ASK THE GREAT EMANCIPATOR
Our 16th president, Abraham Lincoln, offers advice on matters both grave and frivolous. (Note: While he is an attorney, President Lincoln is not a licensed therapist.)
Dear Mr. Lincoln,
There's a guy at work who has terrible B.O., but we're too embarrassed to say anything to him. What should we do?
During my first term in the legislature, there was a fella there whose odor suggested that he had some sort of falling out with the soap and the water, if you get my meaning. Granted, baths were pretty infrequent in those days, let alone clothes washing. But to put it bluntly, he smelled as though he had misplaced a dead skunk somewhere on his person and could not seem to find it. We tried subtle tactics, such as secreting sachets of coriander and sage into his jacket pockets when he was not looking. Then we encircled his desk with crushed lime powder in hopes of containing the stench. He never took the hint. We became so fed up that we wrestled him into a sack coated with lye soap and dunked him into the Sangamon River until his effluvium no longer offended. So, you can always try that.
Mr. President,
what's your recipe for summer fun?
Growing up, summer was a wondrous time spent frolicking down in Hobson's Creek, attending ice-cream socials and taking long lazy naps under the shady elm tree.... Boy, oh boy, you people are something else. You have no idea what summer was like in the 1820s, do you? I'll tell you: It was like living in Satan's jockstrap. Every morning I would awake, drenched in sweat and covered with mosquito bites, and curse the Lord for not taking me in my sleep. Sometimes a bear would wander into the cabin and walk off with one of the little ones. So it wasn't exactly like a Beach Boys song, okay? What's my recipe for summer fun? How about you just sit back in your air-conditioned, bear-free home of the 21st century and shut your stupid piehole.
Dear President Lincoln,
I'm thinking about quitting my $150,000-a-year job at the law firm and going to art school. I figure I can move back in with my parents. What do you think?
Oh, joyous day! Another productive member of the work force has decided to forgo all that and indulge in her desire to paint fancy pictures of sailboats. Thank goodness my people tamed the savage wilderness so you could throw an $80,000 college education down the crapper. So, yeah, I'm just crazy about the idea. Because if the world needs anything, it's another unemployed artist. Someone's gotta sit in the coffeehouse all day pontificating about the death of culture and the latest Internet conspiracy theories. It might as well be you.
President Abraham Lincoln's column is published in more than 300 newspapers. Send your questions to motownnord@hotmail.com.
Our 16th president, Abraham Lincoln, offers advice on matters both grave and frivolous. (Note: While he is an attorney, President Lincoln is not a licensed therapist.)
Dear Mr. Lincoln,
There's a guy at work who has terrible B.O., but we're too embarrassed to say anything to him. What should we do?
During my first term in the legislature, there was a fella there whose odor suggested that he had some sort of falling out with the soap and the water, if you get my meaning. Granted, baths were pretty infrequent in those days, let alone clothes washing. But to put it bluntly, he smelled as though he had misplaced a dead skunk somewhere on his person and could not seem to find it. We tried subtle tactics, such as secreting sachets of coriander and sage into his jacket pockets when he was not looking. Then we encircled his desk with crushed lime powder in hopes of containing the stench. He never took the hint. We became so fed up that we wrestled him into a sack coated with lye soap and dunked him into the Sangamon River until his effluvium no longer offended. So, you can always try that.
Mr. President,
what's your recipe for summer fun?
Growing up, summer was a wondrous time spent frolicking down in Hobson's Creek, attending ice-cream socials and taking long lazy naps under the shady elm tree.... Boy, oh boy, you people are something else. You have no idea what summer was like in the 1820s, do you? I'll tell you: It was like living in Satan's jockstrap. Every morning I would awake, drenched in sweat and covered with mosquito bites, and curse the Lord for not taking me in my sleep. Sometimes a bear would wander into the cabin and walk off with one of the little ones. So it wasn't exactly like a Beach Boys song, okay? What's my recipe for summer fun? How about you just sit back in your air-conditioned, bear-free home of the 21st century and shut your stupid piehole.
Dear President Lincoln,
I'm thinking about quitting my $150,000-a-year job at the law firm and going to art school. I figure I can move back in with my parents. What do you think?
Oh, joyous day! Another productive member of the work force has decided to forgo all that and indulge in her desire to paint fancy pictures of sailboats. Thank goodness my people tamed the savage wilderness so you could throw an $80,000 college education down the crapper. So, yeah, I'm just crazy about the idea. Because if the world needs anything, it's another unemployed artist. Someone's gotta sit in the coffeehouse all day pontificating about the death of culture and the latest Internet conspiracy theories. It might as well be you.
President Abraham Lincoln's column is published in more than 300 newspapers. Send your questions to motownnord@hotmail.com.
posted at 1:37 PM
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