Like most people who live to adulthood, Limbaugh left some family behind and they, apparently having thinned out the fortune their famous crock of hateful lies left them, have released the book pictured in the corner, the title of which is “Radio’s Greatest of All Time.”
Wolfman Jack might object to that, were he still alive, and even Howard Stern might raise an eyebrow. But that’s hardly the least offensive thing about bringing Limbaugh back from the dead. Hopefully, the book contains key Limbaugh quotes like “Have you ever noticed how all composite pictures of wanted criminals resemble Jesse Jackson?” and his once advising a black female caller to “Take that bone out of your nose and call me back.”
Noble words, for sure, that should deservedly echo down the corridors of time, even as their speaker is being eviscerated by Lucifer’s ghouls for all eternity. It’s a wonder they haven’t been stamped in ink on paper prior to this, but probably Kathryn and David Limbaugh haven’t really needed the money until now.
“But look,” you say. “All the profits from the book are going to needy families of America’s fallen heroes. It says that on the jacket.” Well, they couldn’t really say they were going to give the money to the family of one of America’s most famous chickenhawks, could they? Rumor has it that Rush avoided the draft during the Vietnam war by claiming to have anal cysts, only to become a fervid warmonger when he was safely past the age where he could be enlisted. He also avoided getting stuck with the nickname “Ass Cyst,” even though he deserved it.
No, our friends Kath and Dave are probably getting paid the lion’s share of the profits, in the form of editing and contributory fees, despite likely doing no editing. Perhaps some contributions were made by them. Maybe they recalled a sweet Christmas story about Limbaugh dressing up like Santa Claus and teaching little racist children to sing “Barack the Magic Negro,” and it’s retold in the pages of the book.
But maybe not. Anyway, it’s better for long-suffering Limbaugh non-fans that you need to buy a book to experience the words of Limbaugh now. You remember gritting your teeth while your husband, who is also your nephew, used to listen to Limbaugh on the radio, whooping “That guy tells it like it is!” through the dentures you had to remind him to put in before your inbred family picnic, and just praying for the show to be over soon so you could resume twisting the radio dial looking for Fleetwood Mac.
So, buy him the book for Christmas. It’s not like he’s ever going to read it.