It's Boston Corbett Day! Named for USA's greatest eunuch

(775 words)

You won’t see it anywhere in the news today. There will be no stirring memorials. Congress won’t pause to honor the actions of the man who should be by unanimous consent be acclaimed as  America’s greatest eunuch.

All hail, Boston Corbett, the man who killed the man who killed President Lincoln! It happened 151 years ago this very morning.

Really, can you even name a single other great American eunuch?

I can’t.

I guess we’re all stumped.

And so are the eunuchs, but in a much more literal way.

A eunuch is a man who undergoes deliberate removal of his testicles for any number of offbeat cultural reasons. Throughout history, eunuchs have served royals as courtiers, harem servants and trusted guardians of virginal princesses

Some have even willingly become eunuchs so they could serenade a discerning king with a treble voice of unmatched loveliness.

It sounds extreme, but I’m surprised no one’s tried it yet on American Idol. I guess in these days of instant fame, making a real sacrifice for the sake of art is no longer fashionable.

Of course, Corbett makes each of those motivations seem like pikers by comparison.

Born Thomas P. Corbett in London in 1832, he eventually moved to Boston, where he picked up a nickname with slightly more dash than if he’d have moved to say, Passadumkeag, Maine.

In 1858, at the age of 26, is when things got interesting. Fired with the religious passions, he grew his hair long in an attempt to imitate Jesus.

Then he did Jesus one better. Two better, to be precise.

The history books say he was so consumed with lust for Boston prostitutes he resorted to dire remedies. So one night he took a pair of rusty scissors, dropped his trousers and -- snip! snip! -- cut off his troublesome testicles.

That’s taking safe sex practices to a whole other realm.

The he sat down and had a nice dinner and attended a Methodist prayer meeting before finally staggering off for medical attention.

Amazing. For literary purposes it would be great fun to discover that the entree was meatballs, but the menu is lost to history.

The man is testament to the fact that it doesn’t take real balls to be a real man.

In April 1861, he enlisted as a private in the New York Militia, was honorably discharged after his three-month commitment, then re-enlisted to fight again. He was taken prisoner in 1863 and was captive for five months in the notorious Andersonville prison before being freed in a common prisoner exchange. He would later testify for the prosecution in the death penalty trial of doomed prison commandant Capt. Henry Wirz.

After again re-enlisting, it was Corbett on this day in 1865 at the Garrett tobacco barn near Port Royal, Virginia, who against orders shot the bullet that struck John Wilkes Booth in the back of neck, about one inch from where the dastardly Booth slew Lincoln on April 14.

“Providence directed me,” he said when asked why he’d disobeyed orders.

Then, like today, you can get away with a lot if you can convince believers that God whispered in your ear, “Pssst, hey, buddy . . .”

Corbett’s post-war life became increasingly erratic, perhaps, because of exposure to mercury when he worked as a hatter in New York and Boston. Because of his fame, he was appointed doorkeeper of the Kansas House of Representatives, where he pulled a pistol on some men who he’d caught yawning about the morning prayer.

He was sent to an insane asylum, escaped and lived for a while in a hole that www.allaboutbikes.com today lists as the No. 1 scenic attraction in Kansas.

It may be a big state, but I’ll drive hundreds of miles out of the way if I can avoid a state where the most scenic site is Corbett’s hole.

He is believed to have died along with more than 400 others in the Great Hinkley Fire that consumed hundreds of acres of Minnesota forest where he’d built a cabin and was living when the fire spread on September 1, 1894.

His story is the reason I never fail to engage airplane seat mates about their lives.

I’m sure he shared many stagecoach rides with men and women too engaged in their 19th century iPad equivalents to hear the stories of this fascinating eunuch who killed the man who killed the president.

So, to honor America’s greatest eunuch, I suggest we all cut the work day short.

Please don’t feel the drastic need to cut off anything more significant.

And just to be safe, stay clear of the prostitutes in Boston. 

Related

Tom Brady & the Boston Corbetts

Change Patriots name to Boston Corbetts

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Tom Brady & The Boston Corbetts

(736 words)

I thought I’d said all I needed to say about DeflateGate in January when I proposed the NFL change the name of the New England Patriots to the Boston Corbetts.

Civil War buffs will recall Boston Corbett is the name of America’s most famous eunuch.

Corbett was the man who killed the man who killed Abraham Lincoln. He said God told him to kill John Wilkes Booth, which he did in a Port Royal, Virginia, tobacco barn 150 years ago April 26.

He’s a fascinating character. Prior to the Civil War, Corbett, a devout Christian, used a pair of rusty shears to sever his own testicles. He undertook this rash act because he was repelled by an all-consuming lust for Boston prostitutes and blamed it all on his balls. 

And that’s as good a place as any to return us to the topic at hand.

Sure, calling a ream the Corbetts would confuse generations of casual football fans, but no worse than those who wonder why even caucasian players from Cleveland are called Browns.

It’s interesting that Brady’s misdeeds are causing far more outrage than what one of his headline-making teammates recently got busted for doing.

I guess it says something about the character of your typical American sports fan that most people care more about Brady artificially deflating footballs than Aaron Hernandez ballistically deflating fellow human beings.

Anyhoo, here’s how I feel about the punishments:

They make me happy. They warm my soul. I think it’s because I can empathize with every single human emotion except arrogance and hypocrisy.

Brady and the Patriots are guilty of both.

I despise the Baltimore Ravens, but I respect them (with the obvious exception of their murderer and his buddy, the wife-beater) because I never suspect the Ravens of resorting to any smarty-pants rules infractions to get an edge.

It’s always been that way with the Patriots.

Understand, Tom Brady should be beloved the way Peyton Manning is. Both are tremendous quarterbacks. But Brady whines when he’s hit. He screams at his receivers when they drop one of his passes. He acts entitled.

He lost me forever in an episode few even recall, but one that seared me with Brady hatred.

It was the 2008 Super Bowl between the Patriots and the underdog New York Giants.

The Patriots were such heavy favorites that there was much ridicule when Giant Plaxico Burress predicted the Giants would win 17-14, people howled, none more loudly than the smirking Brady.

“He thinks we’re only going to score 14 points?” Brady asked. When the prediction was confirmed, Brady descended into the squealing kind of laughter I hear from my 8-year-old daughter when Spencer does something funny on an “iCarly” rerun.

Worse, before kickoff I remember seeing Giant QB Eli Manning approach Brady for a collegial handshake.

Brady slapped his hand away and shouted a profanity at him. It was very unsportsmanlike.

So I was thrilled when Eli led the Giants to a huge upset victory by the score of 17 to, uh, 14.

Of course, DeflateGate would have been a non-starter had Brady resorted to questions with what I call the “Otter Defense,” which works in any situation where a guy gets busted doing something guys like to do.

Eric “Otter” Stratton and the rest of the “Animal House” Deltas were summoned before a Faber College disciplinary board to respond to accusations that certain immoralities involving female guests occurred at their toga party.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he says, “the issue here is not whether we broke a few rules or took a few liberties with our female guests. We did.”

And with this frank admission, he looks directly at Dean Wormer and gives him a lascivious wink. It’s funny because viewers know Stratton’d spent the previous evening boinking Mrs. Wormer.

I don’t mind my miscreants if they show even a little contrition, some humility.

Brady is incapable of either.

So my enmity has nothing to do with the heinousness of the crime, and everything to do with my sanctimonious opinion of whether or not a guy’s a real jerk.

It’s why I’ll forgive Mark McGuire, but not Lance Armstrong or Barry Bonds.

It’s why I was happy actor Oscar-nominated actor Don Cheadle didn’t win the Academy Award for his role in the 2004 movie, “Hotel Rwanda.”

It’s something Brady should think about.

Cheadles never win.

Related . . .

Change Patriots name to Boston Corbett

Boston Corbett: America’s Greatest Eunuch

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Re-Run Sunday: "Boston Corbett, America's Greatest Eunuch!"

I’m delighted a Re-Run Sunday coincided with one of my favorite historical days of the entire calendar. It’s Boston Corbett Day!

He’s the eunuch who killed John Wilkes Booth. It happened 150 years ago today.

This is my third most popular post ever and continues to enjoy robust readership. 

You won’t see it anywhere in the news today. There will be no stirring memorials. Congress won’t pause to honor the actions of the man who should be acclaimed as America’s greatest eunuch by unanimous consent.

All hail, Boston Corbett, the man who killed the man who killed President Lincoln! It happened 145 years ago this very morning.

Really, can you even name a single other great American eunuch?

I can’t.

I guess we’re all stumped.

And so are the eunuchs, but in a much more literal way.

A eunuch is a man who undergoes deliberate removal of his testicles for any number of offbeat cultural reasons. Throughout history, eunuchs have served royals as courtiers, harem servants and trusted guardians of virginal princesses

Some have even willingly become eunuchs so they could serenade a discerning king with a treble voice of unmatched loveliness.

It sounds extreme, but I’m surprised no one’s tried it yet on American Idol. I guess in these days of instant fame, making a real sacrifice for the sake of art is no longer fashionable.

Of course, Corbett makes each of those motivations seem like pikers by comparison.

Born Thomas P. Corbett in London in 1832, he eventually moved to Boston, where he picked up a nickname with slightly more dash than if he’d have moved to say, Passadumkeag, Maine.

In 1858, at the age of 26, is when things got interesting. Fired with the religious passions, he grew his hair long in an attempt to imitate Jesus.

Then he did Jesus one better. Two better, to be precise.

The history books say he was so consumed with lust for Boston prostitutes he resorted to dire remedies. So one night he took a pair of rusty scissors, dropped his trousers and -- snip! snip! -- cut off his troublesome testicles.

That’s taking safe sex practices to a whole other realm.

The he sat down and had a nice dinner and attended a Methodist prayer meeting before finally staggering off for medical attention.

Amazing. For literary purposes it would be great fun to discover that the entree was meatballs, but the menu is lost to history.

The man is testament to the fact that it doesn’t take real balls to be a real man.

In April 1861, he enlisted as a private in the New York Militia, was honorably discharged after his three-month commitment, then re-enlisted to fight again. He was taken prisoner in 1863 and was captive for five months in the notorious Andersonville prison before being freed in a common prisoner exchange. He would later testify for the prosecution in the death penalty trial of doomed prison commandant Capt. Henry Wirz.

After again re-enlisting, it was Corbett on this day in 1865 at the Garrett tobacco barn near Port Royal, Virginia, who against orders shot the bullet that struck John Wilkes Booth in the back of neck, about one inch from where the dastardly Booth slew Lincoln on April 14.

“Providence directed me,” he said when asked why he’d disobeyed orders.

Then, like today, you can get away with a lot if you can convince believers that God whispered in your ear, “Pssst, hey, buddy . . .”

Corbett’s post-war life became increasingly erratic, perhaps, because of exposure to mercury when he worked as a hatter in New York and Boston. Because of his fame, he was appointed doorkeeper of the Kansas House of Representatives, where he pulled a pistol on some men who he’d caught yawning about the morning prayer.

He was sent to an insane asylum, escaped and lived for a while in a hole that www.allaboutbikes.com today lists as the No. 1 scenic attraction in Kansas.

It may be a big state, but I’ll drive hundreds of miles out of the way if I can avoid a state where the most scenic site is Corbett’s hole.

He is believed to have died along with more than 400 others in the Great Hinkley Fire that consumed hundreds of acres of Minnesota forest where he’d built a cabin and was living when the fire spread on September 1, 1894.

His story is the reason I never fail to engage airplane seat mates about their lives.

I’m sure he shared many stagecoach rides with men and women too engaged in their 19th century iPad equivalents to hear the stories of this fascinating eunuch who killed the man who killed the president.

So, to honor America’s greatest eunuch, I suggest we all cut the work day short.

Please don’t feel the drastic need to cut off anything more significant.

And just to be safe, let's all steer clear of the prostitutes in Boston at least for today.

Related . . .

Change name of New England Patriots to Boston Corbetts

Marching on Gettysburg with daughter, 12

Of humdingers & sockdologers

Change Patriots name to the Boston Corbetts

(635 words)

I don’t want the Patriots to win, but if they do I hope someone sneaks onto the field and replaces all the Gatorade with vats of boiling oil.

I tweeted that last week and an alarmed reader wrote that, gee, a guy as nice as I couldn’t possibly harbor such malicious thoughts.

The exchange shows there’s a growing gap between my on-line persona and the one that sneaks out when its animal instincts are provoked.

It’s like the title line from great Robert Earl Keen song, “I only use my guns whenever kindness fails.”

Mike Wilbon of ESPN, one of the few non-meathead network voices I respect, said the Patriots should have to forfeit the game. I think he was being hyperbolic, but I love it that serious commentators share my excessive hatred.

Others have said either Belichick or Tom Brady should be suspended.

That, too, seems extreme. Unlike the Patriots, most of us want to see a game where a fair-and-square winner is determined.

But if it is proven they are guilty of cheating — and sensible fans like me and the millions of others who root for the Pittsburgh Steelers and all that’s good and moral in the world — there needs to be some lasting consequence.

Here it is: the New England Patriots should be ordered to change their names.

So what would we call them?

The New England Cheaters? That’s too blunt and would alienate what is a strong fan base, albeit a misguided fan base that for the past 14 years has been cheering for cheaters anyway.

The New England Deflaters? That would likely inspire a slew of dandy mascots, but it wouldn’t sell jerseys and that’s what the NFL these days is all about.

You can think of pejorative options all day and not beat the one I hereby bestow.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Boston Corbetts!

This is so joyfully deft, so situationally perfect, it can’t be beat.

See, a Corbett isn’t a thing. It’s a real man.

Well, he was for the first 26 years of his life.

Born Thomas P. Corbett in London in 1832, he eventually moved to Boston, where he became forever synonymous with the city he loved.

Corbett didn’t deflate his balls.

He severed them! With rusty scissors!

I’ve never examined the document, but I have to imagine Roger Goodell addresses the infraction in the NFL player code of conduct.

But let’s not get all snippy.

Corbett is the man who killed the man who killed Abraham Lincoln. He’s maybe my favorite oddball historical character. He grew up with two obsessions: Jesus Christ and Boston prostitutes.

And because the two could not abide, he castrated himself to eliminate corporal temptation from his life. He eventually joined the Union Army which, I guess, was years away from implementing Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell.

The full story (first link) was for years my most popular post and it gives all the gory details. I expect it’ll enjoy a burst of popularity April 26, the 150th anniversary of the day Corbett killed Lincoln assassin John Wilkes Booth.

Now, Corbett had been ordered to not shoot Booth, but Corbett said he disobeyed because God told him to. And for this Corbett was hailed as a hero across the nation.

I’d love to see the reaction if Brady says that’s why he did it.

It’s looking like he and the Patriots are going to weasel out of any real punishment for what is looking more and more like a significant infraction.

And if that happens I propose another name change, this one for Roger Goodell and his precious shield he’s all about protecting.

It should be the National Eunuchs League.

Because if he doesn’t punish the Pats, Goodell will be the one without any balls.

Related . . .

Boston Corbett: America’s Greatest Eunuch!

Civil War-gasm for Gettysburg re-enactors

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NFL not rich enough: needs throw-forward jerseys

America needs an all-gay NFL team

The Baltimore Rays & the NFL’s ongoing disgrace

What you're reading right now

One of the things I enjoy most about blogging is it is virtually self-perpetuating.

It used to be pre-internet columnists for newspapers had to maintain a level of consistency or be banished.

“I could write the world’s greatest story today and then I’ll have to wake up tomorrow and write another one just as good or everyone will say I’m slipping.”

That’s what one of my old favorites, the late great Lewis Grizzard, once told me. Thrice married and divorced, he died of a congenital heart defect at just 47.

I had the pleasure of interviewing him the equivalent times he was married and I think one of our interviews exceeded the duration of one of his marriages.

The man was a doozy. And a great writer.

But I think about his point whenever I peek at my stats page and it tells me someone is reading a story I posted from maybe three years ago.

That’s the beauty of writing in the internet age.

To turn Grizzard’s phrase on its head, I could have written the greatest story three years ago, given up writing to sell insurance and today that story could make me famous.

Today our stories are eternal.

I’m reminded of this nearly daily when I see that people trolling the internet have found my blog and mined something I barely remember writing and, bless their hearts, have begun referring it to all their friends.

I thought I’d give you an example and show you the top 10 stories people are reading right now and my thoughts that some of these arbitrary deadbeats are actually starting to make me proud.

I’ll omit a couple of obvious high rankers from the last two weeks.

No. 1 party boy from America’s No. 1 party school, August 2 -- Reaction to this boozy love letter to my Ohio University alma mater has been very gratifying. It got a huge readership right out of the gate and continues to draw near daily readers from all over. I think I was just a bit hungover when I wrote it.

Turn the page: A Bob Seger salute, January 21 -- I could really be onto something if I just picked one cool celebrity and focused laser-like on the subject. Anytime someone googles the great Seger song, “Turn the Page,” or other Seger-related queries, this post pops up.

Even stink bugs need love, September 30, 2010 -- This one continues to plod along and doesn’t stink at all. I thought it had some nice subtle sweetness about how even the lowliest creatures deserve some tenderness. Favorite line: “How can dedicated entymologists be anything but bug-eyed?”

Talking to nudists about Casual Fridays, June 3, 2011 -- I enjoy the daily updates to the newly added “search term of the day” feature up there in the right hand corner of the blog. I thought it would be fun to include some of the oddball ways people find my site. Guaranteed, at least once a day someone finds my site by including some variation of the search term “nude.” There’s been “amish nude,” “casual nudes,” and “nude recreation week.” I did a story about National Nude Recreation Week back in July and had a lot of fun with the research. I expect this one will be evergreen.

Time on my hands & everywhere else, August 31, 2009 -- This surprised me when it landed with a thud. I sort of thought it was the kind of breakthrough post that would really drive some readers my way. Wrong! But it’s becoming a little engine that could. It turns up in the readership rosters all the time. It’s a good one if for no other reason than the opening premise: “I’m thinking of getting a $75 tattoo of an $18,000 Rolex on my left wrist.”

R.I.P Buster the 19-year-old cat, September 4, 2008 -- Well this is certainly a surprise. Someone’s trolling around in the back catalogue and stopped by on the birthday of this post I wrote exactly three years ago. So odd. It’s not bad, but it makes me wonder if I should go back and weed out some of the ones I don’t really like. I have over 500 blog posts now and the world would be none the wiser if I trimmed that in half. Heck, maybe I should just delete all by the top 25. I’d look like a genius.

A Brad Pitt-y Party, January 13, 2009 -- A fine selection. I feel like a snooty waiter complimenting someone on selecting a rare vintage. This is the kind of oldie but goodie I’d keep if I whittled down the stack. Bashing celebrities is so much fun I wonder why I don’t do it more often.

867-5309, February 15, 2011 -- I contend this is the last phone number we’ll all remember. Our numbers have become our names. We just dial the contacts. This doesn’t pop up too much and I’m always pleased when it does. “Jenny! Jenny! Who can I turn to?” So much digital nostalgia.

Boston Corbett: America’s Greatest Eunuch, April 26, 2010 -- What a fascinating and insane man. Corbett’s the man who killed the man who killed Lincoln. This gets a lot of traffic. I like to think bleary eyed and scholarly researchers stumble on this and are revived by a strong shot of historical irreverence.

My 2010 office party: Canceled!, December 22, 2010 -- Just what the hell this is doing here I can not explain. Just about every day of the year for the past nine months someone, somewhere clicks this on. It’s confounding. It’s okay, but what’s the big deal? If today’s like every other day, at least a dozen people from all over the world will tap into this story that was topical for about two days last winter. Amazing. Oh, well. What can I do except wish those readers a very Merry Christmas!

And Happy Labor Day to the rest of you!

Thanks for reading!

Boston Corbett, America's Greatest Eunuch

You won’t see it anywhere in the news today. There will be no stirring memorials. Congress won’t pause to honor the actions of the man who should be acclaimed as America’s greatest eunuch by unanimous consent.

All hail, Boston Corbett, the man who killed the man who killed President Lincoln! It happened 145 years ago this very morning.

Really, can you even name a single other great American eunuch?

I can’t.

I guess we’re all stumped.

And so are the eunuchs, but in a much more literal way.

A eunuch is a man who undergoes deliberate removal of his testicles for any number of offbeat cultural reasons. Throughout history, eunuchs have served royals as courtiers, harem servants and trusted guardians of virginal princesses

Some have even willingly become eunuchs so they could serenade a discerning king with a treble voice of unmatched loveliness.

It sounds extreme, but I’m surprised no one’s tried it yet on American Idol. I guess in these days of instant fame, making a real sacrifice for the sake of art is no longer fashionable.

Of course, Corbett makes each of those motivations seem like pikers by comparison.

Born Thomas P. Corbett in London in 1832, he eventually moved to Boston, where he picked up a nickname with slightly more dash than if he’d have moved to say, Passadumkeag, Maine.

In 1858, at the age of 26, is when things got interesting. Fired with the religious passions, he grew his hair long in an attempt to imitate Jesus.

Then he did Jesus one better. Two better, to be precise.

The history books say he was so consumed with lust for Boston prostitutes he resorted to dire remedies. So one night he took a pair of rusty scissors, dropped his trousers and -- snip! snip! -- cut off his troublesome testicles.

That’s taking safe sex practices to a whole other realm.

The he sat down and had a nice dinner and attended a Methodist prayer meeting before finally staggering off for medical attention.

Amazing. For literary purposes it would be great fun to discover that the entree was meatballs, but the menu is lost to history.

The man is testament to the fact that it doesn’t take real balls to be a real man.

In April 1861, he enlisted as a private in the New York Militia, was honorably discharged after his three-month commitment, then re-enlisted to fight again. He was taken prisoner in 1863 and was captive for five months in the notorious Andersonville prison before being freed in a common prisoner exchange. He would later testify for the prosecution in the death penalty trial of doomed prison commandant Capt. Henry Wirz.

After again re-enlisting, it was Corbett on this day in 1865 at the Garrett tobacco barn near Port Royal, Virginia, who against orders shot the bullet that struck John Wilkes Booth in the back of neck, about one inch from where the dastardly Booth slew Lincoln on April 14.

“Providence directed me,” he said when asked why he’d disobeyed orders.

Then, like today, you can get away with a lot if you can convince believers that God whispered in your ear, “Pssst, hey, buddy . . .”

Corbett’s post-war life became increasingly erratic, perhaps, because of exposure to mercury when he worked as a hatter in New York and Boston. Because of his fame, he was appointed doorkeeper of the Kansas House of Representatives, where he pulled a pistol on some men who he’d caught yawning about the morning prayer.

He was sent to an insane asylum, escaped and lived for a while in a hole that www.allaboutbikes.com today lists as the No. 1 scenic attraction in Kansas.

It may be a big state, but I’ll drive hundreds of miles out of the way if I can avoid a state where the most scenic site is Corbett’s hole.

He is believed to have died along with more than 400 others in the Great Hinkley Fire that consumed hundreds of acres of Minnesota forest where he’d built a cabin and was living when the fire spread on September 1, 1894.

His story is the reason I never fail to engage airplane seat mates about their lives.

I’m sure he shared many stagecoach rides with men and women too engaged in their 19th century iPad equivalents to hear the stories of this fascinating eunuch who killed the man who killed the president.

So, to honor America’s greatest eunuch, I suggest we all cut the work day short.

Please don’t feel the drastic need to cut off anything more significant.

And just to be safe, let's all steer clear of the prostitutes in Boston at least for today.

Related . . .

Change name of New England Patriots to Boston Corbetts

Marching on Gettysburg with daughter, 12

Of humdingers & sockdologers