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A Civil War Letter To Mother


RNC Headquarters

Washington D.C.

11 May 2014

Dearest Mother-Sister-Wife, I thought I would take the opportunity to write to you as a yearly reminder of my undying love, for you are the one who birthed me on the floor of our drafty barn, and it was there where we were also married and there where I conceived inside your belly my future daughter-wives.

It has been at least 153 years and nearly one month since the Yankees began their unprovoked war of aggression with the bombing of Fort Sumter, where our beloved confederacy had no choice but to answer the call of destiny, and I fear the war may never end.

We left Wingnuttiaburg this morning, and there’s word that Colonel Cliven Beauregard Bundy’s loyal forces have taken the entire state of Nevada in the name of old timey values– Huzzah!

There’s also word from Lieutenant Colonel Reince Beauregard Priebus VIII that the Yankee-lovin’ Democrat party of the Southern resistance have been on the run and all but defeated since the negro was no longer free to be bought and sold, and taught to read and write in the Yankee public educatin’ system.

My loving Sister-Mother-Cousin-Wife, our daughters would be so prideful to call themselves my progeny-wives, if only they weren’t born with their man-parts on the outside, I might think of them as my own.

The men in my regiment tell me they have enjoyed the assortment of whole, live chickens you been sendin’ by way of the Yankee postal service, but they ain’t much good for courtship and honey-moonin’ after only one man’s affections. We hope to receive word of food rations in the time bein’, for our once endless supply of chickens have grown rancid, and have turned for the worse while sleepin’ off their duty to god and country in the noonday sun.

Oh, my darling Cousin-Sister-Daughter-Mother-Wife, how I miss our long nights in the barn, intimately embracing under the bewildering spell of your devilishly-sweet Mint Juleps. My loving property, if forcin’ my companionship on you, and our most able next of kin, is an unnatural act of wrongfulness under the paternalistic eyes of our Lord and savior and uppity-Yankee aggressors, frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!

Recently, we were told General Koch sent message of new procedures for the battlefield and plans to replace our worn out uniforms with brand new white coats and hooded attire. Most of the men say they will be more slimming, but time will tell. So, no longer will we dependent on the rank and file, enlisted infantry, nor experienced Captains in the field soiling themselves with fear in the face of the Yankee media inquisitions, to be sure, they’re sending experienced personnel and reinforcements of $125 million Greybacks into the Battle of 2014 on strict orders to do what they say.

They say we’ll surely have to starve the womenfolk and their wicked Yankee offspring by cutting off vital supply lines for our honorable Southern Strategy to prevail. Their suffering is all but assured. Withholding access to medicine and living wages is the easy part, but victory in battle cannot take any chances on Yankee Democrats stealing any more of our negros to miscegenate our fine culture and heritage. We shall take them back one by one, or all at once.

I fear the Yankee moochers and takers may take more time to defeat, perhaps six months longer, but for the honor of Southern rights and traditions, and with God’s grace shining down upon your faith in The Cause, we shall finally overcome this war of aggression.

Until my next correspondence, my dear, loving, Mother-Sister-Cousin-Daughter-Wife, Happy Mother’s Day, and may God forgive you for your sinful lady parts, and may he show mercy on me and mine.

Until your early death do us part, your Father-Brother-Husband-Cousin-Superior House Leader, John Beauregard Boehner IV.

P.S. Please send more chickens.

  • beulahmo

    How wonderful that you updated the romantic legend of Our Glorious Cause — the righteous fight for the Southern way of life — to portray our proud Southern tradition of erotic affection for domestic fowl, and to show how our Southern family pride has produced new generations of pedestal-worthy women we Southerners prize: the Mother-Wife-Sister-Cousin-Daughter-Niece-Granddaughters whom we cherish and protect from external corruptors, such as Universities, careers outside the home, birth control, and those meddling law enforcement types who try to fill their pretty little heads with lies about protection from “domestic violence.”

    You, Mr. John Beauregard Boehner IV, are a true Southern Gentleman. To show my appreciation, I am sending via special delivery a half dozen each of my finest Rhode Island Reds and Longhorn Whites.

  • Al Iriberri

    Tee, I say, I say son, hee.

    • beulahmo

      Ah say guffaw, son! A chortle, that is.

  • muselet

    My Dearest John,

    You would do well to take Major Darrell Beauregard Issa’s army from him. Major Issa’s practice of placing a chamberpot upon his head in the heat of battle had long since become a distraction.

    However, I must needs suggest that promoting Lieutenant Trey Beauregard Gowdy to brevet colonel was not the right decision. Given the shape of his head (a competent phrenologist would certainly have advised against giving him a command) and the blank, uncomprehending look in his eyes, it was perhaps inevitable that he has already shot himself in the foot before ever drawing his sidearm. No matter how loudly the vulpine reporters complain, you must take this man’s saber from him at once, before he juliennes himself.

    If only that nice General Lee were still around! He would know exactly how to defeat the damn Yankees!

    I would write more but oil for the lamps is very expensive and the deafening reports of natural gas pipelines bursting is a terrible distraction. Please write to me soon, and tell me more about your plan for impeachment. It sounds so wonderfully clever!

    Until next time,
    I remain,
    Your Beloved Mother-Sister-Wife


  • imavettoo

    By far the most artful description of “keep fuckin’ that chicken”. Thanks for that.

  • 1933john

    Dear Son,
    Don’t forget the fountains and toilets.
    Love, Mommy