Joe Biden And The Mumbling, Bungling Presidency–The Leader Of The Free World Without A Clue

The President woke up one morning, yawned, and turned to his wife for a kiss.  She had already arisen and was at the vanity putting on her make up.  “Remember, Joe, today is a big day, so don’t be late”.

The President yawned again, had no idea what his wife was talking about, but given his implicit, enduring trust in her and her judgment, he turned back the covers, put on his slippers and bathrobe and made his way to the bathroom.  

The valet, Henry Robinson, who saw that the Bidens were awake, tapped lightly on the door and slowly entered.  “Are you ready for your day, Mr. President?”, the valet politely asked, smiling, and looking over the bedroom to be sure that he hadn’t disturbed the presidential couple. 

“Yes, Henry”, said the President, “come in”; and the morning ablutions began.  The President relied on Henry to shave him, pat on his cologne, pick out and dress him with is presidential suits, ties, shirts, socks, and shoes; comb his hair; and nudge him gently out into the public spaces in which he would have to pass the next twelve hours.  “Are we happy today, Mr. President?”, asked Henry jovially. 

“Yes indeed, Henry, quiet so”, answered the President, and on he went to take the presidential bed tea, the presidential breakfast, and the presidential bracer of coffee.

In the greeting room of the President’s suite were assembled his aides and sub-valets.  “Good morning, Mr. President”, they said in unison, smiling.

The President had tried for weeks to remember their names, but it was all a fog.  He knew he shouldn’t think this way, but he could only remember them by ‘the cute one’, ‘the luscious one’, ‘the tantalizing one’ so he nodded to each with a warm, welcoming smile.  “Good morning everyone”, he said to all.

The President had no idea what he was up to today, but knew that his aide de camp LaShonda Williams, the first black woman to hold this position, would take him in hand.  He chose LaShonda exactly because she was black, not on the basis of race and the political mileage he would get by filling his inner circle with minorities, but because he could easily recognize her, single her out as the primus inter pares of the crew awaiting him.

Not only was she black, but stunningly so – a Nigerian goddess, full-lipped, rouged to accentuate the ebony burnish of her skin, wide, almond eyes, ringlets, and dashiki.  She would never fold into any crowd.

“Whassup?”, said the President, showing his street creds and minority savvy.

“Not much, Mr. President.  Shall we go?”

The President heard “Shall we dance?”, and took LaShonda by the waist and waltzed her out into the foyer.  “It’s going to be a great day”

“Oh, Lord”, said the President sotto voce to LaShonda when he saw the blue haired ladies from Delaware seated in a circle around the Presidential desk in the Oval Office, “Who are they?”

LaShonda went on to explain that these were some of his constituents with links to his family history – ladies whose grandmothers had played croquet with his grandmother, but today they were just ladies in waiting for their dear boy from Wilmington, appearing for a photo op to be published widely in Wilmington, Newark, and Dover. 

Joe was used to such delightful fawning, and even though only a paltry few votes might come out of his smiling, generous teatime with the ladies, he couldn’t help himself.  He might not be able to decipher the national budget these days or make sense of the political fray about his national policies, but he knew genuine, admiring Americans when he saw them.  These ladies were the salt of the earth, bona fide Delawareans, mothers all to promising sons like him, and very much like his own mother.  “

My mother”, he began, speaking to the ladies, “was a saint, a princess, and a star.  She shone brightly every day, the first star in the firmament, the last star to fade at night.  She was a constellation, the sun, and the light of the farthest flung galaxies.”

Here he paused, for he had totally lost his way.  “Galaxy… star… constellation…” he repeated to himself, gathering his thoughts, and trying to find the path he had been on.

LaShonda, used to the President’s vagaries, stepped in, took his elbow, smiled at the Delaware ladies, and thanked them for their attendance and ‘their loyalty to the greatest president these United States have ever seen’.  The ladies squeaked and creaked out of their chairs and gave the President a standing ovation.

The day went on with the same casual rhythm – the Cabinet meeting, the White House staff assembly, the Joint Chiefs roundtable, the CIA security council, the Diversity, Inclusivity, And Racism colloquy, and finally the ‘Women Are Number One’ Rose Garden tea hosted by the President and Oprah Winfrey.  

It was Winfrey’s idea to celebrate womanhood, The Year of the Woman, and ascendant women everywhere and the blessing of the President – the first president to embrace women of color, transgender women, and all women –  would be a joyous anointment of The Second Sex.

“Should we really call it that?”, said the President, ignorant of  Simone de Beauvoir’s seminal feminist work, the irony of its title, and its go-to importance for feminists everywhere.  Oprah’s aides who had come up with the idea and the title has assured her that it was an appropriate title and would resonate with the ‘under the glass ceiling’ crowd. 

The Cabinet meeting passed without incident, Secretaries bandying ideas about with no consequence.  The Joint Chiefs were, as always, anxious to apply ‘the military solution’, take the bull by the horns in Ukraine, and build up our Mediterranean fleet. The Diversity Colloquy was a hodgepodge of invective, soliloquy, and hollering all at the expense of the white man.  A day like all days. 

“Wow, am I tired”, said the President to his wife as he retired to the Presidential chambers.  “How about a game of gin rummy?”, he said to Jill, “or some s’mores?”.

Queen Elizabeth, Winston Churchill, and the Shah of Iran all kept diaries, chronicles of their days in power or regency; and when they eventually came to light were very revealing about the mechanisms of power, the role of the individual within the machine of state, and the nature and character of their enemies.

Joe Biden, encouraged by his wife, started a diary. “My Presidency”, he entitled it, but before he had even gotten to affairs of state, he had chronicled every dunking at Dewey Beach, every misstep at Mrs. Linder’s dancing school, and every twenty-footer sunk at Horse at Henderson Park.

“This won’t do, Joe”, said his wife after she had read the first chapter.  “Not at all. Tomorrow you must get down to business”. 

He gave his wife his famous smile, hugged her, and  tucked into bed.  The picture on the front page of the Washington Post the next morning was of him, toothy smile and all at the Delaware Ladies Tea Party with the tagline, “Biden sips tea while Kyiv burns”. 

“Great photo”, the President said, admiring how his face did not look his eighty years (Still a lot of motor oil in the block, mustard in the jar, spunk in the charge, charge in the battery).  Why, 2024 should be a shoo-in.

His aides and seconds were not so sure.  There was only so much propping up they could do, so much teleprompting and vetting, advance screening and primer reading.  Sooner or later the President would go completely around the bend and find himself in Indiana without a clue to where he was. Time to abandon ship.

The resignations from the White House staff started slowly but eventually became a flood.  Only the most loyal supporters were left in the President’s inner circle.  Of course there was always Lady Kamala, the succubus in the Eisenhower wing, the pretender to his throne, the venom and dagger vixen; but she could never be counted on to tell him what’s what, a stiletto under silken wraps.

So the few aides left scurried about to fill vacancies, difficult when water had already breached the lower decks and the ship was foundering.

“I am the captain of the ship of state”, the President intoned when an aide invoked the metaphor.

Without a faithful coterie, a devoted inner circle, and with an electorate sorely disappointed at his foundering and geriatric stumbling, the President was sure to lead his party to defeat in the midterm elections of 2022.  Although lip service was paid, former supporters moved to the left or the right of him, leaving him alone.

Poor Joe, he deserved better, wrote a columnist who had followed the President from his early Delaware days.  Lots of promise, too little beef in the sandwich, but a nice guy; and so would read his epitaph, nothing more, nothing less.