I grew up in a conservative household, but my parents were progressive in how they treated people who weren’t like themselves. They taught me to respect others, regardless of race or background. Still, as a child, I carried the subtle belief that people of different races were somehow different from me.
One evening, my family went out to dinner at Beefsteak Charlies, a modest restaurant that catered to families. At the table next to us sat a Black family. I remember looking at their teenage son and feeling uneasy—my first impression was shaped by the fact that he was Black. He seemed intimidating to me.
Then, his mother asked him to take his younger brother to the bathroom. He stood up and asked his brother, “Do you have to do pee pee or boom booms?” In that moment, everything changed. I realized that my fear had nothing to do with who he was, but with my own bias. His words were the same silly phrase I might have used myself. Suddenly, I saw how much we were alike.
That was a great day for me. It was the moment I understood that racism isn’t just about hatred—it’s about assumptions, impressions, and the walls we build in our minds. And those walls can crumble in an instant when we recognize our shared humanity.
A friend of mine, a kind, generous man raised in a white household, never had that moment. He sees a difference where I now see similarity. I believe change happens one mind at a time. If we can share stories that reveal our common humanity, we can help others break free from prejudice.
Racism doesn’t end through arguments or statistics. By winning four gold medals at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, Jesse Owens singlehandedly disproved the Nazi propaganda that white German athletes were superior to black athletes. That powerful display, however, didn’t open Hitler’s eyes to how wrong his racist ideas were. Racism only ends when someone realizes that the boy at the next table, who looks so different, is really so much like them. It ends when we see the humor, the love, and the ordinary rituals that connect us all.
Let me tell you something: I used to be a man plagued by problems. Swollen ankles, dry skin, existential dread, and a rollator that squeaked like a haunted shopping cart. But then I discovered the Internet. Not the useful parts—no, no. I dove headfirst into the shimmering swamp of clickbait wellness hacks. And I emerged reborn. Possibly radioactive.
It started innocently. A headline whispered: “Dermatologists Hate Her: She Mixed Salt and Vaseline and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next.” I clicked. I believed.
I smeared the concoction on my elbows, my knees, and—at one point—my neighbor’s cat (long story, restraining order pending). My skin glowed. My pores sang. I became the unofficial exfoliation guru of Lancaster, PA.
Next came the swelling. My ankles looked like they were storing winter grain. But the Internet had my back: “Doctors Beg You to Try This One Trick Before Bed!”
It involved pressing a mystery pressure point behind my knee while chanting the phrase “Water be gone!” in Latin. I don’t speak Latin, so I used Pig Latin. It worked. Or maybe I just stopped eating pretzels. Either way, I now float like a butterfly and retain water like a sieve.
Then came the most sacred of promises: “Men Over 70 Are Raving About This Root That Restores Vitality!” I clicked. I raved. I rooted.
The cure involved a Peruvian tuber, a Himalayan breathing technique, and a YouTube video narrated by a man named “Dr. Randy.” I followed every step. My blood pressure rose. So did my eyebrows. Did it work? Let’s just say I now walk through the parking lot with a confident swagger and a strategically placed fanny pack.
The Internet has solved all my problems. I no longer trust doctors, pharmacists, or anyone with a stethoscope who doesn’t also sell supplements on YouTube. Why? Because the Internet taught me that Tylenol causes autism—a theory endorsed by two of America’s loudest unlicensed pediatricians: Donald Trump and RFK Jr.
Now, I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that after reading seventeen blog posts and watching a video narrated by a man named “Quantum Dave,” I threw out all my acetaminophen and replaced it with Himalayan salt, raw honey, and a crystal shaped like Joe Rogan’s bicep.
My ankles still swell, my skin still flakes, and my rollator still squeaks—but my mind is free. Free to believe that Big Pharma is hiding the cure for everything in a jar of Vaseline and a Peruvian root. Free to chant “Water be gone!” while pressing my knee and waiting for enlightenment. Free to click “Next Page” until I forget what I was looking for.
Next week, I’ll be trying the “Cabbage in Your Sock” method for memory enhancement and the “Toothpaste on Your Eyelids” trick for lucid dreaming. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll be glowing either way.
I went to my Aunt Miriam’s funeral in Ohio last week. Naturally, it was a sad occasion, but it still had it’s lighter moments. That’s one of the benefits of the deceased being 91 and someone who we knew had lived a full life. My Aunt survived my Uncle George by 5 years, but in her final months she was losing her memory and fading quickly. So, while it is always sad to lose someone, it wasn’t a big surprise when she passed. So, the funeral, while solemn, felt more like a family reunion, only with less alcohol.
Decades ago, I realized that drinking and driving was a very dangerous combination, so, putting safety first, I gave up driving. Luckily for me, my brother Donald was driving to the funeral from his residence on Long Island, New York, and he agreed to stop in Lancaster on Sunday to pick me up. He even showed up with breakfast. What a good brother.
Most people just use GPS to get to their destination. My brother Donald also drives with a set of self-imposed rules. He likes order, predictability, and structure. I’m more loosey goosey. So, our road trip was a study in contrasts. He had everything planned out. I was in road trip mode, just ready to see what the road had in store for us. Donald’s girlfriend, Kathleen wanted to attend the service, but she had to work on Sunday. They worked out a plan. Donald would drive to Akron. When she got off work, Kathleen, ever the jet-setter, would fly to Akron with a short layover in Washington, D.C. Donald would pick her up at the Akron airport.
We got to Akron around 5 p.m. and Kathleen’s flight wouldn’t arrive until 9 p.m. I suggested we go to the hotel bar, where we could grab something to eat and watch football. Don agreed, but because he had to drive to the airport at 8:30 he would only have one drink. I, once again, thanked my lucky stars that I had made the right decision decades ago to quit driving, so I didn’t have to stop at just one drink. “Kathleen likes the room to be cool,” Don said. So, we cranked up the a/c before we headed to the bar. I’m not a big fan of air conditioning, but I knew that I would be able to stock up on “anti-freeze” at the bar, so I readily agreed to pre-chilling the room for her. Donald let me continue watching football when he went to pick up Kathleen. We entered the room, and I felt like I had walked into Superman’s Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic Circle. Donald showed no reaction. Kathleen loved it. I put a jacket on and asked if we were expecting a family of penguins to drop by for a visit. I remembered that Donald and Kathleen met while both of them were on vacation in Iceland in January of 2024. Iceland in January. She must really love the cold. I wondered if she might be part polar bear. Anyway, we turned in early and I slept well under a thick layer of sheets, blankets, and bedspreads.
We got up early, had breakfast, and headed off to the funeral. There we met all our Ohio cousins. The wake was held in the entrance of the church. After an hour, everyone moved into the church for the funeral mass. I found a spot close to an exit, just in case the walls couldn’t withstand my Atheistic vibrations. After the service, we all went across the street for a funeral luncheon, and then it was time to get back on the road home.
On the return trip, Donald drove the first 60 miles and made two wrong turns because the GPS wasn’t prepared for the Ohio traffic circles. We all laughed the first time, when the GPS immediately responded with, “Make the first U-turn.” After we came out of the wrong section of the next traffic circle, however, only Kathleen and I laughed when the GPS again responded with “Make the first U-turn.” We teased Donald. One of his rules of the road is don’t poke the driver, and we were both poking him quite a bit, when he responded with something that upset Kathleen. I suggested he apologize. Instead, he executed a silent transfer of power: He stopped the car, climbed into the back seat, and handed her the keys. He was trying hard to give us the silent treatment, but Kathleen and I just began singing along to the oldies on the radio, and we used some serendipitous lyrics to lob good-natured jabs at Donald, “Come on you people now. Smile on your BROTHER. Everybody get together. Got to love one another right now.”
Another of Donald’s rules on a road trip is that we stop every two hours for a restroom break.
Kathleen was driving, and we were approaching one of the rest areas, which are spaced about 40 miles apart on the Turnpike. This was supposed to be our scheduled stop. Kathleen, looked at me and quietly asked me if I had to go to the bathroom. I shook my head “No.” “You?” I asked. She shook her head, no.
“Ooops! I missed the entrance ramp for the rest stop,” she said as we cruised by the rest station. Donald had to hold his water for 40 more miles. The power had shifted, and that ended the silent treatment. Peace was quickly restored. We pulled into the next rest stop, and everyone was relieved in more ways than just number one. We got back in the car, and all three of us were now singing along to every song on the radio, even when we went through tunnels and the satellite radio cut out. We were back in perfect harmony, even if we might have sounded more like the Karaoke crew from hell. The next thing you know, we were in Lancaster, and we stopped at a diner to get something to eat, and laugh about “what a long, strange trip it was.”
This trip had rules, yes. But it also had rhythm. And quite a bit of laughter. It had the kind of shared absurdity that turns a trip into a fond memory. Donald may live by rules, but Kathleen and I didn’t always follow them—and together, that made the road a little warmer. Even when the AC said otherwise.
I debated with myself whether I should write this article or not. It’s not a pleasant subject, but it does contain a valuable lesson, so I’m going to write it. I’ll try not to be too crude and I’ll keep it as brief as possible.
Several months ago I watched a show about Fascism under Mussolini. He would round up his enemies and opponents and have them marched across town. Then he would make them drink a cup of castor bean oil and march them back across town. Invariable the laxative effect of the castor oil would make them soil their pants as they walked, and they had to walk all the way across town like that. I got two things out of this video. One, dictators are sadistic and cruel. Two, Castor Bean Oil is a powerful laxative.
Since I occasionally suffer from constipation. I decided to order a bottle of it. To qualify for free shipping, I ordered 2 bottles and a rechargeable portable hand-held mini bidet. I figured the two products could both come in handy if I ever needed them.
I realized today that I hadn’t had a bowel movement in days. I was worried and I decided it was finally time to try the Castor Bean Oil treatment. I took a big gulp of it and 15 minutes later the blockage was easily eliminated without the moaning and groaning, grunting, and rapid breathing that usually accompany multi-day bowel movements. Mission Accomplished.
But, similar to George W. Bush’s mission, it was not yet complete. I had to hover in or near the bathroom for the next five hours in what I can only describe as a Colonoscopy prep without the green Gatorade.
So, what did I learn? First, I learned that the next time I am in this situation, start with just a half-teaspoon of Castor Bean oil, and secondly, I learned to make sure to charge the batteries of the hand-held portable bidet, before taking the Castor Bean Oil.
Several weeks ago, I wrote a parody of Les Miserables with Donald Trump as Jean Valjean. Afterwards, I decided that the twice impeached felonious ex-President should really be satirized by a more notoriously guilty character from literature, Rodion Raskolnikov, the Russian axe-murderer. Since I myself have never finished reading Crime and Punishment, I asked my AI buddy Claude to give me a brief synopsis of the classic Russian book, Crime and Punishment.
SPOILER ALERT if you haven’t finished reading Crime And Punishment but plan to do so, the following is a synopsis of the story, followed by a parody of the story, so, you might want to skip this blog if you don’t want to know some details before you have finished your desired reading.
Claude was happy to briefly summarize the complicated classic story for me.
Crime and Punishment is a novel by Fyodor Dostoevsky, first published in 1866. It focuses on the moral dilemmas and mental anguish of the protagonist, Rodion Raskolnikov.
The basic plot is:
Raskolnikov, a former student living in poverty in St. Petersburg, devises a theory that he is an extraordinary man capable of committing crimes for a higher purpose. To test this, he murders an unscrupulous pawnbroker with an axe.
After the murder, Raskolnikov becomes embroiled in the police investigation and suffers immense guilt and moral crisis over his actions. A complex cat-and-mouse game emerges between him and the investigator Porfiry Petrovich.
In his turmoil, Raskolnikov is helped by Sonya, a meek young woman driven to prostitution out of poverty. She represents a moral redemption that Raskolnikov resists at first.
The novel explores themes of redemption, morality, guilt, and whether intellectual theories can justify evil actions. Raskolnikov’s internal struggle with his crime and an examination of both criminals and criminals’ motivations are central.
Ultimately, through his interactions with other characters like Sonya, Raskolnikov finds redemption by confessing his crime and embracing suffering as his punishment and path to moral renewal.
It is considered one of the greatest novels in world literature for its psychological depth and philosophical meditations.
Now that we all know the basic outline of Dostoevsky’s Crime And Punishment, it is time to put Claude to the test, but first I must take Claude to school. I had to tell him the details I wanted him to know, which I knew were too recent to be included in his database.
Me: Claude, I know that your databanks do not include the last couple years, but recently Donald Trump was convicted of 34 Felony Charges for paying hush money to a porn star so that the story wouldn’t get out and end his Presidential Campaign in 2016. Are you aware of any of that?
Unless this hypothetical conviction occurred before August 2023, which does not seem to be what you are stating, I do not have any factual information about such an event in my knowledge base. As an AI, I can only respond based on the data I have been provided up until a fixed cutoff date. If major events like felony convictions of a former president took place after that, I would not be aware of them unless explicitly updated.
Me: That’s okay. Can you just accept what I said about Donald Trump and incorporate it into a parody of Crime and Punishment, with Donald Trump playing Roskolnikov?
Instantly…
Here is a parody synopsis of Crime and Punishment, with Donald Trump playing the role of the tormented protagonist Raskolnikov:
Trump and Indictment
Donald J. Trump, the former President and real estate mogul, devises a theory that he is an extraordinary and stable genius, capable of committing crimes for the greater good of Making America Great Again. To test this, he pays hush money to a porn star to cover up their alleged affair before the 2016 election.
After the illegal payments, Trump becomes embroiled in investigations by the FBI, Congress, and Special Counsels galore. He suffers immense guilt and moral crisis over his actions, ranting endlessly about witch hunts and fake news on Truth Social.
A complex cat-and-mouse game emerges between Trump and the inquisitor Robert Mueller, who plays the role of the dogged investigator Porfiry Petrovich. No matter how many allies Trump fires or intimidates, the walls keep closing in.
In his turmoil, Trump is supported by his loyal wife Melania, who represents the long-suffering moral redemption that the unrepentant Trump constantly rejects in favor of doubling down.
The novel explores themes of narcissism, shamelessness, and whether being a very stable genius can justify criminal actions for personal gain. Trump’s internal struggle with accepting consequences and an examination of both “perfect” phone calls and quid pro quo deals are central.
Ultimately, through his interactions with characters like Michael Cohen and Stormy Daniels herself, Trump finds himself unable to avoid prosecution, indicted on 34 felony counts of falsifying business records. Rather than admit guilt, he claims total vindication and martyrdom.
It is considered one of the greatest satirical novels in modern literature for its unintentional self-parody and cringe-worthy study of hubris and delusion.
I was impressed by Claude, and I wondered just how much Claude was actually capable of knowing and doing.
Claude, I like the story you just told. Can you translate that into Russian?
Вот перевод пародийной истории “Преступление и наказание” на русский язык, где Дональд Трамп играет роль измученного протагониста Раскольникова:
Трамп и обвинительный акт
Дональд Дж. Трамп, бывший президент и магнат недвижимости, создал теорию, что он – экстраординарный и стабильный гений, способный совершать преступления во благо процветания Америки. Чтобы проверить это, он заплатил деньги за молчание порнозвезде, скрывая их предполагаемую связь перед выборами 2016 года.
После незаконных выплат Трамп оказался втянут в расследования ФБР, Конгресса и многочисленных специальных советников. Он испытывает огромное чувство вины и моральный кризис из-за своих действий, безудержно критикуя “охоту на ведьм” и “фейковые новости” в Truth Social.
Сложная игра в кошки-мышки развивается между Трампом и следователем Робертом Мюллером, который играет роль неутомимого следователя Порфирия Петровича. Не важно, сколько союзников Трамп увольняет или запугивает, стены продолжают сжиматься.
I was completely blown away by that instant translation, Claude. I don’t speak Russian. So, I don’t know if you are telling me the truth or “hallucinating,” which is the polite term tech support uses when you are lying your AI ass off, and just making stuff up. Either way, Claude, I like your style. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
[Verse 1] Thirty-Four Counts and we’ll take that ride Across the Hudson River to the other side Thirty-Four Counts cut through all of these nights They’re kneeling on him in the Court House Like a porn queen in the lights.
[Chorus] Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Should we believe Cohen? Or some other guy? It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) No secret, my friend You can’t flaunt the law for decades in your Orangutan skin
[Verse 2] Thirty-Four Counts, Melania isn’t anywhere to balk She said, “What the hell, it’s only locker room talk.” He doesn’t understand any of the rules He thinks he’s above us and we’re all his tools. I had his baby. Could you ask for anything more? No, he needed porn stars and screaming out “fore”
[Chorus] Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Should we believe Cohen? Or some other guy? It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) No secret, my friend You can’t flaunt the law for decades in your Orangutan skin
[Chorus] Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Should we believe Cohen? Or some other guy? It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) No secret, my friend You can’t flaunt the law for decades in your Orangutan skin
[Chorus] Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Should we believe Cohen? Or some other guy? It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) No secret, my friend You can’t flaunt the law for decades in your Orangutan skin
[Verse 3] Thirty-Four Counts and we’ll take that ride Across this Hudson River to the other side Thirty-Four Counts I got my boots caked in this mud We’re baptized in this court room. It’s here we’ll stand or fall With liberty and justice finally fair to one and all. [Chorus] Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Should we believe Cohen? Or some other guy? It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) It ain’t no secret (It ain’t no secret) No secret, my friend You can’t flaunt the law for decades in your Orangutan skin
earlthepearl137 