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.

The Quince

Myth:  Born just 8 years prior to the outbreak of America’s war for independence and reared in a household rife with talk of liberty and doses of austerity, John Quincy Adams already had big shoes to fill as a mere toddler.  His father and the 2^nd president of the United States, John Adams was a man of simple tastes, but still was an erudite politician and celebrity framer of America and her ideology.  Unlike Adams’ other children, John Quincy was baptized into diplomacy at an early age, often accompanying his father on trips to Europe and elsewhere.  He endured harsh seas and seemingly endless voyages in this age of slow transit – uncomplaining all the while.  Quincy absorbed his father’s tactics as a consummate ambassador, even if both Adamses were more timid than their political counterparts.  Ever aware of the unspoken pressures of growing up in an American dynasty, John Quincy quickly climbed the bureaucratic ranks and was appointed ambassador to the Netherlands at the ripe age of 26.  In 1825 he became our 6^th president, leaving a trail of milestones like the Monroe Doctrine and the acquisition of Florida.

Fact:  John Quincy Adams, as only his parents called him, generally went by his better-known moniker: The Quince.  He had numerous others, including “Ocho Quince,” “John Queefer,” “An American in Piss,” “6^th Prez and 6 Deep,” and the terribly penned “Bald on Top, Party in the Back, Oh My Deist Lord He’s Putting Cocaine on Her Crack” (this last is attributed to the once witty, but now senile and wildly inappropriate Benjamin Franklin).  But, it was always The Quince since he entered Harvard in the mid-1780s.  Eager to distance himself from his father’s shuttered personality, John Quincy turned to another delinquent Adams: his uncle, Samuel Adams.  Sam, much to the chagrin of his “lame, fugly” brother, John, had been selling his beer-like product to the hormonal adolescents of Revolutionary Boston since the Tea Party scene flamed out.  A horrendous brewer, Sam used fermented chicken stock and mule urine as his main ingredients; but as the main supplier for Boston’s teenagers, Quince and the others clung to his uncle’s choice brew, Tar & Feather’d.  Quince often lamented in his diary about his father’s strict household rules and moral platitudes: “Jefferson does it for his kids, Rutledge for his, and of course Mr. Hancock.  God, Mr. Hancock is so cool – wish he were my father.  He even lets us touch his big-ass name.  Why am I forbade to drink at all?  Father could get a clue and become a cool parent and let us drink in the house.  I mean, we’re going to get hammered anyway, why not in the safety of our own homes.  That’s what cool parents do…like John!  He even lets us call him by his first name!”  The simultaneous move to a Harvard dorm and befriending of his seedy uncle unleashed a new, coke-riddled, binge-drinking John Quincy to the world.  On a particularly uninhibited Saturday night, Quincy outdrank the Russian ambassador’s son in a classic Russian drinking game of “Drink Vodka, No Die.”  Hours after the ambassador’s son had passed out, Quincy kept at it until he topped off the feat by kegstanding one of his uncle’s mules.  Dazed, he raised his fists in glory to the chant of “Quince! Quince!”  Short on funds after graduation and already annoyed by his drunken uncle’s Boston-style racist rants, John Quincy realized the irony of his situation.  In order to continue his party/socialite lifestyle he needed to enter into politics – the only line of work in which he had connections, connections that would prove to be vital.  While working as secretary of state and bangin’ the secretary [Adams Five!], Quince became increasingly frantic due to Spain’s incursion into Latin America, impeding Adams’ cocaine supplier.  The Quince’s desperate plea for a continuous supply for coke also turned out to be one of the defining moments of his political career: The Monroe Doctrine.  In short, “any attempt to colonize or encroach on either North America or South America will be treated as an act of aggression and treated as such.  My boy Lopez will take a whaler’s paddle to your kneecaps and wish you would’ve been born a pussy-footin’ Virginian because daddy ain’t gettin’ no snow.”  The last sentence was struck from the document at the behest of Monroe.  Two liver transplants and a deviated septum later, The Quince put down the beer bong in 1848 and passed away with a grand legacy of foreign service and no sense of smell.