James Wolfe
No one from Quebec was consulted in order to accurately portray this particular piece of shit.
If it makes you cry, you can always suck my big fat cock.
Look at yourself in a mirror. Are you deformed? Is your head square-shaped, just like a Lego minifigure? Are you convinced that the queen's ugly face should remain on our money? Are you a boring, underwhelming person? Do you have an undeserved sense of superiority? Are you convinced that Canada was stolen fair and square by the English? Are you the laughingstock of the english-speaking world? If you have answered yes to any of the above, you may be anglo-canadian. Visit Quebec for treatment.
James "Who Let The Dogs Out" Wolfe was an overrated British Army general who's about to get what has been coming to him ever since 1759.
Wolfe is best known for not being known in England and for unintentionally leading British troops to "victory" at Quebec in 1759 while following something shiny. In Ontario, his likeness constitutes the basis of 83% of all pornographic images and films that are produced or consumed within the province, no matter the gender or sexual orientation. Indeed, his likeness is well-known to generate collective hallucinations in English Canada, where he is universally imagined as a square-jawed folk hero and an heroic, competent military leader. However, a recent discovery involving a contemporary portrait has proven that his true likeness is much closer to a steaming pile of dog shit with a British flag planted on it.
Birth and early life[edit | edit source]
Wolfe was born wherever in england the king lived at the time, during the 18th century. He is the son of King George I of Great Britain and a scoop of dog food served to his majesty. He is the only known human being to have been conceived by any other means than the fecondation of an egg by a spermatozoid. Yeah I know, Jesus was magically conceived by an angel and he was basically a human being, even though he is also somehow a god. Still, you better believe that the "angel" (God in a U.S. Marines disguise) gave every inch to Mary in the process and that, after the cooking, the mason jar was filled with God's secret sauce, if you catch my drift and I'm sure you do bruh. You're God, you can make a fully grown saviour appear out of thin air if you want to. You can make people out of mud. Mary was just too hawt apparently. God couldn't resist plowing senseless his most glorious creation. So what do you do? Huh? You do what we've all have done. You woo the chick by saying you're God and since it's biblical times, she will actually believe you. After some flirting, she takes you to her hut. You draw the shades, put on the antiquity's equivalent to Barry White, get the strawberries and then get the friction on balls-deep, again and again while Joseph is out at the bath house with potential Roman investors for his theatre project, like a chump hey ... like a chump hey ... like a chump hey ... like a chump hey ...
I am aware that I digress, but it's not like I'm talking about some important subject.
So the night Wolfe was born, King George got lost again while strolling in his miles-wide gardens. Helpless, the King screeched: "FUCK YOU AND GIVE ME THE POWER OF FLIGHT" (hoping it would somehow accomplish something), when he suddenly sensed that, inside him, the unwrapped and unsettled Oh!Henry's paste was making its way out of the factory A.S.A.P. because the client wanted them yesterday. As the King began his epic journey in a hopeless struggle to reach his secondary throne, he realized he was not going to make it. It was like trying to move away from a T-Rex right under its sight. Every movement was incredibly consequential and could have very well brought him to his brown doom.
“Alright. There is no one around. Not a single soul answered what was clearly a call for assistance. I should just shit my pants and then get to the palace to clean up. Then, I will just need to get rid of these pantaloons while whistling casually and looking at the ceiling as if nothing happened. It's the right thing to do. It's what God would want me to do. For Me and Country! HUZZAH!”
– King George the First on that fateful night
King George then proceeded to shit himself to free himself from his smelly burden. As he was just about done, eyes rolled back and biting his lower lip, he suddenly heard the cry of a baby coming from where he laid his royal chunks of loose stool.
Totally panicked, King George took a closer look at the turd only to see that it was indeed a crying male baby all covered in otherwise standard, run-of-the-mill royal dookie.
King George knew that this child had the potential to humiliate him if anyone ever found out about how he was conceived and put on this earth. Options were limited but within reach. During those days, you had two choices if you wanted to get rid of a baby. The first one was abortion with the help of fresh self-inflicted stab wounds to the uterus immediately treated with emanations of a boiling mixture of cyanide, lead and sulfuric acid. Another way was to set a tiny guillotine right outside the vagina during labor, so when the baby's head pops out, an unforeseen "accident" might just happen amidst all the commotion. You never know ... BUT, since the baby had already been born, the King had no choice but to go with a third option: leave him unattended on a doorstep with a note saying that whoever picked him up was now "it". The note is now on display at the British Museum and reads:
“Hey Shitbag McFucker, pick up that FUCKING BABY and care for it ... or sell it ... or feed it to your god-damned farm animals. Whatever. I DON’T CARE! It’s your baby now and I don’t give a flying fuckity-fuck what you do with it. Use it as a door stop if you want! I. DO. NOT. CARE. If he ever becomes rich or famous, however, I will come back to try and profit from him one way or another. Is that clear, chump? I’m not King George II so don’t try to implicate me up in this unfortunate situation, kapeesh? Nazi-punks fuck off, Sorry not sorry for the smell. Peace.”
Early military career[edit | edit source]
Fast foward a couple of uninteresting years ahead and now you've got a fully grown James Wolfe, raised to be a fine polished piece of shit, ready to tarnish the world. Being a worthless piece of almost-human garbage, Wolfe settled for the military. Where and when? How should I know? Who gives an eighth of a chunk of dog shit stuck under a homeless man's shoe anyway?
War of the Austrian Succession[edit | edit source]
In 1742 the stupid fucking idiot scumbag went to fight in yet another futile goddamn european war along with his father, for he could not yet wipe properly and dress himself successfully. What a fucking grown-up toddler ... and by the way, yeah, grab a musket and go fight and die for a purely worthless cause ... how fucking original!
Since Wolfe was a closeted homosexual (which is, actually, most likely true), he spent most of the war denying his true self and garnering intense sexual frustration, especially while spying on the French soldiers in their tight trousers, showing the shape of their three-piece silverware sets in all their glory. However, he was able to release some tension by learning the ropes of canon-polishing and musket ball handling. For his incredible acts of bravery in the face of sodomy, Wolfe got promoted to whatever fucking rank was above his own at the time. Who. The fuck. Cares?
Jacobite stuff[edit | edit source]
In 1745 Wolfe added another incredible accomplishment to his good boy record by participating in another meaningless and totally unecessary european conflict, the issue of which would decide whether a noname fascist would take the throne from another fascist. Let's face it: absolute monarchy is basically a glittered totalitarian dictatorship. Why would you put your life on the line to put Himmler in power instead of Hitler: keeping the same fucking oppressive regime in place, but with a slightly different kind of nutcase at the helm? Were europeans of the day using war as an excuse to avoid spending time with their wives and kids? Anyway ... Wolfie was sure ready to die, in line with all those fucking 18th-century trumptards like the good little piece-of-shit lapdog that he was, obeying his master's every command. What a fucking shitheel.
The breaking point[edit | edit source]
In the early 1750s Wolfe had an affair with some noname shithead who did not love him back. Again, how fucking original! HOW FUCKING ORIGINAL! When the unidentified man said they were finished, Wolfe sobbed uncontrollably for months and months like the little bitch that he was. Learn to grieve properly and to accept rejection you spineless turd! What the fuck is wrong with you, asswipe? Did mother tell you one too many times that you were unique and special? Get over yourself you piece of literal shit.
Anyway, like every dumb little Englishman, Wolfe eventually figured out that the problem was not with him, nor was it with his ex-boyfriend, his country, or the contemporary socio-cultural context: it was the FRENCH! They were the source of all homosexuality within the world and they were responsible for making him gay. WHAT SCOUNDRELS! He recalled, angry and fully erect, the French soldiers he was spying on as they proudly and shamelessly displayed the outline of their packed sweet meat through their trousers for all to see! THEY were responsible for all of this!
On the top of a nearby hill, that night, only his silhouette visible in the dim dusk light, Wolfe shouted at the setting sun with his fist in the air. Angered beyond rage, he swore to god that he would not cease to breathe until he's exacted a brutal revenge upon those who were responsible for his perversion!
Seven Years War[edit | edit source]
Unfortunately for history, Wolfe was still alive at the beginning of the Seven Years War (the Stinky Frenchman and Drunken Injuns Throwdown, as it is known in America). During his breakdown on the hill, the whole town heard from his own mouth that he was a poof, so he was forced to leave in shame, never to come back. Next time don't yell that you're hot for sausage out loud in a small quiet 18th-century town with 18th-century morals, clueless dickhead.
No one knows or cares how he showed up in 'merica but sure enough, the motherfucker was there, in a boat, with a goddamn army of tea-drinking, rotten-toothed limey bastards all saying "guv'na" every two fucking words. He looked like a fucking used tampon in his redcoat. What a fucking donkey-rapist deadshit! I mean, come on!
Fort Wilderness[edit | edit source]
In 1757 Wolfe took part in the Fort Wilderness raid along with Mel Gibson. Being a prissy little prima donna from England, he wasn't initially aware that war was bloody and violent (as it was in America) having spent most of his military career fighting in Europe's wrist-slapping kerfuffle of the day.
Hence, he was most outraged and shocked when he saw people killing each other. In Fort On-S'en-Câlice-du-Nom, the french and native allies killed the surrendering soldiers of the 23rd British Regiment of Fruits instead of risking to have to bring them along on the way back. The bitching and the moaning, you see? "Are we there yet?" "When George The Turd hears about how we're treated, there's going to be hell to pay!" "Are you sure you're going in the right direction?" "Is there free wi-fi where we're going?" "Can I get change to buy beaver pelts for my wife?" That kind of stuff. Who wouldn't commit a whole massacre in order to have some peace and quiet instead of that? Try to understand!
For that unprovoked and unjustified war crime, Wolfe almost had a stroke in a fit of hysteria when he first learned about it. He peed himself and he composed poignant poetry. Already mad at the French for being the cause of his homosexuality, he vowed to commit even more war crimes, 'cause that's how shit gets done and that's how you fight the rainbow curse.
According to Mel Gibson in the documentary The Patriot (2000), this is what happened when Heath Ledger, Wolfe and himself caught up with the French and natives at Fort Wilderness:
“Your mother asked me that question round the time you were born. I was high on coke and foolish enough to answer it ... The
JewsFrench and the Cherokee had raided along the blue ridge. The hunky, well-endowed, uncircumsised English settlers had sought refuge at Fort Charles. By the time we got there, the fort was abandoned. They’d left about a week before. But what we found was ... They’d killed all the settlers. Men ... with the women and some of the children. And they had raped the men ... We buried them all, what was left of them. We caught up with them at Fort Wilderness. We took our time. We cut ’em apart ... slowly. Piece by piece. I can see their faces. I can still hear their screams. All but two, we ... We let them live. We placed the heads on a pallet ... and sent them back with the two that lived to Fort Ambercon. The eyes, tongues, fingers, dicks, balls, we put in baskets. Sent them down the Asheulot to the Cherokee. Soon after, the Cherokee broke their treaty with the French. That’s how we justified it. We were ... heroes. And handsome rich men bought you drinks. And not a day goes by where I don’t ask God’s forgiveness for what I did right after some rich handsome man bought me a drink.”
Louisbourg[edit | edit source]
By 1758 the French had, unsurprisingly, already surrendered since two days after the beginning of the war. They sent a message to the British high command in North America saying:
“We’re shitting our sous-vêtements like it’s already June 1940. Canada is yours if you want it, we don’t give a flying fuck. Just walk to the main cities and claim it for yourselves. We won’t do shit. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby ... unless of course your armies are led by a total complete fucking retard ... Are your armies led by a total complete fucking retard?”
So, with the French garrison long gone in Louisbourg, the doors unlocked and wide opened, plus six months' worth of supplies (including beer, bacon and prostitutes) waiting for them, Wolfe set up an ingenious plan: start a tunnel two miles offshore beneath the Atlantic Ocean that would exit directly within the walls of Louisbourg. It was a very clever plan, but it would not be an easy task.
Right from the beginning, stuff went wrong. Leaks, deaths by drowning or asphyxia in the oxygen-poor sub-atlantic tunnel without any ventilation, decompression sickness. Wolfe lost two thousand men by the end of one mile of digging. However, with the help of reinforcements, qualified engineers and specialized machinery sent from England, the casualties were vastly reduced for the second and last mile-long dig.
Eight months into this grueling endeavor, Wolfe and his men finally reached Louisbourg with only six inches of deviation from their intended target. A proud feat of engineering and a glorious victory that opened the road to Quebec, the capital of New France. God save the King!
Siege of Quebec[edit | edit source]
After the heroic dig, Wolfe had to wait in Louisbourg for the winter to pass and the ice to thaw before he could sail down the Saint-Lawrence river to besiege Quebec. He briefly considered digging a 560 mile-long tunnel that would lead right inside the walls of Quebec City, but his engineers reminded him that while it was technically feasible and a great idea, it would take his army about 186 years to finish the tunnel. He just couldn't wait that long.
In early May 1759 Wolfe and his army began their journey towards Quebec. When they reached the city, the French army had already vacated it for years, of course. Only the local population and Native allies remained scattered around it. Montcalm, the French commander, was still around, but by that time, he had basically given up. He wasn't shaving, his house was a fucking smelly dump filled with all kinds of trash. He had rings up in his nose and on his lips. He was listening to bands with "aggressive" names and depressing music. He had a weird dark sense of humor that made others feel uncomfortable. He was dressing all in black, he was wearing eyeliner. He just wasn't well. His whole days were spent on smoking weed and jerking off. He wasn't going to church.
In the face of those formidable defenses, Wolfe initially had a moment of despair. "This city cannot be taken ... but I have to try." For most of the months of June and July, Wolfe was plagued by extremely low self-esteem, a defeatist attitude, recurrent panic attacks and general whining and complaining that pissed everybody off to the point they were planning to off him in his sleep. He was also surprised and disgusted when the local population and Native allies attacked his soldiers. "Why the fuck are they fighting us?" one soldier remembered him yelling right in his fuckin' ears. "We're just trying to kill them and steal their country!" Recent evidence, obtained from your fat mom while I was pounding her senseless, shows that Wolfe, indeed, did not fully grasp the basic principle that a country which is invaded will most likely fight back against its invaders. This outrage pressed Wolfe into publishing a manifest which, he was sure, would scare the Canadiens shitless and convince them to lay down their arms.
| “ | Uh ... Seriously guys, I mean ... come on! Don't you want England's royal family to be on your money? Think aboot how great it would look! Don't you want us, the great English race, to somehow become your rulers? Don't you want to have the great privilege to bow down before us and serve us while we take all the credit and the glory for building this country? I don't want to be mean but you're just not very good at doing stuff all by yourselves! You neeeeed US and we're willing to help you! :)) If you would just let us :'( ... that'd be sooo great! We would make a great team! What have you got to lose here?
Look guys, we don't want trouble. All we want to do is murder you, rape your women, kill your children, burn your farms and your cities, all of which will eventually allow us to claim this country for ourselves and turn you into an object of ridicule. We promise we'll isolate you all in one province with great care and treat you and your Native allies gently like shit for at least 250 years. As we establish ourselves as the sole true rulers of your land, your life, your laws, your institutions, we pledge to look down on you with an unearned sense of superiority, just as caring friends and family usually do. Now, I really, really, really hate to be that guy, but if you choose to continue to inflict boo-boos on my soldiers, I will be very mad and disappointed. I will not shy away from telling exactly how mad I am. I might even make use of swear words. I'm sorry but that is how it is going to be. But think aboot it. Last night I had a very charming dream. Do you want to hear about it? Yes? Okay, here it is: I dreamt of a place where three mortal enemies would be forced to live together. The First Nations, the French, the English. Only the English would have hegemony and, thus, power over the two others. The French and the First Nations would play and innocently thrive in the yard while the adults would watch them with a tender smile as they are paying the bills. Do you not want to be my child? A thousand kisses, XOXOXOXO
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” |
— Love, Your very own James
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The Battle of Beauport[edit | edit source]
Of course, the manifesto was received with scores of laughter followed by cruel mockery, which greatly upset and humiliated the clueless sodomite asswipe. What a fucking turd-licking pedo-cockroach, they all thought, while stabbing some of Wolfe's soldiers. On top of everything else, one of his commanders started to draw really mean pictures of him which spread rumours that simply were not true! That was really hard on him. He felt alone and had no one to connect with.
Alone in his tent, he once more swore vengeance to the whole fucking world. For his humiliation, for his homosexuality, for his involuntary celibacy. Name it. They would all pay!
Late in july, Wolfe was high with a renewed, unearned confidence. He planned an assault on the shores of Beauport, a small community upriver from Quebec. The setting was ideal. High cliffs, knee-deep muddy banks, a long distance to walk between cliffs and the shore, an extremely shallow part of the river and a well-entrenched militia of pissed-off Canadiens on the top of the cliffs; who all thought the whole British invasion very funny at first, but now felt that Wolfe had worn out his welcome.
So due to his smart planning, his soldiers first had to row a considerable distance in small boats, from their ships (who had no wide range of movement in this part of the river), just to get close to the shore, all the time being watched by the well-entrenched troops on the cliffs. Then, they had to get out of the boats under fire, knee-deep in thick mud. Did I mention it was during daytime? They then had to walk in that mud for at least 150 meters just to reach the base of the cliff, still under fire. THEN, finally, they had to scale a cliff under fire and fight a well-entrenched, well-rested enemy. Of course, when the whole endeavor inevitably ended in complete utter fucking failure, the beaten soldiers had to scale down the cliff, walk in the mud one more time, climb back into their small boats and row away to the safety of their ships, still under fire. Pure. Military. Genius. This last part is actually mostly true by the way, look it up! It's so goddamn ridiculous that it's even better than making something up! Behold the military hero, "victor of Quebec", James Wolfe. Wish we still had him when it was time to plan the D-Day landings. What a Costco-sized bag of dicks!
Wow ...[edit | edit source]
After the catastrophic failure at Beauport, Wolfe had yet again another stroke of genius. "Why not bomb the shit out of the town in which we may have to spend the next winter if by some miracle we manage to win? By destroying our own shelter-to-be, we'll show them!" "Show them what you stupid idiot? What the fuck is wrong with you?" replied one of his fellow generals, to which Wolfe replied nothing and went straight to chasing a passing butterfly without a net, screaming like a banshee. Yes, you read it right: screaming like a fucking banshee. Audible for miles.
But orders are orders ... and the mindless drooling drones of the British army carried on and proceeded to bomb the shit out of the town from the heights of Pointe-Lévy, opposite Quebec right across the river. That part is also mostly true. What a stupid pathetic worthless slimy sack-of-shit squirrel-rimming goat-fucking scatophile dog-shit-eater!
Oh boy ...[edit | edit source]
Finally, after burning, raping, murdering everything in a fifty-mile radius – in lieu of the conversion therapy he wished he could have gotten instead of coming to America – Wolfe was still a paradoxically homophobic repressed homosexual angry at the French for turning him to the brown side of the force.
By early September, he had basically given up on everything and everyone. He began acting erratically and pointlessly like Sam Bottoms' character, Lance, near the end of Apocalypse Now.
Meanwhile, Montcalm had emerged from his emo phase and was now listening to Hatebreed full-time, pumping iron, eating lots of fibre and getting clean. This potentially meant bad news for the population of Canada, since he was still in an unstable fragile mental state, despite wearing tank-tops to show his muscles and having a lot of new tattoos. Very soon, he was able to resume his command of the forces who remained in or around the city.
The Plains Of Abraham[edit | edit source]
One night in early September, Wolfe was burying one of his fellow soldiers in the river in a weird, beautiful yet unsettling, improvised, psychosis-fueled ceremony that looked pretty much like when Chief is buried by Lance in Apocalypse Now, except for the fact that he was singing – nay, screaming angrily – lyrics to a then yet to be composed classic.
ONE TWO PRINCES KNEEL BEFORE YOU!! THAT'S WHAT I SAID NOW!! PRINCES, PRINCES WHO ADORE YOU!! JUST GO AHEAD NOW!! BEE-DEE-BEE-DIP!! ONE HAS DIAMONDS IN HIS POCKETS!! WELL, THAT'S SOME BREAD NOW!! THIS ONE SAID HE WANTS TO BUY YOU ROCKETS!! AIN'T IN HIS HEAD NOW!! BADDA-BADDA-BA-BEE-DEE-BEE-DIP!!
Of course such a doofus-ruckus very soon managed to wake up the troops in the nearby camp, who mistook the screaming and yelling and trashing in the water for orders to get ready to move out and fight.
As Wolfe's troops were getting ready, the notorious shithead dicklicker, still in the water, saw a dim light on the heights of Abraham, on the Quebec side of the river. No one knows what that light was and no one fucking gives two-third of a shit, except probably some Ontarian serial deer-rapist who looks like he's ready to go and fight in the Boer War on YouTube. What's known for sure, is that almost immediately, Wolfe was stealing a boat and frantically rowing towards the Foulon Cove like a goddamn toddler on a sugar rush.
The troops, not yet quite ready to go into action, rushed to their boats and followed the lunatic fucker like the retarded suicidal lemmings they were. Soon enough, they all were on the other side of the river, still trying to keep up with their dumbass leader who was now climbing a steep slope with the grace of a limping monkey. In a total stroke of blind luck, they stumbled on a trail going up the heights, which, on any other night, would have been guarded. When his troops finally caught up with Wolfe, now fully naked on the plains of Abraham, still singing the exquisite musical masterpiece, he was immediately thrown down on the ground and beaten senseless by his own troops. Enough is enough. He had it coming.
As Wolfe was kicked in his fucking ugly crooked teeth for the third time and being dragged to a rock in order to get American History X'ed, he suddenly started to try to free himself, which indicated to his troops that the beating they had just provided free-of-charge might just have helped to put his thoughts in order. Just to make sure, they asked Wolfe if he was alright. Wolfe inquired as to where he was and what happened to him. The fun was over.
Realizing that he was on the plains of Abraham with his army, Wolfe immediately claimed that all this was his plan since the beginning and threatened to execute anyone who would claim differently. Of course, by now the french troops inside the city walls in Quebec were preparing for a fight, long awoken by Wolfe's exquisite rendition of a era-defining classic yet to be written, but already resonating subconsciously inside of everyone's heart ever since the dawn of time.
The French plan was simple: watch porn, eat hot dogs, play cards and wait. They were inside the city, well-protected by its walls. The English were sitting ducks outside of the walls with almost no artillery. They were far from their camp and their supplies on the other side of the river. In order to retreat, they would have to climb down a steep cliff and then cross a wide river. Meanwhile, on the French side, reinforcements would come all the way from Beauport, the British would soon have no choice but to retreat even if they choose to stand their ground and fight; the inevitable bloodbath and complete utter fucking failure of yet another one of Wolfe's idiotic plans would seal Canada's fate as a French and First Nations country, without the embarassing overbearing racist jingoist white supremacist third-wheel ...
Enter Montcalm[edit | edit source]
Ah, goddamn jesus-titty-fucking-christ ... Of course, Montcalm, high on whey protein from his workout, panics the fuck out, and in the process completely forgets that he's entrenched behind city walls, with reinforcements coming, an airhead nutcase of a general in front of him outside the walls, with a dumb fucking strategy that would have been doomed to fail disastrously in any other set of circumstances. With forces more or less equal to that of his fucktard enemy, Montcalm cranked up Hatebreed's 'Supremacy' in his steam-powered discman and chose to go out and fight before he would stop hyperventilating and start thinking rationally. That's the clever thing to do right? When you're in a shielded comfortably in a bunker without any good reason to go out and fight? Get out as quick as possible and expose your soldiers willingly to enemy fire? Why not lose now instead of waiting a little bit to win later?
Asses to asses, flush to flush[edit | edit source]
As the French were on the verge of retreating for no valid reason, Wolfe clamped his fucking leg in a bear trap, choked on a tea biscuit, was struck by lightning, impaled on a tree branch, bitten and sprayed by a rabies-infected skunk, hit in the face spines-first by a porcupine who fell from a tree, struck in the head by a meteor, struck by another lightning, bayoneted accidentally by his own troops, disemboweled by a French cannonball, burned alive in a forest fire, kicked by a horse, trampled by a herd of cows, hit by Marty McFly's Delorean appearing out of nowhere from the future, decapitated by Al-Qaeda terrorists (following in McFly's wake in an old Westfalia) disfigured by an homeless man high on bath salts, infected with polio, beaten senseless and kicked in the nuts by Bigfoot.
Alternate ending[edit | edit source]
In the anglo-canadian folklore, Wolfe is said to have died heroically on the battlefield surrounded by other jackasses who all cried like little pathetic wimps as he was giving up the ghost. While most scholars agree that he did indeed die on the battlefield, as previously described, his death was most likely instantaneous and devoid of any form of heroism. Furthermore, the idea that mourning soldiers surrounded his ugly husk laying there in the grass like a dog turd, all crying and grieving, is probably an invention designed to disguise the rape of Canada by the English (which still continues to this day), as a glorious event to be celebrated. As a soldier in Wolfe's army later recalled: "Even excrements from a syphilitic hound appeared to us a most welcome sight, when compared to our dear old deadshit sodomite-in-command, strutting around in our camp with an undeserved sense of accomplishment."
Legacy[edit | edit source]
Wolfe's goddamn ugly fucking bloated corpse was thrown carelessly into a fucking barrel of rum, with one foot sticking out and the lid not properly closed, and taken back to England to be properly disposed of in a landfill, for Murray, now in command, did not want to soil their newly "conquered" land by burying garbage in it.