One of the great things about Christmas, in addition to the worldwide celebrations of the birth of Jesus and all the merriment that goes along with the commemorations – blinking lights, traditional feasts, Christmas carols, smiling, happy people, aged wine, enticing sales, gobs of presents and relatives and friends around every corner – is the reruns.
At perhaps no other time of year do TV broadcasters and movie channels feature both new Christmas-themed productions as well as old standards, movies and specials from decades past that we still enjoy re-seeing – but once a year. One familiar movie from the mid-20th century is “It’s a Wonderful Life”, the ultimate tale of earthly perspective and redemption. I’ve seen it a few dozen times, and it never gets old.
The Jimmy Stewart classic is about the reason for the season, too. In a piece titled “‘It’s a Wonderful Life’: A celebration of Christ”, Everett Piper wrote at The Washington Times earlier this week:
“The tale of how George Bailey changed Bedford Falls is merely a metaphor for how Christ changed the world. We are told in Matthew 1:21, ‘His name shall be called Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins,’ and a brief look at history tells us that this is true.
“Christmas not only saves us from our personal sins, but the life of Christ has saved us from the sins of untold others who, before his birth, would have ignored us, used us, oppressed us, enslaved us, or even killed us in the halls of their governments and on the altars of their gods.
“So, this year, as you watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ for the umpteenth time, remember this: ‘If because of one man’s trespasses, death reigned … [how] much more will … righteousness reign … through the one man Jesus Christ’ (Romans 5:17).”
I concede I’ve always been a fan of “It’s a Wonderful Life”, but I’d never quite looked at it the way Piper depicted it. This almost makes the film new, doesn’t it?
At any rate, last December I put together my own adaptation of the story with a contemporary political theme, this time starring president senile Joe Biden and cackling vice president Kamala Harris filling in for the main characters. Together, they offer their own interpretations of George Bailey and his guardian angel, Clarence. How might’ve senile Joe decided to run for reelection? Find out here:
____________________________________________________________________________
In this takeoff on the 1946 holiday classic “It’s a Wonderful Life”, Joe Biden looks back on his presidency to see whether he should run for reelection in 2024 – or simply end it all. Thankfully he has an establishment Guardian Angel – Kamala Harris – to show him that he’s really had a rotten presidency and his contributions to making people miserable definitely merit a second term in a Democrat’s estimation. Will he see the light and run again?
–Somewhere in the White House, it’s 2022.
Joe Biden ain’t no George Bailey, that’s for sure.
Whereas most of the world’s Christians are busy preparing their homes and families for the celebration of another Christmas Eve, a desperate and hopelessly confused senile President Joe Biden sits alone in his secret thinkin’ place in the White House family quarters sulking.
Wife Dr. Jill had had enough when Joe broached the idea of bringing in a weirdo drag queen dressed as a very sexy Mrs. Claus to read the “Twas the Night Before Christmas” poem to the grandkids and then criticized, again, her Christmas decorating talents – so she kicked her husband out of the couple’s holiday party, right in the middle of the festivities.
He slinked upstairs and staved off tears by steadily sucking on a candy cane, the only sustenance he could locate to satisfy his hunger pangs.
Up until a few years ago, you see, senile Joe loved everything about Christmas. He figured, what other day of the year was purposely set aside for feasting until your belt buckle bursts, for singing familiar songs and carols with all the gusto you can muster, and then opening gifts paid for by someone else — and also for bragging about all the great things you claim you did since the previous December 25th?
But ever since Biden was declared president in November of 2020, his attitude towards the happiest day of the year (for most folks) had markedly changed. Two years ago this very night, Joe was visited by the ghost of a still intoxicated and rude Teddy Kennedy who foretold of the coming of three more spirits who then dragged him out of his room and forced him to witness scenes from his own life – Christmases past, present and (maybe) yet to come.
Joe sighed deeply as he recalled that none other than his vice president-to-be, Kamala Harris, played the spirit of the future, and he couldn’t help but shudder at the memory.
“That wasn’t a fun night,” senile Joe said to the stillness of the barren storage room, hoping it would sooth some of the hurt after all this time.
It didn’t. As if his journey through his pre-presidential life weren’t bad enough, Joe thought back to last year, when he was once again visited by the foul-smelling and ill-mannered ghost of Teddy Kennedy, who, like the previous holiday, brusquely informed him that because he hadn’t ingrained the life and moral lessons from the previous visitations that he would once again be haunted by three apparitions, which he soon was.
Despite the horror, Joe chuckled as he recalled the sight of Kennedy’s transparent ghostly form being chased across the White House lawn by his dog Major and the rest of the executive mansion security detail. But the hilarity soon left him as he also remembered that Donald Trump played the ghost of Christmas present and Ron DeSantis was Christmas yet to come in his own hellish glimpse of his world.
“Not funny”, Joe repeated to the stillness. “I hate Christmas now. Not only that, but some other supernatural being is probably going to drop in tonight. I’ve been even more thoughtless and stupid and selfish in 2022 than I ever was in 2020 or 2021 — so what’s it gonna be now, you secular cosmic deity?”
Noting that no bolt of lightning emerged from the ceiling and the sound of the decomposing Ted Kennedy’s ponderous chains was nowhere to be heard this time, senile Joe smiled and decided to go for a short walk to celebrate his apparent good fortune. “I knew somehow I’d keep them away”, he remarked to himself, emitting a loud and raspy belch and a few Ho Ho Ho’s like jolly ol’ Saint Nick himself. “Maybe instead they’ll send Santa to see me like all those years as a teen when the red coated guy came to call on me and Corn Pop, the gang leader, in the middle of the night while we were trading punches and chain lashes.”
Joe put on his warmest coat and strolled out the back door of the White House undetected and, despite an intermittent light drizzle and cool breeze, proceeded to walk until he came across the entrance to the Memorial Bridge, Arlington Cemetery dimly lit in the distance by moonlight through a break in the clouds. “I’ve always liked that place, and the ghosts over there won’t bother me, since I’m the commander in chief and they wouldn’t dare defy their orders and talk down to the big boss”, Joe spoke to the night.
Upon reaching the halfway point, however, senile Joe paused to peer over the bridge railing and was mesmerized by the sight of the Potomac River down below, the water flowing under the structure as though it understood its final destination. At that moment Joe thought back to all the sadness he’d endured during his presidency, like the boring ceremony when the Afghanistan war casualties came home as well as the merriment of his enemies — like the goons at Fox News — who delighted in showing his multitude of screwups practically nightly on TV.
A sudden wave of grief came over him like a flash storm as he pondered another two years of the self-inflicted pain and, at that moment, Joe decided he wouldn’t run for reelection. No, he’d simply concede defeat to his Republican enemies and Father Time and bow out like so many begged him to do just a few months ago.
After all, grouchy old miser Bernie Sanders once told him that he was worth more dead than alive, and for the first time in his life, doubt entered Joe’s cognitively challenged brain. “I don’t wanna run again and Dr. Jill ain’t gonna make me do it this time. All that fundraising and begging people for cash and many of the usual sources drying up and/or going to jail. Perhaps it’d been better if I’d never been elected president at all. Maybe Trump was right – that the election really was stolen. I can’t give it back now, though – I’ve screwed things up beyond redemption. I bet people would just be happier if I’d never been a politician at all.”
At that instant Joe heard thunder from the heavens – or it could’ve merely been the rumbling from his increasingly restless stomach after gulping down another of Dr. Jill’s horrible Christmas eggnog concoctions at the start of the evening – but before he could barf and throw himself off the tall span to end it all in the spark of an impulse, an unknown human came out of nowhere and beat him to the action, the obviously female form hitting the water with a tremendous thud whereupon she began flailing and shouting “HELP!” and thrashing around in the frigid wetness below.
“Dang, lady. Why the heck would you do that?” Joe muttered to himself, then leapt to the woman’s aid like he’d done so often in his old lifeguard days in Delaware, temporarily forgetting that he was a lousy swimmer – at least with clothes on and not in the presence of female Secret Service agents.
Joe struggled a bit but managed to drag the fifty-something half African-American woman to the bank of the river and then up onto the road where an anonymous motorist thought they were hitchhikers and proceeded to drive them back to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to warm up and figure out what just happened.
Once the two strangers ascended the stairs and reached the empty storage room that served as Joe’s secret hideout in the big House, Joe looked at the woman he’d saved from drowning and asked, “Why the heck did you do that, barefooted lady? What are you, ignorant?”
The woman was preoccupied with wringing the water out of her flattened coiffure, so she took a few seconds to answer. “I jumped in to protect you, Joe” she replied matter-of-factly. “I’m your Washington establishment guardian angel, silly,” the soaked as a wet rat lady giggled and then laughed uproariously with a familiar maniacal grin on her face, apparently oblivious to the fact the fall from the traverse had practically killed the 80-year-old man she was trying to “save”.
An abrupt look of recognition came over Joe’s mug. “Wait a second. What are you doing here, Kamala, and why did you ruin my ruminations of grandeur on that bridge?” Joe asked the much shorter female incredulously. “I was gonna take myself out of the ’24 race right then and there, which would’ve opened the door for you and simultaneously ended all of those upcoming Republican House investigations into Hunter’s laptop! Can’t you see that?”
Kamala Harris looked stumped and puzzled. “Duh, I hadn’t thought of that, Joe. That might’ve been a good thing since it’s the only way I’d ever become president. But the party powers-that-be figured you might try to off yourself at some point, so they sent me to follow you. What else do I get to do? From my old days tailing Willy Brown, I’m pretty darn good at stalking men!”
Joe wasn’t sure why the woman laughed again and wouldn’t stop, but he was starting to get annoyed. “Well, what’s done is done, Kamala. Like with every other time, you’re no longer needed here. I gotta call in some servants to strip me down and dry me off anyway. So, get out!”
“No way, Joe!” Harris retorted in her usual airy way. “’Saving’ you meant more than just keeping you from killing yourself prematurely, bub. I’m here to show you how you’ve really had a crappy presidency. But Democrats still need you, because everyone thinks you’re the only one who could and still can beat that devil Trump. So, tonight you’re being given a great gift by the donors. A full-on production to show you what the country would’ve been like without you. And I ain’t leavin’ ‘til you’re humble and grateful and running through the streets of Washington knocking on windows and shouting hello to every bureaucrat-stuffed federal building that’s ever figured in your world!
“Besides, I need to show the higher-ups that I’m more than just an Affirmative Action hire who identifies as female and black at the same time. Fixing you might do the trick. Are you gonna help me out?
“You need to help me get my pumps!”, Kamala bellowed to the open air, her closed fists held high to the sky.
Joe seemed perplexed. What’d she mean by “get her pumps” anyway? Doesn’t matter. “I don’t believe it. Not possible. Not happening. You aren’t my Washington establishment guardian angel. You’re someone I selected from a very short list of available pigmented females with any kind of resume going on three years ago. If this really were what you claim it is, they would’ve sent me someone hot and attractive like that big booty Latina Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez to give me a tour of my life! You’re more like Maxine Waters than a beauty queen,” Joe blubbered in his usual way.
“But lead on. After that high dive into the Potomac River you smell a little better than ghostly moldering Teddy Kennedy did during his two visits the past two Christmases – his corpse hadn’t hit water in years. So at least something’s improved.”
Unlike with the Christmas ghosts who’d come to call, Joe couldn’t just take hold of Kamala’s sleeve to transform the two of them to some mystical and timeless location. The woman simply instructed Biden to close his eyes tight, rub his tummy and tap his shoes together three times and they would get to where they needed to go. So Joe did as instructed.
A couple thunder bolts exploded and the two of them found themselves in front of Joe’s favorite ice cream shop, an approved constituent as its proprietor. The octogenarian had been there many, many, many times, but somehow it looked different this time. Upon entering through the clear glass door, Joe and Kamala noticed the place was packed, bustling with energy and everyone in attendance was smiling, happy and jovial.
“Wow, this place sure looks happenin’,” Joe said to no one in particular. Kamala spotted a couple vacant stools at the bar and beckoned her charge to go and sit with her. Joe recognized the owner and spoke up. “Hey Nick, I’m in a bit of a spell here. Bring me the usual, will ya? Only this time gimme double ice cream and add some chocolate syrup on top.”
Nick appeared amused by the much older – and bolder – man. “Hey pal, I can’t give you the usual since I’ve never met you before. But I’ll be pleased to add the chocolate syrup you requested.”
Joe was perturbed. “Whaddaya mean you don’t know me, Nick, I’ve been coming in here for decades, handing you some business when you desperately needed the government’s help. Now just give me the usual and I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Again, mister, glad to see ya, but I don’t know you and since the government has never helped me a day in my life, I’ve always been so busy I could hardly think straight. It sure helped me way back when Ronald Reagan was president and there were all those tax cuts and regulations slashed. My business doubled over ten years. I think they called it ‘Morning in America’. Well, it’s been that way ever since,” Nick replied pleasantly, reaching for a bottle of chocolate sauce to add to a sweet treat for a kid down the bar.
“What’s your favorite flavor again, pal?”
Joe told the man, but still didn’t catch on to the irony involved. “I don’t understand why people are acting this way, all happy and stuff,” Joe griped to Kamala. “This place was practically destroyed during the COVID/Trump riots two years ago, and this whole area was renamed ‘Black Lives Matter Square’ or something like that as a reward to the ‘protesters’. I thought those Democrat voters also tore down that statue outside, but I see they put it back and it’s even flying a big American flag now. What gives?”
Kamala figured it would take some time for the obviously slow-minded president to comprehend that this was a glimpse of his life as though he’d never gone into politics and served as president. She chortled in her most dimwitted way and explained, “I told you, Joe. No one knows you because you get to see how different it would’ve been if you’d never been a politician. This ice cream business is thriving and the people are happy because you weren’t there to pass all those stupid big government laws and empower the bureaucracy to regulate entrepreneurs like Nick to death. And the country isn’t practically bankrupt now because Republicans controlled the budget for most of the time.
“The people are wealthier and freer in this Joe Biden-less America. And Nick was able to hire a bunch of people because the minimum wage wasn’t boosted to $15/hr like you worked to do. He treats his employees well and they can’t wait to go to work for him every day!”
Right then Nick pushed the button on an old-fashioned cash register to make change for a crisp new $20 bill someone had handed him (which actually had value because inflation was so low), upon which Kamala leaped with joy and barked. “Whoops! There goes another one, Joe. Every time a cash register jumps, a Democrat establishment guardian angel gets her pumps!”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Kamala. But you never did make any sense to me with all that nonsensical babbling about pronouns and gender and locking up pot dealers. Let’s get outta this place. I need to go somewhere where it makes sense,” Joe complained.
Joe closed his eyes, rubbed his midsection and clicked his heels together three times and the two of them were transported to an anonymous empty field somewhere in the middle of the country. Nothing could be garnered about the significance of the place from simply looking at it – other than to see a near-finished pipeline and its corresponding mounds of dirt surrounding it, waiting to cover the pipe from view as if nothing had ever disturbed the soil.
“What’s this, Mrs. Establishment Guardian Angel? Why are we here? It’s cold and I see a mundane landscape with one of those awful, climate killing pipelines over there. Isn’t that thing uglier than heck? I’d much rather have giant windmills for as far as the eye can see, and didn’t Hunter make a deal with the Chinese to manufacture solar panels? Who cares how many dang birds are killed by the clean energy things. Birds don’t pay taxes and they don’t vote,” Joe said, seemingly disturbed but unmindful to his ridiculous rambling.
“Well, Joe, since you weren’t ever elected, you didn’t become president and politicians with common sense surmised that finishing this massive pipeline project was a good idea. As you know, pipelines are extremely environmentally safe, unobtrusive, long-term cost effective and alleviate the need to ship things overland by smelly, diesel-burning trucks and trains,” the pumpless other-worldly being explained.
“What we can’t see here are all the people whose lives were improved by being employed building this thing and then the tens of millions of world citizens who will benefit from affordable and clean burning energy it transports for pennies on the dollar. In Joe Biden’s real existence, energy prices shot through the roof, helping Vladimir Putin finance his oil-inspired invasion of Ukraine. This completed pipeline probably would’ve discouraged him from doing so. He’d go broke. Hundreds of thousands of lives and trillions of bucks would’ve been saved.”
“No way, Kamala. All those Green New Deal lobbyists told me that the climate would self-destruct if we continued to use fossil fuels like we were doing. Big gas guzzling cars trash the planet. So let people pay more. It’s penance for the sins of industrialization and the assembly line. Henry Ford, rot in hell! The Chinese make all that renewables stuff and dump it on the market. What’s wrong with that? Chinese people have to have jobs too, don’t they? They can’t all work in restaurants stirring Kung Pao Chicken, can they?
“I don’t even eat that crap,” Joe whimpered emphatically.
“Government policies turn so many lives, Joe,” Kamala expounded. “Every stroke of the executive pen has the power to destroy someone’s livelihood, which in turn effects their families, friends, relatives – and their communities. Government has the capability of financially leveling entire towns. Look at this almost finished pipeline. Imagine it being cancelled, like you did on the first day of our administration. Good union jobs, too.”
Joe frowned. “I’ve seen enough here. There’s nothing to see except a big hole in the ground with that obnoxious naked pipe staring back at me. Next!”
Kamala feared that the night’s lessons weren’t quite reaching her boss and she might not get her pumps after all. ‘What a waste of time this has been, just like sitting through another of Joe’s boring conference calls where he can’t stop dribbling about what he did in high school in 1958’.
Before she could say anything, Joe closed his eyes and rubbed himself once again and clicked his heels three times and the two Democrats were transported to a closed-down bank in Ukraine where the Ukrainian oil company Burisma used to do its business. The place had been blown apart by a Russian shell, but you could tell it’d been shuttered long before Vladimir Putin gave the go-ahead to invade his sovereign neighbor. A sign with the company name was filthy and dusty, dangling down after its nail support deteriorated long ago.
“What’s this, Kamala. Where are we now?” Joe queried stupidly.
“Don’t you know this place, Joe? This is where Burisma’s tainted officers used to conduct their business and assorted Ukrainian mafia schemes. The company closed a decade ago because they were investigated by a Ukrainian prosecutor for corruption, whereby they were charged, convicted and are now in prison,” Kamala replied.
The pump-less California airhead went on. “As veep, you bragged about how your say-so got the prosecutor removed because you were going to withhold a billion bucks in U.S. aid unless the Ukrainians did your bidding. You impacted so many lives, Joe. Hunter is now a failure as a businessman… and, let’s face it, without you to prop up the boy’s painting career… well, let’s just say the influence peddlers weren’t impressed when they saw it.
“They said Hunter’s art sucked, Joe. That’s right, and, since you were not into politics, he’s not getting any kind of special shielding from the deep state, either. In fact, the FBI is still legit in a Biden-less world. The American people revere the federal intelligence agencies, not mistrust them like under your reign.”
Upon hearing about his youngest son’s creativity being savaged by critics, Biden couldn’t contain his grief any longer and began sobbing intently, his tears soaking his suit that had dried since the couple’s little jaunt in the Potomac River.
“Every one of those Ukrainian and Chinese government-tied companies failed, Joe, because you weren’t there to prop up Hunter with all those sleazy, backroom deals that you made first as Obama’s vice president and then as president yourself! He went bankrupt and is sweeping floors in an insane asylum when he isn’t being confined in rehab or doing time in the hoosegow. Hunt nearly OD’d a hundred times and he now has over three dozen illegitimate children at last count from all of his binges with hookers, strippers and tramps.
“You see, you’ve really had a corrupt, dirty and un-wonderful life, Joe. Every Democrat politician’s filthy dealing influences the next. Just think about all the grift, excess and federal spending that you’re personally responsible for, Joe. Then consider how many conservative judges you’ve shot down through your judicial committee chairmanships. Heck, if it weren’t for you, Roe v. Wade would’ve been overturned over thirty years ago when Robert Bork hit the Court. The U.S. population would be tens of millions larger and we wouldn’t have a need to let in the illegal alien caravans and give them amnesty, Joe.
“Antonin Scalia would’ve eventually made it to the Court, right? He might’ve been the nominee instead of that feckless wienie David Souter, and then where would we be?”
“Bernie Sanders-ville, that’s where,” Joe said as he looked at the ground and kicked a partially smoked cigarette butt with his foot, nearly falling over from the exertion. “It isn’t possible any of this would’ve actually happened because I’ve been such a positive light for the world. You know, talking about ‘restoring the soul of our nation’ and pointing out how all Republicans are semi-fascist and a threat to humanity. I may not want to run for reelection now and was contemplating throwing myself off the Memorial Bridge, but on balance I’ve done an awful lot to ruin a lot of lives.
“And that’s a good thing, since Americans are inherently selfish and greedy and lazy and anti-union and who needs all of that money and consumer stuff when they can be paying their fair share of taxes to Uncle Sam and empowering elected morons like you and me to make policies restraining everyone. You know, making people equal by dumbing down the talented folks to the level of crackheads like Hunter and couch sitting welfare queens like the babes in ‘The Squad’.”
The statement was so dumb that even Kamala Harris rolled her eyes. Don’t Democrats always do good for the world? Didn’t she almost get Brett Kavanaugh to admit that he’d held orgies and took advantage of all those young girls when in high school?
Right then and there, Kamala decided to get out of this hellish nightmare. If she wanted those establishment guardian angel pumps, she’d have to do it with some other hopeless Democrat politician, not this brainless doddering idiot of a man. Someone said that Pete Buttigieg was having a personal crisis through all the stress from a clogged supply chain and having to take care of twin adopted brats upon returning from trips on private jets. His “husband” Chasten wasn’t a very good stay-at-home mom, either.
So, she took Joe’s arm and closed her own eyes and rubbed her own tummy and they ended up back in the familiar confines of Washington, DC. The national Christmas tree twinkled brightly in the background and a sudden gust of wind ripped at their traveling clothes. Kamala then vanished into thin air on her own volition.
Immediately alert, Joe found himself back on the Memorial Bridge in the same spot he’d been hours before, but Kamala was nowhere to be seen or heard, almost like she’d disappeared into space. Biden didn’t know what to do, so he simply fell to his knees and prayed for Harris’s return. “Help me Kamala! I don’t care what you have to do or what happens to me, but I want to be president again! I want to ride around on Air Force One and have people write nice things about Dr. Jill and talk about me like I’m the savior of the world…
“Help me Kamala! I want to run again!”
At that moment the light drizzle began anew, which simultaneously made it chilly again. A car drove up and Bert the Secret Service agent that Biden knew best jumped out and said, “Joe, I mean Mr. President, why are you out here in the freezing drizzle? Dr. Jill is birthing kittens over your being missing and it’s gonna be hades for all of us if we don’t get your backside back by morning. That wife of yours is a real buzzkill, you know?”
“You mean you know me, Bert?” Joe whimpered, the pitch of his voice rising like the blinking red light on the Washington monument in the distance. “You mean I’m real? And I’m still president? And I can run again in 2024? Merry Christmas Bert!!!!!”
At that, Joe took off in a full run – or at least as fast as his old bones would carry him. He ran down the entirety of Constitution Avenue, pausing every now and then to bellow “Merry Christmas!” to the legion of homeless men wandering around shivering along the side of the street. Their numbers had grown exponentially larger in the past two years since Biden became president, the local laws on vagrancy no longer enforced by anyone in authority, let alone the defunded police.
When Biden reached Capitol Hill, he made a beeline for the entrance to the Speaker’s lobby where he pounded on the glass and shrieked, “Heeeeyyyyy, Merry Christmas, Madame former Speaker!” Undeterred, Joe kept running, this time to the senate side. “Merry Christmas you wonderful old Senate upper chamber! Merry Christmas, you omnibus budget making legislators!
“Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, DC Gulag which holds all the prisoners from the January 6 tourism riot that we Democrats call an insurrection! Merry Christmas, supermarket with half empty shelves! Merry Christmas, gas station with lots of fives, sixes, sevens and nines!”
Joe just couldn’t stop jogging and skipping, his broken ankle having healed from a couple years back. He thought about staying out longer and taking another lap but saw the sun was rising in the east and didn’t want to worry the White House staff and Dr. Jill any longer, or he’d be grounded and told to stay in his room while everyone else tore into the turkey and fixin’s at Christmas dinner.
But he didn’t immediately see anyone once he entered the building. The place looked deserted, with an eerie silence he’s never encountered in his adopted public housing project. The lone member of the cleaning crew present said Dr. Jill was out gathering his friends and supporters, telling them he was missing and organizing a search party complete with hunting hounds, horses, drug sniffing police dogs (in case Hunter was with him) and rifles with infrared scopes. Oh yeah, the Marines with night vision goggles were placed in reserve.
Just then a crowd entered through the same door he’d left earlier in the evening and steadily made their way into the East Room where a makeshift storefront was hastily set up. And there was a cordoned off section for the media, which was already there anticipating his arrival and waiting to capture the liberals’ merriment.
Without prompting, everyone started crooning “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac, the same song Democrats sang to honor the Clintons when they swindled their way to the presidency in 1992.
Lobbyists and Biden sycophants then streamed in from all corners of the White House and handed checks to a Democrat clerk who pushed the buttons on the same old fashioned cash register that Joe n’ Kamala had seen in Nick’s ice cream shop, which had returned to its old dilapidated ways, the owner having been served an eviction notice for violating the racial quota tenets of “Black Lives Matter Square”.
Above the hullabaloo, a voice could be heard: “We heard that you were thinking about not running for president in two years and surmised it might be because you thought you wouldn’t have enough ill-begotten slush to finance your campaign. So your chief of staff called Sam Bankman Fried, George Soros and Mark Zuckerberg, and they all committed major bacon to your cause,” Hunter Biden read from a notecard.
Joe’s prodigal son continued from a separate Twitter printout, “My people texted me and said you might not run in ’24 and could need cash to help you decide. Stop. My office instructed to advance you up to $25 Billion dollars for the Biden/Harris ’24 victory fund. Stop. Hee-haw and Merry holidays! Michael Bloomberg.”
Tears welled up in Joe’s eyes as he spotted wife Dr. Jill across the open space. He tapped his heart a couple times and pointed at the woman, who for some reason looked angry at the noise and commotion – and the fact her husband had been out all day and night without telling anyone. Someone mentioned that they’d spotted him walking with Kamala Harris, too.
Really, at Christmas, Joe?
Biden squinted his eyes in characteristic fashion and noticed one of the checks appeared to have a personal note attached to it. Hoping it was a treasure map or something fun, Joe looked at the inscription, which read: “No man in Washington is a failure who has loads of donors – and a few bought and paid for friends!”
The old-time cash register jumped each time a new check was deposited in it. Biden spokesperson Karine Jean-Pierre then said to Joe, “The media says, every time a cash register jumps, an establishment guardian angel gets her pumps!”
Senile Joe Biden, beaming from ear to ear responded, “That’s right Karine, that’s right!” from which he looked to the heavens and winked. “Atta girl, Kamala!”
The End.
