Zach Carter’s Terrible No Good Very Bad Day

July 17 started out like any other day for very very very very very white man, Zach The Mack Carter. For breakfast he had a green kale, avocado, wheat grass and kiwi smoothie, followed by twenty sit-ups. Wiping the sweat from his smooth, ivory brow, Zach washed his faced with Natura Bisse Diamond White Rich Luxury Cleanse, plucked a few stray hairs from his chin, sat down on his Boca do Lobo Imperfectio sofa, and began to think.

Zach was one of the many, many white writers and editors at Huffington Post, and today, he was finishing up an article about how Kamala Harris was best friends with Sheryl Sandberg, cozied up to big tech, and never did anything about internet safety. Well, except all the things Harris had done about internet security, but Zach knew the best thing about being a white progressive was other white progressives didn’t concern themselves with facts.

As he hurriedly typed, Zach could not have known that July 17 would become his terrible no good very bad day. Because Zach lived in a very white bubble, surrounded by other white editors and writers at the very white Huffington Post, he believed he was protected from the mobs of brown people and women and all the other icky things who were about to descend onto his Twitter feed.

Zach smiled as he put the finishing touches on his Kamala Harris piece. One of the great things about being both a very white writer and a very white editor was no one looked over his shoulder. And since Zach poo-pooed journalism as a whole, he was never bogged down by pesky ethics.

A few tweaks here and there, and Zach submitted his article. Stretching, he sauntered into his walk-in closet to find something to wear for his Zoom meeting with Walker Bragman and David Sirota. He reached for a Fa├žonnable pale blue dress shirt, a darker blue Brioni blazer, and Brooks Brothers linen trousers. Zach paused, staring at his ascot collection. No, too much, he thought, but he definitely wanted those beige Pantharella socks with the little polka dots.

His phone chirped-the article was live. Zach immediately posted a link on Twitter while buttoning his shirt. Suddenly, he noticed a surge in comments. His eyes narrowed, and as he realized what was happening, his already pale skin turned ashy. “KHIVE” he bellowed.

“God dammit, how the hell did they find this so fast?” he muttered angrily. What to do, what to do. He threw his Pantharella socks on the floor, pacing back and forth. Wait…the Block Chain of Doom.

Zach and David Sirota had, during a late-night game of Whist and Louis XIII Cognac, created the Block Chain of Doom for precisely this moment. Non-white, non-male, non-progressives were not getting the better of Zach the Mack Carter, not today! Zach scrolled through his systems and initiated the Block Chain of Doom. Everyone in his comments-blocked. Everyone with “KHive” in their bio-blocked. Everyone black-blocked. Women-blocked. Democrats-blocked.

Zach sighed as peace descended upon him once more. Then he realized KHive screenshot everything. Which meant every block notification would be shared with thousands and thousands of people. And that meant he would look like a complete and total idiot for not being able to handle criticism. It’s true that Zach couldn’t handle criticism in any way, but that was a private matter between Zach and his holistic mind healer/personal chef.

He had initiated the Block Chain of Doom too quickly, but he couldn’t turn back now. His feelings were hurt, and he’d lashed out. Who would blame him? KHive was so mean with their “Look at this article showing what Kamala did” responses, or their “You hate black women” comments. Zach did not hate black women. He was just scared of them.

Checking his Breitling watch, Zach happily saw it was time for the Zoom meeting with David and Walker. He turned away from the ugliness on Twitter, ready to have his ego stroked by his two best white friends. Zach poured himself a tumbler of Perrier, and squeezed a smidge of fresh lime juice on the bubbles. He would get through this. He was famous, after all.

But it was still a terrible no good very bad day.

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Published by The Writing Wombat

Writer, wife, mom, Democrat, trauma survivor

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