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Black Man Out Of Work

WASHINGTON—Joining the ranks of the unemployed at a time when joblessness remains stubbornly high among African Americans, 55-year-old local black man Barack Obama has lost the full-time job he has held for the past eight years, sources confirmed Friday.

Departing Obama Tearfully Shoos Away Loyal Drone Following Him Out Of White House

‘Go On Now, Git,’ Says Former President

WASHINGTON—Stopping and turning around as he made his way across the South Lawn after hearing the unmanned aerial vehicle hovering just feet behind him, outgoing President Barack Obama tearfully shooed away a loyal MQ-9 Reaper drone attempting to follow him out of the White House, sources confirmed Friday.

Jimmy Carter Contemplating Dying Right Here And Now

WASHINGTON—Carefully weighing the pros and cons of each option from his seat onstage at Donald Trump’s inauguration, former president Jimmy Carter is, according to late-breaking reports, currently contemplating dying right here and now.
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From The Diaries Of My Father

My father, Onion founder Herman Ulysses Zweibel, was a great man and a beloved figure throughout the Republic, until his reputation was eclipsed by time and my own greatness. That is why, for the benefit of those born in the 20th century, I have decided to publish my Pater's diaries in book form for the first time. My column to-day features several tantalizing excerpts from his days on the rugged frontier, as well as some from his waning years.

June 19, 1862: To-day I shot 654 passenger pigeons. That axe I bought from that lousy trapper has a rotten handle. I think the dog has typhoid. I like living in a sod house. Is civil war imminent?

May 11, 1866: D—n! I just found out about the Civil War! That's what you get when you print a news-paper hundreds of miles from civilization, I suppose. To-day I shot 1,297 passenger pigeons.

September 5, 1869: Young T. Herman is looking more and more like his Papa every day, and The Mercantile-Onion is thriving. Last night, I had another wet-dream about Queen Victoria. To-day, I shot 13,841 passenger pigeons.

June 21, 1887: I am a miserable old man and have to be carted from room to room in a sedan-chair. Young T. Herman is off at that d–n panty-waist book-learning academy out East and won't drop a line to his poor mother and me. I was reading about the cocaine-powder, and would very much like to try some.

April 6, 1891: Still alive. I now dictate my diary entries to my secretary, as my hands are gnarled with the rheumatism. Lately, I've had a hard time telling the presidents apart. Perhaps they are all the same man, with varying facial hair? Death could not come soon enough. I think some-one is poaching the passenger pigeons, as I haven't seen any in weeks.

February 26, 1896: Young T. Herman is back from his world tour and has introduced me to a new remedy called chloro-form, which he says will provide swift alleviation of my various infirmities. He has just dipped his hand-kerchief into a saucer of the curious liquid and is pressing it tightly against my nose and mouth. Careful, son, you're pressing too hard. Ouch. Owww...uhhnn...ohhhhhh...

[Final entry]

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