Congratulations Southern Dandy!

You are a southern dandy, one of the last. You are a rarified breed now, isolated and noble in your ways but difficult to find, even for those who are looking. You put on your white/off white suits each day, smoke your hand rolled cigarettes on the porch on your manor home white you watch dark skinned people work around you and drink mint julips at the slightest provocation. You also carry a flintlock pistol in your breast pocket, just in case.

You are, in many ways, a protected species, a critical subset of the American social wilderness which demands careful protection. You are, in many other, more prominent ways, a force of intense destructive power whose very existence threatens our world. If you didn’t keep to yourself this latter part of your persona might be a bigger issue, but for most of the last decade you’ve been satisfied to just sit and rock on your porch, occasionally playing board games or gin rummy with other southern dandies.

That ends today.

Today you’re going to wake up, carefully dress yourself, shave your face to maintain your carefully manicured moustache and step up on the steps. Then you’ll look out across the fields and notice your workers looking upset about something.

“What’s wrong, boy?” you’ll ask a black man four years your elder. He’ll look at you like he wants to hit you, but then he’ll remember how much you pay him to put up with his shit and think of his daughter and her gay ass art school bills and he’ll cluck his tongue and tell you what’s what.

“Man on the radio spoke ill of the first black President today,” he’ll say, shaking his head. “Enough to boil my blood.”

You’ll thumb your beard and wonder aloud. “A negroid President? Such a thing shall’nt be!” Then you’ll toss your white gloves into the air and enter your antique model-T automobile, so enraged at the state of things that you’ll drive it yourself, unassisted by an attendant.

You’ll drive four days and four nights from southern Georgia all the way to Washington D.C., travelling at a steady thirty five miles per hour for ten hours a day until you arrive, gloveless and upset, in the capitol.

“I demand to see the President!” you’ll shout at the first resident of D.C. you see, a homeless man named Carl who lives underneath an overpass.

You’ll hold him bodily and threaten to throttle him until he agrees to show you where the President is, as all D.C. residents are required by law to do upon request from a southern gentleman such as yourself. Once he reveals the President’s location, in yonder manor house ‘pon the green, as you would put it, you’ll stride up and announce to the Secret Service, “I am here to see the President.”

The Secret Service will step to the side, as they’ve been trained for years to do, and let you pass into the President’s inner sanctum. There you’ll find him at his desk, signing some bills into law or whatever Presidents do. You’ll stand in front of him until he looks up, and then give him a gentle pat on thc eheek.

“I demand a duel, you upstart quadroon,” you’ll say, stroking your moustache as you speak. The President will look at you, narrow his eyes and sigh.

“Very well,” he’ll say in his Presidenty voice. He’ll know the rules, well as anyone else, that if he were to refuse a duel you’d become the new President in all but name, and Barack Obama loves America too much to see it fall back into the hands of retards like you.

So the two of you will meet out on the lawn. He with his wife and children watching on, holding an SIG automatic he borrowed from one of the Secret Service guys. You alone spare your butler, who will have walked to D.C. in the time between your departure and the duel, who will stand with a white cloth over his arm, wondering what he’d do if he were set free, hoping he’s loaded your flintlock pistol correctly so as to avoid a whooping later.

The Secretary of Defense will stand between the two of you, staring at a digital watch before he shouts:

“DUEL!”

And the two of you will draw. You’ll be an old man by this point, decrepit and out of shape, whereas the President, despite his stresses, will be in excellent physical condition, aside from the smoking. He’ll move fast, faster than you’d ever thought a man could, and pump two rounds in your direction. The second one will catch you in the shoulder and knock you to the ground, where your butler will run to you.

“Young master!” he’ll cry, shuffling to your side.

But you’re a tough old bird, and that won’t make you give up, no sir. You’ll sit up, look the President in the eye and declare “I am bested, sir. Good day.” Then you’ll let your manservant haul you to your feet, drag you to your car and drive you home, where you’ll plot social revenge against President Barack Obama, conspiring to never again invite him to your wondrous afternoon teas.

Congratulations Southern Dandy!