It’s been a year packed with blockbuster novels, from 50 Shades of Grey to The Casual Vacancy, and Gone Girl, but I think that so often the commercial success of a great (or gallingly mediocre) novel can sometimes bury the true artist, and their masterworks can be woefully ignored.
This year, no book was so tragically left by the wayside as Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine by Catherine Devore.
I know what you’re thinking. “This is a cheap money grab on the part of the author to cash in on the success of properties like Spielberg’s Lincoln and that really shitty movie that blamed vampires for slavery.”
“Do you know why they call me Baberaham Lincoln?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Well, you’re about to find out.” With those words, I unbuttoned my pants and produced my throbbing, erect cock.
I have always been a tall man, and I take no false pride in saying that my prick stands tall as well. It is fully nine inches long and as thick and hard as a birch rod.
Subtle period details are always a necessity when writing historical fiction.
Abe and Martha the serving girl proceed to engage in behavior that got a later president impeached, with Martha performing oral sex on Abe while he enjoys his breakfast. No, seriously, he just casually eats breakfast while she sucks him off and fingers herself. I guess when you’re the most powerful man in the country, shit like that happens all the time, and you just have to work it into your schedule. Because being the commander-in-chief is a busy job, evidenced by the fact that the servant just barely has time to lick her fingers clean before William Seward and Charles Sumner come in.
Rather than responding to my plight or alleviating my pain, Takayoshi dropped to the floor and covered his head. If I had been in my right mind, I might have wondered at this strange behavior, but it was at that moment that my body was wracked with a final shock and my true power manifested. I bellowed mightily as I ejaculated with the force of a thunderclap. The spunk I released was no ordinary spunk. It burst forth from my prick like a jet of hot magma and seared a hole through the exterior wall. I stared out the window in amazement as my sperm burned across the sky like a falling star, before finally disappearing over the horizon. Many men claim they saw a comet that day; few, if any, would believe the truth of the matter.
The only way to celebrate finding out that you have super cosmic cum is, of course, to engage in anal sex with a stranger. In front of the secretary of state and the leader of Massachusetts’s anti-slavery movement:
He was just removing his pants when Seward and Sumner strode back in. “Excuse the intrusion, Mr. President. We were just… wondering… how… the negotiations…”
When Seward surveyed the illicit tableau before him, he slowed down like a train pulling into the station. Sumner’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
Rather than risk embarrassment, I chose to brush off their incredulity and continue where I left off. I said: “Now that you two are here, you can learn why they call me Gaybraham Lincoln.
If there’s one major complaint I have with this book, it’s that two of its most prominent jokes are straight up ripped off. “Baberaham Lincoln,” is the title Garth gives to Cassandra in Wayne’s World, and “Gaybraham Lincoln” is a recurring sketch on TGS, the fictional comedy show on 30 Rock.
I assume everyone reading this has seen a porno before, and therefore understands the unspoken rule of sex scenes: if someone comes in during, they at least have to jack off while watching, or join in. In this scene, Sumner inhabits the role of the voyeur at first, then performs fellatio on Takayoshi, while Seward climbs on Abe’s desk to get a bj with some finger action while the president buggers the ninja envoy.
Here’s the point in the book when I realized something was wrong. The page counter on my Nook app said there were only thirty-four pages, and I was on page thirty. I thought maybe the download was incomplete or something, but no. The story ends super abruptly:
And so began the first of several weeks of intense training. For hours at a time, Takayoshi would teach me exercises to control the power of my cock. Eventually, I could flex my muscles and shoot a stream of hot spunk with the accuracy of a bullet through a bulls-eye.
One day he came to me after a particularly intense lesson with a gleam in his eye. “You are ready,” he said.
And then that’s it. After that, it’s just a plug for the sequel, Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master.
Okay, listen. This book is thirty-four pages long, and I paid three dollars for it. That’s like… ninety cents a page. You’d think I would be furious that the story wasn’t wrapped up entirely. And I see this for what it is. This is crack dealer shenanigans right here. Giving me a little, but high is over all too soon, and I’m right back at B&N.com, scratching and panting and begging to waste three more dollars. That kind of thing should make a principled person like me absolutely furious.
But it doesn’t. Because as ridiculous as the overall plot is, as simplistic and sometimes blatantly unsexy as the writing is, this thing is fucking clever. The historical details, like Komei’s disagreement with the Shogunate and America’s wary surveillance of a foreign situation they couldn’t expend the resources to even attempt to control, are all surprisingly accurate and only serve to highlight the absurdity of a plot that involves one of our most revered Americans shooting lava jizz into the brisk April morning. And that’s worth more than money, friends. That’s worth the glittering golden tears of a weeping bald eagle.
Maybe it doesn’t surprise you to learn that I will be buying and reading the hell out of the forthcoming Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master. I mean, I really, really hope it’s forthcoming. Otherwise, how will I know if he manages to stop the emperor from blowing up the moon? And yes, I’m aware that I’m falling for the afore labelled “crack dealer shenanigans,” but I’m actually a bit jealous that I didn’t think up this scheme myself. That alone is worth the admission price.
I think you’re doing yourself a great disservice by not picking up Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine. Do it for America. Abe certainly is.
Oh, and I just wanted to add, thank you to Katiebabs for bringing this book to my attention, though I’m sure she thoroughly regrets it now.