Philosopher of rap Ice-T once reflected that "Pimpin' ain't easy." We here at Cracked are inclined to agree. That's why these historical men deserve special commendation for bringing the bling, bitches and beatdowns to their reigns, while laying a stiff backhand across the face of convention and scoring major amounts of tang in the process.
They were, quite simply, the pimpingest men of all time.
They had to build a second afterlife for all of the dudes Ghengis Khan killed. He and his army are thought to have killed around 35 to 40 million people. That's a little more than the number of people living in California. He conquered 13 million square miles of land, so the man basically couldn't walk a mile without leaving three dead bodies in his wake.
Pertaining to Poon:
The figures are in, and they're staggering. Reports show that he has fathered the generation that went on to produce .5 percent of the world's population. That's 16 million people. That means for every two people he killed, he impregnated one.
That's right. There are TWO feathers in this man's cap. One for murder; the other for fucking. And, it doesn't end there. He's decked out in armor made from, one can only presume, the finest materials. According to this artist, he even has perfectly plucked and highly emotive eyebrows to enhance his "come hither" eyes. He also has a handlebar, people, doubtlessly used by woman for steering this uncontrollable love machine.
"No. To crush your enemies, and see them fall at your feet - to take their horses and belongings, and to hear the lamentation of their women. That is the best life." Yeah, you thought that came from Conan the Barbarian, didn't you? Well Ghengis said it first. The screenwriters thought it was so badass, they borrowed it, and Cracked starts every weekday by having every employee chant this in unison.
A brilliant tactician, he held more titles than the entire roster of the WWE. As a general in the French Revolution, he handled the artillery and, when he got tired of taking orders, took his old boss's job. As First Consul of France, he waited an excessive five years before claiming himself Emperor (albeit of the French), later ruling over Italy, Germany and, for some reason, Switzerland.
Napoleon revolutionized war, with tactics and formations now used by every single modern military unit in operation. After a conspiracy of haters sent him to exile, he quickly got bored and decided to re-take France all by himself. When the French royalty began mincing their hands over his return, they sent a regiment of his former soldiers to kill him. The regiment joined him instead and marched on Paris, taking it and ruling for another hundred days just to prove he could.
One French minister spat, "This devil of a man exercises an astonishing seduction on all those who approach him." Astonishing.
Pertaining to Poon:
Being French, you'd expect him to score copious amounts of nubile women while still smelling of garlic and having a silly accent. You'd be right, too. His first wife, Josephine, gave him a daughter before he went on a rampaging slamboree, cutting himself generous slices of ass wherever he went. This led her to do much the same. He had a host of bastards to choose from, at least six of which were prominent enough to go noticed. He even had a two-year engagement with a woman called Desiree, who with that name was probably an exotic dancer of some sort.
Oh ... oh dear. Well, those frilly shoulder pads sure are ... frilly. He makes up for it with the blingy golden badge on his lapel, as he has obviously declared himself Sheriff of Pimptown. He's poking his hand through his waist coat, as usual, presumably to hold up his dick.
This is another category in which he thoroughly outshines the entirety of the WWE roster. Here he is bigging up his seduction skills, "He who knows how to flatter also knows how to slander." And, again with some congratulatory self inflation that would put Kanye West to shame: "I am sometimes a fox and sometimes a lion." Perhaps the most self-assured of all the things he spat in the face of the haters was this declaration of absolute certainty in his skill in the bedroom, issuing a challenge to match his work, "Throw off your worries when you throw off your clothes at night." This seems to be one thing the appropriately nicknamed 'Pole never worried about.
French or not, the evidence is undeniable: He came, he saw, he conquered--in reverse order.
Thomas Jefferson won at life. He could more or less turn his attention to anything and it would turn into gold. He was the third President of the United States, and wrote The Declaration of Independence (you might remember it from the time it was stolen under the cover of a poster sale in National Treasure).
As a politician, he used his throbbing brain to pimp slap the French and the British back from whence they came. In the White House he threw wild parties, habitually greeting guests in slippers and a dressing gown. Essentially, he became the Hugh Hefner of a Capitol Playboy Mansion. Also, Jefferson's support of the Second Amendment assured fellow-pimps the right to stay strapped for years to come.
When Jefferson left office he couldn't find a university that could handle his terrifying intellect, so he just started his own.
Pertaining to Poon:
Jefferson's wife was already a widow at 23 when they hooked up after her previous husband died in an "accident."
She went on to have six of Jefferson's children, which of course provided only a small fraction of the fucking T.J. required. That's where one of Jefferson's slaves, Sally Hemings came in. The affair between the two never even found an official denial despite heavy press coverage, though he never officially admitted to it, either. It is thought that Jefferson's deathbed confessional treatise, "I Like Big Butts; And I Cannot Lie" was burned by those close to him before it could be publicly released. Since then, inconclusive DNA testing has been done and has found links between the Jefferson and Hemings' offspring, though not with ol' Tom-boy himself.
To make things even juicier for Jeff, she was purportedly his wife's half-sister. Did we mention his wife was his distant cousin? Put it all together and you have a recipe which, when left to bake in the heat emitted by Jefferson's nut sack, rises to become an extremely kinky layer cake being eaten in the White House.
Ohhh ... shit. He's representing well before his time, here, decked out in a Superfly-style fur coat that makes Davy Crockett's hat look like a raccoon mullet. There's also something to be said about any man daring enough to wear a cravat. And, that look on his face is as ice cold as murder. But the real points he scores here aren't from his clothes, but the fact that he sported more bling on his head than any pimp ever recorded--chrome hair.
While this guy was always dropping dope lines, we felt the most pertinent to pimpology was this little gem, "Always take hold of things by the smooth handle." And by things, he means him, and by smooth handle, he means his penis.
As a teen, Charles II fucked his way through half of 17th century France and Holland. He led an invasion of England from Scotland and was placed on the throne by popular demand and, once there, celebrated in style.
His reign included mountains of drunken debauchery piled one on top of the other as a previously sexless England celebrated his reign with a good ol' fashioned fuck-out.
Pertaining to Poon:
He and his wife, Catherine, had three marriages, no divorces. Not satisfied with one lavish ceremony that spanned nations, he decided to throw two more when she arrived in England, presumably because one honeymoon wasn't enough time to squeeze romantic things like eating and sleeping in between the sex. When he wasn't getting married, Charles' dick ran through seven buxom mistresses like a cruise missile, producing 12 bastard sons. And, that doesn't even include the countless whores.
As king, he was in charge of the whole country, including its whores, so any street pimps were technically deputies he put in place to watch the corner while he was off tending to business. John Wilmot, chum and fellow rampaging nymphomaniac said of him, "Restless he rolls from whore to whore, a merry monarch, scandalous and poor." This perception was shared by absolutely everyone at the time, and like pimps of today, split opinion over whether or not this was a good thing. Clearly, most of the country not in the Houses of Parliament thought it was. His reign turned every alleyway and dimly lit area into a writhing mass of peasants indiscriminately humping each other.
With so much Dalmatian fur and red velvet, he can't actually sit in his throne. He would cup a big golden ball in one hand and hold his solid gold pimping cane erect in the other, with his crotch pushed conspicuously forward, a crown twice the width of his head and a cushion for his feet that costs more than your house. Apparently, the artist decided not to include the bikini-clad girls draped all over him at the time of painting. Nevertheless, it's a struggle to think, even in such a ludicrous genre, of how this could be more pimping.
Or, it would be, if he hadn't had medallions made depicting himself as a Roman Emperor. Regular pimps quibble over money. This pimp put his face on it. Short of tattooing "PIMP" across his tongue, there's little this guy can do to best himself. Oh, what's that? A solid gold statue of himself as a Roman Emperor? Yeah, that'd be just about fucktastically insane enough to do it.
Charles was undoubtedly battle-rapping a Quaker with crotch in hand when he dropped this bomb, "For its merit I will knight it, and then it will be Sir-Loin." The Royal Court presumably turned into an 8 Mile fiasco of whistling and hooting--a trend since upheld in modern-day Prime Minister questions.
Also of note, in a heroic gesture of pimping benevolence, he successfully managed to predict the future backlash against pop-rap artists, commanding upon his death bed, Let not poor Nelly starve."
Pictured: Nelly, short on pussy by Charles II's standards.
There can only be one conclusion. Just as he was King of Britain, so was he King of Pimping, not treating it just as a way of life, but a way of everyone else's lives, too.
Every few years, the ancient Egyptians would erect a giant boner statue to celebrate the life and "potency" of their Pharaoh. None of them saw more of these erections than Ramses II.
He partied hard, and partied long. He reigned for 66 years--until he was 91--and fucked almost constantly until that time. One of the most pimpingest cribs ever unearthed is the tomb of his wife, Nefertari...
...a chamber that archeologists agree contains more pimp per square inch than anything built since. And why did Ramses go through all the trouble for a chamber that was to be sealed up from public view? Just in case somebody should happen to dig it up 3,200 years later.
In fact, if you put on a blindfold and walk around Egypt for five minutes, you'll trip over something made by Ramses. He had a statue built of himself that weighed 83 tons. He had a museum built purely to commemorate his own awesomeness, all in a time where a shovel was considered sophisticated technology.
Pertaining to Poon:
He had enough wives to make a Mormon call bullshit. Eight in total, and he loved every one prolifically. He fathered over 100 children. Every wife had on average 13.5 children, and you'd better believe those numbers don't even begin to tell the story of his potency (our research suggests only one of at least three popular orifices result in children). He outlived many of his own sons. Rather than cry about it like a pussy, he pounded away and churned out more. That's just how Ramses do.
We're being handed a note, here. He married his daughter? He married two? Meritamen and Bintanath were both daughters of Ramses, who pumped so many women full of so many babies that he had a tough time keeping track of which children had burst forth from his royal sack. At least, that's what we're hoping happened. His daughters had to have known what was up. Apparently they were too polite to point out the problem. "Um, actually Dad, er, King Ramses...um, nevermind." That happened twice.
The picture barely does it justice. We're talking rims lined with copper and bronze, towed by a horse that must have somehow had 500 horsepower, yet is still about to get an arrow to the back of the head for not being pimp enough. That's bling, and so was the immense quantity of gold and precious gems lining every room of his temples. He had a stack of chains that would make Mr.T look Amish. 50 Cent? Come back when you have a horse with a golden mohawk.
Another notable success from beyond the grave would be that he had a brand of condoms named after him, though birth control wasn't exactly his thing.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Ozymandias was Ramses stage name. While no actual writings from Ramses have survived, a writer imagined him saying that. But, even if Ramses didn't actually say it, it's a safe fucking bet he was thinking it.
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