Happy Passover

      A good lot of you have already celebrated Easter.  Like weeks ago.  

"Weeks ago!?  You should have told me, Mr. Great Pumpkin!  No joke."

    Yes, yes, I know, for some reason Orthodox Easter is still to come on May 5th, but I'm talking Easter Bunny Easter.  That Easter has been over for quite a while.  If you doubt that, you don't see chocolate bunnies at the grocery store, do you?  Also, if you doubt that, you're an idiot.

"What?  Even the Peeps?  Man, that sucks."
"Nice hat, though."
"Well, it's cold, but thank you."

     Recognized by Christians worldwide as the most sacred day in the year, Easter is a time to reflect on the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, a carpenter's son from Nazareth.

     But, hey, did you know (okay most do), that Jesus was a rabbi?  That He, along with His followers, was in Jerusalem to celebrate Passover, one of the most sacred days of the Jewish calendar?

    No, he wasn't Catholic, despite what Sister Mary Gregory of the Titanium Yardstick tried to beat into you.

     In fact, the Last Supper was actually a Passover Seder.

"Now just wait one damn minute, I think this is a chick."
"Well, she smells nice."
"Whatever.  Can I order a BLT?"
"Not until Sunday!  Jesus!"
"What?"

     To further blow your mind, the word "Easter" is derived from "Pesach" which is derived from "Passover."  Exactly why, where, how, what I don't feel like looking up right now.  Just trust me.  It's true.

     No, despite what Cecil B. De Mille would have you believe (if he wasn't dead), The Ten Commandments, while playing on ABC annually on Easter Night (God knows-no pun intended-when or where it's on now) is not an Easter movie.

     King of Kings?  Yeah.  The Robe?  Okay.  Ben-Hur?  Sure.  Ben Gay?

     But, The Ten Commandments?  Oy.     

     Passover is a Jewish (I think we've already covered that) celebration which commemorates the exodus (so THAT explains the book) of the Hebrews from Egypt, way back when Keith Richards was a  teenager.

     They were led by Charlton Heston, who if he’d only kept his trap shut, could have eventually become Pharaoh (or at least Vice-Pharaoh) and freed the slaves.  Along the way, he could also have bagged the hot Nefertiri (not to be confused with ‘Nefertiti.’  Who was in The Mummy.  But, she was hot, too).  Then, Ramses (aka Yul Brynner), inventor of the prophylactic, wouldn’t have donned the royal loincloth and bedded Anne Baxter.

Nipples not photo-shopped out. 
I know you zoomed. 
NOTE:  I made this "Extra Large."  You're welcome.

     But, noooooo, Moses just had to schlep out into the desert, raise some sheep, marry a shepherd chick, open the Midian chapter of the NRA, and meet God (who did not look like George Burns).

 

Gotta admit, Lily Munster cleans up pretty nice. 
She's no Nefertiri, though.

     Moses, heeding a divine call, decided to go back to Egypt to free the slaves.  Imagine Ramses’ chagrin when the “Big Mo” barged into meetings of the Pyramid Planning Commission, waved his stick around (double entendre intended), and ordered his BFF, Aaron, to turn goats into chickens.  And grass stains into dazzling whites.

"Nice beard."
"Nice babushka.  I'm gonna send you Trump, you know."

     Moses warned that a series of plagues would be visited on Egypt: frogs, locusts, boils (eww), bloody water, Donald Trump, irritable bowel syndrome (double eww), etc.  Each were meant to convince Yul Pharaoh to “let the people go.” 

"And I must tell you, my great-great-great-great-great-oh he was so greatgrandfather Imhotrumptekkhennaten designed the most excellent, if not breathtaking, of pyramids which were nothing like those loser pyramids in Central America-much better than that ridiculous step pyramid designed by a previous administration's builder, to be sure-present in all the world not unlike a thing of massive beauty to behold that have withstood the test of Time, Newseek, or any of the other fake news publications which seek to bring America down even though our great country had not yet
been invented."

     They were actually starting to work, too, until Ramses looked at the latest Gallup poll numbers.  Figuring he had to satisfy his “pro-slavery” base, his heart was hardened and he called the whole deal off.

     Moses eventually had enough of this crap.  He told Ramses that the first-born of Egypt would be slain in punishment for enslaving his people.  This included (cue dramatic music) the Pharaoh’s own son!

     NOTE:  I think this was true, at least according to the movie.  The film industry was pretty truthful sixty years ago.  Even though I still didn't think monkeys could fly, Hollywood wouldn't lie to me.

     The Hebrews, feeling pretty damned cocky, painted sheep blood over their doors.  They felt quite safe that death would “pass” them “over.”  (Get it now?).  Mostly because Death got wicked skeeved at the sight of blood.

     So, they hung out while the “Destroyer” (depicted by a red cloud.  Special effects were kinda cheesy back before Industrial Light and Magic) went door to door seeking out Egyptians who won a lottery they hadn't reckoned on.

"Hey, you see that red cloud going door to door?
Should we follow it?"
"Couldn't hurt."

      The Hebrews sang songs, prayed prayers, and ate unleavened bread called "matzah" (because Dominos stopped delivering at 10).

"Then, when we're done, we can play a little game of 'Old Testament Yahtzee.' 
Would you like that?"

     When the day dawned and Ramses saw the mess (“Now, we’ll never get that blood out!”), he ordered Moses to pack up his shit and get the hell out.

     NOTE:  Ramses may not have said ‘shit.’

     So, Moses jumped for Joy (his sister-in-law) and convinced everybody to pack their toothbrushes and change of underwear.  He wasn’t exactly sure where they'd be going, though.  Unfortunately, Aaron had turned his map into an origami whooping crane.

"We should be headed here.  I think.  Damn Aaron."

     Bottom line, the Hebrews finally left Egypt.  Along the way, the Egyptian Army went for a one-way dip in the Red Sea, Edward G. Robinson talked a lot of smack, Aaron was forced to make some seriously effed-up looking calf, they all got jiggy with their bad selves at the base of Mount Sinai, Moses saw a wicked cool light show on the mountain, and had bread fall out of the sky for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (“So would it kill God to send us a nice brisket?”). 

"Yeah, see, Dathan doesn't think he's miscast, see?"

     They were finally allowed to enter the Promised Land after 40 years (the prior tenants had a wicked long-term lease).

     Since I’m sure I've put you to sleep by now, let me finish by saying that Moses wasn’t even allowed to enter with the rest of his people (he didn’t get his wrist stamped). 

     He had to watch while Joshua (played in the movie by John Derek.  Before he married Bo and died) led his people into...Canaan?  

At any rate, someplace the Iranians would get all hacked off about eventually.

     I think it had something to do with smacking a rock to get water.  Which was a mistake.    

     Because, as we all know, paper, not water, covers rock.     Now, since I'm probably in hot water with Christians, Jews, and more than likely Muslims, I'd better start packing for Purgatory.

     I'm sure I'll be spending a lot of time there.

     At least that's what Sister Mary Gregory said.

History of the World-Hail Caesar!

 NOTE:  I'll continue to post this disclaimer, even though it's been like forever since I posted anything pertaining to the history of the world.  Still...this, and the ones which preceded it, are merely what I can remember from Our Lady of Barnum Avenue and history class at Stratford High School.  I'll research some specifics, mostly dates and the most obscure of names (not for this one, though.  Because screw it), and I'll try to place historical events in their proper historical context.  Meaning, I won't have the Aztecs land on the moon.  Or...did they?  Trust me, some of this is true; however, don't use any of this nonsense to prepare for the History Advanced Placement Examination.  If you do, the only college you'll get into is Klown Kollege and you'll probably be confused for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Joe Biden, or Sheila Jackson Lee.  Basically, I'm going without a net.  So, without further adieu (French word)... 

Hail Caesar!

    Sometime in the first century B.C., Julius Caesar had thrown his hat and olive wreath in the ring (using the slogan MRGA, "Make Rome Great Again") as undisputed leader of the Roman Republic.

NOTE:  As I believe I've mentioned before, I will continue to use the "B.C./A.D." convention instead of that goofy-ass, politically-correct "B.C.E./C.E." one.  Because...it...means...the...same...damn...thing.  Fight me.

    I don't know the exact year, mind you, but guarantee it was before 44 B.C., the year when Ole Julius was ventilated by a group of Roman Senators who were pretty hacked off that he had acted as a dictator.

"Uh, oh."

    Of course, what they didn't know was that their action would ultimately lead to Caesar's adopted nephew, Roddy McDowall Octavian, declaring himself "Princeps" which basically means "emperor."

"Yeah, way to go, Brutus.  Dumbass."

    Anyway, once Julius crossed over the Rubicon River with his legions, a state of civil war existed in the Republic.

Wrong Republic

    So, the esteemed fathers of the Roman Senate called the most famous general in all the land to stop the troublemaker, Pompey the Great (who was actually known as "Pompey the Limp" by Mrs. Pompey).

"Trust me, this likeness doesn't do me justice.  I look positively stoned."

     Caesar and Pompey fought like cats and dogs as Rome erupted into civil war.  After the fiercely fought battle of...Pharsalus...in Greece? (remember, I'm not looking anything up), Pompey fled to Egypt where he hoped to find friends in his struggles against his rival.  Well, that, and take a tour of the pyramids, which were wicked old even then.

    You know, like Keith Richards.

    Well, when Pompey walked ashore, he was promptly beheaded by Egyptians who mistakenly thought he was an American.  They also hoped to curry favor with the presumptive new leader of Rome.

"Here you are, Dominus, the head of your rival, Pompey."
"Hey, Lou, he doesn't look too happy."
"Maybe if I close my eyes, he'll go away."

    Observation:  Backstabbing and beheadings had been going on in that region of the world for thousands of years, apparently.

    Well, wouldn't you know it, instead of high-fiving, back slaps, and passing out "All-You-Can-Boink" tickets to the next Roman orgy, Caesar executed every Egyptian responsible for murdering Pompey.

    As he explained it, (and I paraphrase), "What do you think gives you creatures the right to execute a Roman citizen?  Only another Roman can do that."

    Okay, this is the part where I apply the lessons of history to today...wouldn't it be something if an American president said the same thing to someone who murders an American citizen?

    After all was said and done, Caesar, having won the war, returned to Rome where he...well you know what happened.

    And it wasn't inventing Caesar Salad, that's for sure.

Public Service Announcement

    

"I want what I want and I want it now!"

    As some of you know, I work part-time at an Ace Hardware near my home (which goes without saying-it would be kinda silly to work a part-time job at an Ace Hardware in another state).

    NOTE:  Those of you on Blogger probably don’t know this.  I’m talking to you lot on Facebook, who may or not even read this.  Most do not.

    Anyway….

    We are also a U-Haul contract station.  Meaning, we rent trucks to the general public.  We don’t offer trailers because that would pretty much be a pain in the neck.  Our inventory is relatively limited and is not nearly as extensive as you’d find at an actual U-Haul location.  We’re just a hardware store, after all.

    Last Saturday, a gentleman came in expecting to rent a ten-foot truck.  Even though it didn’t have a ramp, he still wanted it because it is cheaper to rent than bigger vehicles (makes sense).  Well, since the two 10-footers we had were already spoken for, a reservation was made in his name for a fifteen-foot one the day prior.

    The understanding (according to him) was that, if one of the people with the smaller vehicles cancelled, he would be bumped down accordingly.  He just wanted to make sure he had a vehicle (it being Saturday, the trucks go like hotcakes.  If hotcakes had four wheels and ran on gas).

    The 15-footer accomplished that.

    Well, don’t you know, he was very aggravated when I told him no ten-foot truck was open for rental.  He proceeded to bitch, moan, and whine about how he was promised a vehicle (never mind he had one in his name already.  A slightly bigger one, mind you, but a vehicle all the same).

    Incidentally, no, he was NOT promised.  I informed him that we do not do Indian deals like that.

"Well, that's offensive."

    Whoa, whoa, whoa!  What makes you think I meant American Indian?

"Well, that's racist, too!"

    While I looked to see what I could do to help him, he refused to shut the eff up.  He went on and on about how poor his experience was and how we would register his complaint with “Big U-Haul.”  Every time I told him there was nothing available, he told me he was promised the smaller truck if it was available (according to my screen, it was not).

    We went round and round on this.

    Exasperated, I finally told him, “How many times do you need me to tell you the same thing, sir?”

    Once again, he whined how dissatisfied he was and how, when he was in management, this would never have happened.

    When I gently told him this was customer service, he yapped that he was in customer service.

    I began to answer him with, “Well, then…” but I stopped because I would have told him, “you would know we hate people like you.”

    I’m glad I didn’t give in, because that wouldn’t have helped the situation.

    Bottom line, after what seemed like endless grousing, he took his key and stormed out to the parking lot.

    Another customer I didn’t give a shit about.

    Okay, where does the “public service announcement” come in, you may be asking?

    Well, if the guy wasn’t being such an entitled douche, I would have given him the larger, fifteen-foot vehicle for the price of the ten-foot one.

    I’m all for expressing your displeasure when things aren’t going your way.  But, for God’s sake, do it once, shut up, and let me see if I can help you.  Quite often, I can.

    Don't take it out on the poor schmuck behind the counter.

    However, if you cause me angina, I will look at you and say, “There’s nothing I can do.”

    Remember this the next time you don’t get an expected result.

    Who knows?  You may be offered a good deal.

    Or get a fifteen-foot truck for the price of a ten.

   

Chocolate Bunny Heads

Error:  Did a little research (it hurt)...apparently, Orthodox Easter isn't until May 5th.  Oops.  Something to do with the moon.  And the Julian Calendar.  Which I thought told me when to serve french fries.  Silly me.  Those are julienne fries.  So, the "Easter candy on sale joke" really wouldn't apply.  My bad.  Carry on.

"So, next time, do a little research, A-Hole.  But, I will be buying me some Cadbury eggs tomorrow and sticking them in the freezer for a few weeks.  Thanks for the suggestion."

    Even though the countdown to Easter commences following Ash Wednesday, it really begins when chocolate Cupids are exchanged for chocolate rabbits.

    The most sacred of Christian holidays, it's a mystery how it came to be associated with bunnies, ducks, and chicks.  I was always amazed at how happy those little animals seemed, considering that giving them to my brothers and I was tantamount to a barnyard death sentence.

"Okay, so how is it that we're associated with Easter eggs?"
"Don't you remember that one night we all got blasted and snuck into Farmer McGregor's chicken coop?"
"Ohhhhhhhhh....."

     Equally mystifying is trying to figure out exactly when Easter falls, besides on a Sunday.  Thanksgiving is easy, Christmas is simple, Columbus Day is Canadian Thanksgiving, and everyone knows New Years Eve is, well, the night before New Years Day.  But Easter...?  Well, it ain’t as simple as that.

    Based on the last full moon during leap year when the vernal equinox is on a Wednesday and the moon is in its summer house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, I always knew exactly when Easter was: either March or April.

"Come on, now, someone's being lazy." 
"Yeah, didn't you use that 'Jupiter aligns with Mars'
joke once already?"

    Of course, this just applies to Christians other than the Eastern Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, or Romanian Orthodox Episcopate (whatever they are).  These know-it-alls use the Julian Calendar so, by their reckoning, Easter is a week later.  I think. Meh.  They're just showoffs with funny hats anyway.

"Plus, all the Easter candy is on clearance. 
Didn't think about that, did you, funny man?"

    In any event, it's a glorious time of year, which started off with the traditional coloring of the Easter Eggs.

    Beginning with stern admonitions from my father to make sure we didn’t get dye all over the $20 table he bought at Railroad Salvage, our dipping of hen fruit in colored vinegar water rituals started out serenely enough.  Until they degenerated into sloppy free-for-alls where we got more dye on each other than on the hard-boiled eggs.

Because nothing says "Easter" quite like lukewarm water, vinegar, and Rit.  Amen.

    Satisfied with our work (and out of dye), we then proceeded to seed our garishly colored prizes throughout the house in preparation for a family hunt the next day.  Nothing was off-limits as we deposited eggs in the most obscure places, all the while listening to our father proclaim that he would make the finest egg salad in all the land.

    Unfortunately, nobody kept track of how many eggs were hidden or where they were laid.  This resulted in an incomplete tally, but we didn’t mind.  We had loads of other goodies with which to stuff ourselves.

"Okay, that should do it.  How many we got?  24, 23?  Whatever.  By the way, I also make killer deviled eggs."

    

    No worries.  Until the dog found an especially pungent bearded egg behind the stereo on Labor Day.   

    Colorful eggs scattered throughout our home, our excitement reached a fever pitch as we knew that, come the dawn, we’d tumble down the stairs to see what the Easter Bunny had brought.  A sort of discount reenactment of the Christmas frenzy, Easter morn was a candy gorge-fest which propelled us into a sugar buzz not seen since December 25th.

"Oh, yeah?  Well, let's see you schlepp your freak rabbit ass all over the world dropping presents to millions of kids  
Even the Muslim ones!!

    

    Our baskets overflowed with all manner of sweets.  Sure, there were the proverbial candy Easter eggs and jelly beans, but my favorite had to be the chocolate bunnies.

We would also accept, "Chocolate Footballs" at Christmas.

    What kid doesn’t delight in first lopping off the hapless candy rabbit’s ears-“Look, Mom, a squirrel!”?  This confectionary mutilation was then joyfully followed by the rabbit’s ritual decapitation, leaving only a headless lump.  Indeed, what a sad end for a creature whose only crime was being in CVS only a few days before.

"You sadistic bastard!"

    I remember being disappointed that my bunnies were hollow.  I would have much preferred they’d be solid, although I probably would have broken my teeth gnawing on a fifteen pound hunk of chocolate.

On the other hand, eating a solid hunk of chocolate
probably wouldn't have been a good idea.

    Licking our lips as we finished savaging our Brer Rabbits or Lucky Ducks, we then turned our attention to the little chocolate-covered rabbit/duck/chick marshmallows and the yellow sugar balls known as Peeps.

    As we sadly hit the bottom of our baskets, we knew exactly what to do with the black licorice jelly beans and candy-coated almonds:  fling them at our little brother.

Excuse me, jelly beans of color.
Incidentally, what kind of freak bird lays these?

    Our mouths ringed in melted chocolate, our teeth encrusted with Peeps detritus, and our vision blurred, we blearily glanced at the clock above the television.  Wow, not even eight o’clock.

    Or, in other words, as our mother cheerfully announced from the kitchen, “Okay, kids, breakfast!”

    Yippee!  I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!

    After the obligatory hour at Church (because that's really the point), we headed back home to finish off any candy we had so carelessly missed earlier that morning.

    Mom, meanwhile, began intense preparations for the Easter “feast.”

    For some reason, ham was always the meat of choice to celebrate Easter.  Unlike the pterodactyl-sized turkey we devoured at Christmas, it seemed appropriate to give equa   Our mouths ringed in melted chocolate, our teeth encrusted with Peeps detritus, and our vision blurred, we blearily glanced at the clock above the television.  Wow, not even eight o’clock.

    Or, in other words, as our mother cheerfully announced from the kitchen, “Okay, kids, breakfast!”

    Yippee!  I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!

    After the obligatory hour at Church (because that's really the point), we headed back home to finish off any candy we had so carelessly missed earlier that morning. l time to eating another barnyard animal.

    I thought it had more to do with the fact that my mother didn’t have to defrost a ham for three days, pull its gizzards out, stuff any available cavity she found with Wonder Bread, and cooking it before the sun came up.

Plus, I think ham was a perfect "FU!" to
the Finegolds down the street.

    Eventually, Easter Sunday drew to a close.  As we sat transfixed by the litter of candy corpses and the sight of Pharaoh drowning in the Red Sea on TV, a thought struck us like a lightning bolt from the blue:

    No more chocolate bunnies for another year.     

    Whew.  Thank goodness for Halloween.

 

"Hey, look on the bright side.  In a couple days, you can have a ham sandwich."

    Okay, I may have gone a bit too far.

"That you did, boyo.  That you did."

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today's Bit o' Blasphemy

"Separate checks?"
"Seriously?  Look, Matthew, I know you're a tax collector,
but do you have to squeeze every shekel until it screams?"

Happy Presidents Day!

 WARNING: The following contains some truths, half-truths, and outlandish points of conjecture.  Students are therefore urged to not quote any of the below for scholarly research.  Unless you do not live in the United States.  Then, who cares?  Like anyone is gonna know the difference.

This is also kinda long.

    Until fairly recently, there was no such thing as “Presidents” Day.  Rather, we celebrated “Lincoln’s Birthday” on February 12th and “Washington’s Birthday” on February 22nd.  What’s more, these days were one shot deals, instead of the three day weekends we now observe.

    NOTE:  I just checked..."fairly recently" goes back to the 70s.  Geez-a-lou.

 

    I remember feeling gypped whenever they fell on the weekend.  So, we were all gladdened when the feds decided to ignore history and insisted that George and Abe were born on Mondays.  Screw ‘em, I guess they figured.  They’re dead anyway.

"What!?  Son of a...!"

    Like I said, though, we now have Presidents Day instead of two separate holidays.  Created to make room for the Martin Luther King, Jr. Birthday holiday (no sense giving mailmen too many days off), Presidents Day was meant to commemorate both our 1st and our 16th presidents.  And sales on cars, sheets, and living room furniture.

    So as not to offend either the Washington or Lincoln camps (boy, don’t get those two together in the same room!), Presidents Day was set in the middle of their birthdays.  Or the third Monday in February.  Or whichever made for the better three-day weekend.

"So, now I gotta share my holiday with that 'Father of Our Country' effin' showoff?  That sucks, dude."

    Like Thanksgiving, this made it pretty easy to plan for, as a quick inspection of a calendar would quickly identify when it was.  This is in stark contrast to Easter.  Besides knowing that it’s on a Sunday, I have no idea from year to year when it will happen.  Something to do with the lunar cycle and first day of spring.  During leap year.  When the moon is in its seventh house.  And the Pope consults his Magic 8-Ball.

 

"Or when Jupiter aligns with Mars."

  Oh.  That's pretty simple then.

    As time wore on, Presidents Day transformed into a day to celebrate all of our nation’s chief executives.

    As Presidents Day caught on, my family tried to come up with a dignified way to recognize the men who guided our nation’s ship of state.

    Even the sucky ones.

"I feel attacked."

    I have to admit, it was pretty difficult  getting all jazzed up for a holiday sandwiched between the saccharine-sweet Valentines and the inebriated bacchanalian excesses of St. Patrick’s Day.

"Kiss me, I'm Irish.  And a little nauseous."

       We finally decided on a “Dress as Your Favorite President Day.”  That way, we could  honor the leaders of our country.  And, even though my powdered wig and breeches drew a lot of stares at Home Depot, I felt it was the noble thing to do. 

    To avoid possible litigation, we then decided to pick a president who was not so well-known.  I mean, how likely would it be that a descendant of Martin Van Buren would call us before Judge Judy for saying their great-great-great-great-grandfather’s head looked like a beachball with feathers?  Not terribly likely.

    It really did, though.

"Not gonna lie, more than a little hurtful."

    To be sure, there are plenty of obscure stiffs from which to choose, guys who could be genuine stumpers in Trivial Pursuit.  In fact, were it not for their bosses catching cold at inauguration, having one heck of a tummyache, being assassinated, dropping dead from a stroke, or resigning, we probably would never have heard of Tyler, Fillmore, Andrew Johnson, Coolidge, or Ford.

    Bad enough we had Jimmy Carter.

    New for 2024!  Joe Biden!

"Total fake news hatchet job because I for one merit the honor of being designated the worst president in American history, if not the most orange, because I can guarantee you that Sleepy Joe wouldn't even know what we're talking about here or even be awake to hear the nomination, that I can promise!"

"And, by 'worst,' I mean 'best!"

    

"Is it time for Dr. Jill to tuck me in?"

    Hoping to stand out with my unknown president, I chose a man who was legendary in the Republican Party.  A man who put the needs of his fellow citizens before his own.  A man whose hard work paid off handsomely.  A man who had the fortune of being Vice-President when James Garfield was assassinated in 1881:  Chester Alan Arthur, 21st President of the United States.

    Known primarily for his facial hair and uncanny ability to remain innocuous, Arthur had the fortune of being Chief Executive during the Gunfight at the OK Corral when Kurt Russell, starring as Wyatt Earp, defeated the Clanton gang with the help of his brothers, Doc Holliday, and a killer moustache.

"Suck on this facial hair, Martin! 
Oh, wait.  Let me rephrase that."

     Arthur became president the year Alexander Graham Bell perfected the first metal detector.  This was a step up for the beleaguered Bell who previously invented the machine used to try to locate the bullet lodged in Garfield’s (the president, not the cat) body.

"Yes, hi.  I'd like to speak with you about your car warranty."

    President Arthur was especially opposed to the Spoils System.  This was even after he was informed by his cabinet that it had nothing to do with milk being left out overnight.

    A champion of Civil Service reform, because he wanted to avoid “another Civil War” at all costs, Arthur is regarded as the “Father of the Civil Service and the Union-Mandated Ten Minute Coffee Break.”

    Not content with remaining somnambulant on the domestic front, he furthered his nation’s outreach when the United States established formal diplomatic relations with Korea (thus discovering Ping Pong), organized the Alaskan territory (it was a mess), and continued the process by which land was stolen from Native-Americans and millions of buffalo were slaughtered by gangs of drunks celebrating St. Patricks Day.

"That's racist, boyo."

    Shockingly, he was denied nomination of his party for the presidential election of 1884.  Evidently, party bigwigs weren’t terribly impressed with neither his record nor his campaign slogan of “At Least I’m Not Millard Fillmore.”

    Instead, they gave the nomination to someone whose name escapes me, but, honestly, who cares?  Whoever he was, he was defeated by the Democrat candidate for the presidency.

    Yes, Grover Cleveland became the 22nd President of the United States primarily on the strength of HIS slogan:  “I May Be Fat as a House, But I Ain’t Chester Arthur.”

    Hmm, maybe next year I’ll choose Benjamin Harrison.