The Hunter Saga Continues
This particular rotten apple did not fall far from the tree.
I’m beginning to think that along with the presidential candidate and his wife, we should begin taking his offspring into account when we vote.
For me, the problem began with Jimmy Carter. It was only after reading Ron Kessler’s book, “Inside the White House,” that I discovered that Amy was the brat from Hell who would do what she could to humiliate her Secret Service protectors. Kessler describes a time when Amy intentionally crushed some crackers, dropped them on the floor and demanded that an agent clean it up. When the incident was brought to her father’s attention, Carter said, “Well, clean it up.”
Bill and Hillary’s kid, Chelsea, passed muster once you were able to get past how closely she resembled Hillary’s former law partner. It was only as an adult that she took her rightful place as a larcenous member of the Clinton Foundation.
George W. Bush’s two daughters, Barbara and Jenna, behaved like most teenagers (the fraternal twins were 19 when he was elected) and gave their own Secret Service guards plenty of trouble, as they tried to ditch their bodyguards so they could go dancing or on a date without chaperones. Only, unlike Amy, their antics made for embarrassing headlines.
The Obama daughters, Maila Ann and Natasha, seemed to be well-behaved. A shame that they didn’t serve as role models for their parents.
The Trump kids all seem to be okay, although I do wish that a couple of them would quit dunning me for money. Let their old man officially announce he’s running in 2024 and I’ll think about it.
That brings us to Hunter Biden, the apple of his father’s eye. But an apple with a very large worm in it. And this particular rotten apple did not fall far from the tree.
Joe Biden can deny that he’s played no part in his son’s shady business deals, but I don’t recall any other middle-aged sons accompanying their father, the Vice-President of the United States, when he was allegedly flying off on official state business.
So, father and son never chatted on those long flights home from Ukraine and China about the multi-million dollar deals that Hunter, whose only expertise involved illegal drugs and hookers, managed to land with an energy company and a private equity firm?
But anyone who thought that once Joe landed in the White House, the sale of access would cease never grasped the depth of the Biden family’s greed, because we should always remember that Hunter’s uncle Jim has also made a career of trading on Joe’s name.
These days, Hunter doesn’t even take long flights to make millions. He merely had to learn that you can exhale as well as inhale through little straws.
Apparently, blowing paint onto canvas has resulted in artwork that connoisseurs are bidding on, to the tune of $500,000-a-canvas.
I must admit that, as scams go, this is a pretty good one. That’s because, aside from Wall Street, the Silicon Valley and the newsroom at the New York Times, you won’t find a sleazier bunch of creeps than you’ll trip over in the art world.
When a White House reporter asked why the names of those purchasing the paintings are not being disclosed, just to avoid the suspicion that the buyers may not be looking for wall coverings so much as access to the President, Jen Psaki replied: “There’s no scenario in which Hunter Biden or we would know who’s buying his paintings. Only the gallery owner would know, and we’d have no way of finding out.”
Oh, really, Ms. Pinocchio? Not even if you stuck bamboo shoots under his fingernails, waterboarded him or connected electrodes to his man parts?
Who is this guy, anyway, Jen? Superman? Captain Marvel? Captain Crunch?
The lies from this administration are bad enough. It’s the non-stop insulting of our intelligence – be it about the border, inflation, the vaccines or Hunter’s artistic blow jobs – that I truly resent.
It is quite amazing to what lengths people will go to rationalize the shortcomings of America’s black population. We have already seen their rioting, burning and vandalizing, described as peaceful demonstrations on behalf of something called social justice.
Even the term “social justice” was invented so that a special kind of justice was set aside to excuse black behavior; the rest of us have to settle for plain old-fashioned justice, which might actually land us in jail.
Then we had guilt-stricken white liberals go so far as to insist that math (which demands correct answers) is racist, along with proper English and wearing one’s pants above, not below, one’s butt.
However, always willing to go the extra mile, the New York Times has decided to excuse one of the truly awful realities of black communities by editorializing that “Black kids need fathers less than other kids.”
What’s next? Black kids need education less than other kids? Black kids need discipline less than other kids? Or how about black kids need guns more than other kids?
When I was listing some of the questions I would ask Democrats if I could wire them up to a lie detector, one I neglected was: “To what do you attribute the spike in gun sales? The rising up of white supremacists? Or the defund-the-police movement and the decriminalization of various felonies by left-wing mayors and district attorneys?”
If my neighbor didn’t let me have his copy of the Sunday L.A. Times so I could do the crossword puzzle, I might not have known that Jackie Mason (born Jacob Maza) had died at the age of 93.
Starting in the late 1980s, when he began doing his one-man shows, I saw all of them that came to L.A. The man was hilarious. Everything about him – his jokes, his voice, his movements – made me laugh. The first time I saw him perform live, I was laughing so hard that the only thing that kept me from falling on the floor was that I was wedged between my wife and son, and the seat in front of me was too close.
The last time I saw him was when my wife and I were in New York and having dinner at Gallagher’s. Mason was at a nearby table, dining with a few friends. He was having a steak with mushrooms. At one point, he accidentally dropped a mushroom on the floor. Making certain that nobody at his table noticed, he picked it up and popped it in his mouth. I guess in New York, the 19-second rule applies to food dropped on the floor.
Some of his one-liners were: “Eighty percent of men cheat in America. The rest cheat in Europe.” “Politics doesn’t make strange bedfellows, marriage does” and “I was so self-conscious, every time football. players went into a huddle, I thought they were talking about me.”
I’m betting Jackie already has God falling off his throne and rolling on the clouds.
I listen to a lot of talk radio. Because I only listen to Conservatives, they’re the only ones who have a chance to annoy me. One of them is Mark Levin. Unlike his thoughtful, soft-spoken, persona on his Fox show, “Life, Liberty and Levin,” the radio Levin always seems to be hollering, no matter the subject. It’s as if every sentence ends with multiple exclamation points. He also has a habit of concluding sentences with “and so on and so forth,” which is even more annoying than “etcetera, etcetera.”
Another habit that he and his fellow talk show hosts engage in is giving cutesy pie names to their producers. Among them have been Mr. G, Mr. Producer, Generalissimo, the Living Martyr and, of course, Bo Snerdley.
It just strikes me as odd that radio hosts have this compulsion to address their producers every five minutes even though they have callers waiting to talk to them, but you never catch TV news hosts chatting with their producers.
Thanks to left-wing teachers, superintendents and school boards, the three R’s now consist of readin’, ritin’ and racism, with the emphasis on the last.
After I questioned why Candace Owens keeps asking me for money and I happened to mention all the pricey outfits I see her wearing on TV, Stephen Hanover sprang to her defense. He pointed out “She has written a book, ‘Blackout,’ that has done very well and makes many paid speaking engagements. So she has her own money. She’s also married to a British hedge fund manager who presumably is worth a few quid. Would you prefer she come out looking like ‘Mad’ Maxine?”
“God forbid,” I assured him. “I actually like Ms. Owens. But I resent the deluge of emails she sends, asking that I send her money when she’s not even seeking an office. She’s not the only one, as I pointed out. Other non-office seekers who fill up my in-box are Mike Huckabee, Karl Rove, Ben Shapiro, Newt Gingrich and Charlie Kirk, and I wish they’d stop before I wear out my Delete button.”
Mendel Weiss let me know that when it was disclosed that Tesco, a major supermarket chain in England, was mixing in horsemeat with the beef in their hamburgers, the Internet went wild with the following quips:
“I said I was so hungry I could eat a horse. Apparently, Tesco was listening.”
“Anyone want a burger from Tesco? Yay or neigh?”
“Not entirely sure how Tesco is going to get over this hurdle.”
“Had a burger from Tesco last night. I still have a bit between my teeth.”
“A woman has been taken to the hospital after eating a Tesco burger. They’ve listed her condition as stable.”
“I’ve just checked the Tesco burgers in my freezer…and they’re off!!!!”
“Tesco is now being forced to deny the presence of zebra in burgers, as shoppers are confusing barcodes for serving suggestions.”
“I’m afraid these Tesco burgers have given me the trots.”
“To beef or not to beef, that is equestrian.”
“I hear the smaller version of those Tesco burgers make great horse d'oeuvres.”
I’ll stop now before you take the whip to me.
You can email Burt directly at [email protected].
