Oh My God, They've Killed Cracker Barrel!
A soldier reports from the front lines of the latest culture war skirmish.
My dearest Martha,
It is with a heavy heart that I commit these words to this parchment. Please forgive me if this letter arrives still wet with my tears.
O, woe to us! Woe to the South! It was a gallant fight, but in the end we were no match for the Yankees and their overpowering humanity. We held as best we could, but their army seemed to have no end of wave upon wave of men and women and men clothed like women and women clothed like men in rainbow-hued dress to charge our lines over and over.
But my lovely Martha, I am getting ahead of myself. I must unburden myself of the sights I have seen in this entanglement. Sweet wife, forgive me for describing to you this horror, but if I do not speak of it I will begin screaming and perhaps never stop.
We had been marching nearly nonstop for six days as we retreated through the swamps from the Battle of Kohls. Our loss there had been total. What was all the more devastating was that we had begun this campaign with such spirit! Such hope! We had taken Target , turning its transgender swimwear into dust! We had fought valiantly in the Battle of Disney ! And we had destroyed the enemy in the Battle of Bud Light , where our forces had surrounded their human resources and marketing teams and, when they refused our terms of surrender, charged with bayonets affixed and gave them no quarter.
And then the enemy counterattacked at Cracker Barrel, catching us by surprise. Cracker Barrel! The most wholesome of family eateries ! With its Turkey n’ Dressing served with Sweet Potato Casserole and Corn Biscuits! With its Scratch-Made Meatloaf Family Meal Basket with buttermilk biscuits and choice of two Country Sides!
No one in our ranks expected such an establishment to acknowledge Pride Month. No one in our ranks expected Diversity, Equity and Inclusion initiatives intended to make all feel welcomed as a part of the Cracker Barrel family. Our eyes were so fixed on Wal-mart and its seemingly impregnable defenses that we lost sight of our own defensive weaknesses.
It was a brilliant rearguard action. I grudgingly tip my cap to the enemy’s strategists. They have shown great initiative.
As I said, we were at the end of a long six days of difficult marching. The men were exhausted, our stores of water and hardtack depleted. The injured were in agony and the doctors could do little to soothe them besides wipe their brows and whisper to them that they must imagine themselves attending to masculine pursuits, such as re-mortaring a brick wall or visiting gun shows.
Finally, our leaders called a halt at Cracker Barrel to give us a brief respite. Our pickets were covering the retreat and we had cavalry out on the flanks to warn us of approaching enemy forces. Our scouts told us we were well ahead of the enemy, who was also ragged and in need of surcease.
So we set up camp. But the first day, as we tended our wounded and our cookfires, word came of a new Yankee force, thousands in number, approaching from the west. Where this new force came from, we know not. But it was not too long before the order was given to march out to meet the enemy. Only he attacked before we could fully muster.
First was the artillery bombardment to soften our lines. The enemy fired at us a constant barrage of some new kind of grapeshot that, when it impacted, would shower our boys with some sort of multi-colored material. I know not what this evil was called. All I can tell you is that it did not just shine in the sun ... it glittered bright and true as if brought forth and sprinkled on the earth by Lucifer himself.
This substance – Satan’s ballast, we call it – clung to the boys like cotton seed. Our dull gray uniforms were now lit up like candles. It burrowed into our skin. We would wipe it off, only to find more that we had missed. It got into everything ... our ammunition pouches, our waterskins, our eyebrows. There was no ridding ourselves of it. And of course we now stood out to their snipers like a candle flame stands out to a moth.
Darling Martha, forgive me for causing you upset. But the enemy slaughtered us in great numbers. As I said, he sent waves of fresh soldiers of all colors and all dressed as strange clowns and screaming about unisex privies at us. Oh, that scream! Our own Johnny Reb call is as nothing set next to it. It shall echo in my ears even after I have slipped into the cold embrace of the grave!
Despite having dug in hastily and incompletely, we did repel the first waves, albeit with heavy, heavy losses. Mars Dampcloth is dead. I saw him bayoneted through the heart not with a bayonet, but with a particularly cutting insult from a man dressed as Adah Isaacs Menken . And Silas Maddox was driven mad by the enemy’s unceasing demands that we check our privilege. The last I saw of poor Silas, he had torn off his clothes and was running naked as a newborn babe directly into the enemy’s musket fire.
Still, despite all this, we thought we would hold. This was after all Cracker Barrel, jewel of our people, purveyor of fine buttermilk pancake mix from its in-restaurant country store.
Then the enemy sent at us battalions made up of terrifying new soldiers called diversity consultants. We held as best we could, but we were under a constant barrage of what we were later told was “hospitality intended to be welcoming, respectful, and inclusive of everyone.”
None of us had ever heard of such a weapon, but it had the desired effect. Our men, already burdened by thirst and heat and exhaustion, were in no condition to stand for long against inclusive beliefs. So many broke and fled that our officers had no choice but to give the order for the rest of us to withdraw. We ran through the woods with the enemy’s taunts about our overwhelming whiteness still being hurled at our backs.
Eventually we did regroup at Chik-Fil-A, from whence I write these lines to you. Rumor has it this is the enemy’s newest target , and so this is where we will make our next stand.
Dearest, I beg of you, please do not share what I have told you with the children, or with Mother. It pains my soul that any of them should think I showed cowardice in the face of diversity. I would rather they thought me dead.
No, please tell them that Father is well, and happy in the fight, and drinking only manly ales as consecrated by God. You must be strong for them, Martha, and have faith that soon I will be home and in your arms again.
All my love,
Jebediah
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