Smoove B Hamilton

ham3.jpg

A good while back, our Clif recommended Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton. Well, I finally got a copy and started it the other night. Flipping through, I could tell that I’d hate Chernow’s slant, but I decided to read it anyway just to see if anything interesting popped up in the details.

So far, so good. Everyone knows Hamilton was a horndog, but Chernow shows just what a smoothie Ten-dollar Bill Man really was by quoting a letter from young Hamilton to the fantastically rich and well-born Kitty Livingston (wealth or beauty alone were enough to make Hamilton lay it on thickly; together they inspired him to spread the purple with a trowel):

I challenge you to meet me in whatever path you dare. And, if you have no objection, for variety and amusement, we will even make excursions in the flowery walks and roseate bowers of Cupid. You know I am renowned for gallantry and shall always be able to entertain you with a choice collection of the prettiest things imaginable…You shall be one of the graces, or Diana, or Venus, or something surpassing them all.

The promises, the flattery, the style, even the cadence is pure Smoove B Love. All that’s missing is the concluding “Damn.” And, perhaps, a reference or two to doggie-style sex.

As a patriot here in the heartland who appreciates the wisdom of the Founding Fathers, I have no choice but to try some of Hamilton’s phrases on Marie Jon’.

 

Comments: 82

 
 
 

Alexander Hamilton was a smooth pimp that loved all the ladies.

 
 

“Once you go black, you never go back.”

-Thomas Jefferson

 
 

Smooove, baby. Smooove.

 
 

And good luck on getting to the crux of said apostrophe’s biscuit.

 
Arky "I just get these headaches" The Blasphemer
 

U. N. me babee ain’t nuthin but mammals.

And of course, this always made the ladies loosen their corsets.

 
 

LittlePig said,

March 4, 2008 at 4:21

And good luck on getting to the crux of said apostrophe’s biscuit.

I’ll guess the lady in question has dutifully fallen in line with wingnut orthodoxy and is dancing marching to the exquisite pheromones of Saint John teh Maverick.

 
 

I always knew that Hamilton was an ornery sack of shit (one of the unifying themes across Founding Father bios is how everyone, from every part of the political spectrum, fucking hates Alexander Hamilton) but today I learned that he was also a cocky, self-aggrandizing douchebag to boot. I feel enriched by knowing this.

 
 

I have no choice but to try some of Hamilton’s phrases on Marie Jon’.

Dream on.

You could try ’em on Rachel Marsden. Or not.

 
 

You could try ‘em on Rachel Marsden. Or not.

Sure, if you want to end up in court requesting a restraining order.

 
 

LittlePig said,

March 4, 2008 at 4:21

And good luck on getting to the crux of said apostrophe’s biscuit.

But I thought the crux of the biscuit, was the apostrophe.

 
 

I cant believe you are comparing Smoove B to some guy on a ten spot. Damn! Smoove B is at least worth a comparison to Grant.

 
 

Stop joking about restraining orders, you fags! I’ll slap any of you worms with one so fast……. you’ ll never get a piece of this!

 
 

Hell, I’da run with Hamilton. We’da kicked ass and got drunk and rolled up those fuckers right up until Washington walked in.

Then it woulda been all, no sir, dunno about that crap, pretty sure it was Jefferson, hes an asshole, yessir, g’night sir….

mikey

 
 

I think Rachel would end up boiling my bunny. To be fair, though, those kind of relationships are usually a volcanic blast until they get to that point. Still: not. worth. the. trouble.

 
 

roseate bowers of Cupid

oohhh yeaahhh

 
 

HTML Mencken: “The promises, the flattery, the style, even the cadence is pure Smoove B Love.”

I was thinking more Andrew Marvell and WB Yeats. Of course, I guess they were kind of the Smoove B’s of the late 17th and 19th centuries, respectively, so maybe it’s not that off:

Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

– Andrew Marvell, excerpt from last stanza of To His Coy Mistress.

 
 

Righteous Bubble: “You could try ‘em on Rachel Marsden.”

Right. Because you can have too much crazy.

 
 

those kind of relationships are usually a volcanic blast until they get to that point.

Uh huh. And about how long does that take? ten….nine….eight…..

 
Smiling Mortician
 

Righteous Bubble? Seriously? Dude, do you realize who you’re messing with?

(Sorry, Bubba, couldn’t help myself.)

 
 

HTML Mencken: “To be fair, though, those kind of relationships are usually a volcanic blast until they get to that point. Still: not. worth. the. trouble.”

Actually, yeah… it is kind of is worth the trouble sometimes.

Though to be fair, I’ve never tried having a relationship with a wingnut, which I suspect would NOT be worth it. They seem to alternate between being too abusive, too insecure, and both. And, honestly, that’s just not the dynamic you want when you’re trying to figure out whose turn it is to wear the handcuffs.

.

 
 

Marsden? Oy, as we say. No.

Marie? Dude, the prayers of the cadre go with you. But wait. First, let’s fit you with this Jon’Cam ™. Talk about a “live feed”…

 
 

Smiling Mortician: “Righteous Bubble? Seriously? Dude, do you realize who you’re messing with?”

Totally misread/mis-scanned the handle.

My apologies, no offense (or pun/joke of any kind) was intended. Just a pure error on my part.

 
 

So I guess y’all like heard that that Melanie Morgan was let go from her super-awesome radio show in San Francisco just while she was leadin’ the silent majority’s no-longer silent war against the U.S. Marines-hating Islamofascistoids in the People’s Republic of Berkeley?

Hopefully this won’t keep the major TV networks from having on this intellekshul gigant.

 
 

Mortician. Think it through.

I too wanted to jump the fucker and have nine tenths of Bubba’s back.

But then I thought. Hee hee. Righteous Bubba needs me like I need grammaws advice.

He’s not pinned down by ferocious wingnut fire. He’ll pretty much manage this on his own. And I’ll enjoy whatever approach he takes. Rhyming or janusnode, he’s pretty much an independent operator.

If it does get hard or ugly, sure, we’re poised to leap, the tribe being of more value than the play. But know what? I wouldn’t wanna be on the wrong side of Bubba, and I’m happy to let him take the lead…

mikey

 
 

Given my random text proclivities Righteous Bubble is fine by me.

Latest project:

Leonardo DiCaprio’s Mandrill Squares

Ingredients:
1 pound mandrill, lightheartedly dried
1 poppyseed
3 pounds nasty vodka
4 gallons outdated doe skull, creamed

 
Smiling Mortician
 

Nah, JGabriel, ‘sokay by me. Just felt like linking to a Nazareth tune and you provided the excuse. Hey, it’s Monday . . .

 
 

Righteous Bubble? Seriously? Dude, do you realize who you’re messing with?

Well, it’s better than Righteous Bubo.

 
Smiling Mortician
 

And actually, the more I think about it, I’m enjoying the interpretive possibilities inherent in the image of a righteous bubble . . .

 
 

It’s the final verse of Waltzing Matilda.

So he sang as he sat there,
watching while his bunny boiled,
Who’ll post restraining court orders with me?…

 
 

Stop joking about restraining orders, you fags! I’ll slap any of you worms with one so fast……. you’ ll never get a piece of this!

I’m loving this new Rachel Marsden troll. Much more fun than Gary.

 
 

O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With Righteous Bubble winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth

 
Smiling Mortician
 

Wow, Smut. That became even more pornographic for me as I imagined it read aloud in Charles Nelson Reilly’s dirty-bubble voice. But perhaps I’ve over-shared.

 
 

There once was a guy called Maximos, who was a funny kind of wingnut.

The Passionate Maximos to His Love

Come live with me and be my wife,
And we’ll forego all pleasures rife
In rock and hip-hop, modern jazz,
Or any joy that good sex has.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Whipping shepherds who whip their flocks
By grey-brown rivers, to whose falls
Laundry women sing madrigals.

And I will make thee a bed that squeaks
Like those of which my grandpa speaks;
Decent bloomers, and dowdy dress
Lest lusty negroes their love confess.

A shirt made of the finest hair
(Things that cover what’s down there);
Sensible shoes for warm and cold,
Which suit the young and suit the old.

No belt to bring out waist or hips
And thereby whet the gossips’ lips:
And if these steps may thee approve,
To marry me t’would thee behoove.

The minstrel band shall dance and sing
Though they’ll be beaten if they should swing:
In these conditions my wife must live,
If not she’s no conservative.

 
 

Not to mention what John and Abigail Adams thought about Hamilton. “Superabundance of secretions” make an appearance.

 
Smiling Mortician
 

The Nymph’s Reply to the Winger

If all the wingnut dudes were young,
And they had technique in the tongue,
Their pretty pleasures might me move
To live with nuts and be their love.

Repression drives from field to fold,
The numbnuts whose rocks have grown cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain “I cannot come.”

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wankered winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is stupid’s spring, but reason’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and gooper studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had sense no grip nor mind no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

 
 

“Abigail wasn’t much nicer. ‘Oh, I have read his heart in his wicked eyes. The very devil is in them. They are lasciviousness itself.'”

Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Sounds like Abby had the hots for old Alex.

And who could blame her? Who could resist Smoove B. Alex?

 
 

Mort, for you:

Chuck Yeager’s Entire Giraffe Couscous

Ingredients:
1 entire giraffe
1 jar parasitic banana, lacklustrely toasted
3 teaspoons fatalistic barley
2 teaspoons snowy shrew
1 bag cilantro

 
Smiling Mortician
 

Oh, sure. You try finding two whole teaspoons of snowy shrew in the Balkans this time of year.

Hmph.

 
 

Goddam it, Mort, I don’t know about you, but my Barley is deeply invested in it’s Barley Faith, and insists on the availability of free will.

And the shit INSISTS it’s not a defeatist philosophy.

To be honest, I’m at my wits end.

I’m thinking about cous cous…

mikey

 
Smiling Mortician
 

Also, I’m feeling a little guilty about using the entire giraffe . . .

 
 

Well, it’s not like you can do much with leftover giraffe. Make a really big stew, maybe.

 
 

Giraffewurst.

 
 

“The next morning, I will cook breakfast for you.”

That B, he is smoove.

 
 

I can tell you one thing, if she eats all those eggs you’re going to have more than a volcanic blast on your hands.

 
 

Braised Nonsensical Mustang with Curried Avocados

Ingredients:
1 nonsensical mustang
1 avocado, acclamatorily curried
5 pinches fat corn
5 pinches hartebeest fin
1 jar soy sauce
7 jiggers maple syrup

Pre-heat your oven to 294 degrees Kelvin. Place the mustang into a medium pot.

 
 

That is crying out for a Dr. Seuss / Alexander Hamilton mash-up.

 
 

That bit of his bio is best read in a Barry White voice.

 
 

Um, Bubba?

Excuse me.

I have a question. My oven doesn’t seem to have a Kelvin based control.

Can you provide a conversion table?

mikey

 
 

Braised Nonsensical Mustang with Curried Avocados
You should know better than to provoke a man with an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of Round the Horne scripts.
——-
Kenneth Horne: First in the kitchen — but last in the bathroom — our cookery expert, Daphne Whitethigh, with another of her classic recipes.

Daphne Whitethigh [Betty Marsden]: This week I’m going to tell you some of the many interesting things you can do with a yak. There’s yak a l’orange, yak pasties, yak kebab, yak fingers, yak on a spit — and yak in its jacket. But my family’s favourite is a simply scrumptious dessert — coupe yak. Take your yak, pluck it and bone it — take an ordinary saucepan, the type you use for broiling hippopotamus, when its tender, cool it and smother it in raspberry ice cream, sprinkle on a little ground coconut — three tons should be enough — and serve with a hip bath of custard. Some people claim that the coconut and raspberry ice cream disguise the natural flavour of the yak meat — but when I served my husband with it his immediate reaction on tasting it was —

Mr Whitethigh [Hugh Paddick]: Yak!

Daphne Whitethigh [Betty Marsden]: Next week I shall be telling you how to make Mongoose flavoured yoghourt.

Kenneth Horne: I shall be interested to hear how she gets the lumps out.

 
 

Real scientists don’t say “degrees Kelvin”. You simply say “294 Kelvin” — the girls will know straightaway that you’re a physicist or an engineer. They will swoon.

 
 

294 degrees Kelvin = 48.2 drachmas. Approximately.

You’re welcome.

 
 

OT, but it’s time to hate Hillary again. This evening, when talking about her ‘experience’, she made a statement that John McCain has more experience than Obama. She ranked him third of three. She’s a fuck-up.
http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/3/3/203910/3644/635/468212

 
 

Real scientists don’t say “degrees Kelvin”.

When I was lining those up I was thinking “Hey, someone’s going to call me on this, probably that Smut Clyde guy.” And yet I was too lazy to readjust.

Was I Obama or Hillary?

 
 

Yeah, Hamilton was a stud. The only one smoother with the ladies was Franklin but he was in France and, let’s face it, sex doesn’t get dirtier than aging Ben Franklin.

 
 

[O]ne of the unifying themes across Founding Father bios is how everyone, from every part of the political spectrum, fucking hates Alexander Hamilton

Oh, Commander Washington thought our “bastard brat of a Scottish peddlar” was cuter nor a bug’s ear. And Ben Franklin admired the little turd’s immense talent for apple-polishing and flattery, to which Ben might even have succumbed if he himself wasn’t the original all-American pattern for a.p.&f. When it came to older guys with money and influence, Alexander Hamilton would leave no taint unlicked stone unturned.

Basically, Hamilton had a lot in common with Donald Trump, which is why the NYC textbooks I grew up with gave Alex mad props over those stodgy Bostonian intellectuals and action-oriented Virginia planters. His grave, in the financial district, was something of a shrine for the yellow-tie mob. Me, I always thought the best thing Aaron Burr ever did for his country was to guarantee that you-know-who didn’t end up as America’s first Alan Greenspan.

 
 

Poached Oysters?

 
 

Ayn Rand’s Macadamia Sushi

Ingredients:
1 kangaroo, rationally strained
1 macadamia
2 ounces everlasting eggplant
4 cans zany cheetah throat, clearly grilled
1 bag sesame
4 portions sesame

Pre-heat your oven to 522 Farenheit. Place the kangaroo into a small bag. Combine the macadamia with the eggplant over medium heat in a bowl. Pour over the kangaroo.

 
 

The only one smoother with the ladies was Franklin but he was in France and, let’s face it, sex doesn’t get dirtier than aging Ben Franklin.

Actually, according to French spies, no one had cleaner underwear than ol’ Ben. I’m not making this up.

Once again A.L.’s comments make my heart sing.

 
 

RB – you got that last one from Amber Pawlik, admit it.

 
 

And I’m off to vote.

A tip for Josh: The weather mostly always sux here in Ohio. Or it’s about to.

 
 

That bit of his bio is best read in a Barry White voice.

Yeah — we got it together, didn’t we, baby?

 
 

” was thinking more Andrew Marvell and WB Yeats. ”

The difference being that Marvell’s ostensible self-aggrandisement is shot through with irony.

 
Arky "I just get these headaches" The Blasphemer
 

Smiling Mortician FTFW!

Damn it, my co-habitant is starting to think I’m crazier than a zany cheetah. He doesn’t care for the coffee-splattered computer monitor neither.

 
 

If you want some founding-father doggie-style seks, I seem to remember a scene in Gore Vidal’s Burr where Burr writes a letter to his daughter in which he describes such an event.

Bow chicka bow.

 
 

Okay, enough Colonial sex, especially since we all know Jefferson was the hottie.

Meanwhile, Jonah’s been reading Sadly, No! again (he says it’s e-mail, but he *is* a liar). He calls it “painfully unfunny” which we know is also a lie, since he loves this type of humor and there is nowhere to go for conservative humor. (Other than unintentional.) I consider this a challenge.

I knew Hypocriical Left was Jonah.

 
 

Righteous Bubba needs me like I need grammaws advice.

Maybe if she’s a Righteous Bubbie…

 
 

So I guess y’all like heard that that Melanie Morgan was let go from her super-awesome radio show in San Francisco just while she was leadin’ the silent majority’s no-longer silent war against the U.S. Marines-hating Islamofascistoids in the People’s Republic of Berkeley?

ZOMG! I’ve gotten a number of crank calls from a crazy in San Fran that sounds like her.

 
 

RB – you got that last one from Amber Pawlik, admit it.

Ooo, stuff to steal. Thanks for the reminder.

 
 

“A Book of Jonah underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Doughy
Beside me singing, a Wingnutte–
Oh, Wilderness were I in Paradise enow!”

 
 

And, perhaps, a reference or two to doggie-style sex

What on Earth do you call this?

roseate bowers of Cupid

 
 

Heh, Smoove Hamilton’s promise wouldn’t cut much ice with me. I HATE eggs and I’m allergic to roses. Try promising an extra 2 hours sleep.

 
nick, with an i
 

When it comes to Colonial sex, I always enjoyed William Byrd’s diary, especially the bit about “rogering” his latest beauty on a billiard table….

 
 

Flipping through, I could tell that I’d hate Chernow’s slant, but I decided to read it anyway just to see if anything interesting popped up in the details.

Mr. Mencken, could you elaborate on the slant? Is it too much of a paean to central banking? Markets in general? I was going to pick it up, but if it’s just another “Hamilton understood that markets are MADE OF FREEDOM,” I probably won’t bother. Not even for the smoove-osity.

 
 

roseate bowers of Cupid
I was imagining a couple of very pink violinists.
Roseate bow-wow-wowers of Cupid?

 
 

could you elaborate on the slant?

Sure. Hamilton gets the benefit of doubt for *everything*. Everyone else does not.

 
 

Oh, jeez, hagiography. We’re even allowed to point out Washington’s flaws nowadays, but Chernow gives Hamilton a pass? Even on his plans to use a private army to secure Federalist supremacy? Yeah, I’m sure he meant well.

 
 

Yeah, but he does it cleverly. He notes the flaws but deprecates them. Puts the testimony favorable to Hamilton in the brightest light. It can be subtle — or not. (I flipped to the recounting of the duel first. Everyone around Burr is taken with a grain of salt. Everyone around Hamilton is suspected of the gospel truth.)

 
Girl from UNCLE
 

You know I am renowned for gallantry and shall always be able to entertain you with a choice collection of the prettiest things imaginable…You shall be one of the graces, or Diana, or Venus, or something surpassing them all.

Yep, I’d hit it.

 
 

That damn Hamilton book by Chernow took forever to read…

…and after reading it, I suspected that as Hamilton was to Washington and Franklin, Chernow would be to Hamilton.

 
 

[…] History XXX Alexander Hamilton lays down the rap. Aw, yeah. Explore posts in the same categories: Political […]

 
 

This! Is! A founding Homeboy!

 
 

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