What the fuck is wrong with JD Vance?

Seriously.

What the fuck is this guy’s malfunction?

I know he had a fucked-up childhood. Who among us didn’t? You’re not fucking special, JD. Most people eventually figure out childhood trauma is not an invoice you get to mail to civilization.

Not this one.

This lab-grown hillbilly, Peter-Thiel-polished power groupie, jowl-merkined human thumb took every bruise, insecurity, fury, humiliation, and gnawing little inadequacy he ever accumulated, crammed the whole psychic landfill into a navy suit, and unleashed it on America as a smug, sneering, sanctimony-squirting super-douche with Secret Service protection.

And now he’s going to Ground Zero for the solemn twenty-fifth commemoration of September 11.

He was asked about representing the administration there, and this sphincter-faced smarm spigot said he was “really looking forward to hanging out with Joe Biden” because he expected “many, many intense intellectual conversations.”

What the fuck is wrong with him?

What the fuck is wrong with you, JD?

Why the fuck would you do that?

Nobody asked you to roast Joe Biden. Nobody asked for your bitchy, Lunchables-grade zingers. The question was about attending the ceremony for the deadliest terrorist attack in American history.

You could have answered the goddamn question.

“It’s an honor.”

“It’s a solemn responsibility.”

“I’m humbled to represent the administration.”

Pick one.

There are hundreds of thousands of words in the dictionary and this motherfucker managed to assemble the exact handful that made him sound like the dickhead in seventh-period social studies making fart noises during the moment of silence.

Who does that?

What kind of emotional wiring hears September 11 and immediately starts rifling around for a Biden dig?

You were handed solemnity and your reflex was snark.

For twelve fucking seconds, just be normal.

But of course he went for Biden’s brain.

That’s Team Damaged Goods’ favorite fucking party trick.

Biff-Tannen-brained, bullshit-breathing, brain-pan-broken bastards sloshing around in a nine-layer casserole of felonies, daddy issues, spray-tan psychosis, malignant narcissism, moral mange, necrotic entitlement, and whatever happens when the worst Facebook comments section in America gets flag pins and access to nuclear codes.

For four years it was the only material they had.

Biden pauses?

DEMENTIA.

Trips over a word?

HE’S GONE.

Looks tired?

SOMEBODY GET THE 25TH AMENDMENT.

Joe Biden has been out of office for 594 days and they still can’t put the bit down. They hung a picture of an autopen where his portrait should go on Trump’s pathetic fucking presidential walk of fame.

It’s so petty. It’s so fucking sophomoric.

And the man who signed off on that is Donald fucking Trump, a sweat-slick, sentence-mangling, daytime-dozing sack of neurological confetti who can begin a thought in Pennsylvania, veer through Hannibal Lecter, ricochet off sharks and batteries, detour into some antediluvian bullshit about water pressure, and surface forty-seven minutes later screaming about a body of water he wants renamed after himself.

He can barely negotiate daylight without looking like somebody crushed a Benadryl into his Diet Coke, and JD wants to mount the cognitive high horse?

Your boss has a junk drawer where his frontal lobe should be.

Three golf tees.

Two ketchup packets.

A dead battery.

A casino chip from 1997.

And a classified document fused to a Werther’s Original.

It’s a burning meth lab filing a noise complaint against the neighbor’s smoke detector.

Sit the fuck down.

Especially you, you profoundly peculiar pork chop.

JD Vance is awkward at a cellular level.

Not quirky. Not eccentric. Not “wears a cape to ShopRite and corrects the deli clerk because it’s a fucking cloak” weird. Not “alphabetizes the freezer” weird. Not “has a preferred manhole cover” weird.

Sweaty-palmed, hand-hovering, hug-fumbling, eye-contact-calculating, corporeally bewildered, cover-your-drink fucking weird.

He cannot order a goddamn donut without making fried dough look socially gifted. When he runs, his knees appear to have retained separate counsel. He touches his wife with the concentration of somebody trying to remember whether aluminum foil can go in the microwave. And when he laughs, you can practically hear a stage manager somewhere near the medulla whisper, “NOW.”

Staple a chin curtain on all of that and send him to a cookout with his own folding chair, a gallon of raw milk, and a laminated questionnaire about everybody’s fertility.

Put him into casual conversation and the whole room discovers its elbows.

He could make a Golden Retriever reconsider its entire policy on strangers.

JD Vance is LinkedIn with genital warts.

If Ted Cruz and Josh Hawley had a baby, left him in Kid Rock’s basement, and let Ted Nugent raise him on venison jerky, AM radio, powdered testosterone, and whatever gas-station supplement makes you start describing your sperm count to strangers in the parking lot outside a county fair, this is what eventually crawls upstairs asking why uteruses aren’t meeting quarterly projections.

JD once called Donald Trump “America’s Hitler” and today he’s his fucking vice president, so apparently Hitler gets considerably less Hitler-y when there’s a promotion in it for you.

This smoky-eyed, shape-shifting scuzzbucket has changed his name more times than Zsa Zsa Gabor changed husbands and reinvented himself more often than a divorced dad with a Corvette, one hoop earring, a Bluetooth headset, and a new girlfriend named Kenzie who sells Monat out of the passenger seat and keeps calling his kids “the littles.”

And every version is the same social-cue-starved specimen.

And this psychosexually pickled, spotlight-suckling, empathy-evacuated fuck trumpet wants to make jokes about Joe Biden’s mind?

Joe Biden is eighty-three years old and fighting aggressive prostate cancer that has spread into his bones.

He buried his first wife.

His baby daughter.

His son.

That man knows grief the way you know your own kitchen in the dark.

He knows what a house does after somebody dies in it. The coat on the hook because taking it down feels like a decision. The number in your phone you can’t delete and can’t call. The birthday that shows up anyway because the calendar didn’t get the fucking memo. That half-second after you wake up when they’re still alive, before you remember, and you have to lose them again before your feet hit the floor.

It made him fluent in other people’s sorrow.

And the September 11 families know their own dialect of that language.

A graduation with someone missing from the bleachers. A wedding photograph tucked into a bouquet. Familiar handwriting on an old card. A saved voicemail technology has no fucking right to threaten with obsolescence. A grandchild recognizing a face they never got to meet.

Loss doesn’t hold still.

It changes costumes.

A song leaking from another car.

The smell of shampoo.

A chipped coffee mug.

Tuesday at 4:17 in the afternoon.

The stupidest object becomes a trapdoor and suddenly you’re falling through twenty-five years.

That’s who’s standing in that plaza.

And this venture-capital cum sock with a motorcade brought them sarcasm.

An Ivy League ass gasket.

A lubricious ladder-licker with the charisma of a urethral swab and the compassion of a parking citation.

Fuck you, JD, or whatever the fuck your name is today.

A decent human being occasionally recognizes that he is infinitesimal beside the enormity of what other people have endured. He gets quiet. He bears witness. He makes himself smaller so memory can fill the room.

For no discernible reason, you decided a question about that morning was an invitation to mock a lifelong public servant staring down a devastating illness. Nobody baited you. Nobody set it up. You got a softball about a memorial and swung at a sick old man. That’s what was underneath the bootstraps, the book tour, and all that counterfeit conviction: a Bubble-Wrap status addict with no moral skeleton to misplace.

You couldn’t manage basic decency for one goddamn answer.

Leave Joe Biden’s good name out of your groveling, grief-mocking, gutless mouth.

Let the adults mourn.

And keep your fucking hands where the furniture can see them.

And with that, today’s song:

I’ve spent the last two days down the Jersey Shore with the kids, filling my cup and squeezing every last drop out of summer before real life comes roaring back. I’m so incredibly grateful to this community, because your support is what makes moments like these possible for us. I never, ever take that for granted, and I hope you know how much it means to us. ❤️

I love you guys!

Stay safe out there, stay strong and stay connected to each other.

💙 Jo

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