M is for Millard

Apologies for the long delay, but History Bros is back with a brand new set right around the corner from a DIY cupcake shop.  I would be in heaven, but there’s so many fixed-gear bikes scraping up against our windows that I could just throw the covers off.  One of “them” just flicked me off…Todd, hold down the fort.

Todd, please grab my Tuesday steak from the refrigerator so I don’t swell.  Well, lesson learned: mustaches are out and “hot” Krava Maga classes are in.  Ugh, alright, alright.  Who do we have lined up for today?  Who?  Millard Fillmore?  That’s who we could get?  Damnit, Todd, this is also a children’s show, and we all know that the space between Jackson and Lincoln is a fat blur of plain white men.  Look, my presidential timeline literally has cut outs from Dilbert pasted across the spaces from 8^th to 15^th president  - though, with deepest apologies to my Little Magician, Martin Van Buren. 

Is he here?  No, that’s Clyde the janitor.  He’s out today?

HB: Hey, Hey!  Dillard’s!  Wait, Millard! Hey…

MF: I heard everything.

HB:  You know what, you’re lucky you’re even here.  I don’t feel a need to apologize.

Alright, geez.  Ummm.  We’ll start off on the most exciting note of your illustrious life: You were the LAST Whig president!  How does that feel? Or, whatever.

MF: I brought bugles for everyone.

HB:  Gee, thanks, Millard.

MF:  Please, dig in.  Well, I would say at the time it was anticlimactic.

HB:  I bet.

MF: ….

HB: ….

MF: ….

HB: ….

HB:  Ok!  Umm, tell me where you were born?  What was your childhood like?

MF: I was born and raised around the Buffalo, New York area…

HB:  Ok, I’m going to stop you right there.  Seriously.

HB: (aside)  Milly, we’ll edit that out.  Just, uh, say you grew up on the frontier and you killed a man when you were ten.  A man assaulting your father, and you saved him by burying a hatchet into the assailant’s backside.  And then, you, uh, cut down a peach tree.  But, you could never tell a lie.  I dunno.  Improvise.

MF:  But, none of that happened.

HB:  I know, but we’re running on fumes here.  Unless you want to have our listener’s donate to Doug Flutie’s autism foundation or talk about how Patrick Kane punched a cabbie in your glorious hometown, I can’t work with what we have.

MF:  Who’s Patrick Kane?

HB:  He’s one of the Lollipop Kids from The Wizard of Oz.

MF:  Where’s this?

HB:  Wait, wait.  Holy shit!  YOU signed the Fugitive Slave Act?!

MF:  Yes, indeed.

HB:  A momentous turn!  That’s sick, Milly!

MF:  Well, I had to with pressure from Southern Democracts and Whigs, but I did endorse other measures that constrained the institution of slavery with…

HB: Nope!  We’re staying on the Fugitive Slave Ac….

MF:  NO! NO! NO! NO! No one understands me, or even knows me for that matter, but once they find out about this one little piece of legislation I am demonized!  I am M!ssundaztood!

HB:  What?  Like…Pink?  Oh my God, he’s got a gun!  Or a, long musket-looking revolver.  OH NO!  He’s pouring powder into it!  Todd, let’s jet!  Hurry, he’s packing the flint lock!  Now, he’s retying the bag of gunpowder.

HB:  Maybe Millard is M!ssundaztood, but we’re on the road now as he presumably continues to prepare a shot.  Word of advice, learn ALL of your presidents.  History Bros promises to have a less demented, more popular guest next time.  Until then, we’ll be at Hot Krav Magra, ripping someone’s nuts off in a room turned up to 120 degrees.  Holy Shit!  Fillmore just shot Todd!  That has to be five miles behind us!  Applications for a new intern are now being accepted.  Goodbye.