March Madness

Contrary to what you may believe, we had March Madness in my day; it was what we called a particularly feisty springtime syphilis outbreak.

[Somebody invent penicillin and administer it to these young men!]

This tournament of collegiate Basket-Ball appears to be all the rage. I’ve been known to pepper the peach basket, mind you. Of course, we called the game “Duck on a Rock” and it was played on a 1/3 furlong X 32 cubit fairground. The goal wasn’t to score the most points, but rather who could suppress the most factory workers from forming unions.

[The Annapolis Hobgoblins: Nearly ruined the game with their showboating]

Who is my pick to pin the blue ribbon to their tailcoat at this year's “March Madness?”
Arizona. Sounds exotic.

The Polynesian Chap in the White House

Upon seeing me standing next to a broken-down time machine in a petroleum-stained waistcoat shouting, “Please help, I am from the year 1909 and lack devices to return to my age,” one would think most people would ask about my predicament. Instead, I get asked one question, and one question alone:

"How surprised are you that we elected a black president?"

I will have you know I am not surprised one bit! In my day we had two black Senators. Blanche Bruce and Hiram Revels, ever heard of them?

[Hiram Revels: Like Barack Obama, except he never had to worry about earning a single female vote]

These rapscallions ask me if I am surprised they elected a black president, begging for adulation under the guise that it was by their will he became elected. I campaigned for Rutherford B. Hayes, you don’t see me boasting as if I single-handedly earned a Methodist the presidency.

[Three cheers for President Hayes. Take that, Samuel J. Tilden!]

I hear this Obama fellow is from the kingdom of Hawaii. Nobody tell King Kamehameha III that one of his subjects has emigrated to the balmy shores of the Potomac!

[In all seriousness, nobody tell King Kamehameha III. His majesty is a vengeful cannibal]

So I will carry on as I would with a president of any persuasion, for I am just a simple turn-of-the-century industrialist whose time machine is in dire need of repairs.

I am surprised and saddened, however, that you have elected a filthy Irishman vice president.

Greetings, 2009!

Oh my! A rousing number of gentlemen and fair-looking women have shown quite the interest in yours truly.

Perhaps it is my handsome moustache, or my (admittedly) foppish dress. Or, it could be my frantic pleas for help in fixing my time machine, which has broken in your year, 2009.

Alas, I have conversed with many folks, some garish, some obscene in appearance and language, but all terribly curious why the 19th century’s premier civil engineer and railroad executive would want to travel one hundred years into the future. What was I supposed to do, travel 100 years into the past and watch the Battle of Athos? I will allow you time to sew together your terribly split sides.

[The Battle of Athos]

My motives were selfish, I will declare: I wanted to see what honors have been bestowed upon me, Octave Chanute. By the horn spoon! Woe is the lack of recognition for I, chief engineer of the Alton railroad, scribe of Progress in Flying Machines!

[Who is that handsome rube with the flying machine?]

When I introduce myself, men and ladies look most quizzical. Yet, when that sodomite Thomas Edison is mentioned, people swoon as if the butt pirate was Jesus fucking Christ. Yes, we said “butt pirate" and “Jesus fucking Christ” in 1909!

[Fact: Thomas Edison invented the light bulb so he could see his male lovers better at night]

Despite my chagrin, I have found the inhabitants of 2009 hold much curiosity of my thoughts and persona. So, until my time machine is repaired and I can return to 1909, I will bow to your unspoken cries:

"Allow Octave Chanute a forum to discuss current events, modern curiosities, and Octomom!"