I’ve been reading a lot books lately about Abraham Lincoln.

He had a rough life. First of all, he was raised in a log cabin. Gross. He ends up looking like an ape, but has the voice of a  little girl. Racist people back then fucking hated him. Plus, his wife was major ugz and his kid died in the White House. So shitty. Despite all that, he still managed to preserve the Union and free the slaves. And there were a ton of slaves back then. He was an amazing dude all around.

So like two nights after General Lee surrenders, pretty much sealing a Union victory, Lincoln decides to take a night off. He tries to go out and enjoy a play with his ugly wife, when BAM, John Wilkes Booth shoots him in the head. So shitty!

His killer then jumps from the balcony onto the stage, breaks his leg upon impact, yells some shit in Latin, hobbles out of the theater, and escapes. The audience, meanwhile, does nothing. Because they think it’s a part of the play. Seriously. They thought their president, Abraham Lincoln, was participating in some experimental break-the-fourth-wall theater. Two nights after saving the country. Playing a supporting role. As an assassination victim. Idiots.

Seriously, how stupid were people back then? You sit there and watch the greatest President in history get shot in the head, watch the assassin run away screaming, and you turn to your date like, “Did you see that, dear? It really looked like the President just got shot in the head by our century’s Stephen Baldwin! How innovative! Brava! Brava!”

Eventually, people started freaking out. Some doctors came in and took almost-dead Lincoln across the street to some guy’s apartment. They laid the President out on a bed and took all his clothes off to look for stab wounds. (Oh, that’s right…John Wilkes Booth was waving a huge knife around the whole time he was killing the President and escaping. No one thought that was weird, either.) Then, four hours later, he died. A national tragedy, blah blah blah.

What’s interesting to me is, in all these books I’ve read, they describe how fascinating Lincoln’s body was; he had an old, craggy face but a young, muscular body. I mean, I guess that’s noteworthy. There is not, however, a single mention of how big his dick was. Not even a rough estimate.

How come?

I know the 1800’s were a very pious time, and the medical officials examining Lincoln were probably all gentlemen. But, come on! It had to have been enormous. You gotta be packing some heat to write something like the Gettysburg Address. Am I right? Don’t you think someone, anyone, could have just measured it for history’s sake? Drawn a decent sketch of it or made a quick plaster cast? Chopped it off and put in a jelly jar? (That would have to be one huge jelly jar. Who’s with me? High five!)

I mean, the doctors were already sticking their pinkies in his brain and keeping his bloody pillowcases as souvenirs, I don’t think it would have been that unseemly to fiddle around with his lifeless horse cock a little. Didn’t anyone think about his legacy? This was a man who signed the Emancipation Proclamation and never even saw the Pacific Ocean. Lincoln lived a selfless and compassionate life. The only people who got to see his massive, superhuman penis were his ugly wife and the doctors in that bedroom. That’s just not fair, for Lincoln or America.

All I’m saying is it would have been comforting for a grieving nation to hear that, at the very least, Lincoln was huge when he died. And by “a grieving nation,” I mean “me.” This is the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night.

Seriously, I’m not gay, just really into history.

I’m starting a book about Benjamin Franklin next week. I’m pretty certain he had a chode.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 23rd, 2007 at 11:44 am and is filed under Big Dicks, History, Lincoln. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.