Friday, February 11, 2005
Sweet 16
Today is much more than “new-bed-delivery day.” That’s a holiday for Kel and me, but the rest of you losers who still sleep on dufflebags full of rocks and sticks shouldn’t feel obliged to celebrate along with us. In fact, since the celebration starts after the bed is delivered, I’m going to ask you not to. But instead, you can celebrate, along with the entire rest of this freedom-enforcin’ nation, the birthday of our two greatest presidents: Abrahams Linclone. These men, born of a single fertilized egg in the 19th century’s most advanced genetic engineering labORatory, were esteemed for over 100 years as the epitome of sagacity and rectitude.
And for that, we still honor them, but we’re putting more emPHAsis on the “sag” in sagacity, on the “rect” of rectitude. New studies suggest that President “Railsplitter” might truly have been the first Log Cabin Republican, the “Great Pranceipator,” the most Kinsey-six-riffic president ever to sleep or otherwise spend the night in the White House (and that even includes the outrageously euphemistic Millard Fillmore with his fuscia seatcushion). Yes, modern evaluation of historical documents suggests to C.A. Tripp, as reported in The Intimate Life of Abraham Lincoln, that the 16th president of this bastion of democracy and the pursuit of happiness was himself a bit of a bufu. Technically speaking, I mean.
In light whereof, I propose the following ode honoring the man, the myth, and the legend that is Abraham Lincoln, born February 12, 1809 in Kentucky, and a spritely 196 years old as of tomorrow (but he doesn’t look a day over 150):
Honest Abe Lincoln
was more than a president
He brought us to victory
over ourselves;
But now dubious thinkin’
of all that he might have meant,
revisionist trickery,
sinister delves.
Renowned for his wisdom
in leading the nation,
slain by an actor
in regicide guise:
New history gives him
a new reputation
for busting the backdoor
and heavenly thighs.
With jaundiced regard
for the moralist patriot,
now we know why
Mary suffered from fits;
He slept with his bodyguard,
acted as gay men ought:
way into guys
and allergic to tits.
Happy birthday Abe. It’s morning in America and I still respect you - maybe even more than before. It’ll take a lot more than the Super Best Friends and a giant stone John Wilkes Booth to bring you down now.
