A large jet plane has crashed on a farm in the middle of rural Kentucky, feared to be Air Force One. Panic stricken, the local sheriffs department has mobilized and descended on the farm in force. By the time they got there, the aircraft was totally destroyed with only a burned hull left, smoldering in a tree line that bordered the farm.
The sheriff and his men entered the smoking mess but could find no remains of anyone. They spotted the farmer plowing a field not too far away as if nothing had happened. They hurried over to the man’s tractor. “Hank,” the sheriff yelled, panting and out of breath.
“Did you see this terrible accident happen?” “Yep. Sure did,” the farmer mumbled unconcerned, cutting off the tractor’s engine. Do you realize that is Air Force One, the airplane of the President of the United States?” “Yep.” “Were there any survivors?” “Nope. They’s all kilt straight out, “the farmer answered. “I done buried them all myself. Took me most of the morning.” “President Obama is dead?” the sheriff asked. “Well,” the farmer grumbled, restarting his tractor, “He kept a-saying he wasn’t, but you know how bad that sumbitch lies.”
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