THAT WAS THE MILLENIUM THAT WAS Read Online Free PDF Page A

but there sure was something about him (besides the stink). 
    Within a couple of years, Rasputin had found his way to the Tsar Nikolas II and Tsarina Alexandra, and he endeared himself to them by easing the pain of their hemophiliac son (historians think by a form of hypnosis). He also told them that his destiny was now tied to theirs; without him, they were doomed. The Tsar, never the world's most spineful person, kept him around.
    This is when things got bad. By day, Rasputin was the Tsar's spiritual adviser; by night Rasputin wallowed in the orgy pit. People complained. The Tsar had them transferred to Siberia. Finally the Prime Minister presented the Tsar with a formal report on Rasputin's extracurricular activities. The Tsar booted Rasputin for a couple of months, but the Tsarina would have none of that. Rasputin was back, and the best the Tsar could do was shrug and regard Rasputin as his wife's hairy, scary, smelly pet. 
    World War I broke out, and the Tsar, perhaps wanting to feel like he actually was in charge of something , went to command the army in the field. The Tsarina was left to tend to internal affairs, and stop that snickering. Rasputin was in the background, advising the empress. His advice on political matters was just about as helpful as you might expect any advice coming from an ill-educated, over-sexed religious wacko might be. The Russian nobles, perhaps suspecting that the Proletariat Revolution was on its way and that Rasputin's "advice" wasn't going to do much to help the nobles keep their lands or their heads, decided to get Rasputin out of the way.
    And thus it was in late December 1916 that Rasputin found himself at the home of Prince Feliks Yusupov, lured there by the promise that he'd meet someone's very attractive wife (no, really). They fed him poison in tea and in cakes. He gobbled it down and didn't blink. Then they shot him and cut off his instrument of theological enlightenment (no, not his brain . Yeesh). He managed to launch himself out the door. They shot him again, wrapped him in a carpet, and heaved his body into a river. At which point, of course, he died. Let's see you wiggle out of a wet carpet. But he was true to his word; the Romanovs and the rest of the nobility were all dead meat on a stick (in some cases literally) within a couple of years. 
    The moral of this particular story is, if you're ever the emperor of the largest country on earth, and a strange-looking monk comes by and offers to heal your hemophiliac son, run. Just run. No good will come of it. It's a valuable lesson for us all.

Best Historical Era of The Millennium (Excluding Our Own).
    There isn't one. Uniformly and without exception, every single era before this one was pretty much the same from the standpoint of the average person. And the one we're living in now isn't one big happy basket of tropical fruit, either. 
    Now, let me amend this by saying that the current historical era is doing very well by me . I live in the wealthiest and most intellectually free country that has ever existed on this planet, surrounded by a dizzying array of astounding technical devices, ensconced in a domicile of surpassing comfort (it has cable!). I am overfed, overeducated, overpaid. My greatest physical need is to remember to blink because I stare at a glowing phosphor screen all day. I have all my teeth and limbs. I have to opportunity to bathe every day (and yes, I do just that, thank you very much). 
    Given the current state of technology -- and some not unreasonable expectations of where that technology is going -- it's not at all unlikely that I'll breeze past the 100-year-old mark. And my infant daughter, who as I write this is cheerfully chewing on a toy designed for maximum educational value, will have everything I have and more. 
    But, let's be very clear on this, I'm not the average citizen of this crowded, belching globe, and neither, for that matter, are you. If you have the ability to read this, you are