Tag: abraham lincoln

Lincoln hated press conferences.
Okay, he didn’t hate the delicious snacks offered there. The seats were comfy, too.
Those damn reporters! Ever since the war began, the press had turned against him.
Better open with a funny quote, he thought.
“Whenever I hear any one arguing for slavery I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.”
A shriveled crone in the front row stood up, clutching her notepad with claw-like hands.
“Is the Stanton Memo true?” she asked. “Didn’t your administration provoke The South states into secession?”
Damn Helen Thomas, thought Abe. Won’t you ever die?

Abe spent a lot of time in the White House Telegraph Office during the war, waiting for news and casualty figures. But as the war progressed, the delays mysteriously increased.
“Are the rebels damaging transmission lines?” asked Abe.
“No, sir,” said the operator. “It’s these damned advertisements for canned pork products tying things up.”
“Pork products?” asked the president.
“Yes,” said the operator. “If only there was a name for them.”
“Well, let me know when offers come through to thicken my penis,” said Abe. “It’s certainly long enough to reach the ground by now.”
“Aye, sir,” said the operator.

Morning!
Abe woke up, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the words written in blood on the ceiling:
A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF CANNOT STAND
Abe leaned over and shook his wife.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
“What is it, Abe?” asked Mary Todd. “The words again?”
“Yes!” shouted Abe. “Look at them! Omens!”
Mary Todd looked up.
Nothing.
“I know what you’re up to,” she said. “We’re not putting a mirror up there.”
She rolled over and went back to sleep.
Abe, on the other hand, stared at the words until the blood began to rain down from the ceiling.

Mary Todd looked out the kitchen window. Abe was crawling around the lawn again.
Mary Todd shoved open the window and yelled: “Are you plucking weeds again?”
“I most certainly am,” Abe yelled back. “And I’m planting flowers to replace them, too.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t crawl around in your best suit while doing it, you crazy old fart,” said Mary Todd. “The cleaning bill is killing us. Grant says we need every penny for the troops.”
“Grant,” muttered Abe. “Stupid drunk bastard.”
So the next time Abe went weeding, he did it naked.
“Much better,” yelled Mary Todd.

Lincoln’s stovepipe hat knocked into yet another doorway, but he reached up to keep it from falling at the last minute.
“Why do you wear that ridiculous hat?” asked Mary Todd. “You’re tall enough as it is, dear.”
Abe smiled, took off the hat, and pulled out a white rabbit.
“Oh, what a cute bunny!” said Mary Todd. “I didn’t know you were a magician.”
“I’m not,” said Abe. “I just like how his fluffy bunny feet massage my scalp.”
“Doesn’t he crap all over your head?” asked Mary Todd.
“Sure,” said Abe. “But that’s no different than anybody else.”

It’s a rare thing to see the president walk down the middle of the street, but people who looked out their windows on that fine April morning caught a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln slowly strutting down Pennsylvania Avenue.
“You really should head back,” said an adviser.
“Never,” said Abe. “I’m a slow walker, but I never walk back.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the advisor. “You should really consider heading back.”
“Never,” said Abe. “Never in my life.”
“Even when you’ve forgotten your pants?” asked the adviser.
Abe looked down, blushed, and shrugged.
“Hail to the chief!” said Lincoln.

“You must travel this path alone, Mister President,” said The Librarian, and he slammed the trapdoor shut.
Abe held the torch in front of him and walked through the hidden corridor of books.
Oddly enough, the cobwebbed ceilings in this book-filled cellar were tall, so Abe didn’t have to duck.
“Amazing,” he said. “Simply amazing.”
When he came to the end of the hall, he saw a stack of books with his name on it.
No dust.
He opened one, and was shocked.
“These are my thoughts!” he shouted. “What witchcraft is this?”
Abe torched the unholy books and ran.

Abraham Lincoln enjoyed quiet weekends at the farm. They were so much better than his weekdays in Washington, plotting the country’s destiny and writing stacks of letters to the parents of dead soldiers.
So much death, and so little time to escape from it.
But not today.
A shriek shattered the air. Then, a sickening thud.
Abe ran to the barn, looked down at the dead skunk, and sighed.
“What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself,” he said.
“Bull,” said the farmer. “I upped and smacked it with my hoe. That done kilt the varmint, I reckon.”

Abe went back to his office and slammed the door.
The press had nailed him.
Again.
“SECRETARY!” he shouted.
His secretary crawled out from behind his desk and clutched a notebook, trembling.
“Yes, Mister President?” mumbled the secretary. “Problems?”
“What did we discuss yesterday?” growled Lincoln.
The Secretary flipped through his notes. “No man has a good enough memory… to be a successful… liar,” he read.
“Which means…”
“You need me to keep track of your lies?” said the Secretary.
“EXACTLY!”
The Secretary nodded. “It will never happen again, sir,” he whimpered. “Ever.”
But one hundred and ten years later…