats for their complacency and corruption.

If Trump wins, the Boss will cry and repeat statements such as “I just can’t believe it.” If Kamala wins, she’ll be ecstatic for a couple days until she accidentally rubs up against my beautiful body in the middle of the night and says, “I just can’t believe it.”

If Trump wins, Panini (16) will ask a few questions, express concern, and snap her friends. If Kamala wins, she’ll snap her friends.

If Trump wins, OG (13), currently in the throes of puberty and sharing one brain with a gaggle of 13-year-old girls, will say, “We think this is terrible. 😢” If Kamala wins, she’ll say, “We’re very happy. 😊”

If Trump wins, Broosevelt (10) will say, “Trump won? Bummer.” If Kamala wins, he’ll say, “Is Kamala black?”

If Trump wins, Boni (10), our little empath, will cry because she senses that other people are sad. If Kamala wins, she’ll give me a celebratory hug and then spend 20 minutes in the bathroom reading The Unwanteds and pooping out all the mini-Snickers she’s eaten since Halloween.

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If Trump wins, my students will take a mental health day, demand their feelings be validated, and beg for their work to be excused. If Kamala wins, they’ll feel empowered and cancel me for using the phrase “libtard.”

If Trump wins, my barely left-of-center, mostly white, middle-aged friends will publicly lament the direction our country has gone and privately high-five each other for lower taxes. If Kamala wins, they’ll feel relieved but not in the least bit excited.

If Trump wins, my progressive Zionist (not an oxymoron) brethren will be absolutely disgusted by his victory but sleep well at night knowing Israel will get all the shekels it wants. If Kamala wins, they’ll be happy their candidate won but wake up in a cold sweat due to fear that she will sell out Israel to Rashida Tlaib & Co.

If Trump wins, the woke left will shit its pants. If Kamala wins, they will demand radical action on climate change, reparations for descendants of slavery, and amnesty for undocumented migrants. None of their demands will be met. Four years from now, they will be in the exact same spot they are now: mostly well intentioned, mildly ignorant, and completely vilified.

If Trump wins, the alt right will continue to deny climate change, mock those who call for reparations, and form militias to deport illegal aliens when Trump quickly proves he can’t do it himself. If Kamala wins, the alt right will shit its pants. Four years from now, they will be in the exact same spot they are now: poorly intentioned, generally ignorant, and completely vilified.

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If Trump wins, MSNBC will sow fear and loathing of the democratically elected dictatorial narcissist who has the codes to the nukes. If Kamala wins, it will wholeheartedly congratulate the first female president in the history of our nation and dangerously turn a blind eye to the 80 million Americans who voted for Trump in 2020 and will do so again tomorrow.

If Trump wins, Fox News will profusely apologize for ever having doubted him. If Kamala wins, it will not particularly subtly question the validity of the election.

If Trump wins, the Supreme Court will continue to take away women’s rights, foment corporate power and greed, and undermine any/all criminal prosecutions of the Donald. If Kamala wins, it will continue to take away women’s rights, foment corporate power and greed, and undermine any/all criminal prosecutions of the Donald.

If Trump wins, Congress will remain deeply polarized and combative. If Kamala wins, it will remain deeply polarized and combative.

If Trump wins, Biden will die of regret. If Kamala wins, Biden will die of dementia.

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If Trump wins, he will fire everyone in the Department of Justice as well those in the Department of You Name It who do not demonstrate unwavering loyalty. He will continue to lie, cheat, and grab pussies. If Kamala wins, he will encourage another panty raid on the U.S. Capitol except this time his supporters will come to win.

If Trump wins, Kamala will concede defeat and express concern. If Kamala wins, she will enthusiastically thank her supporters for their dedication and do everything in her power to appease the corporations, I mean the citizens, that elected her.

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Look, men may prefer a male president and white people may prefer a white candidate, but Kamala is gonna win tomorrow, and she’s gonna win big. You can say you heard it here first.

But her victory won’t mean shit when it comes to dealing with the real problems plaguing our nation. The left and the right are as far away from each other as they’ve ever been, holed up in their respective social media silos and perusing entirely different “facts.” Both groups feel they’re being left behind and both have valid points: Black Americans (Kamala supporters) continue to fight an uphill battle against a lack of generational wealth and non-college-educated White Americans (Trump supporters) are less prosperous by nearly every measure than the previous generation. Add to this division the fact that Citizens United continues to grab our country by the pussy and we have a recipe for indifference, resentment, and violence.

Kamala will be our next president but if we keep running around like a bunch of horny nerds with Delta Pi panties on our head, you can forget about January 6th because a real reckoning is coming.

Hemlock, Bubbles, and Beets: A Love Story

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, magical day.

On a cool Saturday morning in mid-September, the sun has just risen when I wake up before my alarm to prepare for the championship. We’d reached the finals after thrashing most of our opponents over the warm summer months.

I wash the snot out of my eyes, brush my teeth, and get my things together: black flip-flops, white tennis shoes, pink hoodie, black sweats, extra t-shirts, extra socks, extra hat, two narrow-mouth Nalgene water bottles, electrolyte tablets, sunblock, a peanut butter sandwich, an orange, a banana, two freshly strung Prince Original Graphites, and a vial of hemlock.

I drink two glasses of water, do my business in the downstairs bathroom, give one or two children already on screens a kiss on the top of their unwashed, light-haired heads, and quietly close the back door behind me so as not to wake up the Sleeping Queen with Dark Circles Under Her Eyes resting quietly in our bedchamber.

I open the garage, slip into the reclined driver’s seat of the blue Nissan Leaf, back out, close the garage, and turn on 104.3 Jams, Chicago’s #1 for Throwbacks. I hear a faint whistling followed by “can’t be any geek off the street…” I turn up the volume and Warren G is my muse: “Regulators, mount up!”

I drive west with the sun at my back, toward Riis Park, a sprawling urban oasis with fields of grass, weeping willows, and ten tennis courts. A few miles in, as I pass the phở restaurants and Black-owned nail salons, 104.3 plays “Country Grammar.” I blast the volume and Nelly and I rap together with the windows wide open. The Leaf rises a couple of inches above the grey, pot-holed streets on the West Side of Chicago.

They’re all there: the middle-aged white ladies with sunglasses, visors, nametags, clipboards, and pens; the mostly 20-something opponents with thick thighs, poly strings, and palpable virginity; and my squad with 5 o’clock shadows, faithless wives, and Covid.

My doubles partner, Martin, is overweight and out of shape but 20 years younger than me and handsome. His dad is white and his mom is black. Chubby Martin has the body of a hippopotamus but the speed of a gazelle. He makes amazing shots and too many mistakes. He sweats profusely even though it’s doubles and barely over 60 degrees. He likes me because I’m likable and he wants to know more about me because I went to a Talib Kweli concert.

My team needs to win three of five matches and, by mid-morning, we’re down 2-1. Fat Martin and I are still playing, as is Young Dylan who, unfortunately, has Covid. Young Dylan is a white boy from St. Louis. He’s 29, unassuming, very good at tennis, and suffering from Covid. He never brings a bag or a second t-shirt. He shows up to the courts with a water bottle, two tennis racquets, and a demure Don Draper tattoo. Today, his shoulders are sagging because he has Covid.

Young Dylan’s opponent is the last person he or anyone else would ever want to play while suffering from Covid. His name is Enrique Ochoa, he is 38, and he is the love child of Cristiano Ronaldo, Rocky Balboa, and the Salamanca twins. He runs down every ball. He never hits hard and he never misses. He is caramel brown from the sun. His calves are veiny. He rarely speaks. He is a convicted murderer.

The sun, the temperature, and the pressure are rising. I try to focus on my match but Young Dylan’s match is riveting. Enrique Ochoa makes bad line calls but Young Dylan doesn’t have the energy to argue. Young Dylan refills his small plastic water bottle while Enrique Ochoa drinks nothing. The points are long and brutal. Young Dylan wins an important game but is practically in tears because he has Covid. Enrique Ochoa turns to the crowd and says, “If he dies, he dies.”

Young Dylan wins the match because he is the superior player. He stumbles off the court and sits on the grass with his back against a weeping willow and his head hung low. Squirrels nibble on the rubber of Young Dylan’s tennis shoes. He allows it because he is exhausted from Covid.

The team match is now tied 2-2, and it’s up to Fat Martin and me.

We go up 5-4 in the third set. If I hold serve, we win. I slow down between points. I focus on my breathing. I bounce the ball a few extra times. My throat feels dry and my anus feels tight.

I play a great first point but Fatboy Martin misses an easy volley. My arm feels heavy from the weight of the pressure and I miss too many first serves. On break point, Thunder Thighs across the net hits a 200mph inside-out forehand that clips the line.

We lose that game, we lose the next game, and we lose the game after that. We’ve lost the match 7-5 in the third set and we’ve lost the championship for our team. I recall that the vial of hemlock is packed in the side compartment of my black-and-white Prince tennis bag.

A lady with a visor hands me a sheath of plastic with 20 silver medals which weigh less than nothing. We stand glumly as our picture is taken. Young Dylan stands off to the side because he is social distancing and suffering from Covid.

I feel shame. My head hurts, my feet are sweaty, and my banana is warm. I don’t stretch. I climb into the Leaf and listen to “Ocean Eyes” by Billie Eilish. The drive back across town takes nearly an hour and the Leaf’s battery is critically low.

I open the garage, pull in, close the garage, and open the vial of hemlock. It’s empty, and its contents have spilled all over my precious Prince Original Graphites.

I open the back door and one of my unwashed, light-haired children says, “Hi, Daddy. Did you win?”

“No,” I say. “Daddy didn’t win.”

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I spend the next seven hours in a fugue state but I have a date that night with She of the Dark Circles. I shower, shave, and brush my teeth again. I am feeling slightly better by the time we walk out the front door.

I’m wearing white shorts, a black t-shirt with images of a polar bear and a coat hanger, and flip-flops. I tie a light blue, long-sleeved t-shirt with an infinity sign around my waist in case it gets chilly, but the gentle heat hits me as the heavy wooden door closes behind me. I stand on the second step, look up at the full moon, take a deep breath, and inhale the warm September evening.

Halfway down the block, we stop to smell our neighbor’s lilies, admire the breadth of the oak trees, stare at the bright moon, and inhale our own greenery. And now we’re rolling 😊.

We round the corner, I turn to give Dark Circles a giant hug, and her brown eyes are glowing. She hugs me tight and I feel her warmth as well.

50 feet ahead, something looks peculiar. As we approach, we see that it’s bubbles. Our whimsical neighbor has set up a bubble machine and blue spotlight in their front yard so passersby walk through a mosaic of soft, luminescent, ephemeral bubbles. Brown Eyes and I pause in the bubbles, briefly kiss, and continue on our merry way.

We sit outside at a local bistro and are enveloped by the full moon, fairy lights laced through a matrix of latticework, and planters brimming with red petunias, orange marigolds, and yellow geraniums swimming in a sea of green leaves, sweet potato vines, and trailing ivy.

Our waiter is a gay Hispanic man with tattoos, tight black jeans, a white, low-cut, v-neck t-shirt, and thick, black-rimmed glasses resting low on his nose. He glows gold in the fairy lights and floats around the restaurant a couple inches above the sidewalk so his all-white, unlaced Air Max 1’s don’t get dirty.

I spread my baby blue infinity shirt over the back of my chair and take a deep breath as I look at Brown Eyes and settle in. We drink peach-colored aperol spritz and eat tender purple beets, sweet cherry tomatoes, soft white burrata, crispy green salad, and seared pink salmon.

Brown Eyes gives me a few minutes to process the morning’s defeat but we spend most of the time talking about I can’t remember and laughing about I have no idea. We don’t need dessert or a second aperol spritz because we’re happy with the bright sky, the fairy lights, and the purple hydrangea, but thank you anyway gay Mexican Buddy Holly.

We’re nearly done with dinner when more magic arrives. The stop light on the corner turns red and up pulls a man on a motorcycle. Actually it’s not a motorcycle; it’s a chopper, baby. The seat is reclined, the rearview mirrors are elevated, and the handlebars are high.

The man on the chopper is wearing dark sunglasses and has a pair of ski goggles on backwards. He has jet black skin but I can see him perfectly because the moon is shining and the red, green, and yellow stop lights have painted him rainbow.

The chopper is gently humming but the man’s speaker system is absolutely blasting “All Night Long” by Mary J. Blige, the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul. The man is nodding to the beat, swaying to the rhythm, and making sweet love to the chopper. He is half-man, half-hip-hop party, and all sex machine. Brown Eyes and I soak in his aura for 25 seconds or maybe an hour. The light turns green, the man drives away, and I can see his beautiful penis resting impressively on the chopper’s brown leather seat.

We finish our drinks, give Ricky Martin a giant tip, and walk home. It’s still warm. The moon is still full and the bubbles are still in the air. Everything is infinity. Brown Eyes and I frequently stop walking to embrace and French-kiss.

The unwashed, light-headed children are nowhere to be found when we walk through the front door, so Brown Eyes and I head to the bedchamber which, within minutes, is ablaze. It’s been a long day, but Fire Eyes and I are still and always in love. There is laughter, intensity, and tenderness, and Fire Eyes rests in my arms as we fall asleep thinking of hemlock, bubbles, and beets.