Part 3: Roasting the Cabinet of Nuts
Ever notice how campfire marshmallows just taste better after they've been charred to a crisp and then offered to someone else?
This is where things get interesting. We know about the internal fighting and carnivorous finger-pointing after the failed election, but somewhere in there was a sublime couple of weeks where things just seemed to slip into first gear. Again, I have no direct knowledge of this other than from alleged bedroom wiretaps, surveillance of EOP side feeders cruising the gay bars near the White House, and psychiatric evaluation reports from the ER at Georgetown Medical Center, so I’ll fill in what I think the event was like:
Biden looked around the conference room, engaging each set of eyes of people he had trusted to be in his Cabinet. Some of the faces were flushed, some of them repentant, and some of them looked relieved. Of course, one face looked goofy and stupid, and Biden engaged that face directly.
“Secretary Bootie-tang. Let’s start with you. You’ve been busy . . . what with your new baby and your bicycling around town in the back of that van. Why aren’t you still on family leave?” Biden smiled deceptively, and then glanced sideways at Agent Little and winked at him.
“Mr. President, I assure you, everything is on beam. I’m glad to see you’re back at the helm. How was your vacation?” The little guy had a voice like a high school guidance counselor who was floating way above his loafers.
“Everything’s on beam . . . on beam, you say. Well, this is great. I guess all that shit I saw on TV about this train wreck and hazmat spill in East Palestine was all Trump propaganda. Good to know.” Biden looked around. “You’re fired. I hear The Man Hole is hiring fluffers. Go work there.”
Biden looked around. “And Secretary Maracas. How are things going on the homeland front? All those new 21 million guests we’re inviting in without vaccinations or paperwork are settling into the five star hotels? Are they comfortable? And have we found a way to fabricate the escalations in crime all around the country into something implicating MAGA and Trump?” Biden looked hopeful.
Maracas cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. President, your strategy appears to be working. They’re flooding in like crazy. The drugs, too, which is unfortunate, but we had to make a trade-off somewhere. And those radio ads we’re running in El Salvador seem to be working.”
“Trade-offs. Yes, I can see that. I’m sure everything I’m hearing about the drug epidemic is all just paranoid delusions. I’ll check with the First Son, he’s back in rehab now for the fifth time over at Crackhead Acres in Arizona. He’ll know the fair market rate on these things. And you said ‘my’ strategy. Interesting use of terms. I’d like to see the Presidential Finding on that.” Biden searched the room, finally landing his eyes on the Vice President.
“So, Madame Vice President Wannabe President. I’m so sorry about your failed election bid, but I have a new job coming in for you, I’m putting you in charge of liaison to Hollywood’s community of retarded cartoon voiceover talent jacked up on helium. Get packed, you’ll be moving to Burbank. I’m sure we can find you a great studio apartment next door to some hoodlums you sent away to prison in California.” Biden grinned. “And don’t worry about the nanny factor, I think your husband will do just fine, although, and this is just me talking, I’m not into women over 350 pounds.” He scanned the room.
The Vice President’s face began to quiver, and her eyes were bugging out of her head. “I’m from California, which is a state next to other states, here in the United States. We call them states because even though they’re separate, since they’re touching they’re really together, that’s why we call them ‘united’, because they’re friends. This is what makes American a great place, it’s friendships and good times and everybody’s drinking and eating nachos and dancing around. Is this a great place or what? I’m so proud to be an American because I have friends right next door, like neighbors. And they are neighbors because neighbors should be friends. We’re all friends here, right? That’s a clapping line. Hello? Anybody out there?”
Biden just looked at her coldly. “Sorry. The train to Crazyville already pulled out of the station. I hear public access television is looking for a janitor in Northern Canada. Try that for your next political office.”
“Ah, sir, I wonder if we shouldn’t, well, revisit the last three years to make sure you’re up to speed,” one of the assistant secretaries said, “you may want to hear about how we pushed back on all of this.”
Biden frowned. “I know. Push-back, it is a bitch. Especially doggie-style for you. But for now, I think this is sufficient. Everybody leave your badges and phones with Agent Little, there, as you leave. Go to your offices and pack up. Be out of the building in 30 minutes.”
The group rose and mulled about for a few moments, and then started filing out of the room.
Biden picked up the phone. “Get me the President-Elect.”
The operator was silent for a few seconds, and then put the call through. “I have him, Mr. President, he’s golfing.”
“Great. Donald? It’s Joe. I need your help with a few transition issues. I don’t suppose you’d want to check in early and help me straighten a few mutineers out?”
“Mutineers? Like pirates? Great, this is going to be the greatest thing ever. We could skin them alive on national TV and sell their carcasses to medical schools in Ethiopia to be grafted onto donkeys. What a money-maker this is going to be. We can option the rights off and buy some rare earth minerals from that little ass-wad in Ukraine. Better yet, we could graft him onto a donkey and let it fun around for the kids. I’m sure he’d agree given the fact we’ve got his ass in a vice and his coke is running out.” The President-Elect took a big breath. “I’m in, I’ll fly up today and be there in time for dinner.” He hung up.
Biden looked at Agent Little. “Okay, Cyrus, it’s death grip time. Tell me everything you know about the coup.”