Guest Post by Jim Kunstler
“You can start being normal and stop being unhinged anytime you want. Try it. I dare you.” — Aimee Terese on X
The White House, Christmas Eve, 2023. Imagine the painfully lugubrious scene….
“Joe Biden” rattles around in the upstairs “residence” like a BB in a packing crate. Nobody is around besides a few secret service agents, so still at their posts they might as well be statuary. The Big Guy is all alone. His spouse, Dr. Jill, had enough of pretend caretaking quite a while ago, and flew off to Oprah’s place in Santa Barbara for counseling and commiseration. Hunter is Gawd-knows-where doing Gawd-knows-what.
“JB” shuffles out of the residence kitchen, where he just demolished a half gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Americone Dream® ice cream, against his doctor’s orders. His gall bladder writhes in revolt, sending a distress signal up the vagus nerve to the shriveled hypothalamus in his brain. A jumbled fugue of emotions — rage, fear, sexual arousal — quickens his step as he navigates by dead reckoning to the executive bedroom where he hurries to bed and falls into leaden slumber — only to be awakened by a cacophony of ringing bells. His eyelids roll open like shades in the windows of a skid row hotel room. Plangent moaning resounds as a mist emerges through the bedroom door and resolves into a mysterious figure garbed in the raiment of the Ku Klux Klan.
“Joe Biden” shrinks under the luxury Boll & Branch signature duvet— acquired when the agriculture minister of Ukraine slipped him an envelope stuffed with 100 hyrvnia notes. The spirit wails something that resembles the old Confederate anthem Eatin’ Goober Peas.
“Who are you spirit?” the quaking president asks.
“Why, I am your old pard from the Senate,” the ghost of Robert Byrd declares, removing the pointed hood to reveal his leonine head of hair and scowling face. “Why have you thrown our sacred borders wide open, suh? I should die a thousand times, and see Old Glory trampled in the dirt never to rise again than to see this beloved land of ours become degraded by race mongrels.”
“Y-y-you don’t uh-uh-understand,” “JB” says, his childhood stutter returning. “They are muh-muh-migrants from oppression and vuh-vuh-very fine people.”
“Fine people, my ass,” the former Senator from West Virginia cries and clears the dust of the sepulcher from his throat. “I will send three spirits to you this night as a review of what has been and what shall become, so beware….” And with that the spirit returns to mist and slips back out through the keyhole. . . .
“Joe Biden” is shocked from slumber again as an attractive blond female ghost floats through the bedroom window.
“Don’t I know you?” he asks.
“Cad! That is the very line you used to pick me up on spring break in Nassau, 1966,” says “JB’s” first wife, Nelia Hunter. “Shall I show you the meretricious spectacle you made of our family after that truck driver on limestone Road ended my life and your little daughter’s too!”
“No-o-o-o-o,” the president moans, but is magically transported to the Wilmington Hospital room where his banged-up boys, Beau and Hunter are recovering from their injuries. A TV crew is present as “JB” emotes for the camera, a cruel victim of fate, he blubbers, who will yet conquer his grief and go on to forty years of electoral victories and the sedulous gathering of tribute from “donors” far and wide to soften the blow of his loss. The room dims….
He wakes up startled to a thundration of rap music. An African American giant sits on a gilded throne with a 40 oz bottle of Colt 45 in one huge hand and a little glass pipe smoldering at his lips. “JB” isn’t sure who this is.
“Is that you, Corn Pop?” he asks.
“Corn Pop, my ass. Don’t you remember me, George Floyd?”
“Oh, that boy who—”
“Boy…!” the ghost fumes. “Get yo’ cracker ass out da bed, right now, and put your limp little privileged paw in my hand!”
Suddenly they are transported on a cold wind to the concrete apron of the colossal obelisk behind the White House.
“Didn’t you tell congressman Clyburn you was gonna rename this thing the George Floyd monument?
“Wuh-whu-well it was a suh-suh-suggestion, not a promise—”
“Suggestion, my ass,” the ghost snorts and cuffs “JB” upside his head. “I’m the baby-daddy of this country now. You best see that it get done!”
“Joe Biden” awakens yet again as more cold wind bearing the fetid odor of swamp blows through the still-opened window. He is yet muttering “yu-yuh-yuh-yessir, yessir,” when a shrouded, hooded figure materializes in the gloom.
“You are… Cuh-Cuh-Christmas Future,” “Joe Biden” says.
“You’re catching on,” says the ghost, holding out his fleshless, bony hand. “Come!”
They are transported to the hearing room of a House committee. Hunter Biden sits at the witness table, tears streaking his face, apparently in mid testimony.
“. . . and then my dad says to Mr. Zlochevsky, ‘one-million? C’mon man, I’ve got a beach house to renovate’. . . and Mister Z says, ‘okay I give you one-point-five-mil’. . . and my dad cracks up laughing. . . . ‘that won’t even cover the area rugs I ordered from Iran’ he says. . . .”
Suddenly the room vaporizes and “Joe Biden” stands next to the inaugural dias on the US Capitol’s west-facing front. Tucker Carlson has just stepped away after being sworn in as vice president and the massive, gold-headed, once-and-future president lumbers up to the Chief Justice, placing his hand on a Bible.
“Oh, n-n-n-no-o-o-o-o. . .” “JB” wails and wakes up in the presidential bed, panting and sweating.
“Are you all right sir? A marine standing at his bedside says.
“I had a terrible dream. Trump got back in.”
“That was no dream, sir. You’ve been in a coma since just before Christmas last year when you stroked out on ice cream. It’s Wednesday, November 6, 2024. Welcome back to reality, sir.”
“Reality?” “Joe Biden” says. “We make our own reality.”
“Not anymore, sir,” the lance corporal says. “Your attorneys wish to see you now. . . .”
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Cute.
If only. And as long as we are fantasizing, how about making it Ron Paul as President.
MC, the sad thig is it wouldn’t matter who sits in the Prez seat. Because we all know its really the bureaucrats that are the gate keepers and run everything. But then its just a fantasy tale so we can dream whatifs.
I think Biden is like , how the hell did that happen? With Trump , think about it, his son-in-law (again) and with Ivanka. Will “We The People” be living in the State of Israel expanded , like a colony , or will “We The People” still live in the thirteen colonies expanded? Fuck Trump, Jared and Ivanka. I resist.
If we’re fantasizing that Ron Paul was the president, or had ever become president, you would also have to imagine the non-stop vitriol and ridicule and invective the media would roll out. Think of the BS that would be spewed by the likes of Paul Krugman or Robert Reich. It would probably make how Trump was/is being treated seem like kid-gloves
On Day 1, 2025 may there be a “media holiday” declared.
I Wish
He left out the part about this PEDOPHILE raping his own daughter Ashley when 12 y/o.
I thought it was “just” a naked shower or two. To save water. He’s a conservationist.
A pedophile democrat never passes up a chance to rape a child.
only 1 or 2-per day.
vote harder
Kuntsler was divinely inspired with this one.
Old Pedo Joe would’ve given himself a golden shower at any point in the story…and that wasn’t Saint George Floyd, it was Big Mike before makeup.
Say what you will, this guy is a natural born writer.
All hail Captain Poopy Pants leader of Slavelandia ,ruling from New Rome on the Potomac .
Twas the night before Christmas…
And thru the White House,
Not a creature was stirring,
Except Biden, the old louse.
Down to the bedroom,
He crept with great care,
To see his young nieces,
Which he knew, slept there,
A sniff and a nuzzle,
And the creepy old man,
Trys to do more,
“Damn it! A secret service man!”
Foiled by the guard,
He makes his retreat,
Down to the kitchen,
“Some icecream I’ll eat”
Once in the kitchen,
He forgets why he’s there,
He finishes his speech,
And shakes hands with the air.
Twas the night before Christmas
and in the White House,
we have a fake president
of this there’s no doubt!
Revision:
Twas the night before Christmas
And in the White Hoose,
We have the fake president
We just need the Noose
Hoose
That the canadian version?
“Tries”
Once in the kitchen,
He forgets why he’s there,
He finishes his speech,
And shakes hands with the air.
Jim, De Babylon Bee gonna steal you away fo shur–you wit all dat ghost of saint George shit!
OK it staggered right at the end. It read well, I usually pass on this kind of thing cuz they’re usually bogus but it kept me in there to the end. Excellent topic and story for some serious Biden retrospective when you think about it. I’d do one but that takes talent and ability so, there’s that.
This is a powerful ad by Chevrolet, that will soon hit the TV circuit.
Most commercials suck and aren’t worth the time, but, this one is.
Sad reality but heartwarming, too, for anyone who can relate to the challenges it brings, especially when the sunshine rays break through the fog. Even if just for a moment in time.
Thank you. It’s too late for the sunshine to make me cry, but the moon is powerful tonight. Just past full.
That’s a powerful message for anybody who has had to, or is currently dealing with an elderly parent suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s. It’s a devastating disease.
The ad really knocks home the idea of celebrating the increasingly elusive happy moments, the memories, and the personal experiences that make life worth living.
Kind of hoping the Admin team picks up on it, and makes it a post of its own.
But, Chevy won’t pay him for the spread, even though they should, if he runs it.
Hope you are well, Leah.
Pretty soon if not now the same can be applied to Toyota.
My lasting memory of Chevrolet is the 1982 Impala that was a lemon and the fuckers refused to fix it.
Well groovy. Too bad “We The People” bailed General Motors’ ass out! Unforgiven
I cannot get excited about the United States with a Biden or a Trump. Talk about a daytime soap opera on TV with these two. Fuck both these guys. 🙂