Andrew Jackson has travelled forward in time. Landing in 2019, he attends a Presidential press conference with his host, Matt Loveless.
host : Please, sir. Comport yourself with dignity while the President is speaking.
AJ : Son, why do you persist in calling that one ‘President’?
host : Because he is.
AJ : Of the US?
host : Yes.
AJ : Well, if that don’t beat all … Come on. That can’t be the President. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
host : Nevertheless …
AJ : What’s the matter with him? Was he wounded on a battlefield?
host : Not him, no.
AJ : Dropped on his head? His whatzis get whacked off by a baling machine?
host : Not to my knowledge, no …
AJ : He’s obviously not all there. I get the impressiom he’s been injured, … that some part of his body has been deleted forcibly and without his consent and he won’t admit it, even to himself.
host : Could be. I don’t know of it, though.
AJ : I knew a gentleman just like that when I was a farmer in Tennessee.
host : Oh?
AJ : He was impossible to deal with. Had mean things to say about absolutely everyone. Unfortunate, but there you are.
host : What did he do?
AJ : That was the oddest part about him. You see, he was a horse trader.
Host : But you said …
AJ : That no one would deal with him. Exactly. He was the world’s worst horse trader.
And to listen to him, he was the greatest horse trader there e’er was. No one was as successful as him. No one could craft a deal as cunningly, as, as … artfully as it could be done. Because no one had the insight, the sensitivity, to recognize what would satisfy both parties, or the wisdom to actually accomplish such an agreement but him!
The truth was, he was completely incompetent to make any such settlement, and for the very reasons he stated, but in reverse. If he had had the insight and sensitivity and wisdom, he was in the perfect position to make some earth-shaking deals for some prime horseflesh.
host : So what really happened then?
AJ : His father made all the deals. Or I did. See, this fellow didn’t own any horses. They all belonged to me or to his father. His father had some of the finest horses I’ve seen anywhere, trotters and pacers and thoroughbreds, and a unique strain of walkers, I never saw the like. Ever.
We owned the horses, and another fellow, Warren Saddrap, trained them. Grub – the fellow I was telling about, whose name was Gregory but we called Grub – he was just a glorified stableboy, who mucked out the stalls and groomed the horses.
I must say, though, he had one skill in which he surpassed everyone else. That was gelding. He could snip the ballocks off a stallion and have him prancing around the meadow in fifteen minutes like nothing happened. Same with steers. He neutered all my steers as long as he was on my place.
host : How long was that?
AJ : Around seven years. No … maybe less. Six. Maybe six years.
host : Sure it was more than two though?
AJ : Yeah.