Humor: A day in the life of a childless, cat lady president as imagined by J.D. Vance
I'm ruining the country one cherished tradition at a time
I wake up in the presidential suite when a cat bats my face. Terrance demands to be fed. Knowing there'll be hell to pay if I don't comply with Terrence's whims, I put one foot down and then another. Ouch. I forgot the golden rule. Always look before you step. Mittens is constantly sitting in spots where there are feet to bite.
Here comes one of my aids. First, they knock at the door tentatively, knowing my cats don't take well to being startled by anyone who is not me. Opening the door, the aid wretches. Honestly, the smell of urine isn't that bad, but others think a litter box or four makes my quarters and the Oval Office a toxic waste zone.
Holding their breath, the aid delivers a note from my Secretary of Staff. I have to meet them in 20 minutes for a debriefing.
After a quick shower (made quicker by the fact that, as a committed cat lady, I don't have to worry about shaving my legs to please anyone), I flip through several outfits, picking one with the least amount of hair visible. It's a tough choice.
Since it's a national holiday, I must say a few words to the press. Terrance follows me to the podium, jumping up. I glow with pride as the cameras eat him up.
I'm so lucky he chose me to be his cat mama. Plus, by his mere presence, the press has something to write about besides the uninspiring word salad spilling from my mouth.
I'm no good with words; if I were, I'd have bagged a quality man. Terrance and Mittens don't care about my lack of charisma and likability like the public seems to; they want two things from me: Attention and food. And, unlike my campaign promises, I will deliver on those promises.
Oh no, they need me in the Situation Room. I tell them no, get the vice president to step in. I have an appointment for Mittens with the White House vet. She's going through a health crisis.
It costs a fortune. No matter, I'll spend whatever I need of the taxpayer's dollars to keep her functioning a little longer. I'm glad I went; Mittens looked at me with such love; she needs me in a way no human ever has. This must be what having a child is like.
I feel my barren womb shudder and quietly say my mantra, "A cat is just as valid as a child."
When Mittens is safely back in my room, I rush to the Department of Education. I give them whatever money they need once they assure me that their curriculum is guaranteed to teach young girls that marrying a man should be a last-ditch effort.
Instead, they should focus on using their reproductive years to care for the economy and numerous rescue cats.
Before turning in for the day, I signed an executive order allowing marriages to be canceled online in as little as 10 minutes.
If the wife checks a box saying, "I want all my husband's assets," she gets them. There is no need for long, drawn-out court dates or lawyer fees. Now, more women will be free of their men and able to own cats.
I get a text from someone on my staff. Terrance almost stepped on the button, signaling nuke time. He was trying to catch a fly (my little hunter!) and missed it by a hair.
I ran to meet the aid who stopped, in her dramatic words, an impossible-to-imagine catastrophe. At least, I think that's what she said. When I saw she had Terrance by the scruff of his neck, I started screaming that she was fired while tucking the fur baby into my arms.
What a day! Crawling into bed, framed on either side by a furry creature, I feel safe, loved, and fulfilled. My overrates be damned. I'd like to see a man busy with a family trying to accomplish half the things I've done today.
Writing dumb things to make you laugh