Date: July 19th, 2025 2:36 AM
Author: Mainlining the $ecret Truth of the Univer$e (You = Privy to The Great Becumming™ = Welcum to The Goodie Room™)
I was in the dairy aisle, trying to explain to Tabitha for the fourth time that "artisanal" does not mean the cheese grew a second, furrier rind in the back of the walk-in. The breakroom TV was on, some fraud anchor babbling about circulatory systems and continuity.
I didn't pay attention. The hum of the freezers is all that's "real" anymore.
Then my phone buzzed. And again. And again.
Texts from partners I haven't spoken to in years.
A LinkedIn notification from Chad, of all people, who just updated his status to "Watching history unfold with cautious optimism." Cautious optimism. He might as well have spat on my shoes.
They’re saying the condition is… progressive.
The clot of fate, I imagine, inching its way through the arteries of the republic, destined for the Resolute Desk. And they whisper his name—my name. The Ohio curse. The ultimate cosmic joke. From debating the merits of Gruyère with a woman who thinks FMLA is a type of cheese, to… this.
They want me to inherit the throne of this crumbling empire. Me. I'd have to manage the entire country like it's a Safeway staffed by proles who can't even face the dairy case correctly. I’d have to give speeches. I'd have to pretend this is all some great honor and not a death sentence served in a TTT White House. How dare they.
How dare they even think it.
Tabitha just waddled by and asked if I'm okay. Said I look pale. She handed me a lukewarm Big Gulp she found. "Hazard pay," she grunted.
Yes, friends. This is fine.
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5752226&forum_id=2)#49113790)