July 5, 2018
My Dearest Carlotta
It is with a heavy heart I write these words.
The Second Great Civil War is over.
We have been defeated.
What we thought merely a minor skirmish, an isolated libtard uprising, turned into a crushing sea of rainbow-bedecked devils, hell-bent on destroying every red-hatted patriot in its path.
It was hellish, Carlotta. From the distance we heard the rumble of sandals slapping against the hot asphalt, the ominous sound of pantsuits flapping in the wind.
Suddenly the patchouli smell engulfed us, rendering us momentarily helpless as the rabble of baby-killing, fist-waving, gender-confused heathens swooped down and took us alive, nary a moment to even draw our Constitutionally protected firearms, let alone fire them repeatedly as demanded by the founding fathers and our Lord Jesus.
I'm told this scene was repeated across the land. A bloodless coup, yes, but horrible in its inglorious peacefulness.
First they took our guns, as we have prophesied for many years. Without even the Christian charity of allowing our hands to grow cold or dead.
Then they ripped the MAGA hats, "Roll Tide" shirts, and Confederate flag belt buckles off the bodies of our proud boys, leaving their flabby, lily-white torsos to blister in the hot July sun.
They even discovered those wearing camouflage from head-to-toe. Who knew?
We are being held in a vegan fern bar, made to survive on a diet of kale and tofu. We hear of the war's progress from a single radio, playing nothing but the damnable NPR.
It is rumored that those of us here will be gay-married tomorrow at dawn. I am, as you can attest, Carlotta, no queer. But I can take some comfort in the hope I will be shackled in matrimony with Corporal Cooper, a fine gentleman with a passing resemblance to Tim Tebow and the physique of a man who could hit a beer-league pitch from here to Richmond.
We now inhabit a dark world, Carlotta. I've heard rumors of safe abortions, attainable at convenience stores as one waits for one's Slurpee and Marlboro Lights. Of our beloved fishing shows overdubbed in Mexican, with English subtitles, forcing us to read our native tongue rather than hear its beautiful rhythms. Of electric cars at the Daytona Speedway, with top speeds of forty miles an hour and a guaranteed paucity of dismembering crashes.
These are not times for the weak, Carlotta. I ask you not cry for me, but to wait securely in the kitchen, from where a woman draws her strength, and pray there for my safe return.
Until we rise again, Carlotta, we must take solace in the fact that the fires of Hell await that cursed woman and her damn emails.
Your loving Buford