A Letter from Nathan Bedford Forrest
(This is to be read aloud in your best Civil War accent)
My Dearest Nashville,
I hope this letter finds you well.
It has been brought to my notice that my name, Nathan Bedford Forrest, has been of the attention of many as of late. My communication efforts are a tad delayed, so if this topic is no longer of high order then I do apologize.
News does not travel quickly down here to the deepest bowel of Hell.
Word has traversed past many gates of open fire that a statue of mine has become a topic of controversy. Therefore, I must begin by asking a simple question: who the here thought it was a good idea to put a statue up in my honor?! Frankly, I’m embarrassed. Does the sculptor not know of the defeat I suffered at the hands of my enemy? Why should the good southern people of rich heritage in Nashville have to be reminded of our downfall to the Union?
I can only assume that my fellow brethren of Tennessee erected such a monument to honor me soon after my passing in 1877. Maybe they waited a year for the soil to settle on my southern grave, or perhaps an extra year to find the proper location.
Bull hickey! These nincompoops didn’t erect my golden statue until 1998! The year of our Lord, 1998! Hoping higher than a hickory hollow that this was in fact an error in typing, I opened my Apple III computer and searched on Bing—as that is our only search engine down here—and as sure as the red clay of Georgia, this statue was commissioned in 1998. Can a man who initiated countless egregious acts and several war crimes not just die and be forgotten about? Is that too much to query?
Late in life, I prayed to white American Jesus every night, pleading that when I died that I could just be gone and disremembered. But here, 121-years later, and another 22 after that, my past has been brought to light. Please, let my time down here in this never-ending charcoal flame dungeon go quietly unnoticed.
As a new morning arrived here in the deepest bowel of hell, my mind started to wander while standing in line for six hours at the DMV—which is how every day of mine commences. If they were to construct a statue of me, beyond better judgment, then I hope it reflects my firm, stoic leadership that was always applauded by my troops. Maybe it shows me in the throws of battle with my sword drawn high, standing over a slain Union soldier as I look on in anticipation of my next victory.
Later that afternoon, during my lunch break at the Comcast Customer Service Center, which is headquartered here, I decided to search on Bing again to see what resemblance my honorable statue bore.
Sweet Mississippi Mud! Who commissioned this racket?! I bear a resemblance of a man who accidentally sat down on the seatbelt buckle of his airplane seat!
If you’re going to be so ignorant to honor me, a man who was the first Grand Wizard of the… well, you probably haven’t heard of this organization due to its shocking dreadfulness. In fact, it was so foul that I doubt it even made it to the 1900s, so I won’t even mention the name—but literally every deceased member currently resides in the apartment above mine here in the deepest bowel of hell.
Yet I digress…
If your (foolish) desire was to bring my family honor with this statue, then why does it look like I’m receiving a prostate exam?! And why doth my horse be clad in gold while I look draped in Reynold’s aluminum foil? At least cover us both in that greenish-grey color that most of the other statues dawn.
Furthermore, I do declare only one thing could make this matter worse, and that would be if it lay upon a busy part of town. I would hope such tacky remembrance of me, a man who embodies what being on the wrong side of history looks like, would be hidden deep in the forest. Additionally, I do understand that there was an inordinate opportunity to deploy a pun there with forest and my last name, but puns are illegal down here, and I can’t risk the punishment of having to spend another Saturday afternoon at a gender reveal.
Yet I digress twice…
Now, let me inquire to Bing where my statue rests. Oh white, conservative, upper-middle-class American Jesus, please let it be hidden from the public eye.
Blood of a pure-bred hound dog! They have positioned my bust and gaudy, golden horse on Interstate 65! Oh sweet southern sap, that’s the busiest thoroughfare in the municipality. If it’s not enough that every commuter pass it on their way to and fro work, but so must every weary traveler headed down to the white sandy beaches in the panhandle of Spanish Florida. Moreover, on a cloudy day where the sun might not reflect off of my racist, tin-foil face, they surrounded me with numerous flagpoles as to make sure no drifter may miss my effigy.
Why, Nashville? Why can’t you just allow one of the nation’s foulest natives go forgotten?
So here, I write this letter to you from the middle seat of an airplane while the passenger next to me tries to start a conversation even though my headphones are in my ears—as this is how I spend every Saturday afternoon in the deepest bowel of Hell—I implore you to take my statue down.
As lush as the bluegrass on a sun-kissed Kentucky hillside, I cannot fathom why anyone would desire to be reminiscent of my disgusting legacy. I have had 143 years to think about my time spent above ground, and the only way I found to cope with what I did was the thought that no one would remember or care about me some 10—maybe 12—years after my burial. Warm, salty, southern tears cascade down my face when I ponder what kind of idiot would want my statue to remain erect for another second. Please, by the grace of Granny Gertrude’s gravy, remove my statue and forget about me forever.
Now, I must go meet up with newcomer, Jeffrey Epstein, as we are assigned to spend the rest of the day untangling Apple headphones. Then we must gain rest, for tomorrow is a big day here in the deepest bowel of Hell. There is an event for the groundbreaking as a new construction project begins on what will be an even deeper bowel of Hell than mine. I don’t know who exactly will inhabit it, but I’m told it is for a man whose hair is as golden as his hands are small. Maybe you know of him.
Cordially,
Nathan Bedford Forrest
