From the Russian Steppes
I have been a Roman Centurian. My wicked golf swing? It comes from scything a gladii - that's the Imperial Roman short sword - back and forth, back and forth, on the Eire front, mowing them down like wheat, the bogs red as their hair with blood. Before the Romans, I dealt with the Greeks - in a way, my own people. I was a Theban, too, and became half of a Sacred Band, once upon a time - that's one of the things that left scars, and I wish there were a hell so Philip could burn in it.
I fought beside Alexander - well, Hephaestious, really - on the battlefields of Persia, I traded intrigue with Machiavelli, I sold Egyptians into a slavery they deserved; I spent seven years crawling back to life after being dissected, then burned, by Robert Hooke, spent two regrowing my left arm after a Rebel cannonball removed it at Gettysburg; I have argued with Mark Twain and Marcus Aurelius, been insulted by both Gilbert and Sullivan, inspired Oscar Wilde and I drank Titania of Eire under the table.
But I have never, in all my long history observing you hairless apes, ever seen such a spectacle of cruel stupidity.
I fought beside Alexander - well, Hephaestious, really - on the battlefields of Persia, I traded intrigue with Machiavelli, I sold Egyptians into a slavery they deserved; I spent seven years crawling back to life after being dissected, then burned, by Robert Hooke, spent two regrowing my left arm after a Rebel cannonball removed it at Gettysburg; I have argued with Mark Twain and Marcus Aurelius, been insulted by both Gilbert and Sullivan, inspired Oscar Wilde and I drank Titania of Eire under the table.
But I have never, in all my long history observing you hairless apes, ever seen such a spectacle of cruel stupidity.