When My Dad Died

I remember there was blood in his urine.

I don’t remember if he, my mom, or my brother the doctor told me about the blood in his urine, but that’s the very first thing I remember.

I remember that weeks, maybe months, after the blood in the urine, my brother the doctor told me that weeks, maybe months, before the blood in the urine, my dad had told him he’d lost some weight. My brother had told him not to worry about it. Weight fluctuates.

I remember my brother the doctor feeling guilty about not paying closer attention to our dad’s weight loss. He thought, and maybe still thinks, that if he’d told my dad to go to see someone immediately, things may have gone a different direction.

I remember feeling optimistic when it started. There were a few spots on the kidney but no signs it had spread. My dad was strong. He worked out six days a a week, skied more than twenty times a year, and ate one square of chocolate every night for dessert.

I remember still feeling optimistic even after one of the MRIs showed spots in his chest. I remember there being discussions about chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and I was confident that my stubborn 78-year-old dad would beat it.

I remember feeling less optimistic after a conversation with my brother the doctor. He said the goal was not to beat the cancer; it was to give my dad two or three more years.

Two or three more years, that’s it?

I remember one of the first side-effects of the treatment: sores all over the inside of his mouth. He ate nothing but smoothies for days, maybe weeks.

I don’t remember talking to my brothers much. I remember talking to my mom a little. I remember talking to my dad a lot. I had close to an hour in the car every day after work so I put on my headset around 4pm and called him from my pre-Bluetooth 1998 Toyota Camry. We probably talked about my job. We probably talked about my kids. We probably talked about the cancer. I don’t remember. I only remember that the Camry was beige.

I don’t remember visiting Colorado at all. I don’t remember if we went there for Thanksgiving, Winter Break, neither, or both. I think my mom and dad visited us in Chicago because I remember my dad wearing black sneakers, sprinting down the sidewalk, and pulling my laughing, screaming 2-year-old twins in a red wagon. I remember thinking that I would never run that fast down any sidewalk, I certainly wouldn’t do it if I were 78, I definitely wouldn’t do it if I were pulling two toddlers in a wagon, and I for sure wouldn’t do it if I were dying of cancer. I remember feeling proud and scared.

I can’t remember any other side-effects of the treatment. I’m pretty sure he didn’t lose his hair. I don’t remember if he experienced nausea. I think he was fatigued. I’m sure there were lots of side-effects and I’m sure my family in Colorado told me about all of them but I don’t remember a single one.

How can I not remember any of a year’s worth of side-effects?

I don’t remember things getting worse; I only remember when they became unbearable. A tumor grew out of my dad’s nose and I remember that’s when he decided to call it quits. My memory is that he drove himself to the hospice.

I remember that about a week later, my wife, my four kids, and I flew to Denver to say goodbye. I think it was a Thursday, maybe a Friday. I think we went straight from the airport to the hospice. My dad was in his bed, maybe sitting up, maybe wearing plaid pajamas. My mom was in the room. I think both of my brothers were there. We hugged and kissed my dad. He hugged us and kissed us. Everyone cried.

I remember my dad always said he was going to work until the day he died. I think I remember him sitting on the patio outside his room, at a small table with an umbrella to protect him from the August sun, surrounded by a bunch of manila folders.

But I don’t know how that’s possible because the night we arrived, or maybe the next day, my dad went to sleep and never woke up again. I remember thinking how cool it was that he waited for us to say goodbye. My wife and kids flew back to Chicago a day or two later but I stayed to be with him, my brothers, and my mom until he died.

After he went to sleep, there was no more eating or drinking, just lots of morphine. I remember my brother the doctor asking my dad’s doctor to “make our dad as comfortable as possible.” I remember thinking that that was the euphemism of all euphemisms: We were clearly asking the doctor to end my dad’s life.

I remember feeling proud that after two, maybe three, days, my dad’s heart was still beating. He was so strong, I remember. He didn’t need food or water, and neither the cancer nor the morphine could kill him. His body was refusing to let him die.

I remember the funeral a few days later. My wife and kids were there.

Wait, did they really fly back to Chicago and then back again to Colorado for the funeral?

I remember my brothers giving speeches but I can’t remember anything they said. I remember that in my speech, I compared myself to my dad. He loved sports and I love sports. He loved dirty jokes and I love dirty jokes. He didn’t care what other people thought and I don’t care what other people think. I remember not feeling embarrassed about choking on my tears.

I remember my four kids and my two nieces sitting in the front row, but maybe my 2-year-olds weren’t there. I think the girls were wearing dresses with flowers. When I cried, the big kids cried. When the big kids cried, the little kids cried. I remember at first thinking that some of the tears felt inauthentic but then I remember thinking that there’s nothing more naturally contagious than laughter and crying. My kids didn’t fully understand they had lost their grandpa but they knew their dad was sad.

I don’t remember much after that. I vaguely remember the casket being lowered into the ground and thinking that god damn it my dad had had ten more good years in him.

I remember flying back to Chicago and burying myself in my very new, very challenging job.

I remember that in every teaching job I ever had, my dad always came to watch me teach. He shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. He sat with and worked alongside my students. He smiled up at me from his desk.

A few months into that job, my mom came to watch me teach. She shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. She sat with and worked alongside my students. She smiled up at me from her desk. I remember feeling happy she was there and thinking it was weird that my dad wasn’t.

RESIST

I know you’re seeing what I’m seeing, that it’s hard to watch, and that it’s easier not to watch. But we need to watch. We need to watch very closely, in fact, because, per a previous bumper sticker of mine, “IF YOU’RE NOT OUTRAGED, YOU’RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION.”

Existential crises demand action. When I couldn’t decide if I wanted a wife and kids, I went to therapy. When the illegitimate, bastard son of King Robert Baratheon usurped the Iron Throne, Rob Stark went to war. When Trump tried to end birthright citizenship, seized the “power of the purse” from Congress, and pardoned the January 6 Boner Boys, the people of America went to the streets.

Well, not really. But after this post is read by thousands, nay millions, of Americans, they will.

It’s time to RESIST.

Saul has identified seven things every one of us can, should, and must do in order to save our country.

About 200 people read Saul so if everyone does these seven things, that’s 1,400 acts of resistance. If each of you then shared this post with 10 friends and each of them engaged in all seven acts of resistance, that’s 14,000 acts of resistance. I know you were “told there’d be no math” (Saturday Night Live) but resistance is only meaningful if a lot of people to do it so please shut the fuck up, do what I say, and let’s save this sinking ship.

1. BOYCOTT AMAZON. How far up Bezos’ ass is Trump’s dick? That’s a serious question. Rape, as you know, is about power, not sex, so it’s not illogical to assume that Donald Trump has raped Jeff Bezos. To avoid continued sexual assault, Bezos (as you may have forgotten due to the shitstorm of the last few months) prohibited the Washington Post from endorsing Kamala Harris. His bottom line is money, pure and simple, so let’s give him less of it. Perhaps if we fuck with his finances, he’ll finally stand up to the man who fucks him in the ass.

I know, I know: It feels impossible not to buy shit from Amazon. We at the Chicago McMansion (used to) receive multiple Amazon packages every week, and those “women’s butterluxe high waisted yoga workout running volleyball spandex booty biker shorts,” as well as that “eight-piece water bottle lid replacement stopper compatible with owala freesip 24oz 32oz,” are so easy to get with one or two clicks. But do you remember a time when Amazon wasn’t around and we bought things in stores? Do you remember a time when we waited a week to get the things we wanted? Do you remember a time when we bought fewer things? I also don’t remember that time but I’m confident it once existed and that we can revive it so that rich, white, powerful corporate moguls can be raped less.

2. EMAIL SOMEONE IMPORTANT. “Hi sweetheart, are you in town this weekend?” “Hi baby, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?” “Hey sexy, do you want to see my beautiful tits?” At a certain point, I can’t “Delete and Report Junk” every message, so I just start responding: “Yeah, I’ll be around this weekend.” “Of course I haven’t forgotten you.”  “Sure, send pic.”  My point is that the squeaky wheel gets the grease. El que no llora no mama. In the words of the great John Bender, “Sweets, you couldn’t ignore me if you tried” (Breakfast Club).

So email your senator. Email your congressperson. Email your governor, your mayor, your alderman/woman/they. Email somebody. Anybody. Swarm the fucking system with outrage and demand they do something or else their time in office is over and done with.

Here’s a template you can use:

Dear [sir/madam/they],

Due to President Trump’s repeated violation of the Constitution, I demand that you do everything in your power to stop him, including, but not limited to, lawsuits, filibusters, and self-immolation. If you don’t, I will find someone who will and, when you are up for reelection, I will vote for that person, not you.

P.S. Attached is a pic of my beautiful tits.

3. ANNOY YOUR FRIENDS. So I have, like, one group of friends: a bunch of privileged tennis-playing douchebags who enjoy serving-and-volleying, drinking beer, and pretending they’re brave enough to kill themselves. They hate me. They used to not like me but now they really hate me because I bug the shit out of them about what Trump is doing, make them feel guilty about their indifference, and act like a condescending asshole every chance I get. I don’t care. I really don’t. Our group chat is the only one that matters, yet I’ve done an amazing job of pissing off everyone on there. I know they’ve all hovered over “Remove Saul” but I don’t care if our friendship ends because “deep down in places [they] don’t talk about at parties” (A Few Good Men), I know that my pestering has struck a chord, that their indifference is now concern, that that concern will soon be outrage, and that that outrage will soon be active resistance.

If you and your friends aren’t talking about it, make them talk about it. I know it’s easier to avoid the news, avoid the tough conversations, and avoid the pain of confronting all the awful shit that’s going down, but now is not a time to “bury your head in the sand and wait for your fucking prom” (Breakfast Club). Trump has ruined prom and impregnated the prom queen. Roe v Wade has been overturned which means a wretched little baby is about to be born. Mix your metaphors, pretend that baby is your friend, and shake it.

4. DISOBEY. My students test well (robots), work hard (nerds), and prioritize school (virgins). They are also total and complete sheep, and will do anything anyone with power tells them to do. Read 90 pages in two nights? Ok. Write an entire essay in 30 minutes? No problem. Sell me some high-quality weed for half-price? Bet. One time, just one time, I wish they would disobey me: refuse to do their homework; refuse to write that paper; refuse to give me a discount on that dank-ass flower.

If you’re financially stable and have been told to report five things you did at work last week, don’t do it. If you’re financially stable and have been told not to say the word “racism” at work, say it. If you’re financially stable and have been told it’s illegal to get an abortion in your state, get one. Protest. Break a law. Puncture a Tesla’s tires. Assassinate someone. Do something. Anything. If we just hop on the trains like they’re telling us to, next thing you know we’ll be at the gates of Auschwitz, convincing ourselves that “work will make [us] free.” Fuck that. These guys are condemning anti-Semitism while simultaneously/paradoxically/ingeniously giving 100% real Nazi salutes fuck you Steve Bannon. Just say no. Do not consent. Resist.

5. WRITE A CHECK. Broosevelt and Boni just turned 11 and they both got a check in the mail from their we Todd did uncle that said, “Happy 12th birthday!” Math aside, do people still write checks? Objection relevance. Sustained. Venmo. Zelle. Wire transfer. Doesn’t matter. Throw money at the problem.

This country runs on money. Money controls politics. Campaign finance reform failed. Corporations are people. Bla bla bla. So write a fucking check. I don’t care who you give it to: Moveon.org, the New York Times, your local school council. Someone. Anyone. Whether it goes to direct political action, the education of our youth, or a hired gun, your money can make change.

I know who you are, Reader of Saul. Hedge-fund Jew on the North Shore with a Porsche SUV. High-priced WASP lawyer in the Gold Coast with a convertible BMW. Lady of leisure in Florida with a self-driving golf cart and a glass of Chardonnay. The richest Venezuelan in the world. The guy with a second home in Aspen. The trustafarian who doesn’t pay for his own Netflix. You have money is my point. So stop stockpiling it like it’s an arsenal of nukes. Spend it. Give it to someone who can actually build a stockpile of nukes in case shit gets real real.

6. READ EVERYTHING. I move my bowels at approximately 9:40am every morning, which means that every morning at approximately 9:40am I read the news and text my “friends” something brilliant. I want to ignore the news. I really do. The last thing I want is to see another headline about DOGE, the Department of Education, or the 1984-esque purges in the FBI. It’s painful. It’s maddening. It negatively affects my bowel movement. But I need to stay informed and we all need to stay informed because ignorance is bliss only until they come for you and “there [is] no one left to speak out” (Pastor Martin Niemöller).

7. KEEP HOPE ALIVE. No one holds a grudge like my dear old mom. When Jesse Jackson referred to New York City as “Hymie-town” in 1984, my mom was outraged. 41 years later, she has not forgiven Mr. Jackson. When Randy Eisenberg slept over at my house in 6th grade, he told my mom to shut up. 37 years later, there is still a fatwa against Mr. Eisenberg. I don’t know if Mr. Eisenberg did good things for the world but Mr. Jackson did at least one: He reminded his brothers and sisters, over and over again, to “keep hope alive!”

You’ve heard me say what I’m about to say but I’m gonna say it again: We are better now than we were 50 years ago, we were better 50 years ago than we were 100 years ago, and so on and so forth. Slavery ended, the Civil War came and went, and weed is legal. Don’t get me wrong: This is a dark, dark moment we are living through but I, for one, am fully confident that with a lot of money, a lot of DMs, and a lot of hope, we can make America pretty good again.

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.

_____

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.

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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.

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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.