By and large, the comic strips contain little comedic value, except maybe Zits, on occasion. Old, tired humor, for the most part. I read several each day out of habit, but they rarely deliver.

The Lockhorns should file for divorce and call it a day.

Trump at his Trumpiest. Bragging about a fundraiser that doubles what Biden brought in last week.

“An historic haul.” You go for it, Donald, keep your eye on the only prize that matters to you. We’re all impressed. It’s always been about the money and bragging rights. And it gives you a bigger pot with which to pay all your lawyers, right?

He’s such a slimy simpleton.

Keep in mind, everyone, that a border deal was this close to being done, and Trump said no so he could use it as fodder in his march to mayhem. And his minions obeyed.

Remember that, everyone.

Remember that he enjoys making mountains out of mole hills. Remember he just needs things to gripe about.

Remember that, all the way through November 4.

Never forget that Trump brings absolutely nothing to the table.

Jon Stewart is an intelligent man. An eloquent, passionate, searingly funny and insightful speaker who some would like to see run for POTUS. It seems unlikely he’d want to do that, mostly because he knows he couldn’t stand the snail’s pace of the legislative back-and-forth, and he’d experience a very different dynamic when it came to making his voice heard– in part because he’d be on the inside and dealing with the irrational clown car full of Republicans trying to impeach him for saying such hurtful, i.e. truthful things about them.

A whole other set of pressures would come to bear on his life, assaults from all directions, attacks on him and his family. The magnifying glass would come out, dirty politics would be lying in wait, ready to pounce if he ever decided to run. I can’t picture him wanting the headaches. He’s better off standing at the periphery and on occasion sitting in a hearing as an advocate for whatever cause he chooses to champion.

Not POTUS. I can’t picture him ever wanting to do that, even as he’d certainly spice things up, make things interesting. He’d be confined in ways he probably couldn’t stomach, though. He’d be biting his tongue alot. He couldn’t deal with the backstabbing and the smoke-filled rooms and the constipation. He’d be spending too much time suffering idiots and playing games he probably doesn’t enjoy playing.

In some ways, he has more latitude and a more powerful voice on the outside. Still, it would be something if he entertained the possibility.

So, 23 named storms, 11 hurricanes, 5 at Category 3+.

No one knows where these will make landfall. No one actually knows for sure that there will be that many, but multiple models are offering up similar scenarios. It shouldn’t come as a surprise—the ocean water is warm, and conditions would seem to be optimal for development, maybe even before June 1.

Sounds like action the wagering establishments would want a piece of—when, where, category, etc. It could be loads of fun for the entire family as they scurry for plywood and batteries and water, or join the bumper-to-bumper exodus on evacuation routes.

Something to do while nature does its thing and reminds us that of course there is no human-induced climate change, just repeated meteorological aberrations that grow steadily more intense and destructive.

Happening season after season, year after year.

Just, you know, the normal abnormalities.

Just round the bases and dispense with the theatrics, you little twerp.

Kids are sponges. They learn from their elders who’ve made it to The Show. For instance, a Little Leaguer stands at home plate, admiring the round-tripper he’s just hit, lingering for an annoyingly long time before commencing to run the bases.

Just run the bases! Enjoy the applause and cheers as you round them, and get to the dugout to receive the accolades of your teammates. Don’t be a hot dog and loiter in the box.

Maybe umps should be able to throw flags and erase the run(s) on the basis of the batter being a jerk.

It appears that Judge Aileen Cannon is doing what she can to play into Trump’s delay strategy by offering a questionable ruling on the usage of the PRA—Presidential Records Act. If someone didn’t know better, it might look like Trump has her in his pocket.

Analysts used by non-Fox networks are assessing Cannon’s decision making as being not a little mystifying, maybe even suspicious, at least that of a rookie. This whole episode only serves to highlight the hurdles faced in making any prosecution stick, when it comes to Trump and his life-long nose-thumbing at the rule of law.

Apart from attorneys, how can such a lowlife have anyone who’d be willing to do his bidding, especially a judge? I suppose influence pedaling is an ancient dark art. But a judge? Can’t be.

Finally finished the Harari book, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, returned it to the library, and awaited a paperback copy of it I had ordered on Amazon. It arrived yesterday afternoon and I promptly cracked it open and started highlighting passages.

I have to read it again. There is much to review, much to still take in and take a closer look at. I realize that it’s just one person’s research and perspective, but Harari is a rare intellect we would do well to welcome into our reading circles.

We probably won’t agree with everything he says, but he’ll open some eyes, which I’m sure he’s already done, since I’m late to the party and the book has become a worldwide sensation since its arrival in 2014.

It has been, and will continue to be a revelation.

John Stewart drilled down to the essence of the Tailgate-gate story with his usual humor and appeal to sanity. One after another of mainstream pundits were made to look like offended Sunday School teachers as they spoke of the cringeworthy AI-generated image of the President hogtied in the flatbed of an F-150.

They didn’t show the image because they decided it was too “disturbing” to show, even though, as Stewart observes, they have no qualms with bringing us footage of Gaza or Ukraine or 9-11.

I have to say it really did make the networks look pretty silly. The image was of course shown on The Daily Show, and while perhaps causing a certain discomfort, it wasn’t gory or gratuitous. Seeing it just makes one wonder why the networks made such a big deal about not showing it, and maybe aids in reinforcing the snowflake label, along with a tendency toward melodrama.

In fairness to the networks, Stewart must have been talking about the networks’ initial reaction, because the image has shown up in various media as recently as yesterday.

Anyway, the tailgate story was used as an entre into a segment on AI and the less-than-convincing arguments its adherents are offering up in its defense, specifically with regard to its effects on employment opportunities for humans. The lemonade is poured in the form of assuring us that an AI-led labor force will lead to more leisure time for us hominids, which is great if you have money with which to enjoy your leisure time—income you once had by doing a job that’s now or will be done by a robot.

We attended an Easter service at the local Lutheran congregation not far from our house. The first thing I noticed was the underwhelming attendance scattered about in such a large nave. The next thing I noticed was that the Prelude was too loud.

I still possess certain sensibilities and tastes when it comes to the music at the beginning of a service, when people are getting settled. On Easter morning, scripturally, the women who reached the tomb were not aware it was Easter morning. There was still a cloud over the proceedings as they went to prepare a body for burial. I feel as though the prelude music should reflect this—it doesn’t have to be in a minor key, necessarily, but something at least that hints at the quietness of an early morning when the events of Good Friday are still weighing heavy.

The second prelude piece yesterday brought us prematurely to the end of the service, with all the stops literally pulled on the organ and everyone within a half mile of the church pulled fully awake from a sound sleep. In my mind, it wasn’t time for that, yet. And it was an assault on the ears.

Anyway, the service progressed in a familiar manner, the pastor had a good sermon, we received the bread and wine, we ended vociferously, with full stops and brass and violins and… an acoustic guitar? The pastor greeted us in the hallway outside the nave, we greeted a couple folks, got our plastic, candy-filled egg from someone dressed as the Easter Bunny, then headed home, somewhat content in the knowledge that we at least had attended worship on such a high holy day.

Of course, all the preceding verbiage is prologue to what I really want to talk about, which is the almost total absence of inspiration that I have been left with every time I’ve gone to church since retiring, including yesterday. I go hoping for some switch to be turned back on, or maybe tripped for the first time in my life.

I know that it was a good thing that I retired, because I couldn’t stand in front of a congregation anymore and speak with anything approaching conviction about anything biblical, even as the scriptural contributions of Paul remain the only things standing between me and abandonment of the faith.

I was there, at yesterday’s celebration of resurrection, as a skeptic, as a doubter, as someone who wants to believe but is having an increasingly hard time doing so. And it’s not just because I’ve been influenced by the Harari book—this questioning stance, this doubt, has been with me for a long time.

Believing, to me, means taking a step that I guess I’ve always been reluctant to take. It means letting go of reason and logic and what can be seen—what is real before my eyes. I’ve never been at peace with the dialectic. And I certainly don’t want to cede an act of desperation, as in “what have I got to lose?”