Happy Returns, By George! (Or Rather, Boy George!)
As I Understand It™, the second or third Monday in February is the day the moneychangerers, school teacherers and postal foot soldierers across the pond enjoy a staycation to honour the birth of the erstwhile Grandfather of the Americas™, George "Washington" Carver — or possibly Carter — whilst the majority of the luckless citizenry trudge off to their respective salt mines to sit elbow-to-elbow with conniving, flatulent office mates. A botanist and inventoror by trade, Washington was born of peanut farming stock in High Plains, Georgia, an honourable gent who confessed to lusting in his heart, but did not have his filthy way with the bonnie Miss Martha “Bobbie” Dandridge until they were properly declared Federalist Christian husband and wife, and Washington carried her ‘cross the threshold on Pennsylvania Avenue and plopped her down on one of those impractically curved, gilded sofas and commenced with the unlacing of the garmentry. A woodsman when laboratory work proved too taxing, the future head of the states did not chop down any cherry trees, nor wear wooden “choppers,” as I think of it. In fact, ole' George was something of a metrosexual, the first president of the freed world — enslaved citizenry notwithstanding — who threaded his eyebrows, waxed his bumhole and generously dusted his manlocks with Gold Blonde™ medicated powder before coiling his free-flowing tresses into a proper Unilock® bun atop the back of his head, all defensive measures meant to compensate for the perceived shortcomings of his non-hipster birth in a Georgia town that was not Athens, GA. In any event, every year on this day, well back in the day, the commander in chief cheerfully celebrated another turn 'round the sun by hurling silvered coins — U.S. quarters — across the Potomac River into tollway receptacles on the other side, allowing free passage to all wagoneers. Today, a subgroup of select Americans acknowledges the birth of this statesman and creator of the PB&J sandwich on what is now called President's Day, for some bloody reason or another. Many Happy Returns, by George! With proper receipts!
As I Understand It™, the second or third Monday in February is the day the moneychangerers, school teacherers and postal foot soldierers across the pond enjoy a staycation to honour the birth of the erstwhile Grandfather of the Americas™, George "Washington" Carver — or possibly Carter — whilst the majority of the luckless citizenry trudge off to their respective salt mines to sit elbow-to-elbow with conniving, flatulent office mates. A botanist and inventoror by trade, Washington was born of peanut farming stock in High Plains, Georgia, an honourable gent who confessed to lusting in his heart, but did not have his filthy way with the bonnie Miss Martha “Bobbie” Dandridge until they were properly declared Federalist Christian husband and wife, and Washington carried her ‘cross the threshold on Pennsylvania Avenue and plopped her down on one of those impractically curved, gilded sofas and commenced with the unlacing of the garmentry. A woodsman when laboratory work proved too taxing, the future head of the states did not chop down any cherry trees, nor wear wooden “choppers,” as I think of it. In fact, ole' George was something of a metrosexual, the first president of the freed world — enslaved citizenry notwithstanding — who threaded his eyebrows, waxed his bumhole and generously dusted his manlocks with Gold Blonde™ medicated powder before coiling his free-flowing tresses into a proper Unilock® bun atop the back of his head, all defensive measures meant to compensate for the perceived shortcomings of his non-hipster birth in a Georgia town that was not Athens, GA. In any event, every year on this day, well back in the day, the commander in chief cheerfully celebrated another turn 'round the sun by hurling silvered coins — U.S. quarters — across the Potomac River into tollway receptacles on the other side, allowing free passage to all wagoneers. Today, a subgroup of select Americans acknowledges the birth of this statesman and creator of the PB&J sandwich on what is now called President's Day, for some bloody reason or another. Many Happy Returns, by George! With proper receipts!