I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’m not sure that the bicycle is the most suitable means of transportation for the president of the United States. I mean, being the most advanced nation in the world — capable of sending contraptions flying to the moon, inventing a girlfriend named Alexa that does what you tell her to, and sending B-2 stealth bombers to war — putting a million-and-a-half-year-old man on a bicycle is like playing Russian roulette. If Biden wants to participate in an Olympic sport, my advice is that he try his hand at poker.
Whatever the case may be, he has taken a big hit and, as a Christian, I wish him the best. And the best is that he goes home to rest, resigns, and stops ruining the country. But Joe, in addition to his health problems, has had another problem since he entered the White House, and that is his selective deafness: he only listens to brown-nosing journalists. And I don’t have a brown nose because I think that’s just plain dirty. You start flattering a politician and you end up sharing a Thanksgiving turkey. But, in the house of a Democratic governor, the turkey is probably you.
His post-collision reappearance, however, will remain in the annals of the history of ridicule. If you have just broken your neck in such a ridiculous fashion, the wise thing to do would be to reappear through the back door, looking dead serious and keeping honorably quiet.
I remember that once a pigeon used me for target practice while I was entering a church, just as a friend’s wedding was starting. My suit was a mess, and I had to go into the bathroom to try to fix it. Not only did I not improve things but I also spread the stain to my shirt and tie. So much expectation had been generated by my accident that a huge line of wedding guests was waiting at the doors of the church bathrooms, more eager to see me and laugh at my discomfort than to kiss the bride. It obviously didn’t occur to me to reappear jumping around, making victory signs. No, I went out walking backward, covering my face with my tie and saying in a squeaky voice, “Itxu? No idea, I don’t know him” — the sort of thing politicians do when they catch one of their best friends at the center of a corruption scheme.
If you need to do three pitiful little jumps in front of the press on your comeback to show how well you are, the only thing that any seasoned journalist will see is that you are in a terrible state. And now everyone knows it. Including America’s enemies. We are making the enemies of the West laugh too much, all because the Democrats need the old stooge in place to stay in power. But when has the Left ever cared about the price to pay for power?
It’s all so pitiful, I’m beginning to suspect that Biden had a different problem, that he didn’t do it to prove his health. I have been seriously meditating on what can make a 79-year-old hop around. The only reason I find convincing so far, and this is my leading hypothesis, is that Uncle Joe got a flea in his fly. Only those of us who have ever been through such an uncomfortable ordeal know how much you suffer, especially when you have reporters pointing their cameras at you and you cannot proceed to a thorough inspection of the area, with basic safety measures, such as airing and shaking out the underpants, and even (this is what I did) a thorough rinsing with whatever you have at hand; in my case, it was with beer.
The jumping, Joe, doesn’t do any good. Besides, it encourages the flea. This man needs everything to be explained to him: in the event of a chance, intimate encounter between the president of the United States and a goddamn flea, the only one that should be jumping around in there is the flea, Joe. Yeah, you’re the president. I agree, it’s unbelievable. The flea could do better.
[H/T The American Spectator]