Honest Abe: Not So Honest.

I strongly suggest all you bloody Yankee wankers take a closer look at your tragically ill-fated 16th president. That's right, Yanks, Abe Lincoln. The savior of your blessed Union. Before you tell me to go to hell, hear me out. It ain't like I'm criticizing Mother Theresa, mate. And I wouldn't anyway. Because Mother Theresa don't break in line at the salad bar. Mother Theresa don't steal the last three croutons when you ask nicely to share them. Mother Theresa don't spill Russian dressing on your tailored suit. The bloody thing's shrunk from the seawater. It's the only one I've got.

But ain't this heaven, mate? Don't my suit miraculously clean itself? No. Heaven ain't like you think. At all.

'Cause heaven, mate, feels a lot like hell sometimes. Oh, bad pun? Annoys you, does it? Try talking to someone who starts every sentence with "Four score, and seven years ago..." Or having a peaceful dinner ruined when he stands up and starts debating some damn bloke called Douglas about which side his bread his buttered on or salad forks.

But it don't stop in the cafeteria, mate, no.

He's stolen my top hat off the rack 17 times, by my count.

I've heard him tell conflicting stories to history professors.

And he cheats at gin rummy.



Cheers yanks,


Anonymous Titanic Victim.