The Democratic Party is confronted with a dilemma: Fielding an incumbent president can present them with obvious advantages, yet persistent health rumors might drag down any Biden reelection campaign. Meanwhile, I am in a dank basement, I’m strapped to a cold metal chair, and I haven’t slept or eaten in days.
All of this is to stress that you bastards can do your worst to me, but I’ll never tell you whether I think Joe Biden should run in 2024.
You hear that, you stupid sons of bitches? You want me to talk? You want my read on current polling? You’re going to have to do much worse than tearing off my fingernails to get a peep out of me on President Biden’s favorability numbers and accomplishments in office.
What are you doing with that towel and jug of water? Do you stupid pricks seriously think I’ll discuss my take on alternative Democratic frontrunners just because of some little-bitty waterboarding? Bring it on. Pour that water all over me. Blegh, blegh, blegh. Goddamn it! I can’t breath—blegh, blegh, blegh. That all you got? Blegh, blegh, blegh.
Keep it coming, you pissants!
Did you seriously think that would break me, you fuckers? Hell no. I’m made of harder stuff than that. In fact, you should just put that revolver in your belt right against my temple and pull the trigger if you think I’m going to divulge whether I believe Joe Biden could handle the pressure of campaigning. And frankly, I welcome death if it means you’ll never know if I think Kamala Harris could provide a suitable replacement in 2024.
Oh, looks like you’re getting out the rusty pair of pliers. Gonna go to work on my mouth, huh, boys? Well, good luck. I’ve got plenty of teeth, but I don’t have a single word I’ll spit out about how divided Americans feel toward bipartisanship.
Look, would it be easier to just write down 350 words featuring my prognostications for the 2024 presidential election? Of course. I haven’t had a drop of water to drink in nearly a month. I am hallucinating constantly from sleep loss. The rectal feeding I could stand, but somehow being awoken every time I near sleep by Bruce Springsteen’s campaign song “We Take Care Of Our Own” played at deafening volumes—well, that nearly broke me.
Still, I would never be able to live with myself if I gave you assholes what you wanted. When I first woke up in this frigid subterranean cell, I knew the only way I could retain my sanity was to hold fast to my ethics. A man with a “why” can survive any “how.” And so I have taken the testicular electrocutions in stride. I have laughed at them, in fact. Ha-ha! It is far better to be sterilized with jumper cables than to ever speak my piece on how a looming recession and fluctuating gas prices could present headwinds for Democrats.
So go ahead and spit on me. Strangle me. Strip me naked and dog-walk me across the cement floor on a metal leash. Threaten my wife and children. Hell, murder my entire family. Nothing—nothing—will break my resolve. I will never reveal whether I believe Biden will have the mental and physical ability at 81 years of age to retain the most powerful office in the world.
Unless, of course, you start to tickle the bottoms of my feet with that little goose feather over there! Oh gosh, then I’ll tell you anything!
