“The Republicans are shutting down the government!” Joe said, his excitement and Parkinson’s sending a tremble through his limbs.

“It never works for them,” Kamala cackled. It was the first time she had been let back in The Oval Office since she laugh-pissed all over Eleanor Roosevelt’s horse blanket.

“We won’t let them, sir,” Karine said, a strong cup of coffee secretly laced with Bud Light in her claw-like hands. She was haggard and thoroughly unfucked; single life hitting her hard.

“It will be disastrous for our National Parks, Grandpa,” Finnegan said. She was growing out all her body hair to protest No Nut November and she itched everywhere, like a full-body rash of ingrown feminism was sprouting all over. “There will be almost nowhere left for Americans to get trampled to death trying to take a selfie with a bison.”

“I just want some time off,” Joe said. “I haven’t had a vacation in forever.”

In the uncomfortable quiet after he spoke, Kamala began to cackle. She cackled all around the room, skipping in delight. Cackle, cackle. She was so happy.

“I think she still thinks she’s going to be VP,” Karine said in a slurred whisper to Finnegan.

“Oh, let her dance and be happy,” Finnegan said. “It doesn’t hurt anything.”

“At least she’s so repulsive it keeps Hunter away,” Karine whispered.

“Dad gets obsessed with women who refuse to sleep with him,” Finnegan whispered back. “Having sex with him is the quickest way to get him to lose interest.”

Karine made a vomiting noise, then did vomit a little into the back of her throat and swallowed hard to push it back down.

“Just make sure it’s before Thanksgiving,” Finnegan said. “Turkey makes his crabs come out of hibernation.”

Karine did vomit then, coffee and Bud Light and a milky chum of Belvita Breakfast Biscuits splashing onto Kamala’s legs. The Oval Office fell into Biohazard Protocols, bleach misting from the ceiling and sirens howling.