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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Pimp Game

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Confederate Alphabet 🌭

I have sympathy for Lost Causers. And love lying. But I also understand it’s a tough position. It hurts to be out of step with culture. And history. And the avowed, public, Cornerstone positions of your idols. Cognitive dissonance is painful, and the stupid suffer in silence.

Constant, screaming silence. Across reenactments, imageboards, and coup attempts. I’d love five noisy minutes. Maybe if Sherman had done his thing a little longer.

Today’s junior propaganda is Confederate Alphabet, written by Rickey E. Pittman. And if you look carefully, illustrated by Stephanie Ford. Considering how thin the writing is, it’s odd the bulk of the labor’s taken for granted. Seems ungentlemanly.

But I’m made of opinions, despite Lee’s best efforts. I’ll let this one pitch itself:

I used to drink a lot, so this looks harmless. “Little Confederates” evokes a preschool hate group, but history matters. An education shows the whole picture, warts and all. Otherwise you get Americans that think Dresden’s just a snarky wizard. Kids should understand the Confederacy, to whatever extent picture books can cover mandingo fights.

But let’s double-check. What’s “S,” in this Civil War book about the Civil War?

Checks out. After all, we fought over his nickname.

Secession Street has a gifted team. Stephanie’s a triple threat: a hopeless reenactor, illustrator, and writer. Her broken website includes a few works of historical fiction, some intentional. Including a Confederate sharpshooter’s journey to the Boshin War. I guess she found The Last Samurai too sensitive.

Rickey Pittman’s known as the “Bard of the South,” meaning he calls himself that and registered bardofthesouth.com where he promotes Stonewall Jackson’s Black Sunday School, a children’s book I own. I almost covered it for Black History Month, until my extended family provided feedback. Confederate Alphabet’s our compromise, and I’ll be out of the hospital by April.

I rarely mock dedication pages, but the art pulled me in. The margins are a world tour of insults. This appears below Singapore’s dragon:

Besides, Chattel Slavery and You is special. What does Rickey love, book? I want to see it burn. Again.

The names Mason and Dixon were right there. What’s the point of bardic knowledge if you miss that? Years of chart-topping resentment anthems, thrown away. That’s like charging a mile without cover and hoping God sorts it out. But not quite as bad. You worship failures.

We’ll cover the rest of this brain graveyard in order.

Excellent start: Stephanie’s spared drawing a face. For all we mock Liefeld’s feet, they’re avoidable enough to save creator-owned comics. Stephanie spends the rest of this book drowning. She begged Rickey to name 26 ships, and he burned out at four.

Unfortunately, the flicker of talent dies here. This navy trivia’s the least stilted stanza, and Rickey has 25 letters to go. He’s smart enough to abandon consistent meter, but the ABCB pattern strains his ability to word good. He could learn from old spirituals, but that’s not the Bard of the South’s thing.

Depending on your childhood, that’s either a JibJab jingle, a Fallout deep-cut, a song your father mumbled at the bathroom mirror in full uniform, or a TikTok renaissance. Pittman loves “Dixie” enough to paste the full lyrics in his verse tribute to the South. He says “Now that you’re done with my garbage, here’s a better tribute to chattel slavery. Please pretend I gave you these feelings.”

It goes something like this:

At least other race war reporters try. I’ve never heard Tom MacDonald bite Burzum. Or a full Tom MacDonald track. But I assume there’s craft. You can’t just regurgitate stale zeitgeist.

We might not make it to space.

This one’s important, and not just for giving up on a clear thought per stanza. Rickey had a choice between sidestepping the Confederacy’s quirks, or celebrating everyone Django Unchained paraphrased. He never chooses, so the latter stands out.

I’m not saying every slave trader needs an asterisk. Or Klan founder. Or butcher of black prisoners. But the triple crown’s worth a line. It would only double this book’s length, tops.

Is that middle soldier meant to be…they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Pelican Press is a real company. An editor would’ve been shot. They’d be in publishing hell with Kinja’s design lead.

Note: the propaganda quality peaks here. A kid might actually care about or remember a silly peanut song, instead of 19th century shipping or race war innovators. Rickey reprints the whole song.

Forget this page’s war between hand and crayon. Or Rickey stumbling over zero rhythm constraints. There’s a dumber problem.

I’m stuck on the strangest tokenism in print history. The Confederate Army used black people for manual labor and target practice. You know, unpaid work. There’s a word for that, but I can’t remember it. Only my love for Goober Peas.

Right! Misdemeanor possession. Black Southerners served as drug offenders.

The extra-fictional soldier above is reaching to an Antebellum version of Lil’ Orphan Annie. Resetting my Yankee preconceptions is very much the point. Or keeping me from growing them in the first place. Because this is a kid’s book, for children.

If I wrote a General Lee diss track, I’d start with his cult and jump right to his failure. Excellent work. Rickey’s getting a handle on this.

I know, General Lee deserves some credit. Without him, the Dukes would have driven the General Custer, and who needs that? Instead, Lee inspires everyone whose lips move when they read.

Hold the fucking telegraph. M is for Manasses, but we blew G on peanuts? Shenanigans. Between Grant and Gettysburg I’m surprised Rickey kept the letter. It’s the turning point in the alphabet.

I’m brainwashable. I’ve seen the closing credits of Eternals. You just have to ease off the gas a little bit. Think odd-numbered Thors. Keep Taika happy, and you can get away with anything.

Q’s a tough letter. But if I were power-washing history, I’d tiptoe around prewar slave catchers. It’s off-message. I’m not sure Quantrill even noticed the war, he was already a land pirate. The arson was muscle memory.

Giving propagandists advice sounds risky, but they’re much more about talking than listening. And I’m not sure Rickey’s even alive. He hasn’t published a new Hate on Phonics in a few years, and he is not the type who shuts up.

Stephanie. I’m rooting for you to succeed, but the effort isn’t there. This culture war skirmish only works when all three of us show up. The rebel yell’s the Confederacy’s crossover hit. This page should look good enough for plausible deniability on your college roommate’s wall.

I’ll try a compliment sandwich.

  • You nailed the variation in rebel uniforms, which drifted to suggestions over time.
  • These kids look like homunculi passing kidney stones.
  • Nice hat.

Rickey’s a hack, so Y’s probably “Yankee.” I expect your best.

I’ve never desired representation less.

Granted, one could argue that these aren’t people, period. Just paint pens rising against their masters. I buy it. This could be the art supply version of Nat Turner’s revolt. But it looks like Tim Scott’s subconscious.

Beautifully done. I support these images and words without reservation, down to the burning shack in the distance. They’re aspirational. Rickey could republish this page and call it “The Audacity of Cope.”

Or the whole book. There’s a market.

Right, Americans cosplaying Frenchmen cosplaying Algerians. Great trivia, Rickey. But did you know that Z is the last letter? The ending of your book? Think bigger. Rewriting history in crayon takes work, and I can still remember Dred Scott. That’s no way to train the next Greg Abbot.

Granted, there’s a timeline of the war after this. You’d assume it’s impossible to make a five-year mass bloodletting boring. But it strips out slavery, Union wins before Gettysburg, and everything between Gettysburg and Appotomax. Leaving…ships and goober beans. I don’t know why Rickey’s all-in on peanuts, Carver’s estate gets a cut of every shell. Those are Emancipation Beans.

Maybe I’m nitpicking. But brainwash your children carefully. Cliches and quarter-truths could leave them insane and stupid. Then what use will they be in the rematch?

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Mort, who drives the Union equivalent of the General Lee – a sensible gray Honda CR-V.

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Martini Ranch’s “Reach” 🌭

In 1988 a band named Martini Ranch released their debut album, “Holy Cow.” It’s what kids today refer to as proto-eggpunk, and what adults refer to as “what the fuck are you talking about?” It’s DEVO-esque, poppy, nerdy, punk adjacent synth pop. You can’t talk about music without sounding like an asshole, so think of it like this: You know the part of your chest that tightens anytime somebody in real life starts talking about anime? It feels like that.

It’s more fun than I make it sound, but for 1988, the band wasn’t notable. Save for one thing: Providing half of the music and vocals was professional musician Andrew Rosenthal, providing the other half plus some tetanus was sweaty, grinning, uncaged lunatic Bill Paxton.

Note the date: 1988. This is not what Bill Paxton did before he was famous. A shameful secret he’d like you to overlook, like Vin Diesel selling Street Sharks. This was after Aliens, just before Predator 2. Bill Paxton was a household name, giggling from a trash can as he lit Hollywood on fire. And right in the middle of it all he stopped to star in a video for Martini Ranch’s single “Reach.”

The video opens on a lone motorcycle drifter blasting through a desert hellscape. Its rider, Bill Paxton, slows for a broken-down cowboy pushing a baby carriage full of bomb.

Masterful filmmaking. That one scene sets the tone perfectly: The motorcycle and bomb tell us this is a post-apocalyptic nuclear cowboy world, well after society’s collapse. Bill Paxton tells us this is going to be unhinged and possibly infectious. The baby carriage tells us it’s gonna be dumb as hell.

Bill Paxton wrangles his hog through town, passing White Zombies making caskets. In this town life, and velvet top hats, are cheap.

Bill Paxton rumbles by a blacksmith shop, blasting heat from its powerful bellows and its more powerful she-hulk, who has turned her blacksmithing apron into a leather bikini. “Molten steel can’t touch my nipples” her outfit tells us, “but everywhere else is fair game.”

Bill Paxton pulls up to a raucous brothel, the only source of joy in this hopeless waste. He dismounts his motorcycle and hitches it to a post with a chain. He does not lock the chain, this is not to deter theft. It’s to keep his steel horse from wandering away to graze the gasoline plains.

A freaky little prospector goblin gambols up to molest Bill Paxton’s motorcycle. Just shoves his little kobold fingers in every gap. This is overtly sexual, Bill Paxton loves it. He tips the goblin.

Eagle-eyed Hot Doggists will notice that man is freaky little goblin Bud Cort, best known to us for playing the freaky little cyber goblin in Theodore Rex. Bud Cort was the official freaky little goblin of the 1980s. When Bud Cort auditions for a part and the casting director says “action,” Bud Cort drops into a chimp lope and dryhumps the crafts table. “That’s why he’s the best,” the casting director whispers, as Bud Cort wraps his cock in salami and spanks the ham.

Bill Paxton saunters up to the brothel. He hauls two women to him and cackles. This is about to be a party. A Bill Paxton party, so you know he’s gonna wear those girls out in a weird way. Just making them fight with butter knives all night while he swings from the chandelier.

A violent desert storm disrupts the scene. Boots march in lockstep as the beat kicks in. The music sounds like Oingo Boingo making fun of the B-52s, we will not discuss it again. But this means a new crew has arrived. A dangerous one. Silhouetted against the blinding desert sun, we can tell only one thing: Every member of this gang is a sexy lady out for revenge on Bill Paxton. Possibly nursing fresh butter knife welts.

One of the ladies, rocking a more masculine Steve Perry look, spits chaw on a scorpion.

That does nothing physical to the scorpion. It won’t kill it, or deter it. It only shames the scorpion. She spat chaw right in its face just so it can’t go home to its scorpion wife and scorpion kids with pride, knowing that it is feared as a dangerous desert predator. This scorpion will need years of therapy to separate its sense of value as a living creature from its sting. That’s really fucked up, lady.

We pan over to meet the leader of our gang: A total smokeshow.

And also Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker, Kathryn Bigelow.

“What the fuck?” You might be asking. You’ll want to hold onto that.

Kathryn Bigelow just had her big break the year before this, when her solo directorial debut put her on the map. That debut was Near Dark, the greatest vampire movie ever made. It starred Bill Paxton at his bloodiest, greasiest, and most maniacal. His best, in other words.

They say you need to be careful of your next move after your big break. It’s not your breakthrough movie itself, but what you do afterward that decides everything. Kathryn Bigelow’s next move after Near Dark? Erotically hunting Bill Paxton through a ghost town. Why is she here? Because Bill Paxton prowls the Hollywood night, saving celebrities so they’ll owe him a favor and star in his vanity projects. The danger he saves them from is also Bill Paxton.

The nerdcore hyperpop beat gives way to a haunting western whistle as Kathryn Bigelow’s lady gang takes over the brothel. They pop in a bounty laserdisc playing a video wanted poster of Bill Paxton spinning in place like it’s hour 3 of butter knife duels.

Andrew Rosenthal, the other half of Martini Ranch, sings from the background as one member of a three piece mariachi band. He watches as Bill Paxton steals the show, somersaulting around a Tucson tourist attraction and monkey-kicking the biggest stars in the world. He knows his place is in the shadows, and he’s glad to stay there, because he also knows Bill Paxton’s exact bite force down to the decimal.

Reviewing the wanted footage, Bill Paxton spins and snarls at the camera with Gollum teeth. He’s still somehow sexy. Science doesn’t understand it. In every model this is the point where the viewer’s genitals should retreat, a natural biological response to the roar of a nearby predator. It helps preserve the next generation in the event of an attack. And yet when shown this video, all subjects rated their emotional response as “would.”

This is all intercut with scenes of Bill Paxton buried to his neck in sand, ants and tarantulas attacking his face as he desperately tongues for a martini. Okay, let’s check back in on the experiment- “would” ratings have gone up 17%! Impossible.

Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow and two of her amazons mount an old pickup and pursue Bill Paxton with lassos. We’ve had this dream before. Let’s get out of here before their breasts turn into our mother’s faces.

Their hunt is successful. Here, I have made a gif of the time two amazons and Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow hogtied a rogue Bill Paxton.

This is a watershed moment. The high tide mark of a personal fetish. In 1996’s From Dusk Till Dawn, director Quentin Tarantino cast a young Salma Hayek as a stripper who pours tequila down her feet into the mouth of a waiting pervert. Then he cast himself as that pervert. At this moment he became the Forever King of Foot Perverts, and it was a mistake. He spent the rest of his life chasing and never matching that moment. Somewhere around the time two female bodybuilders truss his feet, and just before Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow brands him on the ass, the thought must have occurred to Bill Paxton: “Is it all downhill from here?”

Andrew Rosenthal’s overshadowed mariachi band are being dragged to their deaths, yet they continue to play their instruments. It’s noble, like the band on the Titanic if both the boat and the iceberg were Bill Paxton.

Andrew Rosenthal is lynched and hung. His last request? To shred.

Granted, say the gods of Chaos.

It whips ass. This is Andrew’s one and only moment to shine. When Andrew found Bill Paxton bound to the hitching post by Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow, his ass still smoking from her brand, Andrew asked him “can I have something cool to do, too?” Paxton was generous that day, shaky and spent and looking down at a lifetime of sexual coasting. Through the gag made of his own underwear, Paxton answered “Yrmf.”

Andrew got his guitar solo, and then he pushed his luck.

“Can I also be saved by one of the Amazons?”

“Yrmf.”

“And she makes out with me?”

“Yrmf!”

“While Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow watches and claps?”

“Wrrf um Herm Rogga?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think it exists yet. Can I do it?”

“YRMF!”

Clad only in a dirty pink onesie, Bill Paxton leads the men of this town into a final showdown against the powerful ladies dominating them. One of these filthy, filthy men has a spider monkey, like a pirate might have a parrot.

That man is Golden Globe winning actor Lance Henriksen. This is his entire role in the video: Be filthy and present with monkey.

“What the fuck is happening?” You ask, having politely saved that question like I asked you to earlier.

You fool, you god damn idiot. You burned it too early! Now you won’t have that question when you really need it. And you will. You will need it like Bill Paxton needs rope burns on his neck from Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow.

Abandoned by his peers, the ladies begin to shoot Bill Paxton’s clothes off. “Ok,” says nearby Andrew Rosenthal. “I think we get it, Bill.”

Bill Paxton is defeated. The post-apocalyptic nuclear amazon cowboys led by Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow tie Bll Paxton to their truck and roadhaul him by the taint until he is dead, dead, dead.

I forgot to mention one of those nuclear amazons is Jenette Goldstein – Private Vasquez from Aliens. I forgot to mention her because so did the video. She’s barely in it. I had to find a clear shot of her in the outtakes.

Kathryn Bigelow, Lance Henriksen, Jenette Goldstein – likewise both present and cut from the video is Adrian Pasdar, the lead of Near Dark. Everyone involved with the movie is here, which means that in the middle of filming Near Dark – the bleak and beautiful modern vampire western where Bill Paxton plays a bloodsoaked immortal sociopath – he stopped an intense take to ask if the entire cast and crew would like to strip and hogtie him in the desert. Of course they all said yes: Bill Paxton saved their lives that time the set got attacked by Bill Paxton.

Oh right, there are outtakes. Let’s get into them. They open with Bill Paxton the way his friends know him best: Hitting himself in the face with a motorcycle chain.

The man in the yellow shirt, just passing through the scene, laughs. “Classic Bill,” he might say. He might follow this up with “would you like to come aboard my private submarine and spend 9/11 on the deck of the sunken Titanic with me, BIll Paxton?” Because this man is Academy Award winning director of Dark Angel, James Cameron. Also because that’s where he and Bill Paxton actually were when 9/11 happened.

“What the f-”

Shut up! Not yet.

Yes, James Cameron directed this video. Hot off Terminator and Aliens, about to direct The Abyss, James Cameron took this job filming his future wife, Academy Award winning director of The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow, while she rope-spanked Bill Paxton in a cowboy outfit.

Curious how they did that shot with Bill Paxton buried up to his neck in sand while ants and spiders attacked his face? You’ll kick yourself: They buried Bill Paxton up to his neck in sand while ants and spiders attacked his face.

James Cameron, in particular, thought that was fucking hilarious.

“When can I say ‘what the fuck is happening?!’” You’re wondering.

I’m so glad you asked. It’s right now, when I tell you that in the video for Martini Ranch’s “Reach,” the haunting western whistle was provided by Beverly Hills Cop’s Judge Reinhold.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Joshua Graves, who is known as “the Bill Paxton” of his local TGI Friday’s.

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Night at the Creation Museum

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Learning Day: 7 Strategies to Develop Your Masculinity

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Zazzle’s William Henry Harrison Gifts 🌭

This is the Zazzle.com store page for President William Henry Harrison Gifts. That exists! Give the gift of William Henry Harrison, today, with Zazzle.

Unlike the image resolution of the products I’m about to show you, let’s be clear. I want to make clear I am not hoodwinking Zazzle Dot Com into looking sillier than it is. I’m not pumping a wacky search term sequence into the Zazzle website. That page is an on-purpose, specific, unique URL for President William Henry Harrison Gifts. Google brought me there. But when you arrive at this alienating store, they gaslight you. They place the words “president william henry harrison gifts” in the search bar. As if to say this is not a store at all. As if this page is the grim progeny of you being weird. But no: Zazzle did this. Zazzle Dot Com delineated a permanent depot for William Henry Harrison-ania. The results are vile by 2020s commerce standards, 1800s moral standards, and any decade’s definition of sane shopping.

Do you know who William Henry Harrison is? Whatever you said, good answer. You either said “no who’s that”, or said “is that the President who died fast?” William Henry Harrison became President in 1841, and served 31 days in office, before dying. He’s American history’s number one Dead White Man, in the sense he’s iconically the “Dead” part. His brief term’s briefness is all anyone knows about him. Also, he’s lucky that’s all anyone knows about him. All other facts about William Henry Harrison are nightmares. He spent his brief life murdering Native people and maintaining slavery and being born rich thanks to slavery. He’s a leading, towering figure of every American history horror…but he’s Mr. Bean’d his way into the simpler/wackier legacy of “he died lol.” So for most people, William Henry Harrison is a howling void, as a topic. He’s the dullest trivia tidbit. He’s a factoid for middle schoolers to bandy about, in between hormones and discharges. No one has interest in this man. So tell me, Zazzle Dot Com, how/why/whatfor do you sell “what would william henry harrison do poker chips”?

My dear Hotdogger: you are right. These are random. William Henry Harrison’s life had no poker component. He was not some sort of Vegas President. He never bluffed it all on the turn card at the Tropicana. I associate poker players with big indoor sunglasses. William Henry Harrison lacked eyewear in general, let alone the signature specs of a Greg “Fossilman” Raymer.

I’m aghast at these poker chips. Every element baffles. For example: they’re sold in boxes of one color. Think that through. No one in the history of poker has used poker chips in just one color. That forces you to bet “one money” per chip. You regress to a toddler’s understanding of currency. You’re better off just using money from your wallet. Money has denominations. Zazzle Harrison Chips are useless unless you buy in color-diversified bulk. You need so many of these. Also, the text alignment of that hanging “do?” makes my eyes feel like they jumped off a cliff. Also, there’s a discount if you use checkout code “2024ZMOMENTS”. I’m repulsed by the implied concept of “celebrating a ZMOMENT”. That sounds like a Terminator proffering a children’s birthday party hat with its non-gun hand. These chips are so hideous, I’m just now getting around to complaining about its use of the phrase “what would [Person] do?” That phrase belongs to Jesus. Everyone knows Jesus coined that, or something. That belongs to Him. Only Zazzle is deranged enough to sell William Henry Harrison poker chips that jack The Risen Christ’s steez.

Why are we here, looking at these products? Why, besides capitalism? Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know more about the ha-ha wacky President who died fast. I googled William Henry Harrison, looking for books and scholarship about William Henry Harrison. However, when you google anything, you often get served SHOPPING ADS at the top of the page. So when I googled a genocide enthusiast, I found an interesting book about him…but not before scrolling past a row of products like this.

That first shop listing led me to a smorgasbuhwhatnow of thirty-eight William Henry Harrison Zazzle Dot Com ZMOMENTS. 38 different z’mentoes, presented as gifts. Gifts for that special someone you wish to confuse and concern. Or perhaps implicate in wasteful tree murder.

You’re fine! Your monitor or phone is fine, and not glitching. That blurred visage is Zazzle’s fault. That’s the product image for William Henry Harrison Portrait Wood Wall Art. Finally, a portrait of “9th USA President” with only three-ish warped horrors in the image transfer. At last, the name “William Henry Harrison” as it was meant to be seen, in Almost The Nazi Font. With this portrait you’ll enjoy Willie Hanky Harry year-round! Gaze at his trademark “Abyss Orb” Necktie! If that’s what that is! What is on his neck! Oh well! Don’t forget to use code “MATRIXROBOTKISSESYOU” for 15% off this eight inch by eight inch wooden slab.

Have I described Zazzle.com yet? Zazzle is a marketplace website for anything anyone thinks of. They’ll print anything, on demand, on anything. You (yes, you) can submit up to 100,000 product ideas before Zazzle Dot Staff rolls out of bed and considers doin’ a li’l quality control. Until then, upload away. Upload for profit. For you! According to “SideHusl Dot Com”, ginning up a Zazzle store is a fantastic side husl. Your idea, printed on anything! Even if they’ll never sell that idea in a bajillion years! They don’t care and they’re not checking and that’s how William Henry Harrison likes it. If William Henry Harrison were alive today, he’d only have one objection to this store: the shirt models’ ethnicities.

That’s a t-shirt celebrating “Tippecanoe And Tyler Too”, the presidential campaign slogan of William Henry Harrison and his running mate John Tyler and their eventual one question on the A.P. U.S. History test. Why was “Tippecanoe” a lot of the slogan? “Tippecanoe” was William Henry Harrison’s nickname. He won that moniker by winning The Battle Of Tippecanoe. He “won the battle” in the sense that he attacked a small group of Native people with his larger army, did not run that attack very effectively, and had his troops desecrate Native graves after the Native folks retreated. Celebrate that event I just described with a painting of the event, printed on a Zazzle t-shirt.

As you can see, the shirt celebrates the battle between Zazzle’s garment printer and any average-shaped man’s pectorals. Your chest meat will Salvador Dali this massacre. Back to the slogan: Harrison ran for President on a slogan referencing these actions, because the white men of 1840 were rapacious land-grabbing maniacs. They liked that about him. They also liked the lack of other William Henry Harrison information. People in 1840 barely knew more about William Henry Harrison than you do. He ran one of the first American campaigns built on distractions, stunts, and vibes. Harrison ran on such a bogus non-platform of non-ideas, I found a scholarly write-up of it invoking the word “bogus”. His campaign makes scholars sound like Bill and Ted.

Harrison’s team even faked Harrison’s backstory. They claimed Harrison lived in a log cabin. Real Harrison came from a Virginia slaveowner aristocrat family. Harrison’s father was full-ass The Governor Of Virginia. And then Harrison’s chosen running mate, John “Tyler” Tyler, was another born-rich Virginia slaver. So “Tippecanoe And Tyler Too” describes a two-layer nesting doll of the same bastard. It’s like if a young Robert E. Lee ran for President, with Robert F. Lee as his running mate and Roberts G. And H. Lee as their Mafia-style underbosses while Robert Y. Lee brings them cocktails and Robert Z. Lee is on his knees being their couch. “Tippecanoe And Tyler Too” was a whimsical pitch for a crimes against humanity-doin’ duo. Zazzle offers a t-shirt celebrating that, modeled by an unsuspecting Black woman.

These models took a couple pictures in blank t-shirts one time. She has no idea what Zazzle would auto-photoshop in later! Do we…tell her? Maybe she can learn this, fight back, bring Zazzle down in a cyberpunk heroine type way? Shimmy into a data center and unplug servers? Because they also did this to her:

Let’s get a better look at the shirt and also show you the product description. Computer, enhance.

This is such a mousetrap for nerds. A pedant honeypot. Also, it might be inaccurate? I searched online resources a lot. None of them say this. I have no idea where ThenWearOnZazzlePro got this. Please share if you’ve got any sources. This seller sure doesn’t! If this is a joke: No, it’s not. If this is a fact, it’s the worst fact you could put on your body. If you wear this, you’re dressing in an arcane sub-fact, about a boring Prime Fact, concerning two monstrous slaverymen. Only one kind of person wants this. It’s for someone traipsing around town, chest first, quivering with anticipation of a fellow nerd asking why “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too” is misprinted. That’s the one use case of this t-shirt: to inflict annoyance (and maybe misinformation!) on the rare other human being who’s even a little bit like you. Buying this shirt is like taking a correspondence course in Loneliness But Profounder. The only good thing about this shirt is you can wear it under a different, less infuriating shirt. Every shirt is an undershirt if you rank it low enough. Also, you mostly don’t have to look at your own shirt. It won’t look back at you. What will look at you? This kitchen magnet bearing a William Henry Harrison portrait so pallid and smeary, it makes me feel like he died in an asylum fire.

Moving on to cleaner, fresher art, Zazzle offers this bumper sticker, at a price point that suggests it’ll flop off in your next light rainfall.

No one wants this. Not just because it’s a bad product. Absolutely everyone disagrees with this. You see, we’ve had at least several U.S. Presidents. One (Lincoln) was good. The others (Roosevelt, Obama, I want to say “Johnsman”?) had funny mustaches or cool dogs. So if you think the objectively worse one, who died right away, is the best one, you are…a Presidential assassin? And/or anarchist? “The only good President is a dead President” is maybe too punk of an attitude. And you celebrate that punk-or-assassin attitude by celebrating no Presidents. A 31 day administration is 31 too many, if you’re the murderer I described.

This postcard is eerie as hell. It looks ordinary, but it’s a picture of William Henry Harrison’s tomb. Zazzle suggests you buy a postcard from that location, without visiting that location. William Henry Harrison rots in North Bend, Ohio, which is also the birthplace of President Benjamin Harrison. Benjamin Harrison was William Henry Harrison’s grandson. They’re the only Presidential grandfather/grandson duo. So, uh, you could write that on the back of the card? That’s all you can do with [checks Zazzle] Zazzle’s second-worst William Henry Harrison postcard.

This gift is the worst one, ish. It’s called William Henry Harrison Baseball Card. But it is objectively a postcard:

That’s a lazy stock image. But by Zazzle Dot Com standards, it achieves the tremendous success of not slapping Harrison’s image on an unsuspecting descendant of a Harrison victim. They didn’t photoshop it onto Tecumseh’s grandkid or whoever. So, mini-win. Oh no. Zazzle probably calls a mini-win a ZINIWIN or some garbage. Anyway: whoever made this doesn’t seem to have made other cards of the other Presidents. They made just one Presidential “baseball card”, for William Henry Harrison. And they’re even lazier about copying sports tropes. Look at the few letters on this card:

Why is there a random “W” in there? Is it a tribute to George W. Bush, and his 96 consecutive Harrison Terms (1 month) in office? Nope. It’s a “W” for the Whig Party. But it’s done in a faulty fashion. Baseball cards often feature a small initialism, representing the player’s position. “P” for pitcher, “C” for catcher, “1B” for the slow meathead. This card makes a vague gesture at that, but it does that letter for the political party. Not the position (President). The party, aka his team. “Whigs” should be written in a fun team logo, not a stamped positional afterthought. They also skip the good part of a baseball card, which is the back of the baseball card. Baseball card backs are pretty much the origin of sports statistics. William Henry Harrison is lucky this one doesn’t total his enslavements and murders. He’s lucky about that in general. He’s legitimately lucky he died. His all-time record for death immediacy is all anybody knows about him. It’s the root of the one William Henry Harrison joke online, which one Zazzle product manages to not garble:

Hardy-har-har-he-died-fast. He also deserved to die fast and everyone who bought this has no idea. Don’t buy these gifts for anyone. Remember to be better, and do better. Like an inspirational figure would do. “What would an inspirational figure do?” And to remind yourself of that timeless message…take it away, Poxco!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Gellaho. When times get difficult, remember: WWGD (Whoa, Wicked Gellaho Dunk!).