On this day in 1865, George Pickett, the howling imbecile who staggered up that hill in Gettysburg the doomed-ass charge that bears his name, rode off to get drunk at a fish-fry. Not telling those under his command where he was going. So when came boiling out of the woods the forces of sane and decent, there was no one to tell them what to do. And they folded like the cheapest suit that had ever been born. Ran faster than Jesse Owens and Usain Bolt combined and cubed. Allowing the Union to cut the very last supply line of the traitor Eddie Lee. Who eight days later laid down all arms at Appomattox. Lest his men, surrounded, all and every, be Little Bighorned.

Grant had been beating Eddie Lee like a gong for well over a year. Finally reducing the traitors to cowering like rats in trenches defending Petersburg. If he had been a human, Eddie Lee would have white-flagged long ago. As he was no more going to get out of this one than would Schicklgruber some 80 years later. But no. Eddie Lee. He was not a human. Any more than would be Schicklgruber. Like Schicklgruber, Eddie Lee was determined that more must die, and to the very end, for the greater glory, of murderous racism. Just. Like. Schicklgruber.

Grant was tired of Eddie Lee’s shit, and determined to make of the war at last an end. He decided to come at the Southside Railroad, Eddie Lee’s last supply line. He considered various plans.

And then Phil Sheridan rode up. Saying Pickett, legend as a dumbass, was positioned at Five Forks. And Sheridan was convinced his cavalry could blow right through that bungling bugger, get behind his lines, and rip up the railroad.

Sheridan was an excitable boy, known to get ahead of himself—and sometimes by twenty thousand leagues. But sometimes that worked out. As when the previous year he rampaged at top speed through the whole of the Shenandoah Valley, finally dislodging the traitor trash that had hooted and grunted and knuckledrug round there for years.

Grant listened to Sheridan’s fevered Five Forks brainshower. Then said: well, okay. But why don’t you take some infantry along, too.

And so that happened.

On the afternoon of April 1, Pickett beheld only some straggling cavalry of Sheridan, milling around, and determined in that there was No Danger. And so accepted an invitation from some biblulator to travel to his farm, with Fitzhugh Lee—a nephew appendix of the terminally inbred Eddie Lee clan—to come get drunk at a shad orgy. Both these nimrods did not feel it necessary to tell their armies where they were going.

And so that happened.

While Pickett and Lee where off in why don’t we get drunk and screw, back at the line their men beheld an advancing shit-ton of blue-clad infantry joining Sheridan, the latter’s people now riding at full power.

Frantically word was sent to the fish-fryers. But no one knew where they were. So the tattered trooping traitors, they stood there, headless. Until they took off. At beyond the speed of light.

Back at the fish-fry, Pickett and Lee received frenzied word, from a couple of fleeing traitors, who’d managed to get through, that back at the line, there was Big Darkness, Soon Come.

But Pickett and Lee figured this was just shit made up. ‘Cause they couldn’t hear no noise of any big battles.

Which was because the sound was muffled by thick stands of big trees. You’d think these smoothbrains would have learned that by now. More than four years into war. But. No.

Finally, Pickett, tired of getting pestered, there in his bibulousness, sent a couple scouts out, to check on this shit made up. They came riding back at top speed, closely pursued by Union cavalry. Pickett and Lee stumbled up from their tosspotting, to try to mount a defense. But it was too late. The thing was over. Sheridan & Co blew through the traitors like a mule through corn, and seized the railroad line.

Eddie Lee. He was finished.

Though Appomattox didn’t mark the true end of the war. That didn’t occur until April 26. When the traitors under Fail Joe Johnston surrendered to Sherman in North Carolina.

Sherman over the past year or so had been methodically moving through the whole of the deep south, beating off Fail Joe every step of the way. Sherman, unlike Eddie Lee, didn’t need no stinking supply lines. After he took Atlanta, he determined: let’s just cut it all loose, and wander the lands. He then marched through Georgia, all the way to the sea, then north up the coast of traitorland, taking their cities, one by one, culminating in Charleston, “the cradle of the confederacy.” That shit finished, he then moved into the Carolina that was North. Until, finally, there, Fail Joe, he said no mas.

After the war, the southern historians who came to control the narrative portrayed Sherman as a bloody wild man who burned all and every and raped and rapined women and children. No. Shit made up. To conceal the fact Sherman mounted and succeeded with the boldest white people military campaign ever. Only before him, had the Mongols, said: Supply line? We don’t need no stinking supply line. And then just went out, and did it.

Not that Sherman got much respect in the north either. In December 1861 the Cincinnati Enquirer devoted its entire front page to a bold-faced headline reading GENERAL SHERMAN INSANE.

Sherman insane; Grant a drunk. These the nobody plow-boys who encoffined all those fine fancy cavaliers—stone racist motherfuckers—of the south.

“Grant stood by me when I was crazy,” Sherman once said, “and I stood by him when he was drunk. And now we stand by each other.”

Few hated war more than Sherman. His some of the more eloquent, blunt, words on the anathema. “I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it. It is only those who have neither fired a shot, nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded, who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.” But once in it, he wanted it over; he had little sympathy for the southern commanders who obdurately led their men, and his men, over and over and over again, into death, for the greater glory of holding people in bondage. “Those people made war on us, defied and dared us to come south to their country, where they boasted they would kill us. We accepted their challenge, and now for them to whine and complain of the natural and necessary results, is beneath contempt.” Those people, they made him hurl. As we should all hurl. And. To this day.