That Long-Suffering, Self-Righteous, and Completely Lachrymal Struggle of White Guilt on the Make
The screen said: “Your Zoom Work Meeting Has Started.”
Kaitlynn said, “They’re killing black people. It’s making me cry. I can’t handle it. I’m so upset!” as she sipped her elderberry Kettle One cocktail and adjusted her flower-print Marchesa Notte V-Neck Embroidered High-Low Dress with her ass just on the edge of a dusty mint accent armchair. “I’ve just got to…do something.”
All Zoom meeting-goers concurred from their layered array of windows on the laptop’s screen. Michelle was tearing up, and Charmie’s voice was failing her, and there was all-around slight sobbing and wiping of noses. Then Charmie piped up: “These mofos on my Instagram feed. I’m calling anyone out who posts racist shit. I don’t care if I lose followers. I’m putting them on blast!”
In Buffalo a 75-year-old man was pushed to the ground by two heavily armored police officers, where he promptly cracked his head open and started bleeding on the concrete, while not one of the other 57 officers in the “Special Response Squad” offered him any succor. The President claimed that the elderly gentleman was faking the whole thing to undermine the efforts of police, who, according to him were, “99.9% great people.”
