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.

It's Always Greener on the Other Side

Welcome back to a titillating episode of History Bros brought to you by the all-new Pontiac Aztek - Pontiac still makes me these things, no joke.  Is it a truck or jeep?  Doesn't matter because it's not relevant.  Pontiac Aztek, spelled with a k.  And speaking of unnecessary spelling changes, we have the distinguished General Nathaneal Greene of Revolutionary War fame as our guest today.  A private militiaman who catapulted himself up the ranks to the role of Commander of the South, only to become one of Washington's closest confidants.  If General Greene changes his name to the correct "Nathaniel," History Bros will give him a burnt orange 2014 Pontiac Aztek.

HB: General Greene, first off, we can't give you a new Pontiac Aztek; that was a lie.  We do, however, have this Metlife pen, but again, you have to change your name.

NG: No deal.  It'd be a dishonor to my father.

HB: No pen.  Good call though because it's completely out of ink, and as I'm suffering from strep throat and tend to chew on my pens, you probably would've died days later.

HB: Nathanael.  Odd spelling.  Were your parents new-age and, follow-up, do you have a brother named Aydan?

NG: My father was a farmer, smith and devout Quaker.

HB: So, yes, they were new-age.  Oatmeal?

NG: What?

HB: Ok.  Hey, did your father craft tables out of used fixed-gear bicycle wheels?  Or, even better, manufacture stools with inlaid tops of a Quaker Steel Cut Oatmeal cartons as faux-cushions?

NG: (Sigh).  Yes.

HB: Oh, holy shit.  I was joking.  Really?

NG: Yeah.  My parents were insufferable douches.  I ate seitan every morning, day and night. Their lofty, misplaced ideals overshadowed my chronic anemia.  I smelled at school, and the headmaster even resorted to calling me Nookie Nathan.  It was an awful childhood.

HB: Oh my god, I'm so sorry.  Wait, Nookie Nathan?

NG: He had just heard Limp Bizkit at the time; he was an idiot.  For some reason all the other kids went with it.

HB: Why not change the name then?  Release yourself from that period.

NG: Because fuck them, right?

HB:  General Greene has just channeled Good Will Hunting.  He went with the wrench.

NG: As soon as I was of age, I picked up and joined the Continental Army as a militia private.  It was the only way out of that hellhole.

HB:  Yes, I have some papers here detailing your time in basic training.  68 demerits.  15 fights.  You fired your musket at pointblank range at your bunkmate's care package from his mother .  And, last but not least, you British teabagged all of your bunkmates' faces at least once.  What is a British teabagging anyway?

NG: You put your balls in black pudding and marmite, and then slap someone's face with them.

HB: That's pretty sick, Nookie.

NG: I was an angry kid, but I slowly evolved.  I learned to channel the hatred from my childhood and unleash it on the battlefield.

HB: How many British teabags did British regulars receive during the revolution?

NG: 58.

HB: That is impressive, sir.

HB: A lot of place names in America are derived from your name.  That's quite an honor.

NG: They drop the e most of the time, so it's basically a backhanded compliment.

HB: It'd be like going to "New Orlns" for Mardi Gras.

NG: Sounds Slovak.

HB: I think it is.

HB:  General, since we're running a little behind, do you mind if I eat my lunch during the rest of the interview?

NG: Not an issue.  Wait, what is that?  What the hell is that?!

HB: Um, red pepper hummus.

NG: You are not my father!  Get out of my way, man!

HB: Mmm.  It seems my hummus has sent Nookie wildly running through the halls, and now outside, past the parking lot, and...  Oh shit.  He was just hit by, what seems to be a car...  Hey!  It's a Pontiac Aztek!  That's definitely a jeep.  Oh, I can't tell.

HB: Well, it seems that General Greene is still harboring child terrors after all of these years.  Thankfully, the driver of the Aztek was able to fold the back into a makeshift bed of a truck and haul the General to St. Mary's.  He'll be fine.  Thanks all for joining, and remember that we are all products of our childhood.  See you in Greensboro.

Et Tu, Caesar?

As promised, we've left the sepsis-soaked and amputation-crazed era of the Civil War for a more cosmopolitan setup here on the newly minted set of History Bros.  A chaise lounge was generously provided by Rooms To Go.  Are they still in business?  Yes?  I haven't seen a commercial in, like, over a decade.  Alright, well, it is a white pleather chaise lounge, so they can't be doing that well.  But, we're not complaining, because currently sitting on that eyesore of a couch is none other than Gaius Julius Caesar.  The famed general, statesmen, writer and eventual dictator was one of the main catalysts for the fall of the Roman Republic and the rise of the Roman Empire.  He is, ironically, eating a caesar salad.

HB: OK, you're just begging for it.  Why the caesar salad?

JC: Diet.  Turns out drinking 8 Michelob Ultras every night will create a classic case of beer belly.

HB: You are the ancient version of a frat boy.

JC: I had my days, trying to sustain that lifestyle way after my prime.  I was that guy who used to be an athletic general, but was completely oblivious to the aging process and inevitable weight gain.  Michelob!  I still have a few friends I can't get through to.  The response is always the same: "I played D1 in Roman Legion, I still deserve respect.  No, I'm not balding.  I'm also not taking off my helmet."

HB: I get it.  I hate to break it to you, but just like the Michelob myth, that salad is absolutely terrible for you.  It's all in the dressing.

JC: Damnit!

JC: But, it's salad.  It was on the healthy starters menu at John Barleycorn.

HB:  John Barleycorn?

JC: I didn't say I was fully over my phase!  Did you even know that I played D1 Legion...  Ok, I here myself.  I'm trying.

HB: I bet it's tough, man.  But, still, toga parties?

JC: I wear one every day, so it's not something novel.

HB: That was less fun than I expected.  Jeep Wrangler named a model after the river you famously crossed - a point of no return.  Jeep Wrangler Rubicon!  Hot or not?

JC: Not.  It's an embarrassing.

HB: You can...totally...unzip the top.  Get a breeze.

JC: It's an awful, awful car.  I'd rather have a Geo Tracker.

HB: Good point, Julie.  At least you could play the hipster irony card with that one.  The Rubicon, there's no way around that stigma.  You're the guy who owns a Wrangler.  And guess what?  It rained last night and you forgot to put the top back on.  Your fuzzy dice smell like wet dog and your copy of Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill is ruined.

HB: Alright, serious question.  Did you really utter the words "Et Tu, Brute," or is this just Shakespeare taking artistic liberties?

JC: All honesty, I didn't even say a word.  I passed out in about a minute, then bled out a minute later.  I vomited because it hurt so f'ing much.  That was the closest I cam to speaking.

HB: Grudge against Brutus?

JC: No, I'm actually happy for him.  Well, I knew he was becoming "different" after he started talking about social justice, volunteering, blah blah.  The real sign was his choice to focus on non-profit management in business school.  All the legionnaires and senators went into finance, but this was, like, different different.  Ya know?  But, he's got three kids now and has a decent job as an educational administrator.  He has happiness.  Most of us never saw that.  I have an Infiniti and an empty heart I feel with caesar dressing.  God, is that really narcissistic?

HB: It is.  Stop eating yourself.  But, that's very noble of you to say.  Still, the stabbing?

JC: Yes!  They all could've easily shot me.  That's just a surprise.  Sure, it hurts, but you don't see it coming over and over again.  Holy shit I'm about to get stabbed!  Oh my god, this other senator has a knife too!  Where's he going to put that one?!  Oh, Jesus, my hip?!  C'mon! A clean shot to the head would've been appreciated.

HB: Who wore the Caesar cut better - you or ER Clooney?

JC:  Clooney.

HB:  Julie, I want to sincerely thank you for coming on the show.  Go eat some quinoa.

Homeless Horace

Today we take a break from KP duty, ditch the soldiers and sit down with a more intellectual sort: Mr. Horace Greeley.  Founder and editor of the venerable New York Tribune, Greeley was a fervent abolitionist and Radical Republican, often using his paper as a mouthpiece for the party and the dissemination of his ideals.  Born to poor parents to New Hampshire, Greeley went all Silicon Valley, left school at the age of 14 and sought fortune in editing and journalism - an inextricable piece to his more liberal politics.  At the request of Mr. Greeley, I've submitted myself to Earl Grey as the man is snobbish about the taste and wastefulness of my Keurig machine.  It tastes like someone shoved a cigar butt in my mouth...and I just burnt my tongue.  Great.  Let's go!

CWB:  Is my tongue bleeding?

HG:  No, sir.  Shipshape.

CWB:  Well, I won't be able to taste my Trader Joe's channa masala later on today, plus I'll get that flaky feeling a few days later.  The Keurig is out of sight, Mr. Greeley!

HG:  Doctor Greeley.

CWB:  You don't have your doctorate.

HG:  Fair point.

CWB:  In fact, I'm surprised you even have a job you dropout deadbeat.  I'm sorry, the Earl Grey has frayed the last of my nerves.

HG:  Understandable.  Well, to be candid, I actually don't hold a job at the current moment.  You know, print journalism.

CWB:  Booming, I hear.

HG:  Ah, sarcasm, the escape of the poor-witted.

CWB:  Shut up.  I already really don't like you.  But, we have forty-five minutes left in the slot and I already paid for the time.  Uhhh.

HG:  Well, I do freelance from time to time as a blogger for AOL.

CWB:  Ha!  Blogging.  About what?

HG:  Well, I like to poke holes in momentous historical events and twist them in a most devilish way, and what you have is satire.  AOL seems to like it.

CWB:  Oh.

HG:  Hmm.

HG:  Where's the recycling bin?

CWB:  Give it.  We generally just throw it in this yellow bag that waste management supposedly sorts from regular trash.  Guess what?  I don't think they do that.  I wouldn't.

HG:  Just like the well-oiled machinations of the corrupt Democratic Party!

CWB:  Doctor, I don't control waste management.  If you want, there's a Jamba Juice down the road, so be my quest.

CWB: And, he actually left.  Taking a quick break.

-

HG:  It is balmy out, sir.  Apologies, but the Jamba Juice didn't have recycling either, so I plodded a bit further until I came upon a delicious new yogurt store.  Kind folks gladly accepted my refuse.

CWB:  Fro-yo?  Yeah, can't stop that train.

HG:  Actually, it was an all-warm Greek yogurt bar with varying complicated infusions like rhubarb and loganberry.

CWB:  Gross.  I am not helping you if you got salmonella from that bacteria trap of a terrible idea gone worse.

HG:  More sugar for the tea?

CWB:  Equal?

HG:  Will not.

CWB:  Of course.

CWB:  I am completely out of ammo.  I have no idea what to discuss with you.  I'm going to throw out a ton of ideas, so please stop me when something you happen to know anything about pops up.  I am not mentioning tea.

CWB:  True Detective, Game of Thrones, Andrew Dice Clay, Sound of Music, The Colbert Report, Angry Birds, Slinkies, Hot Topic, Korn, Lebron James, Malaysia, Corey Feldman, Mardi Gras, Dustin Hoffman, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Dracula, Count Chocula, NASCAR, Vampire Diaries, alt-rock, sunscreen, Lowe's, Starbucks, Rudy...

HG: No to all, sir.

CWB:  Greeley, please answer this honestly.  Do you own a computer, TV or a Walkman?

HG:  What?

CWB:  Have you even left the house until today?  He's shaking his head.  Wait, how do you even write for AOL?

HG:  I dictate.

CWB:  Horace, I actually feel bad for you.  Do you even own a house?  He's shaking his head again.

CWB.  Uhhhhhh.  Alright, I'm going to leave a key and blanket on the desk after I leave today, okay?  Best I can do.  Just like in Rudy.  Right, you haven't seen that.  Do you want some hot yogurt?  Alright folks, I apologize for the disaster of a show, but I now have a philanthropical mission in my life.

CWB:  Only one topping, okay?
 

The Little Mac

Civil War Bros is back from vacation in Tallahassee, Florida, at the beautiful and underrated La Quinta Inn.  After a much needed respite, we meet with one of Lincoln's replaced generals: the meticulous George B. McClellan.  His brief tenure as general-in-chief of the Union Army, covering only 5 months in 1861 and 1862, left him with a slight chip on his shoulder.  Something he's exhibiting right now, as I see him parking his 1991 Toyota Tercel in the studio's only handicapped spot.  Harry from the Lou Gehrig's Disease foundation, with whom we share office space, will certainly not be pleased.  All that aside, let's chat with "Little Mac."

CWB:  Mac, nice to have you here today.  I'll keep it short so you don't get towed.

GM:  There's literally no one else in the parking lot.

CWB:  It's the principle, George.

CWB:  Alright, so, you're middle name is Brinton.

GM:  It is.

CWB:  Sounds like a faucet brand.

GM:  It does.

CWB:  The nickname "Little Mac," how do you feel about that?

GM:  Used to bother me a bit, but soon realized how my height and size played to my advantage when it came to shoe supplies.

CWB:  What size shoe do you wear?

GM:  Six.

CWB:  Is that even possible?

GM:  Yes, and while the other generals bumbled about for shoes during trying days, I received no infections because of an endless supply of sixes.

CWB:  I'm assuming all is proportional.

GM:  I have a large penis!

CWB:  You came right out of the gates with that one, and I'm sure it is.  Penises aside, what happened with the Peninsular Campaign?  Most say you were too timid and rigid in your approach, often leaving large portions of your army unused.

GM:  I exercised what I believed to be the necessary caution.  Was I over wary?  Sometimes.  Do I regret it?  No.  Am I asking a lot of rhetorical questions?  Yes.  Do I need to ask one more because I have OCD and need to do things in multiples of four?  Yes.  OK.

CWB:  You have OCD?!  So do I!  Quick, OCD-off.  Ten bucks says mine is milder than yours.  I'm putting out four pennies, emblazoned with your favorite man there, Lincoln, and all but one are heads up.  I can wait.

GM:  Waiting.

CWB:  Lincoln fired you.

GM:  Fuck, alright, I need to turn it.  Please get those off the desk.

CWB:  Ten dollars, Mac.

GM:  I can tell your OCD is less numerically oriented, seems unfair.  Plus you're wearing that SARS mask.

CWB:  I don't know what you brought in here!

CWB:  Stones of Beatles?

GM:  Rush.

CWB:  Ugh.  Alright, follow-up.  Nirvana or Green Day?

GM:  Rancid.

CWB:  Georgie, don't be that guy.

CWB:  You decided to run against Lincoln in the 1864 presidential election.  In hindsight, did that seem like an idiotic move?  I mean, the man is generally regarded as our greatest president.

GM:  At the time, I thought I had a chance.  He was unpopular and his approval ratings were abysmal.

CWB:  Daniel Day-Lewis portrayed him in the movie Lincoln.  Daniel Day-Lewis doesn't just play anyone.  He either plays God or Lincoln.  Side note: was the voice a little too muppety?

GM:  It was actually extremely close.  I'd even have gone as far as to say that it needed to be more whiny.

CWB:  Easy Lil' Mac, this is America.  Arby's and Lincoln.  You are not on two pieces of US currency.

CWB:  One more about Lincoln.  Thaddeus Stevens, played wonderfully by aging Texan Tommy Lee Jones, in bed with his black housemaid, true or false?

GM:  True.

CWB:  I knew it!

CWB:  Georgie, thank you for stopping by...and your car windows are being shattered by an enraged Harry.  McClellan is now unsheathing is sidearm, running outside, and I am calling the police.

Unleash the Beast

After a short hiatus, Civil War Bros is back.  Today's guest is Benjamin "Beast" Butler, the notorious Major General of the Union Army known for his brutal martial law regime in New Orleans.  We'll get to the softer side of this "beast" and discuss the lighter things in life:  Dennis Franz, Mardi Gras and Treme.  Let's unleash the beast.

CWB:  Beast, my man, how you been?

BB:  Can't complain too much, but I now have type II diabetes because of Red Bull's incessant "Unleash the Beast" campaign during the occupation of New Orleans.  Jager Bombs, O-Bombs, ad nauseum.  They're the ones who made me look like an asshole - Red Bull - pushing that shit on the citizenry and using me as spokesman - never saw a cent!  I have a strong feeling the city is in for worse in the future.

CWB:  I wouldn't know.  Anyway, you and Paula Dean now have something in common.  That's fun.

BB:  We were both pro-slavery before the war, so two things.

CWB:  Disturbing.  I'm going to call you Dennis Franz throughout the rest of the show.  It's uncanny.

BB:  I know, I get it a lot.  Wish I could be a Daniel Craig or a Clooney.

CWB:  Well, blame that on your father, Franz.

BB:  New Orleans was the one place where looks did not matter.  Gallons of Red Bull and rum washed away the Franz in all of us.  Even under my ridiculously oppressive system - and I think it had a lot to do with my lack of self-esteem, but that's for my therapist - the women folk would still show me their tits.  Where else does that happen?

CWB:  I have abandonment issues, so, I hear you.  Also, I feel like Russia would be like that.

CWB:  Do you miss New Orleans?

BB:  Somewhat.  I miss the food, the boobs and the culture.  I do not miss the crime, the smell and the Texans who came in droves to visit.

CWB:  Ugh, I think we can all agree on that.  I think the rest of the Confederacy hated Texas.

BB:  Except for Austin.  Super liberal.

CWB:  Everyone says that, and to be honest, I just don't care.  I'm not packing up and driving through the rest of the state to get to a possibly "fun" place.  Plus, let's say I do arrive and the hipsterism drives me fucking nuts - I'll end up in Dallas to counteract the effect.

CWB:  Let's get the hell off of Texas.  What are your thoughts on Treme?

BB:  I just started watching it via my parents' HBO GO account - yeah, I'm totally an adult.  I feel like I want to like it, but it's so damn boring.  But, if someone asks, I'll say I like it - just because it seems like we're all in on the same conspiracy:  we all like Treme because we're supposed to like it.  It's like Sorkin's Sports Night.

CWB:  You grew up in New Hampshire, what's that all about?

BB:  It's syrup and Bode Miller.

CWB:  Ah, that guy's a dick.

BB:  Best motto in the Union though.

CWB:  Agreed.  I want to move there just so I can get my "Live Free or Die" license plate.

CWB:  Popeye's or Church's Chicken?

BB:  Bojangles'.

CWB:  Oohh, someone did spend a lot of time in the South.

BB:  I have to check my blood sugar.

CWB:  Do you want a Red Bull?

BB:  Shut up.

CWB:  I kid.  Has there ever been a test to be completely "prick-free?"

BB:  No, and if a product claims so, they're lying.

CWB:  Alright, NYPD Blue, since you killed the mood with your five syringes on the table, we'll end it on one last question.  Uncle Ben or Cream of Wheat guy?

BB:  Uncle Ben.  He's family, and rice is much harder to cook than wheat cream.

CWB.  Franz, thank you, and the rest of your insulin is in the fridge right next to my Quizno's.  Get it out.

Meh. MacDonald.

Myth:  Canadian patriot and galvanizing politician, Sir John A. Macdonald holds the title of first Prime Minister of Canada, overseeing the newly independent British dominion.  Born in rough-and-tumble Glasgow, Scotland, Macdonald’s family immigrated to present-day Ontario while John was still a boy.  After years practicing law, Macdonald quickly rose to political prominence in the colonial legislature of British North America.  Amid the chaotic colonial infrastructure, in which many political parties rose and fell, Macdonald agreed to party unification with longtime political rival, George Brown.  As a leading figure among his coalition counterparts, Macdonald spurred his countrymen into action, resulting in the birth of the Canadian nation on July 1^st, 1867.  Though some intrigue pockmarked his illustrious career – including corruption charges concerning the Canadian Pacific Railway – Macdonald served as Prime Minister for the majority of his remaining days.

Fact:  As a historical scholar, I must stress, that like all historians, little is known about Canadian history.  This lack of knowledge stems from the fact that it is…Canadian history.  That being said, John Macdonald was indeed born in the remarkable and noteworthy nation of Scotland.  As a young Scottish boy he partook in weekly swordfights, the rescuing of princesses, and of course, taming dragons and killing Englishmen.  Then, something transpired that would scar young John for the entirety of his life: his family immigrated to Canada.  Aboard a bland, creaking ship with only a Tim Horton’s providing sustenance, the Macdonald clan slogged forward to their new home of present-day Kingston, Ontario.  There was some ice.  Some snow.  They even espied a moose shitting on the tundra.  John’s father, hoping to assimilate to British North American norms, built a one-story rancher with one window, for as the Canadian proverb goes: “Canadians have one window, while God has two.  Deal with it.”  John entered law at an early age, quickly grasping the finer details of British North American law and proving himself a worthy barrister, but not too worthy, mediocrely worthy.  Young Macdonald’s greatest case was the prosecution of a Canadian menace, “The Toddler Who Accidentally Stole Some Chewing Gum.”  The final arguments, detailing Macdonald’s persuasiveness, are as follows:  JM: “Jury, please accept my apologies for this trial taking place.  I’m sorry.  And Toddler Who Accidentally Stole Some Chewing Gum of great notoriety, I’m sorry for wasting your time.  That is all.  Oh, and your honor…I’m sorry.” Toddler: “My deepest apologies.” Judge: “I’m sorry.  Toddler, you are hereby, regretfully, sentenced to no dessert for one week.  With deepest sympathies, court is adjourned.  Oh my, that gavel was loud, I apologize.”  Such passion and conviction were but precursors to the political genius that would be Prime Minister John A. Macdonald.  Most of John’s success can be attributed to the fact that he was a bit more aggressive than his legislative counterparts.  He could be so daring as to ask for a second helping of Canada’s notoriously rich cuisine at political functions, adding another round of potatoes, sleet and a side of mashed potatoes to his plate.  Such boldness and cavalierism imbued him with a sense purpose and want to ask the British High Crown the question that politely stayed in the back of the minds of most Canadians: “May we, if it’s not too much trouble, govern ourselves?  I mean, I’m sorry, but yeah.”  Even his nemesis, George Brown and his gaudy off-white house WITH garage, never fathomed such audacity.  To the utter shock of John and the legislature, the British simply replied that they had been waiting decades for them to ask for autonomy, but it had to come from a Canadian, thereby proving Canada capable of confronting…anything.  Macdonald spent his remaining days serving as Prime Minister of Canada and practicing a normal Canadian civil servant routine: skating to and from work (and at work if possible), hiding under his desk, not watching pornography and sobbing whenever he dictated to his secretary (often resulting in a mandatory make-up make out session and tickets to Oklahoma!).  Macdonald, however, was unaware of the threat that would terrify his descendants in decades to come.  A breed of people more French than the French – a phrase synonymous with “complete dick.”  Quebecois.