Simon Visits Gideon Blackburn
I hit ‘random article’ on Wikipedia and then rant about whatever I see. This week: Gideon Blackburn. It's my understanding that there is another regular column on this website called "Famous Badasses in History" or some shit like that. I would assume it is similarly fueled by Wikipedia searches, albeit slightly less random ones. When at first a name as manly as Gideon Blackburn appeared in my browser, I felt involuntary shudders of fear and dread. Was I to fall into line as one of the endless number of mimicking charlatans, with no more originality than, say, the American remake of Death at a Funeral?
But fear not faithful reader (and I do mean reader, if there are two of you than only one of you can be faithful, and if two of you wish to possess the title, I suggest you fight it out in some televised matter), Gideon Blackburn is boring. And not the kind of boring reserved for, say, the art direction in the American remake of Death at a Funeral, but rather an exact type of boring reserved for, say, a Presbyterian missionary and clergyman.
Blackburn lived from 1772 to 1838, in the very founding years of our mighty nation and in a time where a man could still be a man. The frontier was an open book for young Gideon Blackburn, and like any man raised in the fledgling state of Tennessee, Blackburn was a rough-and-tumble young lad. And like all rough-and-tumble young Tennesseans, Blackburn became a clergyman and missionary.
Now this is the point where I could tell you of the marvelous accomplishments by Blackburn. I could tell you of his great triumphs in cultural understanding between the Presbyterians and American Indians. I could relate his shameful failing when it came to his supposed whiskey smuggling scheme. Or I could inform you of his final triumph, the still-standing Blackburn College in the mighty state of Illinois.
But fuck that shit. This fucking asshole married a bitch named Grizzel.
Not just any random girl named Grizzel, because there are so many fucking Grizzels running around, but his fucking cousin. We'll get back to that whole inbred shit in a minute, right now let's focus on the incredibly pressing matter that his wife's name was like some dumbass Snoop Dogg rhyme.
Grizzel is delicious. There is no other word like it in English, so let me offer some other alternatives. It is meraviglioso. It is unglaublich. It is imeline. We live in an age where celebrities are berated for picking names like Apple and Moon Unit. Surely we should return to the simplistic time where names were sensible, like Grizzel.
I once encountered a young woman who had one leg and an eyepatch at a party. My similarly chauvinistic friends decided that she would be the ultimate to have sex with because she was a fucking pirate. All she needed was a parrot and to be portrayed by Johnny Depp and everything would be complete. I feel like Grizzel is the pirate chick times infinity. She is the holy grail of novelty fucks and I fully expect to have the cover of next month's Novelty Fuckin' Monthly because seriously, this shit is just rad.
Anyway, back to the inbred part of all this. Grizzel bore Gideon eleven children, seven daughters and four sons, which must have really pissed Gideon off because he was always one short of having a basketball team, although since they were honkies I don't think any of them could've jumped and also basketball didn't exist yet but just fucking go with it.
So Grizzel and Gideon fucked a whole bunch, at least eleven times. This was before the advent of things like "Not being stoned to death for using birth control," so they also probably fucked exactly eleven times. And you know what? I bet you Grizzel was a goddess. I bet all those years of having to deal with being named Grizzel, of being so outcast that she became dejected and removed from the rest of society to the point that the only man who would have her was her cousin, an all-around bitch, all that anger was rolled up into some incredible potency when it came to the old in-out.
I bet you that when they were finished Gideon trembled in the bed in awe of her; he might have even wept he felt so inadequate. And she, glorious mother of man, with her divine temple, lay only partially satisfied, waiting for the day some dapper gentleman would show up and please her fully. How she longed for that day, for that hour when he would come, wrapped in the blood of a hunt. He did not want her, he needed her, not in the way that a husband feels obliged to need his wife but in the way you or I need to breathe, it is subconscious, it is a bothersome function but it keeps us alive and the very blood in our veins pumping. She wanted that. That absolute desire born only of necessity and no cruel or petty notions like lust and no pretensions like beauty or love. She waited for the moment that she would become so dominated as she had so dominated, where she would bend to the will of man, not have him bend to hers. She waited for a single moment of completion.
But that moment would never come.
Simon is also the genius behind the blog “Some Children Left Behind,” a resplendent collection of literature and poetry.