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Biden, your time
For Joe Biden, Super Tuesday was a remarkable triumph – one of the most impressive rearguard actions in recent political history. A week previous, the betting markets rated him a 6% chance of becoming the Democratic nominee for the presidency. He looked the most busted of flushes. Bernie “Berniewudofwon” Sanders may have withheld his medical records that revealed his advanced senility, soup ladle testicles and shot-to-shit bowel that looked like a pack of wild dogs had been let loose on but he was very firmly in the driving seat. With Michael Bloomberg eating into Biden’s vote like a fat girl at a bakery, the former Vice President looked as fucked as an underage groupie at a Zeppelin gig.
A blaffair to rememblack
But like some miraculous shitty anime film, the stars began to align. The older black vote in South Carolina delivered a resounding victory. All of a sudden, Biden started connecting like prime Bill Clinton. Sanders being favourite spooked Democratic party members who never quite took to him the way they did Slick Willie. Buttigieg and Klobuchar hit the bricks, ceding their supporters to Biden. Berniewudofwon campaigners looked on aghast. The momentum that drove them to the very cusp of the nomination had deserted them and slammed itself right behind their most dangerous rival. It was brutal to watch.
Even then, Super Tuesday went even better for Biden than he could have hoped. Texas, Virginia, Alabama, North Carolina all fell into his rubbery clutches. He even won in Elizabeth Warren’s backyard Massachusetts. He had brutally cucked his opposition and was just getting started. So as he approached the podium to give his victory speech to his supporters in Los Angeles it was with the unmistakable swagger of a man who knew his time had come. It didn’t matter that Creepy Uncle Joe had made more California women feel unsafe than The Zodiac. He was the man. He was Obama’s number two. Now he would crush Trump like a bug and deliver us from evil, A-to-the-motherfucking-MEN.
Sister act
“They don’t call it Super Tuesday for nothing!” he said, in a depressingly predictable opening gambit, as lovers of political oratory everywhere facepalmed in despair. Not that the crowd cared. They bellowed their approval, their support not even waning when Biden briefly mistook his sister for his wife. Fuck it, he’ll be running against a man who regularly mistakes his daughter for his wife – it might even be an asset.
Meat, my wife
But as Biden’s speech continued a kerfuffle ensued. A vegan protester stormed the stage! As the old joke goes, how do you know if a protester is vegan: DON’T WORRY THEY’LL TELL YOU. After all, it would make sense, I mean it’s not like you’re going to risk being Eric Garnered by the filth for a cause you’d rather keep to yourself. Naw man, this broadwas very much in your face, waving her “Let Dairy Die” placard like her life depended on it. She was quickly led away by a Biden security goon to the relief of all. Yet she was merely a decoy. A second protester took advantage of the distraction and launched herself towards Joe. Shit, my friends, had just got real.
For a split-second time stood still. Would Biden be impaled on the placard and bleed out, his last words “is everyone OK?” like Bobby Kennedy? Unlikely. One woman was not going to let that happen. The senator’s wife of 43 years Jill, launched herself at the space between the protester and her husband all “not today, death”. She may have been dressed like a 1940s pep squad leader but there would be no Joe Kennedy Snr style appeasement today. She gal handled the broad off the stage with a minimum of muss and fuss before taking charge like a boss and telling the crowd “We’re OK!” And she was right, they were. Energised by his wife’s intervention, Joe killed the rest of the speech, looking every inch the 46th President of the United States.
Although chaos reigned, it was clear who the alpha in the relationship was and it was not the future Commander-in-chief. Jill Biden treated those plant-based skanks like they was NOTHING like BLAAAAW. In an instant, everything changed. It was a chastening, humbling moment for the movement who knew at once that their history was now split into Before Jill and After Jill. Henceforth, everything that happened Before Jill was irrelevant. This is her world now – we’re just squatting in it.
This is the road to L
If life consistently teaches you one lesson, it’s that sometimes you have to take the L. In many ways, it’s what galvanises you. It’s all very easy keeping your poise and maintaining focus when the W’s are coming like your girlfriend every time The Savage pays her a visit. It’s all very well when you win a legal victory or get Beyond Burgers in Wetherspoon’s but how slick do you feel when you take a beatdown like this one in front of a billion people?
Yeah blood, this is where the rubber meets the road. We have to place that ice pack on our cornholed anus, regroup and start again. That L may be branded on her forehead like Toadvine from Blood Meridian but we must not allow it to define us. We now wake up each morning viewing a post-Jill landscape and that we will have to come to terms with. We will pick up the pieces of our shattered so-called “movement” and carry on. We will support ethical fashion, bring Tempeh to the Welsh Valleys, fight our political enemies, signal boost cell-based meat and, yes, laugh at the silly ass Rawvana.
Because we simply must. Like Jack before us, we should never have played with Jill but what’s done is done. If we can bring about some kind of pathetic pressure group from our meaningless fuck-xistence, then that will be a kind of victory.
But mostly a defeat, ffs.