I Stopped Paying Attention, But Here’s How I Imagine Biden’s Presidency Is Going When I Take NyQuil During the Day
I took NyQuil at 7 a.m. and wrote the story of Biden’s first 100 days. Here it is.
It’s February, and Mr. Biden is settling in. He’s replaced the Diet Coke button in the Oval Office with a Diet Tab button and changed the channel in the master suite from Fox to Antiques Roadshow. We’re healing.
Then Joe gives his first press conference. “Welcome home!” he beams. “Thanks for having us!” say the press. “Your hair looks great!” says CNN’s Jay Acosta, a little mic-happy. Biden chuckles: “I’ll give my compliments to the cats!”
Then it is quiet. “Um — ” says Acosta. “What cats?”
Biden squints, the fur on his head fluttering, tugging at the Elmer’s glue. “Come on, now!” he says.
But it’s too late, the cat’s out of the bag — or, more specifically, a White House intern leaks a photo of a vast, dank warehouse filled with shivering felines, Biden’s head-sized chunks of their skin bristling in the wind.
All hell breaks loose. AOC takes a bodega cat to Congress. PETA performs a version of CATS in which Grizabella ascends to the Heavyside Layer just to be shredded for president hair. Jen Psaki tweets an ill-advised meme of Grumpy Cat on Biden’s forehead screaming “Legal ImMEOWgration!”
In the midst of it all, our First Lady keeps on teaching. Intro to American Realism at Northern Virginia Community College doesn’t stop just because the President really harvests cat hair!
“So guys,” Jill begins. “I’ve had a weird weekend.”
Scattered chuckles. She’s relatable.
“I just want to say that my husband is a human being. He might be President, but he’s still an old man who doesn’t want to go bald!” Laughs, nods. “Joe’s a typical working-class America,” continues FLOTUS. “He likes milk in his cereal, watches football on Sundays, and every Christmas he cums in a manilla folder and mails it to the North Pole.”
And then, through a pastel mask that matches her dress: “F***.”
The author John Steinbeck would describe what happens next as “a grape of wrath.” Impeachment proceedings begin in short order, and the country is split. “Folders or Fascism?!” chants the Left. “Those Don’t Have To Be Our Only Options!” says the Far Left. In the end, the Articles pass — Joe Manchin crosses party lines, citing the fact that his constituents “use those a lot.”
But that’s okay, because we have Kamala, right? Well, unfortunately, that’s when the Post publishes its bombshell exposé of her time as a member of the Bay Area LARP community. “Once she strode over to me in her tunic,” says Gareth of Grenwall, “lifted her chaperrone, and whispered: ‘Even in the Middle Ages, you’d still be a fucking nerd.’” Elsie-Lynne the Exhumer comes forward with a much more serious accusation — “She used her judge’s gavel to break my knee-caps, spat on me, and screamed, ‘Welcome to Kama-lot, bitch.’ It hurt a ton but was also a serve.”
So before she can even kick off her spiked-heel clogges, Ms. Harris is voted out. Susan Collins casts the swing vote, explaining: “I am a warlock.”
It’s official — democracy is in crisis. Tensions broil across the nation; who, if anyone, can save us from Civil War?
It all falls on the lap of one Ms. Nancy Pelosi. Only here’s the thing — Nancy Pelosi is gone. Let me clarify; she’s not dead, but one morning in March, Hollywood actress Jamie Lee Curtis just assumed the role. A few Democrats noticed, but by that point, they were like what-ever; Republicans hadn’t seen Freaky Friday (2003) and, as such, were caught unaware of the actress’s surreal capacity for transformation.
If anyone can revive a franchise, it’s Jamie Lee; America is back and she’s hotter than ever. JLC changes the national anthem to “Pump Up the Jam” by Technotronic and the flag to a picture of Zendaya in an oversized sweater. All across the nation, women are asking their hairdressers for the “Jamie”; the streets flow with silver, spiky-haired queens who aren’t afraid to rip the mask off of the patriarchy and stab it in the eye with a coat-hanger, or hawk a probiotic yogurt when the time comes.
Safe in that knowledge, I will now drift off into cold-curing sleep, finally proud to be an American.
