Mitch O’Connell Ruins Christmas

What makes Mitch such a bitch

Amy Culberg
Feb 27 · 4 min read
Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

Even as a little boy, Mitch McConnell was such a prick. But you can’t call a seven-year-old a prick, can you?

Awkward, bitchy, self-righteous Mitch, on his first Christmas home from University, announced to his mother, “I stopped listening to y’all when I turned eight years old! I realized, then and there, that I was always gonna be in the room where it happened, and you weren’t.” He stuck out his tongue.

Mitch’s mother felt sad for him. He was a horrible human being. But you can’t tell that to a child, can you? And you always hope, as a mother.

His first lemonade stand was a total embarrassment. He would only serve the children who attended his school. “The right school,” he called it, hovering over his picture of lemonade, pursing his lips like he had lemon in his mouth.

When his mother nudged him, that he might make more money if he sold it to everyone, he considered it. He loved money, but he loved stopping future Democrats from getting lemonade even more. There was this special thrill that shot right through him when he deprived people of a cup of lemonade on a scalding hot day.

A little boy passed out right in front of his lemonade stand. When someone asked him for a cup of ice, he said that he required a school I.D. His mother ran outside with a wet cloth and stared at Mitch, her denial still functioning well enough to be surprised.

Later from the kitchen window, she watched, as her son batted away customers and potential friends when they could not produce the correct identification.

How was he going to find a friend or one day a wife? His mother wondered. Had she not woken up, that one night, with Mitchell standing in her doorway with a Swastika and a torch, she might have been more candid about her feelings.

“Son,” she might have said. “You’re devoid of character.” But these were the old days and people were who they were. There was no child therapy. There were no parent-run playgroups, where you could pretend your children had friends. There was no valuing nerds because one day they would be rich. Your kid was either delightful or your kid was a prick.

Mitch. Mitch. Mitch. His mother worried. Every Christmas, when he returned home, his mother found him even less delightful and more prickish, than the previous one. But she kept quiet.

One year, he raced downstairs on Christmas morning and declared, “Mother. You’re overpaying the cleaning lady.”

“Ana?” His mom said, surprised, denial still clinging. “She has to support her family in Croatia and I only pay her minimum wage.” She thought the minimum wage detail would calm him down.

Mitch went nuts. “We have an illegal immigrant working in our house who’s making minimum wage?! Minimum wage? Who are we? The Rockefellers?”

“Mitchell,” she scolded. “Ana needs to send money home. She is a citizen herself, darling. Anyway, there is no such thing as an illegal person.”

“I just barfed in my mouth!” Mitch retorted. He spent the next two Christmases hiding out at the Young Republican's Club, which always remained empty on the holidays. Republicans, as a rule, love a big family Christmas, surrounded by future voting Republicans, who will carry on their message, no matter how bizarre it becomes.

The doorman and the bartender at the club, tired of listening to a guy complaining about his mother the entire duration of the advent calendar, had a suggestion for Mitch.

“You will go further in politics,” they told him. “If you mend your riff with your mother.” They insisted that constituents did not trust politicians who did not go home for Christmas.

Mitch, concerned about the visuals, decided to try home again. Even though he swore he would never go back to that horrible place, with that horrible woman, he could change his mind. Being a flip-flopping morally bankrupt tool was his superpower and he knew it.

Mitch returned home the following Christmas with a re-gift basket full of various fruitbreads, re-gifted to him by co-workers, who couldn’t imagine giving him anything remotely personal. He was such an ass that even the recycled fruitbreads seemed like an excessively generous gift from his colleagues. They all agreed, that if anyone deserved coal on Christmas, it was Mitch McConnell.

When his mother cautiously opened the door, Ana, the cleaning lady, stood casually in the background, wearing a sexy Kimono and carrying a couple of mimosas. His mother had never looked happier and that disgusted Mitch to the core. He vowed to destroy America as soon as he returned to Washington.

When his mother asked, “Why America, Mitchell? Why not just destroy our family?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He said, making that weird bug-eyed face he always made, when he was being indignant.

“Not really, Mitchell,” said his mother, finally letting go of all hope for her son. “I’ve never really understood your motivation for anything. I’m always surprised by your decisions. I get this feeling, sometimes, like you’re going to do something really noble, and then you just surprise me with what a prick you are.”

He swore, from that day forward, that he would do everything in his power to make sure that no one could afford to live in his America unless they were rich and unless they were white.

Mitch returns home every Christmas now, but only to make sure that no one has a pleasant holiday. He has no idea that his mother and Ana celebrate their real Christmas, their loving family one, in April.

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Amy Culberg

Written by

Top Satire Writer. Top Fashion Writer. I’m just a writer, looking for a story, searching for the funny. If I find the punchline, I've found the truth.



Bootleg Humor Since 1720

Amy Culberg

Written by

Top Satire Writer. Top Fashion Writer. I’m just a writer, looking for a story, searching for the funny. If I find the punchline, I've found the truth.



Bootleg Humor Since 1720

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