Learning Day: The Ultimate Civil War Quiz Book

Today, I’ll be kind.

Tomorrow, I’ll be kind.

Next year, I’ll be kind.

Some context: Confederate mourner Col. Lochlainn Seabrook and I compete on a few fronts. History. Fiction. Witchcraft. Lifetime n-bomb usage. Right to the rank of colonel. His wife’s heart. Friends in Kentucky.

At the moment, we’re tied. Sort of. I’m up 5-3, but you know how Lochlainn counts. Here’s the tale of the the tape:

We need a tiebreaker. Since I won the last round (his wife’s love), I’ll face Lochlainn on his home turf: junior propaganda. The Ultimate Civil War Quiz Book offers the perfect battlefield. I’ll prove I know Lochlainn better than he knows English.

I’ll let him introduce the text.

Very true, the way a tumor expands your mind, or a grenade. I suggest keeping your mind’s overall shape. Just put some books in there, or you might start feeling Neo-Victorian. That’s a skinhead that can’t fuck (ask Mrs. Seabrooke).

On to question one:

Odd, that’s not a question. That’s reheated cope from Honest Jeff and Dishonest Abe. Poor Lochlainn still can’t say Civil War twice without losing his hood.

Granted, it’s nice seeing Seabrook own an opinion, instead of citing Forrest, Hecate, or Abraham “Demon King” Lincoln. Perhaps Lochlainn’s found his confidence, or a third inch. That said, The Ultimate Civil War Quiz Book is a 2017 slur, so “fake history” doesn’t reek of originality. He should start a workshop with some other Fort Pillow reenactors and steal from them instead.

Sidebar: I resent “churn.” I craft my propaganda. Attractive, intelligent people pay for it.

You get it. And it’s true: my terror cell hid multiple choice questions from me until I was fully indoctrinated. About two months before the SAT. Thanks, dickheads. I typed the whole Communist Manifesto into my graphing calculator, and it didn’t come up once. Good thing DEI got me into Princeton. Or years indoors while the master race did kegstands, I can’t recall.

Hopefully the ultimate quiz starts soon. I’d rather do something more productive, like flash-freeze my fingers. “Dick” has more punch, but I want everyone to relate. To see it. Nitrogen. Fingers. Snapping. Stumps. That’s a better use of my time.

A pop quiz where every answer’s white power. Neat. No one’s done Exercises in Style for people that can’t read. And think chanting objective makes daydreams real.

I’m still game. In fact, I’ve been ready for 20 pages. If Lochlainn had a dissertation, the dedication would be the longest part. Alright, that’s snooty. If Lochlain finished a summer book report, the title would be the longest part. If Lochlainn eulogized the white Animorphs, the url would lap the article’s word count. If Locchlainn wrote a movie about his hero, he’d lose focus before Forrest even started the klan.

Our very first, actual, question-mark having question:

Brazil, right? I have to stretch secession and literally to death, but that sounds like Brazil.

Right, Lochlainn’s type rarely means western very literally. Mea Culpa. Our narrator’s world starts in Kentucky and ends in more Kentucky. Georgia would be the adventure of his lifetime, down to finding out servants are real.

Advantage, Seabrook. Next?

We’ll be here for a bit.

He’s almost done.

How’s your day going? Personally, I feel electric. Dread and hope distort the present. Release them, and you can enjoy the Titanic. No one’s watching the buffet. The gym’s unlocked and empty. The band is shredding, and there are twenty bored Winsletts. Sink with enthusiasm, and only the last minute sucks.

Even Locchlain’s list has a lesson: if you torch Georgia, don’t swear. Slavers fucking hate that.

Normally, I’d explore all that unmedicated text. But I’ve read Lochlainn’s subby love letters to Lincoln. At this length, I’ll say “All of the above.”

Bang.

A tie! In white panic terms, Lochlainn just learned he’s half-fish. Dagon brings me to two points. One: art and sanity are two separate stats, so Lochlainn doesn’t have to suck this bad. Two: if your great-grandpa’s from Innsmouth, are you an octopus?

Only God knows. Stonewall’s slaves could pray or starve, so God had the inside scoop.

Ah, so Jackson was born into bondage. A living death, followed by eternal erasure and distortion.

Sounds tough. My bad.

Life’s complicated: sometimes you lead thousands to their graves for things you don’t believe. Or yourself, when one of them shoots you. The point is, I know regret. My book skipped a hilarious teamkill for brevity, and that pain lingers.

One fun habit of Lee-botherers: beating Victorian to death for secondhand dignity. It’s “bespoke” all over again. Lochlainn’s a vintage, bespoke, craft failure. Without Stonewall, he’d cling to the closest celebrity born near his high school.

Now, since we’ve hit Jackson, I suspect a certain hideous anecdote’s return. Unless Seabrook’s fallen behind Pittman.

How heavy the white brain’s burden. To be clear, this heartwarming slave-breaking carol doesn’t have its own leading question. Lochlainn worked hard to invent multiple choice questions—I can’t ask him to write them too. As for Stonewall’s generous heart, I’ve been here before. To put it in fun web comedy terms: Southern pews and cages were as separate as Bruce Wayne and The Batman. Or rich madmen and brutalizing poors into submission.

Well, that’s flattening and unfair. To Batman. It’s more of an Azrael thing. Apologies to longtime Batman devotees, and no one else.

Lochlainn, you’re about to lose a literary argument with Harriet Beecher Fucking Stowe. As your rival, I beg you to reconsider. You’re humiliating both of us.

I have to pick true. Standards have tanked. All a slavery expert needs to know is that it’s profitable, mean, and happened. Advantage Stowe.

I don’t drink enough lead for this quiz.

The crossroads: do I defend Uncle Tom’s Cabin? It’s the first day of Kwanzaa at press time, and that’s a rough start.

Into the breach.

I get Stowe. No, fuck it—I respect Stowe. She’s a true imperfect ally: the dimmest writer made the clumsiest argument for basic humanity, and the slavery fandom sprinted into it like a bug zapper. Sure, other writers wasted decent plots and dialogue explaining the obvious. Many saw, spoke to, or were black humans. They didn’t give greycoats strokes. Fingerpainting “slavery bad” is vital since slavery is, in fact, bad. It’d be like a kids’ YouTuber protesting a genocide.

At least Seabrook’s punching up. He’s never quite reached the craft of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. A lifetime of being Lochlainn Seabrook’s left him with a complex about writers.

Forget history. Forget prose, tolerance, anti-psychotics, all of the other third grade shit he’ll never learn. Let it all go. Does Lochlainn know what a fucking quiz is?

I get leading questions. I get sneaking one in. I get passive-aggression, propaganda, and jerking off with your own tears. Lochlainn can’t finish any of them without screaming “Why’s Lincoln keep fucking my wife?” I’m tired. His wife’s tired. Lincoln’s tired.

I’ll say C. If Lochlainn isn’t showing up, neither am I.

Man, if everyone that could spell thought I was a moral pug, I might…fuck it, too thinky for Seabrook. Good job, champ! Enjoy some victory bleach. You’ve earned the big-boy cup.

I’ve read General Lee fanfics for too long. I’m already thinking of ways to blame this loss on black people. Other black people.

Am I supposed to pretend Lochlainn’s read a full sentence by Thoreau? He wails twice as loudly here, so I assume the answer’s John Brown. But the point’s fucking moot because Lochlainn can’t read. He saw Reading Rainbow’s host and threw his TV out the trailer window.

D. My name has three, and I need the endorphins.

My response depends on a popular slave-driven cash crop: coffee. Before coffee, I do a bunch of boring fact-checking or whatever. At the moment: sounds good. John Brown rules, Jesus can keep my taint spotless.

At least, Lochlainn’s Jesus. I still get that there are as many versions of Jesus as zip codes. So Lochlainn’s Jesus and Stonewall’s Jesus can both keep my taint spotless.

Worth it—hygiene matters.

What? Who is Lochlainn debunking? It’s not called White Jainist Nationalism. “Swastikas don’t cause forest fires, you know. You’d know that if you left your bubble.”

False.

A point’s a point.

Seabrook’s only idea yet. The Confederacy didn’t attack Christianity, wind power, Pikachu, or Yugoslavia. The list goes on. All Lochlainn needs to up his propaganda game is a dictionary without the letter S.

False. If Lochlainn knew shame, this would be his note. Taking the point now.

I’m right, but clown bushido demands I double-check:

Sure, why deny a frog its spots? I don’t need that surprise halfway through a flight. The Confederate flag fits Locclain perfectly. He honors it with every word.

The true or false questions are today’s nadir. It’s like watching someone explain your joke, to you, incorrectly. BlueSky isn’t the future.

Let’s go back to the basics.

Missed chance for an author photo.

False. Lochlainn’s not going near reality on that one.

Too easy. God, being me rules. I feel like a klansman before the Enforcement Act. Or after the Enforcement Act.

Call me polio, because I’m coming back.

Tough pull, if you haven’t breathed poison for thirty years.

“Best friends.”

I have such sights for everyone this year. You’ll be able to answer this too! And so much more. Like how to live forever, with Dagon. Authentic reality will bear this truth out.

Now we’re playing. Time for some elder abuse. I think. I assume Locchlain’s older since he hasn’t published Nathan Bedford Forrest’s Pussy-Slaying Spells.

No one would confess to this. Northerners.

Ah, the old human dignity pump-fake.

I hope you weren’t betting on this. People don’t bet much these days, right? It’s one of those known hazards, like explaining your shoes’ origin?

Fuck that last joke. What do you think is coming? Bet with anyone in the room. There’s an ante button in the comments, right? WordPress must be on that in 2026.

Lincoln. In the Book of Lochlainn, everything from original sin to Mrs. Seabrook’s cold, loveless embrace goes back to Lincoln. Eden thrived until Lincoln emancipated the snakes. All the world’s problems loved Pandora’s farm, until Lincoln offered to pay them. Now you can’t say darkling anymore unless you really feel like it.

I bet all my points. And five more on credit.

Shucks, I lost! Now I need payback. It’s the only sane response. Guess I’ll have to kick Lochlainn’s dead dreams to life, and then back to death. That could take a while! Forever, even. In this life, and the next. With nephews and notes, I might insult Locclain longer than either of us lives. Mankind’s last shout into the darkness might describe Lincoln fucking Seabrook’s wife. Shame.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Katie Favell, who bet two months pay on Dennard winning this one on the PoxCo Prediction Market. Whoops, sorry Katie!