They're just publishing literal fanfiction these days, no commentary, no analysis, no reporting, just straight up literal fanfic
By Maureen Dowd
Opinion Columnist, reporting from Washington.
I slipped away from this nightmarish election campaign into a delicious dream the other evening. I dreamed that, when Joe Biden gets up to reset his beleaguered presidency at the State of the Union address, he gives this astonishing speech:
Mr. Speaker. Man, Mike Johnson was a nobody just weeks ago — now he’s Neville Chamberlain. Madam Vice President. Oy.
Our first lady — you hottie! And our second gentleman. Members of Congress, leaders of our military, justices of the Supreme Court. And you, my fellow Americans.
My report is this: The state of my mental competency is strong. And the union’s OK, too.
You think I’m forgetful? Take a look at the other guy — he can’t even remember who Nancy Pelosi is, and that gal is the best speaker in United States history! You know what I remember? I remember how to lift people up, not tear them down and pit them against one another. I remember how to tell the truth when my lips move.
I may be 81, but it’s not about your chronological age. It’s about how old your ideas are. Donald Trump wants to yank us back on women’s rights, the environment, mail-in voting — actually, all voting. He’s undermining NATO, the strongest alliance ever. I’m trying to build a high-speed train from Vegas to L.A., baby!
I remember very well that, three years ago, our economy was reeling. Our administration has created nearly 15 million jobs and helped fund 46,000 infrastructure projects. Unemployment has been under 4 percent, and the inflation rate has gone down.
My boy Hunter made mincemeat out of the House Republicans. His Irish was up, and he told those clowns there was no corruption on my part. I see you down there, Matt Gaetz, you lying, dog-faced pony soldier! When you tried to quiz Hunter about his drug use, he made quick work of you. Pot calling kettle! How could you give Hunter a hard time when you’re under investigation by the House Ethics Committee for sexual misconduct and using illicit drugs? Lots of luck with that, man!
Hunter is my hero. He is trying to stay sober to help me — and keep our democracy from falling off the wagon. My family grifts a little, but what White House doesn’t? The Obamas, but other than that …. The Clintons left with a moving truck of government property. And look at the Trump syndicate, man!
I’m still on top of my game, folks. Here’s the deal: I’ve always had gaffes. That’s my thing. Like back in 2006 when I said, “You cannot go into a 7-Eleven or a Dunkin’ Donuts unless you have a slight Indian accent.”
I haven’t been perfect, Lord knows. I’m in a time warp in terms of how I see Israel, and I should have reined in Bibi sooner to stop the Gaza tragedy. I’ve been too slow to fix the border, but you Republicans don’t want it fixed anyway.
Still, I feel I deserve re-election, folks. I don’t think I get enough credit for my achievements. They said bipartisanship was such a 20th-century concept, but I worked across the aisle to help pass the largest infrastructure investment in history and the manufacturing bill bolstering chips and semiconductors.
We are faced with a moment of extraordinary challenge. If we can meet our crises at the border and in Ukraine and Gaza, if we can manage the out-of-control Bibi and the psychotic Putin, we will be a nation of limitless possibility.
I may not have a long future, but America does. Our children and grandchildren do. We do not want to let one man’s checkered past drag down our shining future. We cannot let our country be ripped apart by retribution and vengeance.
I’m proud of the 51 years I’ve spent in this town. I’m honored that millions of people across this country want me to continue to lead them. But I tell you tonight: I will not be a candidate for president this fall.
I don’t want a debate over my age to be an impediment to America’s progress. It’s eclipsing the things that we should be focused on.
After much prayer and deliberation, I have decided that I need to spend my final chapter devoting my full attention to our thorny challenges.
I was serious, folks, when I called myself a bridge to a new generation, a transitional figure. I’ll release my delegates this summer at the Chicago convention to vote for the candidate they feel can carry our banner into the future.
I know our country — and the world — has been through a difficult time. Divisive politics. A withering pandemic. A murderous Putin. But as I leave you tonight, I want you to know that America has faced and navigated every challenge for over 247 years.
Let us join hands. Now is the hour of responsibility. Our character is formed. Our purpose is found. Our future is forged.
It’s never, ever been good to bet against America. God bless you all — even you, Gaetz. And God save the queen, man!
From “Rodham” by Curtis Sittenfeld
[Bill] knocked on the door of my apartment three hours later, and when I opened it, he said, “Hillary,” and then his face contorted grotesquely and he was sobbing. He stepped into my apartment, took me in his arms, and held me tightly. I began sobbing, too. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”
He said, “If I don’t have you, I have nothing.”
We hugged and hugged and cried and cried and then we had glorious sex and when I was on top of him, sitting up, and both of us were close but not finished, I said, “I’ll marry you. I want to marry you so badly. I love you so much.”
He smiled in exactly the way I’d anticipated. He said, “Do you really mean it?”
I nodded.
“Oh, Hillary,” he said. “Oh, baby.” He pulled me toward him so that we were even closer, without space between us, as close as we could be.
In the middle of the night, he woke me by tapping my shoulder. It sometimes happened that while I was asleep, he’d rub my breasts or below my navel and at the slightest shifting toward him on my part, or when my breathing became ragged, he’d slide into me. But in those circumstances, we didn’t speak, and on this night, he was saying my name, asking if I was listening. Finally, I said, “Yes. I’m listening.”
“I’ve never, ever forced myself on a woman. Never.”
“Okay.”
“And I never would. But you shouldn’t marry me. You should leave. I’ll drag you down. The thing that’s wrong with me is incurable. Do you hear me?”
My eyes had already filled with tears. “Yes,” I said.“
“In the morning, I’ll try to talk you out of it, but what I’m telling you now is the truth. You know your rule about two reasons? One reason is you won’t have the career you deserve here and the other is that the problems I have will never go away. When I try to convince you to stay, it’s me being selfish. Us staying together is good for me and bad for you.”
“Bill,” I said. “Baby.” But I couldn’t say more, and it wasn’t because I was too sleepy. It was because I was too sad.
I don't think I'll ever have sex again
This book should be reimagined into a remake/reimagining of Stephen King's 11.22.63, but instead of our time traveling main character trying to stop the assassination of JFK, he keeps going back to Yale in 1971 to cockblock Bill
That's just awful writing. Without the context of who its about, and how horrific that makes it, its still just really bad. Libs have no taste