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

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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. 

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You won’t hear it in many of the more somber observations today, but Abraham Lincoln died laughing.

It was 150 years ago tonight at 10:15 p.m. in Ford’s Theater that Lincoln was slain by the dastardly charmer John Wilkes Booth.

The actor deliberately timed his fatal shot to coincide with one of the biggest laugh lines from “Our American Cousin.” I’m only vaguely familiar with the play and have absolutely no idea how it ends.

It may be the only thing me and Honest Abe have in common.

Booth hoped the roars from the delivery of the line — “You sockdologizing old man trap!” — would cover the noise from the fatal pistol blast.

I find his reasoning delusional. It wasn’t like no one was going to notice that someone had fired a bullet in the president’s head and the assassin was just going to tippy toe off to a hero’s welcome down in Dixie.

I wonder if they’re going to pause in the performance at Ford’s Theater tonight at 10:15 to commemorate the killing of the man who may be the greatest American ever. It’d be tasteful and certainly fitting.

If they do, it’ll be during a performance of “Freedom’s Song: Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War.” I’m sure it’s a very moving and patriotic show, but am surprised they’re not for obvious historical reasons presenting “Our American Cousin.” 

If I owned the theater, I’d tonight be staging the play complete with reenactments of Lincoln being shot and Booth leaping on the stage from which he yelled, “Sic semper tyrannous!”

The phrase is Latin for, “Tonight’s play was brought to you by Geico!”

I jest.

It is, of course, Latin for “Thus Always To Tyrants.”

Did you know that was and is still the Virginia state motto?

That Virginia takes its motto seriously is the only reason I can figure tyrannical Washington Redskins owner Dan Snyder chooses to reside in neighboring Maryland.

Historical reviews of the actual play say it’s a bit dull. Those reviews would be dramatically different if the assassination and its immediate aftermath were incorporated into any modern performance.

It’d be riveting.

Guaranteed, no one would embark on a quick pee break at 10:12.

I’d think audiences would temper their ovations for the actor portraying the J.W. Booth character at the end. It’d be a great role for an actor who’d enjoy playing against type. I’m thinking Tom Hanks.

But imagine the cheers if an actor who’d played the blood-stained Lincoln strolled onto the stage to take a grand bow.

It’d be like our greatest president had risen from the dead.

Tasteless?

I don’t think so. 

Every year millions of Christians around the world gather to watch Passion Plays that feature the gory crucifixion and — speaking of rising from the dead — resurrection of Jesus Christ, one of the few men even biased pro-Union historians would say achieved more than the Great Emancipator.

Of course, the bigger and likely truly tasteless re-creation is on course to take place on this day in 2017.

That’ll the the voyage of Titanic II and, no, Titantic II isn’t a sequel to the blockbuster James Cameron movie.

It’s the brainchild of billionaire Australian businessman Clive Palmer who in 2013 announced his plans to construct a full-scale re-creation of Titanic, which stuck an iceberg this very day at 11:40 p.m. in 1912. He expects the ship to be ready to launch in Fall 2016.

In an eerie echo of past hubris, Palmer declared, “Titanic II will be the most safe cruise ship in the world when it launches.”

What could go wrong? 

Experts say a year-round theme boat will have limited appeal, the business models are all wrong and it goes against steadfast seafaring tradition that maintains you never name a ship after one that’s already gone to the bottom of the ocean.

The confluence of promotion and superstition gives me a sinking feeling tastefulness won’t be the only Titanic casualty. 

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Change Patriots name to the Boston Corbetts

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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.

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"Civil Wargasm" for Gettysburg re-enactors

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The Pond is closed this week and everyone knows what that means: it’s the week I park out front in the handicapped spot just to sow confusion and mess with the minds of people who think maybe Dave’s let me in to drink free and wonder if he’ll do the same for them.

He won’t, so don’t even bother knocking.

But it’s also the week that the staff we depend upon to feed and inebriate us leaves us to fend for ourselves. It’s terribly upsetting, but we somehow manage.

I asked Keith, the bartender, if he has any vacation plans.

He does not.

“I have a suggestion,” I said. “Why don’t you go out and spend $700 or so dollars on an authentic wool uniform and gear and go marching up and down the sweltering pastures of central Pennsylvania.”

“Well, for one, I’m not insane.”

That’s true.

But neither are the armies of Civil War re-enactors who at this very minute are camped around Gettysburg to commemorate the 150th anniversary of one of history’s most pivotal battles.

Or are they?

Like many history buffs, I have Gettysburg fever. My daughter and I were there in November for three days (links below) and left with many great memories.

But my interest goes deeper than that. It’s because like so many others I’ve read “Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War,” the terrific 1998 Tony Horwitz book about hardcore Civil War re-enactors.

How hardcore? They soak their uniform buttons in their own urine so the acids will bestow them with the proper hue. The pain, deprivation and hardship they self-inflict is welcomed as just another step on the path to authenticity.

Horwitz says they call it a "Civil Wargasm."

The part of me that reveres history admires what they do, while the part of me that clings to common sense agrees with Keith. As pastimes go, Civil War re-enactment registers neck-in-neck on the insanity scale with the Trekkie nuts.

Sure, the Trekkies reside in the make-believe realm, but they’re cerebral enough to pursue their silly whimsies in air-conditioned convention halls with catered buffets and indoor plumbing that assure any urine that splashes on their outfits is purely by accident.

It’s entirely possible that by this time tomorrow some of these less fit re-enactors may actually expire in the heat -- and will their deaths be added to official battlefield casualty rolls?

What’s interesting to me is that the Civil War is the last conflict in human history that will attract people who enjoy romanticizing the worst behavior humanity has to offer.

The horrific carnage of World Wars I and II were too sprawling to lend themselves to orchestrated re-creation. 

Our more current wars have been mostly urban and lack definition and grandeur. And, heck, there’s probably already video games that let 10-year-olds simulate Pakistani drone strikes almost as genuine as the guys in the Tampa bases who do it for real.

But I have an idea that will allow history buffs to re-create a dandy war without the sweat and pain being experienced by the Gettysburg button pissers.

That would be the Vietnam War.

Not the one fought in the Southeast Asian nation.

I’m talking about the one fought on the college campuses right here in the U.S.A.

This would be a fun and historically relevant period to recreate, especially if you chose to be on the side of the hardcore hippies.

Remember, it was an era of free love and ample drug use. I’m familiar with a lot of people who strive to recreate that lifestyle, but do so without the benefit of historical purpose.

Getting high and getting laid would seem more noble if you could claim that you were doing it under the guise of an re-enactor movement.

Conservative types who thought the war was a really swell idea could get crew cuts and simulate whacking flower children on the heads with their very own “Give Peace A Chance!” protest signs. 

The re-enactments could conclude with both sides marching off to celebrate their business degrees by all together doing “The Hustle” down at the campus disco.

As war re-enactments go, this would be much more civil.

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