Biden is Zooming!
The call
Biden: Welcome bunkies! What a crew. It’s great to see your mugs. As I was just saying to my good buddy Barack, this Zumba is some whiz-bang, gee-whiz technology isn’t it?
Marsha: It’s called Zoom, sir.
Biden: Sure it is, sweetheart. I’m just giving you the business. And honey, speaking of which, are you still using that honey-scented shampoo? Mmm.
Marsha: Please sir. Inappropriate.
Biden: Mee-YOW! [ He makes a clawing gesture ] Don’t get your panties in a knot, girl. I’m joshing, I’m joshing. Jiminy Davey Crocket!
An awkward silence. Some eye-rolling.
Biden: Okay, okay. Good to see you. Greg, Peter. Lookin’ good fellas! Cindy Lou Who, wee Bobby! Keeping tabs on the sock-hoppers I trust? Marsha, where’s your sorority sister—that little spitfire, uh, Joan, Jean…
Cindy: It’s JAN, sir. She and Marsha are fighting again.
Carol: Oh Cindy…
Biden: Carol! A MILK, as the young cats are saying these days. Lookin’ good as always. Nice hair still, I see—nuzzle, nuzzle. I wish. [ Much disapproving head shaking ] Mike! You’re looking as pale as a ghost. Gotta get outta that closet occasionally my man. Alice, good to see ya. Do us a favor, old doll: if Sam stops by to deliver his meat, could’ja mute your mic?
Alice: Of course sir.
Biden: Good. We don’t need to hear another commercial for his “delicious pork sausage.”
Some muffled tittering. A jaunty shuffling noise is heard, and is followed by the “snap, snap” of animated playing cards being deployed. Someone is playing solitaire.
Biden: It’s a big day, kiddos. An ’istoric one, as my old, cigar-chomping schoolmate Winston used to say. I’m gonna name my veep choice. Big news hep cats! First tho…
Some groans. Greg is holding up an “I (heart) M” mug. Marsha ostentatiously scratches her forehead with a middle finger.
Biden: My close personal friend Johnny Lewis died recently. Good guy. Short man, but a heart as big as a big, juicy Georgia peach. As I was telling my good friend Barack before our call was dropped—evidently he drove into a tunnel—Johnny and I saw some bad days, let me tell ya. I was honored to have my head stove-in by a jack-booted Ku Klux Kopper on our march to Selma…
Marsha: Please sir…
Biden: …as we crossed that Tallahatchie Bridge, arm-in-arm, singing an old-timey gospel hymn, “𝅘𝅥𝅮 Swing low, sweet chariots of fire…”
Marsha: Please sir, we’ve talked about this.
Biden: Johnny sang like an angel, let me tell ya. You kids think The Platters or The Ink Spots wouldn’t have had him? Get real, chumps!
Marsha: Could we please just…
Biden: For God’s sake, girl! Let me finish a tribute to my fallen brother, willya?
Lots of head shaking now. Mike has checked out, though, and is wearing reading glasses and openly working a crossword puzzle. Greg too is tuning out the candidate, and in full view of his webcam he turns a magazine sideways—it’s an old copy of Tiger Beat with a 70s-vintage, bikini-clad Maureen McGovern on the cover. Bobby and Cindy are now wearing “Feel the Bern 2020” buttons.
Biden: Anyway. With a broken coconut of my own, I kicked the ass of a couple of those racist troglodytes before they finished off poor, bleeding Johnny. Mahalia Jackson patched me up later that day. Zaftig gal, but what a nurse she was!
Carol: Marsha is right, Joe, we need to get to the agenda. And you are expecting a call from Barack, right?
Biden: I am? Yes, of course I am. Mustn’t dally then, my BFD, BFF—whatever the youngsters are saying now—is probably trying to get through. Is this Zoot thing like a party line, then? Like I had in Harrisburg back in the day? I still remember my extension, STeelsmith-941.
Marsa: Peter, do you have a mock-up of that bumpersticker to show us?
Peter: Sure thing Marsh, in fact…
Biden: Telephone numbers, the speeches of British Labour politicians: I have a heckuva memory! Always working on it too, “person, woman, man, camera, cheese.”
Peter: I’ve got two prototypes here. [ He holds one up to his camera ] This one tests well with our base.
Biden 2020 ★ At Least He’s Not a Sociopath!
Bobby: Noice!
Peter: But this one has broad appeal.
Biden Our Time ★ 2020
Biden: Is that missing a comma or something?
Peter: Not really, no.
Biden: Well you gangsta’s got your fingers in the pulse. On the pie. Whatevs.
A doorbell is heard.
Biden: What’s that? Someone, probably Barack, is here. [ He covers his nose and mouth with a mask ]
Alice: Keep your pants on sir, Sam is here. Muting now…
Biden: [ Somewhat muffled ] What’s that?
Marsha: Nothing sir. I don’t think it was your doorbell. Let’s just move on now. Peter will email sample bumperstickers to each of you. Peter? [ He is seen answering with a nod ] SO, we’re all eager to hear about your big decision. Can we get that from you sir?
Biden: You are what? I have a hard time hearing with this COVID mask on.
Marsha: [ Loudly ] Your running mate, sir!
Biden: Who is, darling? How do you know?!
Bobby: She doesn’t know, Grandpa Joe. We’re all waiting for you to have a lucid moment and tell us, Captain Poopy-Pants.
Biden: Now just hold your tongue whippersnapper! Horse-faced pony dog. You don’t want your Uncle Joe to reach through this screen and knock you into next week!
Bobby: Make it 2024, Pops, and you have a deal.
A fanfare written by Brian Eno sounds. Someone has won at solitaire. Peter looks triumphant as he loudly slurps what is evidently the last of a 64-ounce Big Gulp™. It appears that Alice has not only muted her microphone, but has draped her apron over her camera. The garment waves rhythmically. Mike is still working a crossword, and holds up a note reading, “five letters, middle one U, ‘Clubs, at times’ ???” Carol is mouthing something, maybe “THUMP?” Despite the coming reveal, it seems that only Marsha is fully engaged. She alone appears nervous about who he might name.
Biden: It’s a fine list you’ve given me. A binder full of women. Ladies of color and substance. A range of hairstyles I could easily get behind. [ He inhales deeply through his nose—perhaps unconsciously—and it sounds like a walrus taking snuff ]
To the wisenheimer who threw Anita Hill into the mix, very funny. So funny I forgot to laugh.
The sunburn Elizabeth Warren has in this photo? Shazam! She looks like she’s been to the spa at Mar-a-Lago. Orangey and desperate. She’s a fine ol’ gal, but I don’t think so.
I know you all think I should pick Kamera Harris. She’s okay, I guess. Her head smelled of Aqua-net™ hairspray at every debate, even though I told her she was just a fruity conditioner short of “knockout” status in my book. And then there’s the way she quoted my exact words on busing against me. Not very helpmate- and wifey-like, if you ask-hole Joe.
A gasp is heard. It sounds like Marsha.
Alice: Sir! [ She’s back on camera, sans apron, a spot of mustard on her chin ]
Biden: C’mon kids! Grow up for Pete’s sake. It’s the vice presidency. You think I didn’t fetch Barack’s coffee in metaphorical high-heels? Get real. I was “wifey,” and I ain’t ashamed to say it.
Like I said, some fine colored girls here. [ Lots of head shaking now ] But I gotta take a page outta my old cantankerous sparring partner, Arizona Diamondback center fielder, I mean Senator, Jim McCain’s book. Gonna shock the pundits and pluck a rough diamond.
Everyone it seems: “Oh my gawd!” and “Oprah?” and “Please, puh-LEEZ, don’t say ’hockey mom’ you moron!” and something inaudible from, possibly, Sam-the-butcher.
Biden: Are you lot familiar with the Duchess of Cornwall? Real honest-to-Betsy princess! American citizen, black-ish, recently moved to the god-forsaken Canadian tundra. Nice hair, desperate to one-up the snooty Kate Middlebrow and her brother-in-law. She’s going to eat Mark Pence’s white-bread and mayo lunch!
One by one, Biden’s team logs off. Only Greg, engrossed in a Tiger Beat “Susan Dey or Maureen McGovern?” story, remains.
Biden: Fellas? Gals? C’mon now! Oh fiddlesticks.
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