Yesterday we celebrated President’s Day. As a lover of history and a man who finds a deeply unnatural satisfaction in gazing at pictures of Lincoln, it was a day of celebration and merriment. Like many holidays, President’s Day is all about tradition – we have the Christmas tree, 4th of July fireworks, and all the requisite Armistice Day stuff (i.e. fudge).
For President’s Day, I like to jump out of bed and draw a portrait of our 15th president, James Buchanan, from memory. All the details, from his firm eyes, chiseled nose, to the beard he may or may not have had. I put it all in there, baby. Following this, I ritualistically burn Chester Alan Arthur in effigy on my front lawn to denounce his isolationist tarriffs and to mock his portly frame. While doing this, I drink cheap wine straight from the bottle and lunge awkwardly towards those who approach me. I bark at them, “Sic semper tyrannis! Thus be it ever to tyrants! Chet Arthur is a bloated scallywag who seeks coitus in the arms of strumpets!” My hot, acidic spittle flies into the eyes and mouths of the horrified passersby as I fire my antique pistols into the air.
Then I have a sandwich for lunch.
For the remainder of the day, I will relax, perhaps read a presidential biography, and more than likely build an altar of human bones and swine-flesh while attempting to summon the living spirit of Warren Harding (who served the shortest term as president – 29 days). Warren and I will josh each other and chew the fat – I will bring him up to speed on the last 81 years of human development and he will show me what it feels like to make out with a ghost. So it all works out.
Yes, President’s Day is my 19th-favorite day of the year, and yesterday proved to be no exception. I celebrated, I remembered, I lashed out in fury, and I somehow lost two pints of plasma. Had he been there, Honest Abe would have been proud. Then I would probably have shot him again.