An Open Letter to American Rednecks

by Rich Herschlag

Congratulations. Your guy won. You took an hour out of your busy schedule to vote and went back to skeet shooting. Your civic duty is done. You don’t have to learn robotics. Or automation. Or C++. Or even how to spell. You will be confusing “you’re” and “your” till the day you die and maybe beyond.

Your GED or anything reasonably close is more than sufficient for the bounty that is headed straight for your door in Trump World. Education, like good manners on the internet, is obsolete. Kellyanne Conway took down your name and has already reserved an 80K/year job with full benefits and pension at the transmission parts factory that will be breaking ground next month in the empty lot cattycorner from your trailer.

Donnyboy has it all figured out. Day one—he pulls the plug on TPP. Day two—the nations of the Pacific Rim start banging at your door to buy brake pads at four times the average global cost. Day 3—you and the missus put the down payment on the RV you’ve been eyeballing since Christmas ’03.

Don’t be modest. Your stout refusal to acquire new skills since that priceless adolescence of getting tanked up on Night Train and running over mailboxes with Uncle Bobby’s Ford F-150 are not simply endearing, they are the foundation upon which the 21st Century will be built. You never succumbed to the Pell Grants doled out like crack by the evil federal government. You knew that what counts in this world is not the ability to absorb an ever-expanding array of technical information in a dizzying new millennium but rather your primal God-given knowledge of barbecue.

Your birthright is to exist in a sort of universal Hooters and see yourself through the foggy lens of a CMT video. All attractive females not willing to copulate and spawn miniature redneck heirs are communist, feminazi conspirators of the far left sent by Nancy Pelosi’s lesbian anti-American, radical Islamic cabal inside the beltway. Meanwhile limp-wristed socialists sit around in think tanks all day figuring out how to confiscate your 12-gauge.

Ironically, perversely, by insisting that the 21st century be rebuilt around your middle-20th century skill set, you are asking for not only a miracle rivaling the immaculate conception but a policy shift amounting to the largest, most egregious handout in the history of Western Civilization. And since pursuing a certification in arc welding is time-consuming, demanding, and costly, you propose instead we track down a 19-year-old Mexican-American nursing student brought to US soil at age two by her parents, apprehend her at 3 AM on her friend’s pullout couch, shackle her, process her, and dump her stunned and penniless in Juarez.

In painstakingly selecting a political savior you’ve anointed the bastard child of Gordon Gekko and Leona Helmsley. And really, who can blame you? How can you possibly hope to understand who Trump is when you’re not from New York? There’s a reason the closer you get to Trump Tower the lower the Trump support. When you finally get to the barricades at 55th and Fifth, they’re looking to lynch him.

Though he called you nasty and poorly educated, you fancy the president-elect likes and even admires you. In reality he’s never going to have that beer with you, not just because he doesn’t drink but because even if he did, to him you are an extra from Duck Dynasty. Bottom line—if you ever came within 50 yards of Tiffany, Secret Service agents would show you how Rodney King felt back in ’91.

You say you want to take back America from this group or that, but it was taken from you by kids of all colors who learned calculus, BASIC, statistics, and stoichiometry. You believe you’ll get it back by masturbating and streaming Jenna Jameson videos, but don’t hold your 75-proof breath.

Though you detest Latinos, oddly you are now experiencing your own Tony Montana moment. You know—that epiphany in Scarface when you look up in the sky and a lighted blimp reads, “The world is yours.” Well, I knew Tony Montana, I bought drugs from Tony Montana, and sir, you are no Tony Montana. Tony Montana was a self-starter and an entrepreneur. You are a coach-potato in search of gubment cheese.

Come on, suck it up. Life is good. You are free to shoot innocent animals, other rednecks, and yourselves. You are free to leave loaded rifles lying on the bed for your three-year-old boy to wander in and tinker with. You are free to open fire on a wide variety of liberal talking heads appearing on your flat screen TV. You are free to have familial relations with your beer-swilling, Buffalo wing-chomping, KKK tattoo-wearing female counterpart. You are free to marry your cousin. You are reasonably free to marry your sister. You are free to home school your inbred children and teach them climate change is a hoax and Hillary Clinton cannibalizes fetuses.

You are free to pray to Jesus. Twenty-four seven if you’d like. That includes when you’re wrestling with a blue marlin or you spot a junior high school girl you fancy at the Indy 500. Liberals be damned, nothing in this world can come in between you and Jesus except Jesus himself. Because if you ever happened to see the actual meek, olive-skinned, long-haired, toga-wearing prophet of Nazareth in the flesh, you would assault him, rape him, tar and feather him, and leave him lying face down in a ditch.

Give the coal country bit a rest already. Ever heard of textile country? It was Seventh Avenue in Manhattan in the 1950s, where my recent ancestors personally cut, seamed, and sewed 95 percent of every pair of overalls and long johns your recent ancestors ever wore. My great aunts and uncles lost their jobs when they were moved to cheaper, more efficient textile mills in Mexico, Honduras, and Singapore. So they bought candy stores and studied accounting. Their kids became doctors and lawyers. You voted for Donald Trump.

Stop screaming about how immigrants need to speak English. Here’s a deal—they will if you will. You say you hate Muslims, but you’ve never met one except for the second year resident who saved your life in the ER after your baby mama slashed your tires first and you second.

You say you want to build a wall, but you really want multiple walls. One between you and Mexico. Another between you and gay people. Another between you and African-Americans. Another between you and Jews. Another between you and women who can outthink and outperform you. Please build every one of those walls. We will all chip in and pay for it.