“Mister Vice-President–”
“Call me Joe. Everybody calls me Joe. And get on in here for some Delaware-style hugging. C’mon. Do it right.”
FIFTEEN-SECOND HUG NOISE
“You did it right. Absolutely did it right.”
“Okay, this right here is why I was called. Sir, my name is Lady Jenkins and I’ve been hired by the DNC. to consult with your campaign. I work with brands in crisis, and there are two things we have to do here: eliminate the behavior and pivot the narrative.”
“You’re a straight-shooter, Jenkins. I like that. Reminds me of my father, but you’ve got better yabbos.”
“Sir, the label of ‘handsy’ is starting to stick to you, and from there it’s a straight-shot to ‘creepy.’ And women do not vote for creepy. There’s your straight shot, Mr. Vice-President. You are in a death spiral here.”
“I should address the American people on the whaddyacallit. The thing on my phone.”
“Social media.”
“That, yeah, whatever. Y’can’t call Cronkite up for an interview any more, huh? Walt was a pisser. Had a prick like Secretariat. Heavy-built guy, Cronky. Reporters used to be guys you could drink with and look at their dicks. Rachel Maddow’s never shown me her dick. I don’t know which way is up these days.”
“It’s amazing how far a tall, white man with a lust for power can get.”
“God bless America.”
“I do agree that you need to make a statement.”
“How about I whisper it into your ear?”
“Ew.”
“We’ll do one of those whattyacallits. ACLU’s. The thing where the little sounds are big.”
“ASMR, sir. Please do not whisper into my ear.”
“Can I shout up your butthole?”
“God, no. That’s completely inappropriate, sir.”
“Now. That’s inappropriate now. I’m an old-school guy. Raised in Scranton. Moved to Delaware for the action. That’s me, Joe Biden. I love the people, so I wanna get close to ’em. That’s old-school politics. You pat the tush. Squeeze the shoulder. Lick the neck.”
“You cannot lick any more necks, sir.”
“Wow. None?”
“None whatsoever.”
“I mean, gosh. I am as as far to the left as you can get–”
“You have voted for every war you were able to vote for.”
“–but this PC culture is getting out of hand. It’s like these people want to make all sorts of laws about what you can and can’t do to a person.”
“Yes, sir. You got that accidentally right.”
“Joe likes to improvise. That time with the ordinary folks, that’s what they can’t teach. Best part of being Vice-President was walking into diners and bars across this great nation, and getting to know everyday people. You ask ’em what they do, about their kids, all that crap. And then you go with them. Let them lead the conversation. And sometimes that leads to tickling.”
“Tickling?”
“Oh, yeah. Big tool in the toolbox. I tickle hard, too. I drill deep. Lotta my staff calls me the Ticklemonster. Isn’t that great, folks having fun nicknames?”
“Sir, you cannot tickle strangers.”
“They’re not strangers after the tickling. We go through that together. It’s a bonding that occurs.”
“Okay, I’m just gonna get to the point: no physical contact except handshakes.”
“Are we counting boobs for hands?”
“No.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“It’s the way it has to be, sir. And then we have to work on how to get the press’ attention somewhere else.”
“How about we leak that Elizabeth Warren used to mud-wrestle under the name The Sexy Squaw?”
“Is that true?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s how she put herself through school. She doesn’t compete anymore, but she’s still got the thighs of a grappler.”
“We’ll leave that part out.”
“Wait, you said no physical contact, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So I can take it out?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Why would you?”
“You need to make a personal connection with the voter. Leave ’em with a story to tell the boys at the bar, or the ladies at the card game. ‘I met that Joe Biden. That’s a real Delaware guy. He took it out.’ That’s what you call retail politics.”
“Don’t take it out.”
“What if it just falls out?”
“Sir, it never just falls out. The efficacy of trousers is incomparable.
“I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything’s changing. What’s the point of holding office unless you get to purp some nurp. Most of the ladies love it. Biker chicks. You should see me with biker chicks. They grab my root and call the President a certain word, but they do it real quiet. That’s the salt of the earth right there. Hands right on my root. They work the root, too. Like farmers till the soil.”
“Stop calling it a root. Sir, you need to confront this problem, head-on and immediately, and cease any weird behavior towards women. The only path to the White House leads through taking on these accusations properly.”
…
“Mr. Vice-President, your hand is on my breast.”
“Delaware style.”
“Let’s start from the beginning.”
My Dad’s euphamism for peeing was
“Shake hands with the president”
Like “hold my beer, I have to go shake Hands with the president.”