“I’m gonna be President!” Kamala sang as she lumbered around the office in a grotesque parody of human joy. “I’m gonna be President!”

“Is Biden OK? Did something happen?” Astrid asked, alarmed. She smacked the side of her phone as if it had betrayed her. “Why didn’t you send me an alert?” she yelled at its home screen.

“He’s fine,” Kamala said. “He’s just not going to run for a second term.”

“Oh, good,” Astrid said. “I got really worried there for a second.”

“What does that mean?” Kamala asked, her eyes narrowing as her dance wound down.

As Astrid screamed inside over her mistake, Seresto stepped between them.

“Who wants to inherit a Presidency?” she asked. “Win it! Beat Trump in 2024 and have a mandate. You don’t want to be Jerry Ford.”

“Who’s Jerry Ford?” Kaylieburrow asked absently.

“Jesus,” Astrid snorted.

“What?” Kaylieburrow asked. “What?”

“Just, I, fuck…” Kamala said tiredly.

“I’m not stupid,” Kaylieburrow said. “My PoliSci degree cost $300,000 dollars! I’m not some sort of idiot.”

“Holy fuck!” Seresto shouted. “How much in student loans do you have?”

“Oh, Daddy paid all of that,” Kaylieburrow said dismissively. “It was in the divorce argument.”

“SHUT UP!” Kamala screamed. “Do you know how many abortions I had to get where I am today? How many old dicks I…”

“Just be happy for me!” Kamala said. “I’m going to be President!” She scampered through the office, knocking things off people’s desks and tipping over trash cans.

“We’re all very happy for you, Ma’am,” Astrid said and ducked the stapler Kamala threw at her head.