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Once upon a time, a charismatic real-estate developer was elected President of the United States, and the entire Democratic party lost its mind.
The “Orange Devil” as he would come to be known, espoused hopes and desires for a stronger America, a safer America, and a country where all citizens had an equal opportunity to realize their full potential and pursue their dreams. He believed in better jobs and better pay for the working class. He championed the cause of minorities, vowing to improve life and lower the unemployment rate for hispanics and black Americans. In other words, he was clearly a flaming racist.
“President Adolf Hitler,” as he would come to be known, fostered feelings of American pride and a belief in the power of the individual. And yea, though the people of Mexico never paid for a wall, middle-class Americans finally saw the light and realized once and for all that President Ronald Reagan was correct: government was not the SOLUTION to their problems; government WAS the problem.
America soon reemerged as a beacon of hope, a shining city on a hill. Therefore, it was incumbent upon the Democratic party to right the American ship of freedom and put it back on the glorious path to inevitable collission with the great socialist iceberg of the 21st century.
And there was day and there was night on the 763rd day of the Trump Presidency.
But hark! From the amber waves of grain and purple mountains of majesty came forth a great socialist masquerading as a democrat, masquerading as a Native American, masquerading as a lover of IPAs and microbrews, masquerading as a compassionate champion of the middle-class for whom she genuinely could not give a rat’s rectum.
Her name was Elizabeth “Fauxcahontas” Warren, and she too had dreams:
1. Become the first 1/1024th Native American to be elected President of the USA.
2. Become the new face of Land O’Lakes butter.
Yes, but Donald Trump, or “President Cheeto” as he would come to be known, was a formidable opponent indeed, and Fauxcahontas Warren came to realize that she was not a likable figure in the eyes of the voter who was cursed with good judgment, common sense, and an adherence to the principles of basic personal hygiene.
Fauxcahontas was weary, but the 1/1024th pioneering spirit of the Native American was coursing through her veins, and she soon had a revelation: “I must call upon the power of my ancestors and seek their guidance as I enter into this great electoral battle of 2020.”
Shortly thereafter, “she who is not really Native American and rarely drinks beer,” took a private jet to the nearest Sears Roebuck and a purchased an authentic Native American headdress, manufactured in Taiwan. It was a little undersized and tended to obstruct blood-flow to the brain, but Fauxcahontas decided she’d make do. The feathers were hypoallergenic, and besides, it was on clearance.
Fauxcahontas gathered twigs and attempted to build a traditional “Native American fire or whatever” on the grounds of her palatial estate. Ever the stickler for authenticity, Fauxcahontas insisted upon igniting the blaze by the same methods that had been utilized by her ancestors. After a couple of minutes, however, her hands got tired from rubbing sticks together and she decided to douse the pile with gasoline and use a box of kitchen matches.
The flames immediately burst forth, growing ever higher with each passing second. Fauxcahontas danced furiously about the flames, and although she was unfamiliar with traditional Native American dance, the 2020 Presidential hopeful had a few signature moves she had picked up from an episode of “Soul Train.”
All at once, Fauxcahontas let loose with a mighty yell towards the sky!
“Awee! Holy s***!”
The security guards stationed about the massive walls that surrounded the Warren estate immediately flocked to her side.
“What is it?” one of the guards exclaimed. “A revelation? Did you make contact? Did your ancestors speak?”
“No, damn it!” Fauxcahontas replied. “I twisted my G.D. ankle!”
The dutiful guards carried their fallen self-appointed “Honorable Chief of Warren Land” to her 20,000 sqft. estate and gently placed her upon the cushions of her favorite exotic couch – the one that looks like cowhide.
The benevolent guards, or “peasants” as Fauxcahontas had taken to calling them, attempted to control their Chief’s swelling with frozen bottles of Evian water. It was in that moment that “she who is not really Native American nor qualified to be President” received total clarity of the Progressive mind.
“F*** it,” Fauxcohontas exclaimed. “I can get the black vote if I advocate for slave reparations, and I’ll sucker the rest of them in by promising free child care and health insurance.”
So it was. And it was on that very day that the elder tribesmen christened her “Dances with Socialists.”
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