Joe Biden's Revenge

(As the fraud of Joe Biden finally explodes after five decades of make believe, we can’t resist a little more exploration of the ironies of the situation and we indulge ourselves below. - Editor)

“All the right people are saying Joe has to step down, didn’t you know?” 

Indeed, all the right media outlets, the ones with liberal prestige, the New York Times, the Atlantic, where the smartest people of our country have looked for centuries to guidance on the best ways to think, or how to think at all, are all in agreement—Biden should step down. The Commentariat all over the nation agrees, Biden is a hero, a man worthy of the greatest respect—indeed, a truly honorable man worthy of the name of Caesar. But Caesar’s time has come, his chances have now dwindled. Not for his lack of leadership or accomplishments these last four—nay, even forty years, but because appearances have changed, and God knows, appearances are far superior to truth. So say those prestigious leaders of American opinion today, and God knows, they must be right.

But one has to wonder, is Joe Biden, deep in his heart of hearts, not more like one of those alien creatures from the world of MAGA? His adoption of the Scranton Joe moniker would seem to imply that he strives to be such.  He claims that brand even though he has had one set of masters throughout his career, the Anglo-American intelligence community, the foreign policy blob, and Wall Street. No, he’s not really MAGA.  Not really a patriot, not really a hard-working, blue-collar type.  These are not the laurels of our prestigious class in which Joe has traveled these last fifty years. Joe had been a U.S. Senator for thirty-six years, the youngest ever elected, and even a candidate for President three times. He has served as Vice President, and now as President, so it’s assuredly hard to imagine even ‘Scranton’ Joe as part of the rabble of that MAGA world, but still, one has to wonder.  Did he somehow, successfully, penetrate the upper echelons only to screw them in the end?  

Wonder why, you say? Well, has Joe ever received his just deserts from this prestigious class? Has he gained their respect, as he ought to have? Yes, he attended their parties, and debauched with the best of them, and surely we all know his legendary tales of social prowess and the debonair. But, has Joe, and perhaps even some of his family, have they felt that their sacrifices, their willingness to be the butt of certain jokes simply to entertain the crowd at the party, or Joe’s indefatigable willingness to take the tough, if also harsh corporatist stance on issues like black crime, credit card debt, social security, and the Iraq War—have these sacrifices been appreciated by the Dons of Washington and New York, the gentry of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket? Is there not perhaps a bit of the deep anger of the jester, of the Rigoletto, lurking deep within Joe?

Joe’s anger, his resentment from lack of respect, the chip on his shoulder now manifest again,  may be for very different reasons than the genuine anger and thirst for change now animating those living in MAGA world. That is a world where, by and large, people have devotedly served their country, town, and family; where they have worked hard for the sake of hard work and moral value, while all the while the annual harvests have declined. Where many stick to the idea that the truth—and not appearances—is what matters, however plebeian and droll such views may be. Joe has not lived in that world. But still, are these resentments and anger not somehow still more akin to one another, more alike than the duplicitous conceit, than the vaunted savoir faire of our very prestigious?

For Joe is not long for this world. What has he got to lose?  And his son Hunter, a disillusioned drug addict deployed to fund his dysfunctional family, a man who prefers prostitutes and even flirts with incest, resembles more the many outcasts and afflicted among young American adults, those long-forgottens from broken homes, who wade in a culture of drugs, pornography, and despair. Perhaps Hunter’s more like them, with his sense of nothing to lose, than his debonair patrician peers, who seem to remain always young and upwardly mobile, those forever classless American yuppies. 

For someone like Hunter, is he so stable as not to play the gamble? Perhaps to even revel in a bit of schadenfreude revenge, standing alongside his father, perched on the balcony of the White House, shoulder to shoulder, as they grin and watch the demise of the sardonic Obamas and patronizing Clintons, the nervous breakdowns of all the mucky-muck highbrows and legal scholars, the tears of the gossiping pundits and penny media darlings—all those who never gave Old Joe the respect he deserved. 

One can only wonder, and watch and wait. Irony is always sweet, when well deserved.  Meanwhile, a nation waits to be rebuilt and reconsecrated and time is wasting on that most urgent task.  That will only work when truth, rather than narrative, becomes this nation’s sole guiding light again.