My apologies to Chet Hanks, but I think we can find a little better standard bearer for White Boy Summer.

The last living wigger put out his summer anthem from behind the wheel of a Lambo, breaking down the phenomenon that’s taken frat houses and right-wing Twitter by storm. I certainly like the energy, but WBS is about more than slamming coke and running through Instagram thots: it’s a spirit, an aesthetic, a return to an inimitable vibe all but lost to history. And as it gains momentum with the mainstream right, it’s best to head off the predictable pressure tactics being applied by our favorite corporate Communists. “Goofy as it may seem,” mewls some ebonics nationalist blogging for MSNBC, “this is not something we should take lightly.”

It most certainly is not.

At the most literal level, WBS is a riff on Megan Thee Stallion’s “Hot Girl Summer,” something that passed for a feminist anthem in 2019. The original has all the hallmarks of modern feminism: a contrived edginess about sexual conquest, with lyrics as revolting as they are banal, and a shameless, hierarchical arrogance that strives to put the hot girl on top as she gets her pick of the “five-star dick.”

So while WBS at first appears reactionary, it’s not. It’s the modded-out she beast who’s recoiling with vicious ressentiment. The Hot Girl comes from a place that should have shame, but breaks the boundaries anyway. She knows what she’s saying is repulsive and unnatural; that’s why she says it. She wants what the white boy has by right.

The white boy has a natural shamelessness because there is no shame to be had. Sexual conquest is his right. He competes for the love and lust of the Hot Girl—but only among his peers. And he need not strive to make his position so explicitly clear: it’s known to all already, and their resentment is the proof. WBS is nothing but centuries of self-aware Western excellence, distilled through popular culture and re-realized by the sleeping masses. It reclaims hierarchical assuredness perverted by the Left and channels it to its rightful place.

This manifests most clearly in the clean-cut, effortless White Boy aesthetic, a look that the Left both fears and reviles. It may be casual, a golf polo hanging loosely over some running shorts, or it may lean more towards traditional prep. Of course, the frat star could always just stick to a good-old varsity tee. Grooming and accessories are a must: neatly styled hair and a clean shaven face, or at most, a well-trimmed beard; tanned skin, slim but muscled; a nicer-than-average watch; and a fragrance rich with an intoxicating power of its own. You’ll know it when you smell it.

It’s a distinctly American sprezzatura for a generation of men who care little about formal aesthetics, and it all says the same thing: we are young, athletic and effortlessly in control. Filled with the confidence and energy that breeds, we reject your cult of hideousness and infirmity. Cry about it, fatty.

This aesthetic is a constant reminder of who ought to set the rules of the social hierarchy—and how they do it all without really trying. So the Left does its best to hem them in.

The current white-boy generation has spent their entire life under the boot of educational preening, HR propriety, and credentialing circus-hoops, through which the left launders its hate and fear. “You are no better than anyone else,” the white boy is told by a fat woman of middling authority, but what she really means is “You are worse: subordinate your interests and instincts to those naturally beneath you.” This formalized routine is all he ever knew, so he has accepted it as something that just exists—despite occasionally having to be nudged back in line. But the bureaucracy of faux-civility has now been widely exposed for what it is: a web of arbitrary authority backhandedly imposed by resentful inferiors. Realizing this, the white boy has come to see that he has nothing to fear. His consciousness awakens.

The politics of WBS grows from this realization, as the white boy’s newly unbridled masculinity is channeled against the regime of the weak and hideous. His youthful rebellion rages against those who arbitrarily tell him what he must say, think and do. But it is not even really a rebellion; he is simply acting as he would prior to living under the stifling pettiness of the regime.

There’s a latent nostalgia around summertime for America’s repressed young men. It was a time, not necessarily of rebellion, but of freedom from constraint. While we toil away in our cubicles, we yearn for the days of pure, boyhood leisure. They afforded the critical time for boys to forge bonds that pushed them towards manhood: secrets that developed into pacts; a distinct humor that built to a group philosophy, with only irreverence toward the outside world; and an unrestrained group spontaneity that can only spring from conditions of complete trust and youthful vitality. This is what the white boy reclaims from the left today.

“White Boy Summer!” he screams, perfectly coiffed while storming a public beach with 12 of his best friends. To even say the words as anything but a pejorative is a rejection of everything he’s been taught, and he is done with all this politically correct gayness. He will make brash, uncouth, disgusting jokes about all sacred cows and fear no snitching or offense from his friends. In both conquest and romance, he will pursue women, forgetting all the silly playground rules of modern dating. The 4th of July will be a proud day to celebrate his heritage, and he will do so without feeling the need to temper it with a nod to Juneteenth. His family’s achievements are his by right, and he will wear his “unearned” privilege proudly on his sleeve. He will speak his mind: declare what he agrees with, and flippantly ignore or denounce what he does not. Most importantly, he will forsake any inherent guilt in his identity—and be free to act accordingly.

He’s not striving to trample norms the way the Left does; he’s simply forgetting they exist, and in doing so, taking their power away. He is just being himself—and having a damn good time doing it.

The White Boy’s jovial nature is the key to his political power. His haters seethe, twisted under the weight of their own self-seriousness, but he doesn’t take himself too seriously. He has nothing to prove; this is all for fun. He rejects the misery that resentment brings to enemies and laughs carelessly at their sanctimony. In doing so, he shows other, weaker men that it’s okay to laugh as well.

This is all a far cry from the celebration of Western excellence as it’s usually portrayed. But the excellence of WBS is about the vibe, not what you learn at school or university. The White Boy probably doesn’t know great art or literature, and will be at best an armchair history buff—but there’s nothing wrong with that. His celebration of Western excellence is his defiant, natural embrace of everything the hideous Left says must not be celebrated. This summer, he has the power to tear down a centuries-long intellectual project for sport.

So this begs the question: is WBS exclusively for white boys? Mostly, probably—but not necessarily.

As much as the left loathes to admit it, America is, or was until recently, a post-racial society. Quit all the race-baiting, and Americans would quickly go back to not seeing color. Black kids and white kids could once again rap Lil’ Wayne together in harmony. So WBS, like Yale, tennis, and the Hamptons, is now open to all who have the chops to buy in. And the buy-in places far more emphasis on “boy” than “white,” anyway.

Will this all skew towards upper middle class white boys with stable upbringings and a red-blooded appreciation of America? Sure, but there’s nothing wrong with that—and assimilation is both welcome, possible, and politically necessary.

So with summer now in full swing, it’s time to choose. Which way Western man: will you spend the next two months exploding with petty rage, or are you ready for a White Boy Summer?