I’ve come to end your reign of tyr… oh shit, I left my bullets in the fukkin’ car. Hold on.
Andrew Jackson (by Richard Lawrence, 1835)
As AJ was leaving a funeral in the Capitol building, Lawrence approached him with a gun and pulled the trigger. Misfire. So he took out another. Misfire again. Lawrence was then held down by Davy Crockett (seriously) while Jacko beat him with a cane like a coked-up backpacker in Singapore.
Alexander Litvinenko (by Who the Fukk Knows?, 2006)
In short, Lexi saw some shit he shouldn’t have and President Vladi got pissed. Like, Rasputin with chemical weapons pissed. Litvenenko, a Russian KGB agent turned dissident, asked a few too many questions about a murder, so an unknown borscht-sipper dropped a dose of Polonium-210 into his cup of tea. He eventually died after THREE FUKKIN’ WEEKS of slow, excruciating radiation poisoning.
Teddy Roosevelt (by John Flammang Schrank, 1912)
Schrank shot TR in the chest because the ghost of a two-bit president told him to. According to Schrank, the long-dead William McKinley came to him in a dream, popped out of his coffin, pointed at Roosevelt and said: “This is my murderer. Avenge my death.” It’s like something out of Macbeth – if Macbeth were written by a moron.
President William McKinley (by Leon Czolgosz, 1901)
Czologosz was too radical for 19th century anarchists, which is pretty fukkin’ metal. During an event in Buffalo, Leon staked out McKinley’s procession, went in for a handshake, pulled a classic “too slow bro” and shot him twice in the abdomen. What an asshole.
Ahmed Dogan (by Oktai Enimehmedov, 2013)
For this one, it’s not so much the attempt but the aftermath. During an opposition caucus in Bulgaria, Enimehmedov climbed on stage and put a gas pistol to Dogan’s head – which misfired. So the dude just stood there stranded as a pack of pudgy, balding politicians beat the fukk outta him. Check out the curb stomps from the dude that may or may not be Norm from Cheers.
James Garfiled (by Charles Guiteau 1881)
Chalk it up to a raging case of blue balls. In the early 1860’s, Guiteau tried to join the Oneida sex cult in upstate NY, but was quickly rejected for being a snaggle-toothed douche. So he made his way to Washington, where God told him to assassinate the president – which he did. He later had one request at his execution: that he be allowed to his original song called “I am Going to the Lordy.” America’s response: go fukk yourself.
Leon Trotsky (by Ramon Mercader, 1940)
While in exile in Mexico City, Trotsky spent the better half of a decade pissing off Stalin with rants in communist newspapers. But shit didn’t get real until Trotsky signed a book deal, literally promising to tell where the bodies were buried in the Soviet Union. Stalin’s reply: send an assassin to Leon’s hideout and put an ice pick through his skull. To be fair, it was fukkin’ Mexico – dude shoulda known better.
Adolf Hitler (by American spies, 1944)
Hitler was a notorious prude. So after dozens of failed assassination attempts, Americans started getting creative with our most abundant resource: hardcore porn. The plan was to send a box of jack-off mags to Hitler’s mountaintop headquarters, get the Fuhrer all bonered up, and wait for him to be so consumed with lust that he does himself in. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.