Adams vs. Jefferson

My darling Abigail,

Tomorrow the congress shall vote on wording for the Declaration of our Independence from England. While I shall endorse its passage, I cannot deny my contempt for its author, the foul Virginian, Thomas Jefferson.

Today, as the Congress was being called to order, I was heard to remark that I have come to the conclusion that one useless man is a shame, two is a law firm, and three or more is a congress. While Delegate Cushing struggled at breath for his chortling, Delegate Jefferson closed his eyes, cocked his head askew (pretending to rest it upon a "pillow" of his hands) and pretended to snore loudly.

"Dear Sir," I responded, hoping to restore a modicum of dignity to the proceedings. "Be-calm yourself."

Jefferson, in what initially seemed an attempt at reconciliation, apologized and told me he'd actually commissioned a large run of my Thoughts on Government from a local printer. He informed me that they were of service to a great number of the congress.

He then extended his hand to me, and, mollified by his contrite demeanor, I reached to shake it. But at the last moment, he jerked his hand away and adjusted his wig, running his hand along the side of it!

Jefferson then called a number of the other delegates over and pretended to study me intently, with and without the aid of Benjamin Franklin's spectacles, while asking in jest, "is that Benedict Arnold, or is that John Adams?"

"'Tis I, John Adams!" I retorted.

In response, Jefferson informed the congress he was going to pretend to be someone else for their amusement. He then produced a lace handkerchief from his pocket and holding it between his thumb and forefinger, his wrist cocked at a 90-degree angle, began prancing about in the manner of a fop or dandy, proclaiming, "I'm John Adams! I favor a strong Federal government to the detriment of states rights and the sovereignty of the individual."

"I demand you cease these unflattering characterizations of me," I cried.

Resolving to fight fire with fire, I called over the delegation from the Province of New Hampshire and proclaimed loudly, "I too, would like to slander and ridicule a fellow delegate through a keen approximation of his physical characteristics and mannerisms."

Then, hunching over and placing a finger in my nose while adopting the tone and register of Jefferson's peculiar Virginian vocal timbre, I proclaimed, "I'm Tom-E Jefferson! The delegate from Virgin-I-a!"

While the majority of the congress looked away from my ill-advised impersonation, Jefferson began to clap loudly, pretending to congratulate me.

Feigning enthusiasm for my performance, he slapped me on the back, proclaiming, "An excellent characterization!" Then, turning to the congress and placing his hand next to his mouth in order to shield his words from me, but still speaking with a volume intended to be audible to everyone present, continued, "it was as is if your mother were in the room with us, dressed in your clothing."

"How dare you?" I screamed. "My mother is dead."

Jefferson looked genuinely surprised and, turning again to address the congress, proclaimed, "she seemed animated enough last night!"

So filled with rage was I that I retired to the lavatory in order to regain my composure. Upon entering the privy I noticed a stack of my Thoughts on Government, resting next to the seat, with a sign beside it in Jefferson's hand, penned, "Not for reading!" and an arrow pointing to my texts!

On several occasions Delegate Jefferson has smelled of hemp and mead before the noon meal. He also frequently retires to an antechamber with his slave Sally Hemings, proclaiming they are off to "a different kind of congress." He says this while winking!

When pressed as to the infrequency of his visits to the bedchamber of his wife, Jefferson recites the crude maxim, "Once a quill is dipped in black ink, it forever favors that hue."

My only solace comes from my steely belief in the providential certainty that history will reveal Jefferson as the base and immoral cad he truly is.


Yours,

John Adams

Custer's Last Letter

June 24, 1876

My dear Elizabeth,

Forgive my tardiness in responding to your last letter. Tomorrow we shall engage the Indian hordes and I'm busy with the preparations for battle. I must tell you, dear, that though I'm loath to underestimate our task, I doubt very seriously that we'll suffer any casualties at all.

I mean, let's be honest: they're Indians.

So confident am I of victory that yesterday I canceled my eye appointment with the army physician to receive new spectacles. And though it is difficult for me to read a map, navigate a battlefield, or respond coherently to any visual sensory stimuli, I am still 100 percent sure of our inevitable victory.

It's true, a lot of my men are underfed. They're in poor physical condition. Many of them can't walk without crutches. But you know who doesn't know that? The Indians. So that's one more for our side.

My soldiers, ever-reluctant to test their mettle in battle, keep asking for intelligence. "How many Indians are we facing?" they ask. "With what are they armed?" I say, "Who gives a crap?" It's true we don't have the best weapons available to us, but most of my men can load and fire their rifles 10 to 12 times a minute. You've gotta like those numbers. And, if the Indians get too close, my soldiers can use their bayonets. They are like sharp knives on the ends of the rifles (very sharp!).

To be honest, I've been spending the majority of my time attempting to compose a rousing hymn to lead us into battle but am finding it exceedingly difficult to rhyme anything with "Indian." The closest I've come is "Shmindian." Please let me know if you have any ideas on this subject.

Let me put your mind at ease, darling. Even if my entire army were drunk and dressed in the provocative costumes of loose women, even if the Indians were reinforced by the gods and monsters of their queer and obviously made-up religion, even if their perverse dreams—suddenly, miraculously, brought to life—led them into battle, I still believe we would suffer only minimal casualties.

The creator of God Almighty could not lead the Indians to victory tomorrow. Even the creator of the creator of God Almighty could not even expect anything approaching 50-50 odds. I AM CUSTER! SON OF A BITCH! I AM CUSTER!

Also, how is your lumbago?

Yours,
Custer