Please help me. I’ve accidentally become the perfect choice to be Kamala Harris’s running mate. And I really, really don’t want to be VP.
Last week, I had everything going for me: I am white male middle-aged governor of a crucial battleground state, have a 72 percent approval rating among single mothers, and am a boat owner. Now, everybody’s telling me it’s my “duty to help save democracy.” I don’t want that target on my back.
What’s good about being vice president? Absolutely nothing. You spend the entire fall (apple-picking season) campaigning in the worst places on earth (Battle Creek, Michigan) for a job where, at best, you do nothing (boring) and, at worst, you get blamed for some crisis you had nothing to do with (the border).
Meanwhile, my term as governor of a popular swing state is up next January, and I was dreaming of finally going to culinary school. Now, I’ll probably have to meet J. D. Vance and shake his sweaty little hand.
If only my résumé wasn’t so damn impressive…
Why, oh why did I ever save that squad of student cadets from toxic gas on my tour of duty in Syria, all while sustaining a bullet wound that gave me a noticeable but ruggedly valorous limp? Pod Save America is saying my background is perfect for winning over white men ages 18–72. That’s way too much pressure for a job where my greatest contribution would be matching my tie to the president’s suit.
I wouldn’t have developed my platform of progressive-yet-palatable policies if I’d known they’d appeal to single Black mothers, gen Z, and closeted racists ages 45–63? Who knew that could be a coalition? I guess I’ll have to wait till I’m eighty to learn how to make risotto.
If only I could unlearn fluent Spanish, I might be able to get out of this. Dios mio. I only ever wanted to be able to order enchiladas on my eleventh-grade Spanish club’s trip to Cancun, not turn Miami-Dade County blue and flip Florida. Now, I’m likely four months away from working a job where the best-case scenario is my boss dying. Any other American could do that!
Naturally, I have the money too. My donors include a diverse coalition of elite party donors, Wall Street titans, corporate power players, beloved Hollywood character actors, basketball players with podcasts, and politically active college students using their parents’ credit cards. They’re unstoppable.
By the way, if you’re waiting for some damning information to come out about my ancestors that I have to shamefacedly answer for, keep waiting. Not only did they NOT own slaves, but my grandparents’ tale of bravery and resilience across war-torn Europe has multiplied my support among the 92–105 crowd ten-fold. If only my grandparents had known that their courage would mean their grandson had to spend two days in fucking Toledo. TOLEDO. I’d rather endure a year of the German Blitz than a single night at a sit-down Italian option in Toledo.
Oh, and of course, Democratic leadership loves how approachable and attractive I am. Just attractive enough that voters can look at me for hours without feeling threatened. None of my attempts to make myself less attractive over the last few days have worked. The glasses only made me look professorial, the baseball cap only made me look like a baseball fan, and having Glen Powell stand next to me made me seem even more approachably attractive by comparison.
Naturally, I’d like to give a big sarcastic thank you to President Barack Obama for endorsing me for the ticket. Your unparalleled support has ensured that I’ll spend the next four years explaining the president’s stance on Gaza to an auditorium full of college students who get most of their news from slime video TikToks.
Even if I wanted to wiggle out of this nomination, my wife wouldn’t let me—not since she got shot by a terrorist, recovered only to look even hotter than before, and decided she didn’t want to waste her new clout on watching me struggle through a baked Alaska. Listen: I’m happy she’s okay. And I’m thrilled she’s still hot. But she’s become such a story of triumph and strength that even the 47 percent of white women who voted for Trump in 2016 are starting to gravitate toward her for her “southern toughness.” She’s from eastern Connecticut, ladies. The bougie part!
Maybe this all could have been avoided if I’d said yes to Ron Howard and let him adapt my memoir into a shitty movie no one saw. J. D. Vance really knew what he was doing there. I, on the other hand, just had to let James Cameron turn it into the 4D once-in-a-lifetime theater experience that grossed $2 billion. Now I’ll probably have to spend the better part of a decade at state funerals in Oslo.
I might as well start preparing my answer for Lester Holt’s favorite little debate question: “What is one thing you admire about Senator Vance?” Well, for one thing, I like that he won’t have to be vice president.
Oh, and I’m 6′2". Fuck. So long, seared ahi tuna. See you in eight years. (Actually, make that sixteen, because God knows I’ll be the perfect candidate to “save democracy” again when my salt-and-pepper hair comes in.)