“Alabama congressman claims ‘War on Whites’ is to blame for accusations of racism against Jeff Sessions.” — New York Daily News
It’s been a rough few days for those of us here fighting in this War on Whites.
The Democrats have successfully occupied much of our territory: the Perry Ellis store, Beef O’Brady’s, the outlet mall that contains both Williams-Sonoma and Sur La Table. Our main supply line has been cut off, leaving us desperately short of artisanal kombucha and chickpea toast. Bad weather has destroyed most of our Dave Matthews vinyl.
We soldiers try to comfort ourselves with reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, and we gather ’round the fires at night to sing Neutral Milk Hotel tunes and debate the relative merits of the theater programs at Wesleyan and Bard.
But we long for this war to be over, as we miss our families, and many of us still haven’t seen La La Land.
Luckily, we are well-equipped. Every single one of us owns camping equipment for some reason, and we have learned much from our handbook, The GOOP Guide to Military Bivouacking. Our Instacart delivery guy still treks here to provide us with organic mangoes and grass-fed hen, and we generously give him a 7% tip for his efforts.
Indeed, though our SoulCycle bikes creak, and the gingham of our J. Crew button-downs has begun to fade, our spirits remain high. We dance without rhythm to Tom Petty anthems and drink Fireball Scotch-tinis out of our IKEA Mason jars late into the night. One of our comrades taught us a fun new slang term he invented: “on fleek.”
Oh, how I wish to be back home with my wife Jessica, and my daughter Jessica, and my two sons, Advil and Claymation. I long for the heated seats of my Saab and my weekly ukulele lessons at Guitar Center. What I wouldn’t give on bitter-cold nights to curl up in my man-cave with a John Updike novella and a snifter of Prosecco from Jon Bon Jovi’s vineyard.
But that glass of Bon Jo-Vino will have to wait. No one, not even our oracle Sean Hannity, seems to know when this war shall end. Having fought in the War on Christmas, we are prepared for a lengthy battle, waged mainly in the comments sections of Salon.com and at contentious meetings of our grocery store co-ops that concern the carriage of certain brands of tahini.
But our discomfort will have been worth it, which gives us hope. Each morning we fill our canteens with La Croix Pamplemousse and strap on our New Balance walking sneakers and eat a quick 4-hour brunch cleanse, and then we march out to defend this republic — and also the Banana Republic, which has great deals on summer linens and knee-high tartan socks.
And when we return home to our military glamp and remove our Land’s End body armor, we know we are safeguarding America for the truly maligned: Steely Dan fans, urban yak farmers, entrepreneurs behind marijuana delivery startups, and Republican congressmen elected into districts shaped like maimed knobs of ginger due to gerrymandering.
That makes it all worthwhile. When I lay down my head at night — on my ergonomic neck pillow from the Reese Witherspoon Bed & Bath line at West Elm — that’s how I know it’s worth it.