Falwell resigns

Many cheap laughs to be had in this tweet thread:

Speaking of cheap laughs, check out these hilarious hijinks from Jerry Falwell Sr.’s autobiography:

There were times that Dad’s pranks bordered on cruelty. One of his oil company workers, a one-legged man he nicknamed “Crip” Smith, complained about everything. Dad and Crip’s co-workers got tired of the old man’s bellyaching and decided to take revenge. One morning Crip called in sick and Dad volunteered to send by lunch to his grateful but suspicious employee. Dad and his chums caught Crip’s old black tomcat, killed it, skinned it, and cooked it in the kitchen of one of Dad’s little restaurants. They called it squirrel meat and delivered it to Crip on a linen-covered tray. When Crip returned to work the next morning, Dad and his co-conspirators asked him how he liked his meal. They knew he would complain even about a free home-cooked lunch, and when Crip called it “the toughest squirrel meat” he had ever eaten, they were glad to tell him why.

No political correctness in the Falwell household — about cats or cripples! This story is preceded by a heartwarming tale of Jerry Sr. inviting a shy kid over to his house over for milk and cookies, even though the kid is afraid of Jerry’s dad:

William hesitated at the door. He knew my father carried a gun, and there were too many stories circulating about that gun to leave William feeling easy about entering our home. Quickly I pushed my friend inside and closed the door behind us. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. Suddenly he looked directly at us and shouted.

“Both of you, stop!” William froze in his tracks, and I leaned forward eagerly to see what Dad was up to. William’s eyes opened wide as Dad drew his gun and pointed it at the floor just in front of my friend’s trembling legs.
“Don’t move,” he said quietly. Then he took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The shot from the .38 Remington pistol blew a fairly impressive hole in the kitchen floor. Calmly, Dad blew smoke from the barrel and placed the pistol back on the table.

“I’ve been trying to get that fly all day,” he said, looking back down at his paper. “And finally I got it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, with a gasp, William bolted out the door. I never got him back inside our house again, and the legend about my father continued to spread throughout the neighborhood. Later Dad and I laughed ourselves hoarse just remembering William’s startled look and sudden exit.

The moral Aristocrats!

I’d also forgotten that Michael Cohen says he blackmailed Falwell Jr. into supporting Trump.