Brrr–being left out in the electoral cold sucks. Good thing it isn’t happening to the right-wing!/Image: Licensed Adobe stock, digidreamgrafix.
This wasn’t going to be easy, Spread Your Right Wings (SYRW) readers, and I knew it. But few things in life that are worth doing come with no price. I, Antoine Boordayne, Spread Your Right Wings (SYRW)’s own Alt-right travel correspondent recently scaled the notoriously unforgiving, savage Mt. Votersupression in Everytown, America. Though it’s not as tall as some of the other peaks in the U.S. of A., in terms of hazards, risks, and potential perils, it’s known among the climbing community as one of the most unwelcoming summits in the nation. But, mountain-climber lore holds that if an adventurer makes to the top, he can be assured he’ll be able to vote, the number one most significant thing a citizen can do in a democracy, which the U.S. still is, at least in name. With the pitfalls littering this craggy protrusion of Earth, I had my doubts about whether voting is really a right every American can be assured of. As a member of the Alt-right, this made me deeply happy, of course. Below I recount my experience on Mt. Votersuppression!
0600 Hours: Base Camp
This was going to be a lone mission, and as a seasoned, professional travel writer, I was comfortable with that. I knew how to tackle a trip on my own, with just my love of repressed, bourgeois adventure to accompany me. I showed up at Mt. Votersuppression’s base camp with my pack stocked with food and supplies and overpriced Patagonia gear covering every inch of my ruddy, sunburned–honestly, pretty sexy–body.
I began climbing, and for the first few hundred feet, I was convinced this would be an easier excursion than I’d expected. The sun was shining, the birds chirping, and the Alt-right Alt-righting. I even lost myself in the moment at one point…but not for long!
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0800 Hours: The First Sign of Trouble
I had heard the weather could turn on a nickel-and-dimed-by-the-Federal-government-like-the-poor on ol’ VS, as avid climbers call Mt. Votersuppression. And despite the warnings of Muslim-Immigrant-Avalanches, I found I still wasn’t prepared for the speed at which those can come seemingly out of nowhere. Luckily, I flung myself to the side just before a head-covered, skull-cap-wearing, travel-banned Muslims came tumbling toward me. I gulped down the horror I couldn’t help feeling–even though they were Muslim–as they rolled out of sight. I pushed down that flicker of sympathy-for-the-brown-devils and turned to continue my ascent.
1000 Hours: Some-Mexican-body That I Used to Know
As I passed by a boulder the size of an SVU, I noticed a small mammal of some kind scurry out from behind it, stop to look at me, and then continue is a mad dash to who knows where. I thought to myself, “Up here–we’re all equal.” Except for some people. Apparently, anti-Hispanic sentiment and voter suppression efforts can survive when the wind chill bites like a deranged MS-13 gang member sinking his teeth into your flesh. There, behind the boulder, lay ten or so skeletons, their arms and legs draped all over each other like the paper streams on a pinata. I knew they were Hispanic because a tattered sombrero rested on top of one. I forced down my breakfast, which threatened to make a projectile appearance and thought, “You’re Alt, Antoine. You can’t empathize with this aye-yaye-yaye Speedy Gonzaleses!” I forced myself to keep moving upward and onward.
1200 Hours: Black Do Crack at 6,000 Ft.
Despite what would be an early hour back home at sea level–a place I would have shed a tear for at that point if I weren’t worried it would freeze on its descent down my face–noon felt cold and desolate at 6,000-feet above sea level. Just as a did a mental run check to make sure I hadn’t forgotten any body part in my blanketing myself in wearable layers just before beginning this journey, I noticed a staccato clicking noise, almost like the knocking of a woodpecker. As a cloud of mist parted in front of me, there were three African-Americans people, huddled together, shivering. They begged me for food, reaching out to grab at my ankles in desperation. Instinctively, I swatted at them with my —-, shot them a look of disgust, and returned my gaze to straight-ahead. You can never look away from the peak for too long, I had been told my a seasoned Vote Suppressor before I started this trek.
1400 Hours: Thar She Blows Poor Voters Off
Almost like a religious vision, suddenly, it seemed, there before me was the top of Mt. Votersuppression. I had been thinking of what she’d look like, but my fanciful reveries couldn’t prepare me for the top of this fearful pinnacle, her life-changing majesty. A frigid wind shot past me like an angry ghost, and I told myself, “Just a few more steps! You’re white, well-to-do, and wise–you…deserve…this!”
Everything in me, except my borderline-psychotic Alt-rage, told me to give up, to give in and let the mountain have me, have my life. But, no, I’m not some poor, dark-skinned, or uneducated person–I deserved the right to vote, and I was going to get it! I was going to take it like a pussy up for grabs! And then, just before my knees buckled under me for lack of quality oxygen, exhaustion, and immigrant-like lack of bootstrapping will, I was there!
I stumbled, but I caught myself before my aching muscles met the frozen ground. I lurched forward as if I were drunk. I was there. Like the true non-Jewish hetero White Dude I am, I stood erect, raised my fists above me, and yelled, “The vote is mine! The vote is mine!” I felt an almost sexual arousal–hey, I’m a straight douchebag, even when we’re almost dying, we can’t really turn it off. The last thing I remember is looking up at the sky and my eyelids pulling over and down it like a heavy, black shroud.
Cutting Off Your Gangrenous Arm to Spite Your Body
Now I know how James Franco’s character felt in 127 Hours! Oh, lord, the pain! I’d bet you some good merchant-class money there’s a liberal to blame for the horrific injury I sustained trekking up that godforsaken thing. Good thing I’m a white man with a college degree and a middle-class income, otherwise who knows how hapless, marginalized “I” would have fared. One would think this would instill in me some sympathy for the myriad communities who have an even more difficult time fighting the uphill battle to exercise their supposed civil right to vote. But, no–I’m Alt-right. And that means I proudly made it all about woe-is-me and how it was all so treacherous and depressingly doubtful for me…for us. Despite all that, I made it. And so too will you, dear SYRW readers, as long as you’re white, male, and moderately educated, as I’m sure you are. Otherwise, why would you be on this stupid-ass website?
Well, I’m going to go nurse my extremely minor wound and ask around to discover the next right-wing excursion to take you on same time next week.
Until then, I urge you to roam, wander, and explore the world–but always keep our White Nationalist Homeland in your small, low-capacity, conservative heart.
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