In his recent California trek to support Democratic candidates, President Joe Biden (Maoist) made a surprise visit to Santa Clarita. While stumping for Santa Clarita Valley congressional hopeful Christy Smith (Girl Maoist), Biden swung by several local private girl schools, but, thankfully, was denied entry. The chief exec’s motorcade then stopped on the tracks at Market and Railroad, causing a planet-ending traffic jam.
There, Biden offered a candid look at his heretofore unknown deep roots and history in the SCV. What follows are highlights of the president’s impromptu remarks…
“It’s nice to be visiting here in Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha, California,” said Mr. Biden, “and they, uh, tell me this is no bull. But I was born in here Santa Velveeta and worked in the movie industry making Westerns growing up here. Most people don’t know this, but I was Hopalong Cassidy. Still might be.” (Gets on imaginary horse and gallops around stage.)
Smiling toothily, Biden asks his entourage: “Which one of you is Christy? She the one with the hair? Sashay over here, Christy, your cream rinse sends me to estrus…”
Smith grins in fear, shaking her head to the negative and smiling out of context. Slurping, the president mumbles something about “…the Pentagon giving me special presidential X-ray vision goggles.” Cars honked.
“My wife, Kamala, informed me that the burrito was invented here. And low-riding. And Aztec human sacrificing. We must not be quick to judge nor make cultural appropriations and sacrifice humans when that’s not our culture. Nor should Hispanics celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas nor should some communities wear pants. Like the Irish.”
Jaw fiercely clenched, the president took a long moment to hug someone not there, then delved into his local SCV roots.
“It’s a fact. Look it up. I was born here, in New Hole and raised by the An-nuh, An-nuh, An-nuh, An-nuh, nuh-nuh-nuh… (an aide steps up to whack the president on the side of the head) local Anasazi Indians. I’m proud to say that as a young man, I burned white settlers’ wagons trying to shortcut here through our ancient ceremonial burial grounds, which today are proudly the Democratic campaign headquarters here for the New Christy Minstrels…”
An aide seamlessly drifts to the president, whispers a correction in his ear, whacks him on the head again, then turns Biden 180 degrees so he’s not talking to the flashing railroad crossing light.
“Smith,” the president corrects himself. “Uh, they tell me her name is The New Smithy Minstrels.” The aide sticks around to slap away the president’s hand from his trousers.
Yelling now into the microphone and staring angrily, “MY FATHER’S FATHER WAS BORN IN THIS TOWN AND RAISED IN SANTA CLARITA (whispering now) which means ‘Gee Your Hair Smells Nice’ in Spanish. On this very spot (president points two blocks away), I helped my grandfather fight the chimpanzees for world domination. Right here. Wanna know something? We won. Monkeys? They lost. Sure, it was a bloody battle, fur flying everywhere. I lost an eye. And those damn dirty apes burned down my house, along with my uniform and all my medals which is why I don’t have any proof today of service to my race — the human race. But, you wanna know something? We won. That’s why you don’t see no lousy chimpanzees walking around America, throwing poop. Which is why you need to vote for Christy Smith-Minstrels. Chrissy HATES monkeys!! Elect her. She’ll hunt down what’s left of their lousy brood and kill them MAGA insurrectionists. CHIMP WAR!!! CHIMP WAR!!! DOWN WITH JANE GOODALL!! CHANT IT WITH ME!! WHO HOOO!!!!”
President Biden grins, turns toward Canyon Country and slow dances in place. He sees the Democratic congressional candidate, motions Minstrel-Smith to join him at the podium and yells that he has a “…special present for her quinceañera…” In another unscheduled mood shift, the president stares beady-eyed at the El Trocadero parking lot, then yells that he fought in the Zoot Suit Wars here in Downtown Newhall and was wounded, losing another eye.
“I beat up a Navy sailor,” recalled Biden. “His name was Corn Popeye. Beat him so bad he spit up spinach. Or maybe it was kale. I remember the story was in all the nation’s newspapers because they thought maybe the guy was one of those outer space UFO alien guys as he was upchucking green blood. I hope I’m using the right pronoun with ‘guy,’ you know, to appease you people’s latest whiny 31 Flavors simpering demographic.
“That’s another damn thing,” the president went on, yelling. “I was the first guy in America to march for hardened holiday inedible desserts. Got arrested. Lost an eye a close friend had loaned me. I was a teenage lifeguard at New Whole Pool down the street. I was the only lifeguard for all Los Angeles County. Some Vietcong snuck in some United Nations Mission Paks, their national food, to the park and a bunch of people tried to stop them, noting fruitcake goes bad real quick and can chip your teeth. After soliciting a legal contribution to the Democratic Party, I invited the North Vietnamese fruitcakeists to soak themselves and their cakes in the swimming pool to soften it but the people said ‘No!’ because everyone, myself included, tend to, you know, relieve themselves in public pools. I beat them up. The Vietcong. Their U.N. fruitcakes. A picnicking family reunion of the O’Bannons are still being held in the pokey without bail. Thousands of them. As a teenage Catholic bishop, using just the jawbone of an ass.”
The president screamed that others, outside the district, “need to vote for Karen Jones, until it hurts,” then smiled at the Maoist, confessing he had a son named Hunter, “who could get her nylons.”
As of press time, Joe Biden is still at Railroad and Market, hoarsely screaming about his early days in Santa Clarita, where he invented the Post-it note, salad tongs, lasagna, Alberta VO-5 and the nation of Islam, “…back when it was nice…”
John Boston is Earth’s most prolific humorist. Visit his bookstore at johnbostonbooks.com. Click. Buy non-woke books.
