Abraham Lincoln stared back at me in front of Starbucks. Standing as tall as in legend, his imposing form–nay, his very existence–taunted me. Naturally, as a blue-blooded liberal, I went straight to Struppa’s office and demanded that the problematic statue be refunded and the money used for scholarships instead. Struppa seemed disappointed, saddened even–and with the lewd fanart of Lincoln littering his room, it seemed that he wasn’t even aware of Lincoln's historical racism.
“You don’t like Honest Abe?” he asked, close to tears, “is… is he not… not cool enough for you?”
I said that “Abe” would never be cool, no matter what Struppa did, and left, defiant.
The next morning, however, Abraham was wearing the latest fashion, some radical shades, and even had a fresh new fade. I would say I was angry, but that, dear reader, would be a lie. Somehow, the anger had morphed into something else, it was now some kind of… curiosity. I soon found out that, additionally, Mr. Lincoln now had a freshly chiseled jawline and six-pack, bronze-hard, abs.
Ashamed and questioning my own morals, I darted away–may he not tempt me, I declared.
The next morning however, he had a skateboard. Then, a provocative but tasteful tattoo. Then, a light novel that made him seem academic yet approachable. He was more relatable now. More hip. He was athletic but humble about it. Intellectual but clearly new how to get down. Friendly but mysterious. He may still have been secretly racist, but on second thought, so was half of Chapman University.
I couldn’t deny it any longer. Abe was, in fact, pretty cool.
And Abe, as I found out on that crisp April day, had surprisingly tender lips.
