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Assault on America, Day 492: ‘Tomorrow’ is just about all that’s left for doddering Joe Biden

Political satire helps explain why Biden is still the Democrat nominee

From somewhere deep in a basement bunker in the Mid-Atlantic:

(Music blaring): “The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun… So you gotta hang on ‘til tomorrow, come what may! Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow. You're always a dayyyy awaaaayyyy!” (The song finishes and the phonograph arm returns to its resting place.)

“Dang it, I love that song! Play it again, will ya?” Democrat nominee in waiting and all-around good guy Grampa Joe Biden barked to his caretaker/aide/nurse on a bright sunny May morning in Delaware. “That Andrew Lloyd Webber really could write the show tunes, couldn’t he?” the mentally slipping would-be president added, not realizing that he was still talking out loud. “There was Annie and Jesus Christ Superstar and Cats, and… gosh darn it, I can’t remember the other ones. You know, the dude with the non-surgical mask hiding out in a dungeon. Or was it Jesus that sung the role of Phantom of the Opera? It all blends together.”

“Um, sir,” the aide replied patiently but hesitantly, terrified another outbreak of temper could be lurking behind the frail septuagenarian’s gentle-at-the-moment exterior. “Annie the musical wasn’t written by Lloyd Webber (it actually was playwright Thomas Meehan) at all and Jesus had nothing to do with the Phantom show, though many have compared its music to melodies you’d hear in church.”

“Whatever. I don’t give a rat’s butt about religion,” Joe snapped back. “I like that song because it reminds me, every day, that maybe tomorrow I’ll be sprung from this basement hell-hole y’all created to keep me locked up in. And I used to play it for Hunter whenever he did something wrong, like getting kicked out of the navy for doing coke. Besides, there’re only so many times in a week that I can talk to those idiots from MSNBC and beg rich guys for money and maintain some semblance of sanity. You know my memory ain’t the greatest as it is.”

Hmpf, the aide pondered to herself. ‘Tara Reade would certainly agree with that statement,’ surmising there were millions out there who’d also determined Joe’d lost more than a step in his 40-yard dash of life. ‘I wonder if he really did it…?’ She shuttered at the vision of a much abler Grampa Joe cornering a young woman and then maneuvering his fingers up her dress. Yuck! ‘He’s kind of a handsy perv but not a molester,’ she thought again, but the Joe Biden of thirty years ago seems like a distant memory to everyone these days.

“You have calls set up with some of the gals on your short-list, Joe, so finish your cup o’ Joe, make a quick trip to the little boys’ room and get back in your chair with hair perfectly neat and your sweater on straight,” the aide commanded as she switched off Joe’s favorite record player, took his tray and pointed in the direction of Biden’s personal lavatory.

Biden smirked and grimaced as he lifted himself out of the lazy boy recliner that’s become his best friend in the past couple months. “I gotta get out more. I’m not used to being cooped up like a rest home patient. And don’t talk to me like I’m a first-grader going out to recess. I know they’re gonna be calling me. Gimme a minute,” Grampa Joe said, irritated at the tone of the aide’s apparent condescension.

After a somewhat brief freshening-up session, Biden resumed his place in the heart of the bunker and conveniently positioned himself in front of the camera so people could see him move his mouth. A voice from his speaker phone indicated Barack Obama wanted to talk to him first.

“’Mornin’ Joe. I just wanted to remind you before you get to the serious vetting part that your VP choice is the future of the Democrat Party. Everyone realizes -- even you -- that you’re a transitional candidate, which basically means whoever you choose is gonna be president someday, be it a week after your inauguration or in 2025,” the graying former commander in chief instructed, wishing again that he’d been more forceful in telling Grampa Joe not to run in the first place.

“We’re all in this together,” Obama reasoned to the stupefied Biden, wondering if his pal even understood the gravity of his upcoming decision. Select wrong and Donald Trump gets another four years to undo their legacy (or Make America Great Again). Select right and Democrats might prove the pollsters correct this time -- but hey, it all depends on keeping Joe sequestered until the day before Election Day.

“Thanks for the chat, Big-O” Joe retorted, using the moniker they’d agreed upon on their second day in office in 2009. “Gotta run. ‘Specting a call from Gretch anytime now.”

Sure enough the phone buzzed at that moment with “Governor of Michigan” flashing in the caller ID box. Biden pushed the answer button, but before he could say anything, Gretchen Whitmer sang out in her mousy voice, “Heeyyyy Joe… where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?”, crooning a few bars from the famous Jimi Hendrix classic. “Jimi came to Detroit three times in 1968 and ’69, Joe. I wasn’t born until 1971 -- hint, hint, I’m really young! (she giggled) -- but I heard some old hippies talking about all the dope they smoked during the concerts.”

“Huh?” the ancient grump blubbered, not having a clue what the young-sounding female was talking about. He hates guns, right? “You must have the wrong number. I’m gonna hang up,” while pushing the end call button with a little more urgency than necessary.

‘This is gonna be harder than I thought’ Joe figured, drumming his fingers on the desk and wishing it was already time for an ice cream break. ‘I certainly don’t want to run with anyone who’s so youthful -- and dumb -- that they can’t recall my first day in office. Heck, I came to the senate in 1973. That means Gretch was still in diapers and sucking on pacifiers when I started my career in the swamp. I need someone older.’

Right then the phone buzzed, this time with “Senator from Massachusetts” leaping off the transparent surface. Biden pushed the answer button and immediately heard, “Joe, you gotta choose me. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. PLEASE!” Senator Elizabeth “Pocahontas” Warren pleaded, not trying to disguise what she was after and figured begging would pay off like it had for Biden when Obama suffered through his own set of deliberations in 2008.

Biden was appreciative he could only see Warren through the Facetime screen, but even then he detected her bird-like eyes seemingly bulging through the camera. “Well, Liz, I’m not so sure you’re the right one for the job. You’re kinda old like me and, let’s be truthful, you weren’t very nice to me during some of those debates. Why did you and Bernie always pow-wow after they were over? It looked like you two were plotting to stick a tomahawk in my neck.”

Warren looked incredulous and was momentarily speechless. “You saw that, Joe?” … “Uh… me and The Bern were talking about grandchildren and golf, just like Big Bubba Bill and Loretta Lynch on the tarmac in Phoenix. It’s a nothingburger. Go ahead and take a huge bite! Choose me, Joe! Please?! Pleeezzzeee?”


“That was painful,” Joe muttered to the room. “Maybe I’d be better off with ‘ol Crooked Hillary as my number two. How did Trump know that that was the nickname I made up for her when we were in the senate together all those years back. Fitting.”

The phone buzzed again and Biden dreaded receiving the call this time. “Good morning, Mr. Biden,” said the phony flattering voice on the other end of the line. “Is it time for the two of us to beat that deplorables racist Trump and bring America back to the Obama-Biden glory days?” the defeated 2016 Democrat nominee loser asked hopefully. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought -- like over three and a half years’ worth -- and I think we can do it -- ‘Stronger together’… it can be our slogan. Why don’t you come over for a bottle or two of Chardonnay and we can yuck it up about the old times.”

‘Funny,’ Joe imagined. ‘Hillary surely recalls I don’t drink. Maybe she figures she’ll have the wine and I’ll just listen to her slur her speech and blabber on about Bill’s love life like we used to do in the senators’ lounge in the upper chamber.’

“Yeah, sure, Hill. Whatever you say. Give my best to Bill. He’s the one who paved the way for me getting the nomination despite this Tara Reade thing. I’m grateful. Consider it done.”

Biden regretted the words as soon as he said them, but then again, Hillary won’t remember anything they talked about after her fifth glass of booze. He felt a pang of guilt fibbing to the woman like that, but no matter, the Clintons got no right to complain about being lied to, do they?

“Stacey Abrams is the last one, Joe,” he heard his aide mention. Nope. Not happening this morning, he decided. “This is more activity than I’m used to. I’ll go out again when Andrew Cuomo says it’s safe to reenter society. That gives me at least six more months of protective shelter behind these walls. By that time, who needs a running mate? Trump’s gonna postpone the election anyway, mark my words.”

Biden hobbled to the corner nook where the record player was conspicuously tucked, looking for the right dial to play “Tomorrow” again.

Grampa Joe will get his wish (to leave his bunker) someday, but then he’ll actually have to campaign

There’s little doubt Joe Biden is dying to get out into the sunlight, but the rigors of the campaign trail are probably something he’d rather avoid. In a piece titled, “How Long Can Biden Stay In His Basement?Patrick J. Buchanan wrote at The American Conservative, “With four months left before his nomination in Milwaukee, and six months before the November election, there are still among Democrats gnawing concerns based on Biden’s performance in the debates and primaries, and since, that he has lost the ability to articulate issues clearly and cogently, or to complete complex thoughts.

“The worry is that he is suffering from mental decline and could be destroyed by Trump in a presidential debate. Biden forgets, mumbles, misspeaks, loses his train of thought and appears, at times, confused.

“Moreover, Biden is no spring chicken. He would take office at the same age that Ronald Reagan, our oldest president, left office.”

As usual, Buchanan synopsized the dilemma facing Biden as he vets his possible running mate choices. With the almost-certain Democrat nominee having already eliminated all men from consideration, the possibilities narrow noticeably when examining the pool of qualified female candidates.

Biden must check a lot of boxes to try and keep everyone in the Democrat party happy while also remaining palatable to the American voting public. Just speculating here, he’d love to choose someone like Sen. Amy Klobuchar because she’s “Minnesota nice”, plenty liberal and has the type of personality that probably won’t make many waves should they win the election. But she’s white. And boring.

“Pocahontas” Warren makes sense from an ideological standpoint because Joe desperately seeks to unite the two warring factions in the Democrat party (fake “moderate” establishment-types versus burn-it-all-down Bernie Sanders revolutionaries). But Warren wouldn’t easily settle for being the second-in-line, and she says almost as many stupid things as Biden does.

Likewise, Biden longs to choose a minority woman for the job, but every one of the prominent names has serious electability flaws. Stacey Abrams doesn’t have much of a resume and she’s a dumb as bricks kook whose only claim to fame is squawking the loudest about race-based election fraud (which was thoroughly disproved). Kamala Harris is flat-out nasty and unlikable. What would she bring to the ticket?

Hillary Clinton would appear to be the best choice for Biden if he wants to win the election. If he did tab Hillary, however, he’d be looking over his shoulder every moment of every day. And would he really want Bill back visiting the Oval Office? He’d better bring the disinfectant!

It boggles the mind to consider Joe Biden is destined to be the Democrats’ 2020 nominee, as he struggles to string together coherent sentences and doesn’t appear to be in control of his own faculties. Joe’s search for the perfect running mate match must be taxing what’s left of his limited cognitive capacity. Down the road awaits Donald Trump. Daunting.

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