by Burt Prelutsky


I realize that a lot of you can’t help looking down your nose at me when I confess I prefer staying home to traipsing off to Paris, London and Rome. But I feel somewhat vindicated when I hear that the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) has lowered the standards for air traffic controllers in the sacred name of diversity.

I didn’t like flying even before I found out that, thanks to liar-nObama’s obsession with race, the FAA actually gives preferential treatment to job applicants if they did poorly in high school science but took part in sports.

Not too hard to figure out which group might profit the most from basing hiring practices on that bit of lunacy. But just in case that wasn’t giving those particular Americans enough of a leg-up, it was also decided that whereas it would be held against a potential hire if he had piloting experience, some yutz who hadn’t held a job — any kind of job! — during the prior three years, would skip to the head of the line.

Moreover, when Tucker Carlson invited a spokesman for the FAA to come on his show and explain their bizarre hiring practices, the feds snubbed his invitation. I can’t say I blame them for deciding not to try to defend the indefensible. Especially if they’d have had to board a plane to get there.

⦿ Blondes, it seems, have replaced Poles as the butts of most jokes. I attribute it to jealousy, except when it comes to jokes involving bottle-blonde liberals like hanoi-Jane Fonda, Samantha Bee, Jennifer Aniston, Natalie Portman, Reese Witherspoon and Meryl Streep.

A gorgeous young redhead goes to a doctor complaining that her body hurt wherever she touched it.

When the doctor insisted that wasn’t possible, she set out to prove it. She pushed on her left shoulder and screamed. She pushed on her left elbow and screamed. She pushed on her left knee and screamed.

Finally, the doctor said: “You’re not really a redhead, are you?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “I’m actually a blonde. How did you guess?”

“Your finger is broken.”

Hold your applause. There’s another.

In the swim-meet, after the blonde came out dead last in the breast stroke, she complained to the judges that the other girls were all cheating. “They used their arms.”

⦿ After reading the article in which I listed some of the exchanges between married people, particularly the one in which the husband complained that his wife insisted that he never listened to her “or something like that,” one of my readers shared the following conversation she’d had with her husband. For reasons that will be blatantly obvious in a minute, she chose to retain their anonymity.

He: “Who was that on the phone?”

She: “It was Michael. He wants to take you to lunch on your birthday. He said you should meet him at his office at noon.”

He: “Michael?”

She: “Your son.”

He: “What did he want?”

She: “He wants to take you to lunch for your birthday. He said to meet him at his office at noon.”

He: “Where does he want me to meet him?”

She: “At his office at noon.”

He: “What time?”

⦿ After I suggested that people having knee replacements should make absolutely certain that the surgeon knows which knee he’s supposed to work on, I heard from Clark Huskey of Westerville, Ohio, who has had both knees replaced and his left shoulder scoped. “Each time, I took a Sharpie and drew a circle with a line through it with the word: “No!” on the non-operative joint. I got a few laughs, but no mistakes.”

Good, I thought, but not good enough. I replied: “Because I am a belt and suspenders kind of guy, I would also write “Yes!” on the ailing knee or even “Yes, this is the bad knee that needs to be replaced and I’m not kidding!”

⦿ When I suggested in a recent article that the polls predicting liar-Hillary Clinton’s victory were skewed because Trump had been trashed so badly by the media that a lot of people were too embarrassed to admit they intended to vote for him, I heard from a reader who insisted that the polls were rigged.

That didn’t make any sense to me. If they were rigged in favor of Mrs. liar-Clinton, the result was just as likely to prevent her supporters from voting for a sure thing as it was to dissuade Trump’s supporters from bothering to vote for a sure loser.

The fact is, pollsters don’t like to be wrong. Their livelihoods depend on their being right. Besides, every presidential candidate has his own pollsters, whose job it is to let the candidate know exactly how he or she is doing and where he or she needs to be spending more money and more time.

If the folks running liar-Hillary’s campaign believed she was at risk of losing the Rust Belt, they would have sobered her up and had her on stage in Pennsylvania, Michigan and Wisconsin, blathering on about glass ceilings and abortions on demand.

But it would have made no difference. That’s because the truth is, liar-Hillary Clinton is a terrible campaigner. She doesn’t like people, not even those fawning female fans who show up at her book-signings, and she despises journalists nearly as much as she does cops and members of the military.

Although she owes her fortune and her fame to liar-Bill Clinton, I suspect that in her quieter moments she resents the fact that, being the opportunistic shrew she is, she was stuck trying to make her mark in politics, a field in which she was so glaringly ill-suited.

⦿ Although I’ve never played the game, I have always thought that golf’s professionals were just about the only athletes a grown man need never be embarrassed to admire. Even I, who never watch a tournament, was always impressed by the fact that the legendary Bobby Jones once lost a major event by a single stroke because he had inadvertently moved a twig when he was lining up a shot from the rough. Even though nobody could see it, he called a two-shot penalty on himself.

Making it even more laudable, when he was complimented for his good sportsmanship, he snapped: “You shouldn’t praise someone for simply abiding by the rules.”

Because so few of our public figures abide by the rules, I take special delight in sharing these golf stories, supplied by Todd Dierdorff, the sage of Colorado Springs, Colorado, with you.

(1) A gushy reporter told Phil Mickelson: “It’s truly spectacular, the way you know your way around a course. What’s your secret?”

Mickelson replied: “The holes are numbered.”

(2) A young man and a priest are playing together. At a short par-3, the priest asks: “What club will you be using on this hole, my son?”

“An 8-iron, father. How about you?”

“I’m going to use a seven and pray.”

The young man hits his 8-iron and puts the ball on the green. The priest tops his 7-iron and dribbles his ball ten feet off the tee.

“I don’t know about you, father, but in my church, when we pray, we keep our head down.”

(3) A golfer teed up his ball on the first hole, took a mighty swing and hit his ball into a clump of trees. He found his ball, saw a space between the trees and thought he could reach the fairway. Again, he took a mighty swing, but the ball hit a tree, bounced back, hit him square in the forehead and killed him.

As he approached Heaven’s entrance, his golf bag slung over his shoulder, St. Peter asked him if he was a good golfer. “Got here in two, didn’t I?”

(4) The police are called to an apartment and find a woman holding a bloody 5-iron standing over a dead man.

The detective asks: “Ma’am, is that your husband?”

“He was my husband.”

“Did you hit him with that golf club?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How many times did you hit him?”

“I don’t know…five, six, maybe seven times. Just put me down for a five.”

(5) The bride was escorted down the aisle and when she reached the altar, she noticed the groom was standing there, his golf bag at his side.

She said: “What are your golf clubs doing here?”

He said: “Why do you ask? This isn’t going to take all day, is it?”



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