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Iffy Sez

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Ladies & Gommen: Wel], I must say that it does this oíd heart good to be back in piim again. The perils of fame, however, have made their intrusión into my life for the first time in a score o' years- since the last SUN, I can hardly walk down the street without being accosted by admiring fans. Anyhow. . . Had the occasion to visit with our president, Whitey Ford, last Friday when he stopped by Cobo Hall. I wuz concerned about his health -as y'all recall, I revealed in the last column both his lobotomy and the fact iliat in the last assassination attempt in San Francisco, the bullct had actually entered his body, passing in from one ear to out the other, and I noticed that as he got on the helicopter in Washington he bumped his noggin on the door. I wanted to know if it was the effect of the operation, or whether it was the breeze from the passing bullet titillating his inner ear that caused the dizziness. Sd alter the press conference at Cobo an affair, I might remark, that was notable for the usual obsequious vapidity of reporters' questions surpassed only by the knuckleheaded answers from The Cliiei' I caught up with The Prez at the intímate tete-a-tete with millionaire socialites at the Ponchartrain afterwards. "Whitey," I sez, "I got some questions fer ya." "Iffy," sez Whitey, "It's been a long time"-he wuz interrupted by his wife Betty who up and put her hand m li is pocket right about that moment -"Anything you want, shoot." At that moment, hearing that word, a phalanx of secret service agents swarmed about the presidential personage, and in obvious emulation of the First Lady, they had their hands in each others' pockets too. . . so I made my way back to the Shelby to write this up. II' ya ask me, I say Whitey is a perfect president to have in the year 1976, in the historical tradition of Benjamin Hanison, Millard Fillmore, and Calvin Coolidge, and we all oughta be grateful that, even with his injuries, he is serving his country- serving it right up on a silver platter to his buddy Rocky. Speakin' of the Secret Service, those fellas in their dark goggles paid a little visit to the publishin' offices of the South End, which is put out every day down at the Wayne campus. Seems they were a tad concerned about a jontest the paper run which asked the pointed question, "Where will Jerry get it?" Wellsir, if they didn't take the poor editor and the paper's adviser into an office and shut the door. may my whiskers full out. After tlirowin' a good scare into everybody, and most likely tellin' 'em not to ever do that again. the feds attempted to slip away unsecn. But before they could melt back into the anonymity from which they carne, one of Iffy's inconspicuous but ever-present agents snapped the picture hete. Must be a better way to make a livin', huh, guys? 01' If can understand why you get so worked up, though. U's been a tryin' year for our chief exec, no denyin' it. When he's not gettin' shot at by some riled-up citicn, sonie niember of his immediate family is puttin' him in a compromised position witli a chance remark. Why, no sooner had Jerry recovered from wifey's lettin' it slip ii might be OK with her if young Susan kicked up her heels a bit, than young Jack came right out and admitted messin' around with hemp. Don't take it so hard, Jerry, he coulda joined the SLA, y'know? Heard it's good for headaches, too, yer honor. Hope Jack brings some extra next time he comes through. Even Iffy's had trouble makin' a score lately. Thought the "dope capital of the Midwest" was supposed to be around here someplace. Until next time, this is Iffy the Dopester leavin' ya with this thouglit: What ambitious young Frce Press reporters, known in the copy department as "the power whores" have been seen lately in the company of a former defendant in the ÍOth Precinct Conspiracv Trial? Iffy won't teil.