The 1st Confederate Army of South Cheektowaga

Dear Mabel,

The war is not going as planned. The sweltering August heat persists into these early days of September, and our window air conditioners can scarcely keep up. Our rations of cold quinoa are more frequently replaced by hot takes as we muster from time to time to do battle with the woke Yankees who would end our very way of life. Our crippling monotony is broken only by the occasional rush of excitement when the Yankees fly their flag, which would turn me into a woman at the slightest provocation. What, dear Mabel, will become of us if we are forced against Heaven to treat every person as a person?

Our general has taken our Bud Light, leaving us parched. We are entertained periodically with “Sound of Freedom” and “Try That in a Small Town”. One day we were ordered to show reverance to the ballad of “Rich Men North of Richmond” and the next day it was lost at the battle of Target Aisle. Our lifted pickups roll coal to own the libs, yet these are but fleeting successes. Oh, Mabel, how our leaders forsake us in these trying times. We do not know for how much longer we might sip from the cold brews of pumpkin cream, which soothe us in times of despair. If you could spare it, please Venmo me some Greybacks to sate my thirst.

In South Cheektowaga, though, the battle flag flies high, reminding all who see it for what we stand – seditious rebellion against the united States, the enslavement of Africans, the divine supremacy of the white race, and secession in order to secure for ourselves and our descendants these unending ideals for which we fight. Must not these voices of truth and feudal plantation honor be included within the “diversity” about which the woke Yankees cry incessantly? Woe be unto those who would impose on us the woke mind virus to infect us with ideations of “equality” and “liberty.”

Pray for us, Mabel.

Yours, John