Did man evolve from the lemming? History often seems to be a road map to a cliff. On April Fools’ Day, we should remember the colossal buffoons who have shaped and sabotaged our world. Their profound stupidity remains our legacy. If only for therapeutic revenge, we hereby recount their calamitous lives. The culprits are in chronological order.
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Andronicus ducas, 1071 A.D.
Andronicus Ducas became the inadvertent father of Turkey and the Crusades. The Byzantine general simply wanted to kill his emperor but was too finicky for an assassination. Ducas waited until the imperial army was fighting Turkish nomads and then ordered a retreat, abandoning the emperor to the enemy. The general overestimated the army’s ability to retreat, however. It disintegrated, leaving Anatolia — half the empire — defenseless. The Turks weren’t nomads after that. Anatolia is now called Turkey. The Moslem triumph ignited the Crusades, and its hordes of pious killers destroyed what was left of Byzantium.
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Emperor Yung-lo, circa 1415 A.D.
China declared an end to progress. Emperor Yung-Lo had the best of everything. He ruled the most powerful, most prosperous, most technically advanced, most populous country in the world. At a time when English ships never sailed farther than Portugal, the Chinese fleet was exploring West Africa. Considering China’s extravagant superiority, Yung Lo decided that there was no point to improving on perfection. The rest of the world had nothing to offer China. Yung Lo abolished the fleet, discouraged trade and promoted a tradition-bound regimen of education. Yung Lo’s policy lasted for six centuries and so did China’s stagnation.
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Ferdinand of Aragon, 1483 A.D.
Ferdinand of Aragon had a get-rich-quick scheme. A role model of Machiavelli, the wily and avaricious king commissioned a Spanish Inquisition with the idea of gouging wealthy suspects who showed any reluctance toward pork. Of course, the bulk of the loot would go to the crown. The Inquisition, however, was not content to be Ferdinand’s pickpocket. It was going to save Spain from tolerance, innovation and whatever else reeked of heresy. To his dismay, Ferdinand could not control the Holy Office’s pyromania. He became its most comfortable prisoner, complying with the rabid dictates of the Grand Inquisitor. While the rest of Europe had the Renaissance, Spain had the Inquisition.
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Pope Leo X, 1517 A.D.
Pope Leo X had more taste than sense. The Medici esthete regarded St. Peter’s Basilica as a medieval barn and insisted upon its complete renovation. Yet even a Medici couldn’t afford the expense, so the pope authorized the wholesale peddling of indulgences to raise the money. The brazen hucksterism outraged Martin Luther, who urged a reformation of the church. In Rome, Leo was more interested in Raphael’s blueprints than in Luther’s protest. The pope didn’t care about theology and he didn’t foresee any political repercussions. Leo waited until 1520 to address Luther’s criticism of a venal and oblivious papacy. By that time, Northern Europe wasn’t listening.
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General John Burgoyne, 1777 A.D.
General John Burgoyne won the American Revolution but not for his side. The British general began his invasion of upstate New York with 30 carts of luggage, a wine cellar, someone else’s wife and 9,000 soldiers. He chose an itinerary that took him through forests, swamps and 20,000 American troops. Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga was an unprecedented triumph for the colonists; heretofore, they had claimed successful retreats as victories. The French were elated by the news of a British disaster. Saratoga proved that the colonists could win, and France embraced any cause — even a rustic republic — if it undermined England.
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Louis XVI, 1791-1792 A.D.
Louis XVI overthrew the French monarchy. Except for the unlucky guards at the Bastille, the French Revolution had started as a very polite affair. The original goal was a constitutional monarchy, but Louis XVI opposed even moderate reform.
In 1791, the royal family attempted to flee the country; however, the Bourbons stopped for a picnic and were captured. Louis also was writing to his fellow monarchs, urging them to invade France. When this correspondence was discovered, it did little for Louis’ popularity or longevity. Louis almost did as much harm to the other monarchies. They declared war on France … and lost.
The French Republic promoted officers on the basis of ability rather than pedigree. Lieutenant Bonaparte showed particular promise.
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Fanny Kaplan, 1918 A.D.
Fanny Kaplan nearly killed Lenin. A member of a political party more radical than the Bolsheviks, Kaplan gunned down the Soviet leader. He survived but never recovered. (Kaplan’s execution was an immediate success.)
The once robust Lenin died in 1924, at the age of 53; and the conniving, paranoid Stalin began his ascent. This is one of the great “what ifs” of history. If Kaplan had killed Lenin, the Bolshevik Revolution would have collapsed; Russia likely would have been ruled by a surviving cousin of the imperial family or a Slavic version of Francisco Franco. Stalin would have returned to his previous outlet for sadism as a newspaper editor.
If Kaplan had not tried to kill Lenin, he might have lived another 20 years, Stalin would have stayed in middle management and some 20 million people would have died only of Soviet health care.
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So, there are the Seven Blunderers of the World. In all sadistic likelihood, they have been reincarnated and you know every one of them.
Dear Vatican,
We have a Y2K problem. What are you going to do about it? After all, you invented the B.C./A.D. calendar. For the last 14 centuries, we have been using your system, and we bought your Gregorian upgrade. Yet, in the next A.D. (your trademark), your calendar will sabotage our software. We need your technical support.
Given the disproportionate ratio of computers to Jesuits, there isn’t time to convert every microchip by the Dec. 31 deadline. Since you survived the last Dark Ages, you’ll understand our fears of malfunctioning VCRs. To avert the end of civilization, you must grant us a 12-month extension. As the inventor and proprietor of the Gregorian calendar, please consider declaring next year to be 1999A.
That clerical subterfuge should placate our computers. Once we have reprogrammed our contraptions, we can resume the traditional A.D. sequence. Of course, you may have qualms about tampering with a sacred chronology. Don’t worry about that: Your calendar is already wrong.
Next year will not really be A.D. 2000. According to the most charitable calculation, it will be A.D. 2004. Your mistake dates back to the early sixth century. Until then, even the church was using the pagan calendar. That chronology was based on the legendary founding of Rome; as a cross-reference, it also cited the reign of the prevailing tyrant. For example, if you check the Vatican archives, the notarized date for the Nicene Creed would read “in the 1,078th year of Rome and in the 19th year of Constantine.” You obviously needed a shorter and less pagan date.
In the 1278th year of Rome (alias A.D. 525), the church finally converted its calendar. The new chronology, based upon the birth of Jesus, was calculated by a mathematical monk named Dionysius Exiguus. Dionysius is not the most trustworthy name for a mathematician or a monk. In fairness, however, the poor guy was doing division with Roman numerals. It is amazing that his chronology was wrong by only four years. The church apparently caught the error, because you never made Dionysius a saint. Yet, you did not correct that mistake. Given your ecumenical attitude about arithmetic, next year might as well be 1999A.
As an infallible institution, you may be reluctant to confess a mistake. So don’t! Just blame Dionysius. He’s a perfect scapegoat. First, it actually was his fault. Better yet, the man was a Byzantine. He’s easy to hate. Although the Byzantines are only remembered as an adjective, they have become the epithet for politics, bureaucracy, medical billing procedures and whatever else defies reason or decency.
In fact, those medieval Greeks were unbearable. Flaunting their wealth and erudition, they fancied themselves as the only civilized people in Christendom. Unfortunately, they were; but that is all the more reason to resent them. Of course, the church wouldn’t hold a grudge for 12 centuries — but remember how those rich patriarchs of Constantinople sneered at the threadbare bishops of Rome? You could get even with those medieval Ivy Leaguers and say that the Y2K crisis was a Byzantine plot.
The Byzantines make wonderful scapegoats. They’re eminently notorious, effortless to hate, yet impossible to hurt. The Byzantines aren’t here anymore, and no one claims them for ancestors. Modern Greeks would rather ignore their creepy medieval phase. Knowing what draws tourism, they claim immediate descent from Homer and Pericles. Blame the Byzantines for the wrong calendar, and no one will object. There will be no defenders and no victims: the perfect persecution. Pius XII would have loved it.
If, however, the brazen bigotry seems like a bad habit, you have an alternative. Being the church, you can call next year whatever you like. Omnipotence has its advantages. Furthermore, you have historical precedence for changing the calendar. In 1582, the church handled a leap-year discrepancy by installing the Gregorian upgrade. The new calendar did require a few clerical adjustments. Thursday, Oct. 4 was followed by Friday, Oct. 15. Some people actually thought that their lives had been shortened by 10 days. Yet, complaints were minimal; the Inquisition had a way with customer service. Everyone learned to love the Gregorian calendar.
So, please change next year to 1999A. You have the power to save civilization from chaos and collapse, from barbarism and destitution.
Of course, I realize the irony of this request. We are trying to avert the Middle Ages, and you are quite nostalgic for it. Thanks anyway.
Sincerely yours,
Eugene Finerman
Do you know the meaning of polytheist? That question was worth $400 on “Jeopardy!” and $500,000 on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.” Guess which show is more popular?
Goaded by the success of “Millionaire,” all of the networks are concocting quiz shows with big prizes and “accessible” questions. “Accessible” is the studio euphemism for stupid.
Thanks to Regis et al., we can now expect a revival of all the quiz shows of the ’50s: “21,” “The $64,000 Question,” the McCarthy hearings. Of course, all questions would now be “accessible.”
For example, in the ’50s, HUAC’s Hollywood quiz grilled John Garfield on whether he preferred Franco or Trotsky. Now HUAC would ask Keanu Reeves if he knew the location of the Spanish Civil War. Of course, Keanu still might get it wrong, and that would just make the whole thing seem cruel.
Let’s have a game show that is truly accessible and completely compassionate. I happen to have invented one: “It’s All Right!” is the game with only right answers. No contestant would ever be truly wrong: just “factually diverse.” Objective answers will receive fabulous prizes; subjective answers will receive fabulous prizes and counseling. The perfect host for this caring format would be Oprah Winfrey, although she would have to let the contestants get a word in edgewise.
Ready to test your knowledge and psyche? Now that you know the rules …
According to Pat Buchanan, “George W. Bush is no Marcus Aurelius.” Then, which Roman emperor is the Republican heir? Five centuries of Caesars and their perpetual assassinations offer us some 80 emperors to use as presidential similes. Let’s see who fits whom?
All of the candidates want to be Constantine, the first Christian emperor. The 4th century tyrant actually would be an appropriate choice. Constantine (c. 312-337) embraced Christianity and tried to impose it on everyone, but he never personally practiced it. Morality and mercy would have constrained his hold on power. Yes, most of his slaughtered rivals were pagans; they also were members of his family. He was ecumenical in killing Christian relatives as well. Proclaimed in his lifetime as “the 13th apostle” and “Christ’s regent on earth,” the ruthless hypocrite did not bother to be baptized until he was on his death bed. Constantine is not merely a role model for modern politicians; he is their patron saint.
George W. Bush is no Constantine; otherwise, Jeb would already be dead. Nor is Bush the new Marcus Aurelius, but he could be that emperor’s son: the fatuous, petulant Commodus. The princeling (c. 180-192) was more of a contrast than a successor. Marcus Aurelius was a statesman, philosopher and soldier; Commodus was a jock. The young patrician possessed no distinctions other than his father’s name and a talent for carousing. Commodus’ reign was only as good as his advisors and his temper, and the former rarely survived the latter. He hated to be distracted from his chief interest: professional sports. The emperor preoccupied himself with managing a gladiator school. His tantrums finally compelled some endangered advisors to organize a fitting plot. The imperial jock got a fatal headlock from a professional wrestler. If George W. Bush does not have an unnatural fear of Jesse Ventura, perhaps he should.
Al Gore might aspire to be Marcus Aurelius, but he lives the plight of Claudius. Stolid, lumbering Claudius (c. 41-54) was the stooge and the successor of Caligula. Although kinsmen, the two were incongruous. Caligula was a charming sociopath; even most of his victims liked him. Claudius was an awkward introvert; people could not decide whether he was a buffoon or a bore. Among his less prurient caprices, Caligula made his horse a senator and Claudius a consul. The horse commanded more respect. When Caligula was assassinated, the Republicans in the Roman Senate overlooked the ludicrous possibility that Claudius would succeed to the throne. The Imperial party and the Praetorian Guard really did not want him either, but there were no other male adults in the dynasty. Claudius was unavoidable and inevitable. He also was underestimated. Dull, plodding Claudius turned out to be a good emperor. Perhaps Al Gore shouldn’t mind the comparison.
Steve Forbes has proved his abilities by being born rich. That achievement apparently qualifies him to be president. Forbes has the presumption and precedence of Didius Julianus, the man who bought the Roman Empire. The Praetorian Guard could overlook any vice in an emperor but stinginess. Emperor Pertinax had every virtue but generosity, so he did not survive his bodyguards. The impulsive Praetorians seized the throne but had no one to occupy it. Then the extravagantly rich Julianus (c. 193) showed up at the Praetorians’ camp and proceeded to bid for their loyalty. Another patrician competed in the auction for the Empire, but Julianus outbid him. His purchased Praetorians then cowed the Senate into acclaiming him the emperor. The Praetorians’ loyalty lasted two months. When an ambitious general marched on Rome, the imperial guard switched sides again. Julianus did not live to regret it. He now is remembered as a joke, which may yet be Steve Forbes’ real achievement.
Bill Bradley may hope to be Marcus Aurelius, but he threatens to be Julian the Apostate. Both emperors were brilliant, profound and virtuous; however, Marcus Aurelius was also competent. Julian (c. 361-363) tried managing the Empire like a graduate course in philosophy. By the 4th century, Rome verged on collapse. Corruption and strife had completely demoralized the Empire. Constantine imagined that Christianity would be a cohesive and subservient force for the government. Instead, the Christian sects were fighting each other when they weren’t persecuting everyone else. Julian intended to revive the Empire by offering a new faith. As the alternative to libertine paganism and dogmatic Christianity, Julian endorsed Neoplatonism. His approach certainly had intellectual appeal. Pagans had fun, Christians had solace but Neoplatonists had metaphysics. There weren’t many converts. The Christians resented Julian, while the pagans were just bewildered. Julian still has a loyal following among history professors, and Bill Bradley can count on that constituency, too.
Jesse Ventura might seem original, but he is the reincarnation of Maximinus Thrax. The peasant who became an emperor, Maximinus (c. 235-238) possessed theatrical strength and size. He could haul a loaded wagon or fell an ox with a single blow of his fist. That remarkable power also was useful for slaughtering barbarians, and Maximinus rose through the ranks of the Roman army. The general still retained his peasant manners and, seeing no reason why an ineffectual patrician should be emperor, Maximinus usurped the throne. The new Roman Emperor did not like Rome and, during his reign, never bothered to visit his capital. He preferred fighting the Germans to contending with patrician society. For their part, the patricians loathed the vulgar usurper and constantly conspired against him. Maximinus was not shy about executions, and he attempted to purge aristocrats from the officer corps; but he was one man against the Roman establishment. A plot finally succeeded, ending the reign of a brutal tyrant and the best emperor in a 50-year period. Jesse Ventura could do worse.
Pat Buchanan, unlike the other candidates, would hate to be Marcus Aurelius. The pugnacious pundit is no stoic. Furthermore, Buchanan would rather fight for the German barbarians than against them. We must find another emperor who matches Buchanan’s physique, manner and philosophy. Think of a porcine sadist, a flamboyant bigot and a preposterous megalomaniac. Of course! If only Pat Buchanan were 30 years younger, he would be a perfect Nero.
