Originally published via Armageddon Prose:
There’s a holiday for every season at the Brandon White House. You might recall Easter 2022, when the Easter Bunny directed its charge after the Brandon entity got distracted. Then there was Halloween earlier this year, when it was let loose to shower children with candy.
The constant, we will see (aside from the distracting sign language lady conducting a cacophonic symphony with her flailing arms) among government holidays is always children — Brandon’s raison d’être.
In that tradition, here he is with his wife, Dr. (not a medical doctor) Jill, as she reads a Christmas tale to sick kids at Children’s National Hospital while Brandon looks on awkwardly with that thousand-yard stare into the abyss, almost certainly with unholy impulses pulsing through the well-trafficked neural pathways of what’s left of his still-functioning reptilian brain running, even on — and maybe especially on — the eve of Baby Christ’s birth.
“Come on, get up here,” Brandon instructs one of the hospital kids after Dr. Jill finishes. “Sit in my lap.” He goes on to declare his hopes to see them all in the White House soon.
The question must be asked: Have you no decency, sir? Haven’t these children been through enough to not endure demands for special lap time from the president? Isn’t it satisfying enough to run hog-wild with the able-bodied children whose Democrat parents offer them up as sacrificial lambs to the Brandon entity at the altar of neoliberalism?
Of course, that’s a rhetorical question; the degeneracy is never enough. See: Caligula. Then sprinkle in some adrenochrome and pharmaceutical speed, and you have our current crop of government leadership.
Ben Bartee, author of Broken English Teacher: Notes From Exile, is an independent Bangkok-based American journalist with opposable thumbs.
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