Secret Diary of Abraham Lincoln

To: Dr. Phillip Sinclair, Penguin Publishing History Dept.
Cc: Allen Lane III, Penguin Publishers, Chair
From: Lawrence Lincoln, Sales Associate, Eckerd

Hello kind gentlemen from Penguin Books. I've pondered over your proposal to reveal the secret journal entries of my great great grandfather for several hours, and I've decided to agree with your offer and give you select portions of said entries. This has been a closely guarded family secret for nearly a century and a half, but its time that my great ancestor's words were revealed to this great nation. I await your response.

--L. Lincoln

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To: Mr. Lawrence Lincoln
From: Allen Lane III

We are glad that you've chosen to take our offer. Our lawyers should have already contacted you about your payment upon successful delivery of the diary.

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To: Dr. Phillip Sinclair, Penguin Publishing History Dept.
Cc: Allen Lane III, Penguin Publishers, Chair
From: Lawrence Lincoln, Sales Associate, Eckerd

Gentlemen,
Shame on you Mr. Lane! How dare you refer to my great great grandfather's journal as a "diary"! My great great grandfather was not a giant pussy, okay?! Anne Frank had a diary. Abraham Lincoln was a man, and he wrote in a journal, or a "log" if you will. I've decided that I'm not going to give you the physical journal, but instead a retyped word document of the journal.

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To: Mr. Lawrence Lincoln
From: The Offices of Dr. Phillip M. Sinclair

Listen, Mr. Lincoln, we're going to need the physical copy of the journal in order to be able to pay you the sum you requested. We have found it strange that you keep referring to it as "our offer" when you are the one who set the price. I'm sorry for Mr. Lane's wording, please respond ASAP.

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To: Dr. Phillip Sinclair, Penguin Publishing History Dept.
Cc: Allen Lane III, Penguin Publishers, Chair
From: Lawrence Lincoln, Sales Associate, Eckerd

I've already started copying the text, so just take what you can get. You've already disgraced my great great grandfather's legacy enough. Below is a copy of one of his glorious writings.

Stardate: 1860, Day 43 with the troops

Dear journal,

It's been a rough few weeks with the fighting men. The days grow dimmer and murkier as they sweep past. If only I could get close enough to General Lee, that motherfucker. I'd put a god damned bullet right between his stupid fag eyes. Oh well, I'll just continue to single handedly control the union army as I fight with them deep into the south to stop the their communist rule.

O! journal, you've been so good to me. Letting me write in you each lonely night as I silently sob and masturbate to my smoking hot wife back home, Mary Todd Lincoln. Bitch is fiiiiiine. My greatest fear is that some day, some assjack historian will find you and then decide to call you a "diary". If anyone ever did that, well they'd probably be the biggest faggot of all time.

Yours,
Abe

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To: Mr. Lawrence Lincoln
From: The Offices of Dr. Phillip M. Sinclair

Mr. Lincoln, I could go through this and tell you all that is factually incorrect about this "journal entry", but instead I'm just going to give you one more chance to hand over the physical journal or the deal is off. Please, no more kidding around.

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To: Dr. Phillip Sinclair, Penguin Publishing History Dept.
Cc: Allen Lane III, Penguin Publishers, Chair
From: Lawrence Lincoln, Sales Associate, Eckerd

Stardate: 1870, sometime in the fall

Dear journel [sic],

So it's over. Damn, that was crazy. We won the war and all is pretty much right with the cosmos. Basically we just lined up at the north/south border and charged the hell in. I was first of course, riding a great American buffalo (A beast I fear is going to become extinct... fingers crossed!) and holding my flaming sword of liberation. So we get to Lee's evil fortress atop Mt. Doom and we just burst in and pretty much owned the place. Lee was in the corner crying like a little baby. So I go up to him, smirk, whip out my cock and skullfuck the shit out of that bitch. He was alive and screaming the whole time. When I was done I put a cork in his eye socket and let my bison eat him.

Still, even with the war won, I have an impending sense of dread. I fear that, tonight when I go to the opera... something terrible will happen. I fear that... well I fear that some smartass "doctor" historian motherfucker is going to totally screw over my bold glorious history in his book. That would fucking suck. And if that doctor does exist, he's a fucking dick.

Yours,
A-Linc