Well at least the cover is reassuring.

A horse walks into a bar.

The bartender asks, “Why the long face?”

The horse answers “Because a book by Rush Limbaugh, ostensibly for children, is currently the #1 book on Amazon. Also, evolution, probably. Is why my face is long. The question of ‘why’ is misleading when it comes to phenotype. But mostly the first reason.”

…

There once was a man from Nantucket

This man, despite hailing from really a very nice place—you should go sometime, if you haven’t been, it’s lovely, great beaches—for some reason pre-ordered a copy of a book in which a blow-hard misogynist Mary Sue galumphs clumsily through a dangerous revision of American history.

It’s not like he’s some kind of monster (our man from Nantucket I mean; Limbaugh most decidedly is) he’s just, I don’t know, a poor judge of where to spend his ten bucks maybe.

…

Why did the chicken cross the road?

I don’t know, why?

To find an oncoming car to shepherd it out of an existence in which many many people would like to buy a book for children written by Rush Limbaugh.

…

Knock Knock.

Who’s there?

The title of this thing is Rush Revere and the Brave Pilgrims

Okay, you screwed up the joke structure there but I forgive you because that is a terrible title.

…

What’s black and white and red all over?

The joke doesn’t work when you write it down, so let’s just talk about how this book is about the Mayflower, I guess, but maybe also Paul Revere? I don’t have high hopes for the accuracy of this one. Do you think he’ll mention that many of his shipmates had not bathed a single time in their entire lives unless perhaps when they were put in a ducking chair as punishment?

…

A man goes into the doctor’s office, he says to the doctor “Doctor, you gotta help me, my wife thinks she’s a chicken!”

“How long has she been this way?” the doctor asks.

“Oh, for a couple of years now,” says the husband.

“Holy cow” says the doctor, “why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

“Well, in a world in which there are parents—generally concerned about the well-being of their children, no doubt most of them intelligent, fully competent people, good fathers and mothers, kind neighbors, conscientious drivers—in a world in which those people might also decide to give their children, or each other, or themselves, not a book about the politics or ethics of the Eastern seaboard before the cataclysm of European disease, not a book about the strange ventures that funded such journeys, or the vicissitudes of power that drove many puritans out, but rather  a book in which Rush Limbaugh probably just typed “manifest destiny manifest destiny manifest destiny” for a hundred pages—in such a world, she seems okay by comparison.

Also relationships are  complicated, and now I wonder if it would be a betrayal of what we’ve developed over these past years, my chicken-wife and I, if I were to seek to have her cured away, as if I were forsaking who she is now. Sorry, wait, are we still in a joke? Man, I messed that up. I was so distracted. Damn you Rush Limbaugh!”