Like many people, I harbor a modest fascination with Mad Men's Don Draper and his charmingly misogynistic web of lies. I wonder what Don Draper would tweet about, if he lived in 2009?

Super boring shit, apparently! Oh yeah: And Don Draper would never be pathetic enough to stoop to social networking. This guy, however, looks like a Don Draper worth following:

How are only 37 people into this?

This Week In Sexist History:

So, this "McFarland" guy was kind of pissed that his wife up and left him to become an actress and hang out with some "Richardson" dude. So he did what any husband would do: He fucking shot Richardson! To death. Thankfully, McFarland has got fancy olde-tyme defense lawyer John Graham on his side, who is like Atticus Finch meets Jack McCoy, except for jealous 1870's douchebags:

We laughed. We cried. We wanted to fuck him. In this four-hour grandstand, all Graham had to prove was that his client, McFarland, was insane when he shot his wife's lover point-blank. Graham gets preeeeeetty creative, and then—get this—ends the oration with "tears running down his [own] cheeks"(!) Let's see how Graham argues so hard for murdering adulterers that he makes himself cry:

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McFarland Is Crazy Because His Wife Thinks She's Too Good For Him:

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He's Crazy, But Even If He Wasn't Crazy, Other Dudes Your Wife Had Sex With Deserve to Die Anyway:

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He's Crazy, But He's Not A Fucking Coward!

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He's Crazy Because She Tried to Make A Life For Herself As An Actress, And She Sucked At It:

P.S.: She was an "abortion" on the stage? They had the sweetest insults in the 1870's!

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He's Crazy Because Only A Crazy Man Would Stand Idly By While His Wife Cuckolds Him. Wait, Doesn't That Mean That He's Not Crazy? Whatever:

This Week in Sexist History:

Good Ol’ Day: July 30, 1908

Dateline: Washington, D.C.

Subject: A District man's "attentions" to local married women—the phone calls! the hugging!—inspire a band of husbands to retaliate. Their weapons? Tar, feathers, nude sitting-on, and accusations of turn-of-the-century witchcraft. (In 1908, they called it "hypnosis"). Let the olde-tyme male slut-shaming begin:

Calling on a woman? In the evening? Bad slut. Bring out the tar:

So, Bliss comes to visit this chick in Columbia Heights. Says they're engaged. In love. Headed to New York to seal the deal. NYT reporter, however, is not buying this guy's love story at all. But couldn't this all be cleared up by—I don't know—asking the woman what happened? No? Fine:

Side note: How do you spontaneously tar and feather someone in a Columbia Heights basement? Where do the feathers come from?

Kinky. Though he arrived in the home as a mere adulterer, he left as THE SLUTMONSTER OF CAPITOL HILL:

But surely, the three dudes who captured him, stuck him in a basement, took all his clothes off, sat on him, painted him with tar, and then dusted him with the insides of a couch did so for good reason:

He's a witch!

Ah, the old I-fell-under-his-hypnotic-influence-at-an-innocent-dinner-party-and-was-unable-to-control-myself-when-I-got-his-messages-by-mental-telepathy trick. How dare this man take advantage of this poor, weak-brained woman! Only this hypnotist's slutty witchery could possibly have caused her to stray from the dude who sits on naked people in his basement and then exacts olde-tyme tortures on them. Yep, she sure is lucky she wasn't whisked away to New York City, never to see her husband again. Whew. Close one.

Telephone calls? Embraces? It's about time we got this guy off the streets, and into some crazy olde-tyme BDSM basement in Columbia Heights.