John Boston | Oh Joe! Were ‘Eat Me!!’ but a Euphemism

John Boston

I was touched and saddened to hear the other day that the Deity of Dumbness, the high god of Democrats, Joe Biden, had an uncle eaten by cannibals. I hate that when that happens. Joe offered another public confession recently. The president of the United States this time didn’t claim to have de-droughted the West, Pecos Bill-style, by riding a bucking tornado. Joe didn’t confidently claim to have cleared Minnesota of trees and still owns the giant blue ox, “Babe.” Ol’ Jose didn’t even give a speech, highlighting how he killed a grizzer bear, Davy Crockett fashion, just by grinning at it. 

No. The Face of Progressives Everywhere claimed his Uncle Ambrose Finnegan (who wrote “Finnegan’s Wake” shortly before plunging into the Pacific) had been a fighter pilot in World War II. Joe noted his Uncle Bosie was shot down off the coast of New Guinea and was promptly captured, lightly salted, basted, sprinkled with jungle garlic and eaten by cannibals, who were, all the while, making cartoonish and oversized tummy rubbing gestures during supper. 

As Shakespeare once said, “O dratted and bothersome facts, which ruineth all things poetic.” Turns out Uncle Ambrose was not so much flying the plane, he was a courier ON the plane, which lost power and nosedived into the ocean. In the Army report of the 1944 accident, one of three on board survived. The other two bodies, including Finnegan, were never recovered. Island cannibals at the time, offered a terse, “no comment.” 


While we’re a big fan of the United States of America and look forward to California Gov. Gavin Newsom’s plan to transport his state’s 142 million homeless to New Guinea, we must take umbrage at your (right word?) president’s comments on the dining customs of our backwater constituents. I believe your people call them, “Palmdalians” or “Palmdalogytes.” 

Actually, we like Americans. Had two for breakfast. Kidding. But to assume, even back during World War II, that all the people of New Guinea had to do was sunbathe on the beach and club monitor lizards is a bit smug and self-righteous, even for your addled commander-in-chief. To be fair, we have had reports of a new subspecies cropping up in some of our uncharted rainforest areas, a tall, confused people who smile out of context, scream for no reason and bump headfirst into our nation’s many trees. Point being, if Air Force One did a bellyflop in the jungle, there isn’t enough sausage gravy and bicarbonate on the planet to eat Joe Biden, bony and single-digit so-&-so mutt such as he is. In the Brain Department, I suspect your so-called Leader of the Free World is merely a victim of his own “shrinkage packaging” propaganda. 

Your servant, 

Og, President, Kong Island Rotary 

Thank you, Og. 

Of course, our media was quick to support the president. Diminutive ABC flak George Stephanopoulos claimed to have been eaten by cannibals and, that prior to the attack, was 6-foot-6. Still. Sorry for your loss, Mr. President. It must be difficult hosting New Guinea Prime Minister James Marape at a state dinner without screaming: “YOU ATE MY UNCLE!! JAN. 6 JUNTA GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!!!” 

I feel your pain, Joe. I know what it’s like to lose a beloved family member to cannibals. Lost my first, third and sixth wives that way. In each incident, we were honeymooning in Pearblossom, near the Federal Desert Cannibal & Poppy Preserves. We were snapping photos and I may have urged them to take a couple steps back toward the “DANGER! PALMDALE CANNIBALS!! DO NOT COME CLOSE TO WOODEN POST FENCE, WHICH IS IN A TERRIBLE STATE OF DISREPAIR NOT SO MUCH FOR LACK OF BILLIONS IN STATE FUNDS BUT RATHER DUE TO A RATHER CAVALIER AND HOT ROD ATTITUDE BY CALTRANS!!” 

Next thing you know, a set of frantic hands pop out of the shrubbery, grabbing each bride from behind by the — ahem — bosoms. There’s a frantic scream, followed by excited primitive Palmdale guttural language filled with grunts, burps, bird-chirping sounds and the occasional, “Whoop-tee-DOOOOOO!” Finally came the unmistakable and sickening sound of someone eating Wheat Chex, only without the milk. 

My cousin, Lester, the only Boston family member to attend Canyon High (for six years) was eaten by cannibals after an ill-fated study session at the Jo Anne Darcy Communicable Library on Soledad. They found Lester’s remains in the parking lot. All that was left of the ill-fated Cowboy was his clothes, skeleton, a scattering of those cheap, plastic eating utensils from Taco Bell that break if you sneeze on them, some Handi Wipes and a skateboard with lipstick smears and tooth marks. Darn Eternal Valley. They wanted full price to bury Lester. We ended up burying him back at the ranch. Sigh. “Hakuna matata,” which is, in no way, related to “bodacious matatas…” 

My grandmother, LaGrange, on my mother’s side, was eaten by cannibals before my mother was born way up Soledad where they’d later build the wild animal compound, Africa USA. It was just called, “Africa Canyon Country” back then before the new owners got the COVID government loans and the feds insisted on adding, “USA” to protect their investment. My relatives claimed “Death By Staff Cannibals.” Management stood by the tedious old “Lions Ate Your Grandmama” defense. We settled out of court and ended up getting orphans who would soon later extend the Boston family tree, albeit out of wedlock. 

Point of all this? I know the heartbreak of cannibalism, Joe.  

There’s hope, Mr. President. America has many 12-step organizations that aid Cannibalism Sufferers. 

There’s even a meeting back in Delaware, the nation’s new capital. Just dial up, 1-800-DON’T EAT ME DAMN YOUR EYES! for a list of meetings or their free recipe pamphlet … 

With 119 major awards, John Boston is the most prolific satirist in Earth history. Visit his and buy stuff like the world’s ending tomorrow …

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