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Here's what happened. Three weeks before Andrew Jackson was born in 1767, his father was out felling slippery elms when a suspicious gust of wind blew through the underbrush. Momentarily blinded in the whirl of leaves, the simple farmer got his head crushed for him by the plummeting hardwood. At that precise moment, two miles away, Mrs. Jackson felt her baby kick. The little fucker had contrived to: a) eradicate his Freudian rival; and b) preemptively abort any younger siblings his recklessly fecund Irish parents were likely to create, thereby cornering the market on mommy's attention. He sucked that cow's tits dry. Growing up, Jackson was crazier than a squirrel with bone rot, and if you think he didn't fuck up anyone who got in his way, prepare for some disabuse. When Andrew was seven, he lost a game of jack-a-taws, an early form of marbles. The rules of the game dictated that the loser forfeit any marbles used in play to the winner. Well, the winner, Jackson's best friend until then, got Andrew's marbles all right... shoved directly up his asshole. Shays' Rebellion had come and gone before that poor bastard next managed to squeeze out a legitimate turd. You've probably heard all about how brave young Andrew worked as a messenger for the local militia during the Revolution. And if you buy that, you've got shit in your eyes. It's all fabrication, based on one incident. It seems your hero Andrew was in the middle of raping every single head in Increase Mather's sheep herd when a shot rang out. Attracted to violence as he was, Andrew withdrew his mutton-ponged richard from the latest victim and followed the shot to its source: a small company of militiamen were pinned down by an overwhelming British force. Knowing even the Redcoats would hesitate to fire on a young boy, the colonial guerillas gave Andrew a message to take back to their commanding officer: "Retreat at once. At least 200 redcoats, with horse, cannon." But on his way to delivering it, the little fiend swapped in his own note: "No Brits in sight. Target practice. Come join!" Now drunk on his own murderous power, the redheaded demon made short work of the rest of his family. His oldest brother, Hugh, died of "heat exhaustion" at the Battle of Stono Ferry. Andrew was at home holding a juju doll fashioned in Hugh's likeness over the kitchen fire. Next came Robert: he and Andrew "both" caught smallpox, the story goes, when they were captured by the British and thrown into a filthy gaol. What actually happened is that Andrew squeezed a lazar's pustule into Robert's soup when he wasn't looking, then mimicked his brother's symptoms for a few weeks to cover his tracks. Finally, Andrew's mother died of cholera while working as a nurse on colonial hospital ships in Charleston harbor. Do I have to draw you a fucking roadmap? Skipping ahead a few years, Andrew worked as a prosecutor in a little frontier town called Nashville, Tennessee, and if you think every single defendant he put away wasn't completely innocent, just stop reading right here, because you're beyond fucking hope. In Nashville, he met one Rachel Donelson Robards, daughter of the town's founder, and the lawful wife of another man. He glamored the poor girl, luring her to elope with him to Natchez, Mississippi, where he made her his whore, indoctrinating her in the unwholesome sexual rites that were thenceforth to occupy her every waking hour. History can only prostrate itself in gratitude that Rachel's very loins revolted against her, for despite Andrew's goatish attentions, they would not bear fruit of the wicked union. When Tennessee became a state in 1796, Andrew Jackson just happened to get elected to represent it, first in Congress and then the Senate. Since neither job involved fucking two-year-olds and the like, Jackson quickly grew bored, and resigned. Returning to Nashville, he bought a cotton plantation, where he worked a whole bunch of slaves to death for absolutely no reason. Meanwhile, he focused on his hobby of dueling anyone who called he and his wife a pair of adultering bigamists, which, come on, they were. Nice guy. Next came the War of 1812. You had to give it to James Madison, he knew a kill-crazy motherfucker when he saw one in Jackson. Madison slapped one of those Cap'n Crunch hats on the murderous rube's head, and said, "Go ye to New Orleans, and kill every Redcoat ye see." This Jackson did, stopping briefly along the way to slaughter basically the entire Creek Indian nation and steal millions of acres of land for your beloved United States. It was at New Orleans that Jackson earned the nickname "Old Hickory." Truth be told, he gave himself that nickname, which as everyone knows, only a complete and total asshole would do. Desiring to extend his year-long murder spree, Jackson marched his men to Florida—then Spanish territory—and slaughtered a whole lot of Seminole Indians for having the audacity to harbor runaway slaves within their own supposedly sovereign land. He marched down to the capital, took the whole territory over, and executed two British diplomats for refusing to share a sack of pecans with him. So the next time you find yourself at Disney World, squirting a bottle of ketchup down your fat American throat while your rotten brood screams at a child molester in a mouse costume, thank Andrew Jackson, you intellectually corrupt gutter cunt. 1824. Setback! Washington "elites" (i.e., intelligent, capable men who made some effort to not smell like an anchovy's cunt) cheat Jackson of victory in the presidential election. In a back room deal, Henry Clay gives his electoral votes to John Quincy Adams, sparing the country (for the nonce) from a President Jackson. In a just world, there would be a life-sized statue of a sexually aroused Henry Clay right in front of the White House, and on his birthday each year, every American would be required to fellate his stony dong. To completion. 1828. Jackson will not be denied. Running as a man of the people, he drags American electoral politics into the modern age. In other words, he drags it right into the shitcan with his tacky gambit of campaigning for himself and appealing to the unwashed masses. Having accurately underestimated Americans' intelligence, Jackson wins in a landslide. In probably the only display of gratitude that son of a bitch ever showed, he invites the public to celebrate at the White House. Every snuff-chewing degenerate in the Appalachians shows up to party, and since you were all so scandalized by a cigar up a cunt in the Oval Office, I'll spare you the details of this Snopesian orgy. Around the same time, Rachel Donelson Robards Jackson finally dies of shame, making her more honorable than the lot of you whores. And so America got the straight-out-of-hell demonic leader it required to point its fucking fingers at and say, "That's the bad guy," thereby exonerating itself from responsibility for the blood-soaked stolen soil that smelled like cum from being raped so many times. Not until the blood sacrifice of Abraham Lincoln three decades later did the sin of Jackson's very existence even begin to be expunged, but that's another story you probably don't deserve to hear since your head's so far up your ass your ears are even more shit-impacted than your chlamydial fucking eyes.
Date Written: October 30, 2009
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