November 19, 1863
Returned by train from Gettysburg, where to-day I gave an address that the world will little note, nor long remember. But that’s not what prompted this momentous, and perhaps rash, entry in my diary. You see, upon entering the Oval Office, dimly lit by candle-light as is my custom, I became aware of an abrupt flash of light from behind my desk. Thinking it gunpowder or sorcery, I dove to the ground. When I regained my footing, in my place was the visage of a space-man, wearing some fashion of green military suit and a helmet the likes of which I had never seen.
“Hey,” a voice from behind the mask chuckled. “You’re stovepipe hat guy. Like on the penny.”
Rendered momentarily dumb by my state of confusion and the space-man’s incomprehensible gibberish, I stared more closely. I couldn’t help but notice the space-man’s suit was especially form-fitting around the trousers. Having removed his helmet, I could see his visage for the first time, and I took in his steely, resolute glare before my eyes returned to the bulge in his space-suit.
“Heh,” the space-man said, gesturing down to his nether regions. “I heard you were a little light in the loafers. But that’s okay — hell, it’s better than okay. That’s why I got Dick Cheney to borrow this time machine from Haliburton to send me back here to the, uh, whazzitcalled, past.”
I was beginning to sense that this space-man had more attributes in his technology than his elocution, but I did not care. I felt a desire in my loins I had not felt since I’d shared a bed with my dearest friend in a log cabin back in Illinois.
“Don’t worry, chief,” the space-man said, unzipping his suit in a deft maneuver that left him standing naked before me in an instant. “One day, they’ll name a part of the Republican party after you.”
“You mean in Congress?” I replied.
“Don’t mind if I do!” the space-man said, throttling my neck as he took me forcefully and repeatedly, prompting me to lose consciousness in a miasma of lust, asphyxiation, and overpowering cologne. When I regained my senses, the space-man was fading from site in the same glow, muttering to himself.
I’ll take his final words to my grave: “Mission Accomplished.”
-Your faithful servant, dear diary, Abraham Lincoln