Bill Jones, mayor of a small town in the Midwest, made some controversial remarks about integration of schools and neighborhoods, and three hours later Jesse Jackson’s jet skidded into the local airport, which has a notoriously short runway for even small private aircrafts, and in less than a minute the reverend emerged, waved to more than a hundred citizens and media members, descended the steps, marched to a podium, and proclaimed: “Mayor Bill Jones is a racist hatemonger and must resign his office at once or else.”
“What will you do if Mayor Jones doesn’t quit?” shouted a young female reporter.
“I’ll organize strikes in factories and businesses around here, and will personally walk the picket lines until this man vacates his office.”
Reverend Jackson was only minutes into his oration when the wheels of another jet hit the runway and screeched as the craft spun a hundred eighty degrees before stopping. Most witnesses gasped and groaned until Jackson said, “Please relax. God has saved them.”
Who were they? The first to exit, Reverend Al Sharpton, dietary thin and fit, verily danced down the steps, and upon reaching earth he said, “Reverend Jackson, once my aircraft is refueled and serviced, it’s yours to return to Chicago or wherever you have more urgent business.”
“I’m already organizing here at the epicenter of racial conflict in America.”
“Frankly, and I say this publicly because I dislike wasting words in private, I must tell you how worried I am about your persistent heaviness, shall we say obesity, and your too evident tiredness.”
“Al, I’m still a bit lighter than you were at your flabbiest. And now, rather than being fit, you look anorexic. I’m more alarmed every time I see you.”
“Your concern can’t possibly match my worry that even at age seventy-five you lack self-control.”
“Maybe we should spar a little and show the folks who’s the athlete.”
“I’m healthier than I used to be but a hundred seventy-five pounds lighter than my peak of three-oh-five.”
“Granted, you’re an emaciated junior lightweight at this point, but you’re thirteen years younger than I.”
“Really, Jesse, other than opposing the unrighteous, my primary exercise is simply walking on the treadmill, a piece of equipment you should purchase.”
Jesse Jackson took off his blazer and handed it to an aide. Al Sharpton shook his head but also removed his coat. Spectators formed a large circle around the combatants, and Jackson, weighing twice that of his opponent, grunted and charged. Sharpton sidestepped and stuck out his right leg as Jackson lumbered by and landed shoulder first on the tarmac. In the frenetic style of a mixed martial artist attacking a wounded foe, Reverend Al pounced on Jackson and delivered two rather weak right hooks to the temple before being seized from behind under each armpit and hoisted to his feet.
“Who the hell are you?” said Sharpton.
“I’m Mayor Bill Jones, and you two are under arrest.”
“I didn’t know you’re a brother.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Only had time to read a short article online before I hurried here,” Sharpton said.
“Mayor Jones, I extend my apologies for this misunderstanding,” said Jackson, who’d turned over and sat up. “I don’t see how justice is served by incarcerating two men who’ve for decades fought for civil rights.”
“Both of you get in those jets and take off, and maybe I’ll overlook this matter.”
“What about your remarks?” Sharpton asked.
“I’ll answer to my constituents.”