An Open Letter to Joe Biden

Dear Joe Biden,

I have learned recently that you are still making public appearances. Please stop. In the name of all that is sagging, stammering, and shambling–namely you–sit down before you fall down. You look like hell; you sound like hell. Indeed, hell has started a petition to distance itself from you.

You will appear a right twat if you keep pretending you are still in command of anything more complicated than a pudding cup. To be honest, you have looked like a right twat since the day you gave up plagiarizing Neil Kinnock. He was your high-water mark. Since then, you have been cosplaying as a leader with all the gravitas of a drunk mall Santa.

The first time I saw you on TV was during the Clarence Thomas hearings. You were dangerous back then–loose cannon, sharp elbows, occasionally lucid. Now you are about as dangerous as a Roomba on low battery.

These days kids, their parents, and even their grandparents show up to see you speak, and you reward them with ten minutes of word salad that sounds like someone trying to order a sandwich in Esperanto while being tased. Once you prowled committee rooms and sniffed interns and pre-teen girls with a predatory gusto. Now you just shuffle, mumble, and squint into the lights like a man who accidentally wandered onto a stage looking for the bathroom.

After watching you bumble through the last four years and open the flood gates to millions of stinking illegals, I realized hope was a rookie mistake. You turned the presidency into a geriatric obstacle course, and we all had to watch you try to clear the hurdles. You didn’t so much run the country as you did misplace it.

So do yourself a favor: unplug. Retire. Hibernate. Crawl into that Delaware beach house, pull the shades, plead with Jill to walk around naked, and stay there. It cannot be fun hauling around teleprompters, handlers, and defibrillators just to tell the nation you still like ice cream. Jesus! Your carbon footprint must be the size of Delaware.

The Earth will thank you. The rest of us will thank you. History might even forgive you–might–if you stop giving it new bloopers every week.

Because right now, Joe, you are not a president–praise Jesus, but you are still a punchline–and every time you step up to a podium, the joke is on us.

If the unhinged, unconventional ramblings of our fearless editor in briefs fancy your tickle, wander over to our Satirical Commentary page and try a line or two.