I didn’t want to go to your dumb correspondents dinner anyway.
Nothing says “I didn’t want to be there” quite like rage-posting “I didn’t want to be there” at 1 am.
In the wee hours of the morning, while Joe Biden was likely sleeping soundly in the White House, a drug-addled septuagenarian heap of Diet Coke, hamberder grease, spray tan and sociopathy sat alone in his gilded golf motel rage-posting on his failing social media app about a swanky, celebrity-filled, black-tie dinner in Washington D.C. which he did not attend and likely was not invited to.
Clinging to his phone for dear life with his wee-lil hands, watching the clips over and over again, the mocking laughter of a roomful of famous and fabulous people he shall forever rue for refusing to capitulate to his awfulness, battering and bruising his eggshell-fragile ego on a never-ending loop.
Unable to bear the humiliation of being the butt of their jokes and the object of their scorn, he retreated to the usual sanctuary of his digital realm to lash out in a desperate attempt to regain a semblance of control.
With each keystroke of his fun-sized fingers, his rage burned hotter and hotter, as his addlepated mind was pounded over and over again by a deluge of simultaneous self-pity, self-righteousness and self-loathing.
In his twisted reality, he was a martyr, the righteous avenger striking back against the injustice of his perceived persecution.
Desperate for validation and vindication from the invisible audience of his faceless, faithful worshippers, he hammered the ALL CAPS keys demanding adulation and adoration even in the depths of his despair.
Alone in his room, a laughingstock and a loser, illuminated by the glow of his safe-space smartphone as he angrily tapped away, tortured by collective ridicule, consumed by fury and desperate for the revenge he knew deep down, he will never, ever have.
Sad.
I’ll be writing more about this one tomorrow.
I kind of want to start a “Dear diary” series of his “internal monologue”, send me your thoughts for entries.
Kudos to the unnamed artist who drew the end piece.
🤣🤣🤣 awe he didn’t get invited to the prom and there he sits in his lonely, “lonely for years” bedroom all decked out in his brand spanking new most expensive looking out of date old suit with mob boss carnation just staring at the phone-willing it to ring. But alas it didn’t ring and looking up he sees both the long hand and the short hand of his big clock pointing straight up at the number 12 and he knows it’s midnight and by now the final net hairspray from his hair and brows is melting down his face. He’s mad. Then he’s really mad. He took a shower and got all dressed up for nothing and even wiped his own ass as he was in a hurry, no time to wait on Rudy to come over, he did it all himself and they don’t even call. Maybe they lost his number? Yeah that’s it! His small glimmer of hope is dashed when he gets a message from Tucker Carlson asking him how he feels about them not inviting him and no they didn’t lose his number, Carlson checked, he goes on Truth Social, after confirming it’s still online, and he sends his by now rage filled text and afterward he undressed, gets into his bed with the race card painted on the roll over guards, has his hot cocoa laced with halcyon and hugs his teddy, the one he named Putin Putin Bear, and falls off to sleepy town, the one with the President Kim ll Sung sized statue of himself made of gaudy gold while hungry little orphans beg at his giant feet. Trump land