I'm Josh Hawley And I'd Like To Explain Why I Fled Through The Capitol Like A Giant Weenie

January 6
I'm Josh Hawley And I'd Like To Explain Why I Fled Through The Capitol Like A Giant Weenie
File:Josh Hawley (cropped).jpg - Wikimedia Commons
commons.wikimedia.org

Hi there! (gasp) Josh Hawley here (wheeze), and I just want to (pant) say a few things. (Puff) Sorry, little out of breath, I was just (deep inhale) out for a run. You guys ever run? It’s the best exercise. Gets the heart pumping, the energy going. Helps with respiration, even builds muscle. Ron Burgundy was right, it’s just wild. I’m actually training to break the marathon world record time, whatever it is. What is it, like seventeen hours? I should have an intern look that up.

But yeah, running! It’s part of the training. Obviously if you want to win Olympic gold and all the famous marathons and set a world record every time, you gotta train. Which is why I run everywhere. To my office, to the Senate floor, to my house, up the front steps, down the hall, into the kitchen to yell at my kids for eating Spaghetti-Os with their fingers, back into the hall where there’s a mirror to stare into for ten or fifteen minutes, then to my bedroom where there’s another mirror, then the bathroom where there’s another mirror ...

Ask anyone. Ask my staff, they’re always struggling to keep up with me. Ask Capitol Hill reporters who are always chasing after me. Sometimes I stop because they have cameras, or because I think I see my reflection in some highly polished marble surface, and I give them a pithy quote about how Joe Biden is turning America into a socialist hellhole. Then it’s right back to the running.

So Thursday night at the sham Democrat hearing on January 6, you may have seen some footage of me running as usual through the Capitol during the January 6 insurr--LEGITIMATE ELECTION PROTEST. Now sure, a lot of people were running away from the mob at the time, in fear for their lives and their couture. I for one was wearing a nice suit and didn’t want it to smell like teargas or get splattered with Mike Pence’s blood.


But how many of those people running through the Capitol in testicle-shriveling terror had riled up the crowd just a couple hours before by raising a fist in a gesture of solidarity like Lech Walesa firing up a bunch of Polish shipyard workers?

About that fist thing. People will mock me for it, but what they don’t understand is that I am so very, very thirsty for the presidency. Like, “a week lost in Death Valley in August” levels of thirst. I would sell my wife, my three children, my parents, my dog, my fish, my silk underwear that has “Baby, let’s do our own St. Louis Arch” screen-printed across the front, my entire congressional staff, every other senator, the editorial board of the Kansas City Star, literally every citizen of the state of Missouri where I totally live, for a taste of that sweet, sweet presidency.

Hang on a sec, I’m just gonna dump this bucket of cold water from the Potomac River that I have an intern scoop and carry up to my office every morning over my head in lieu of a shower. All the Founders used to bathe in the Potomac, you know. It's known for increasing virility. Thomas Jefferson conceived several of his children after chasing his female slaves into it.

Whew, that’s cold! But very bracing. And manly. Make sure you write down that it’s manly. M-A-N — oh, you know how to spell it? Okay.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the fist pump. Here’s what happened. I was walking — RUNNING — into the Capitol the morning of January 6, practicing ignoring Mitt Romney’s death stare, when I saw a group of the forgotten Americans that Joe Biden hates standing nearby holding up “STOP THE STEAL” signs and waving American flags and spitting hardy working-class spittle all over the place.

So I said to myself, “President Hawley" — which is what I make my kids call me instead of Daddy, they might as well get used to it now — “President Hawley, this crowd of angry, bloodthirsty whiners who refuse to accept reality because a sweet potato-colored pile of hair in a male girdle told them not to — these are your people! The salt of the earth, the lifeblood of the nation, the idiots who don’t have a degree from Stanford and Yale Law. You need to show them some love, and also perhaps rile them into throwing flagpoles at Chuck Schumer when he walks by.”

But what would be the best motivating gesture? Of course it was that sign of universal solidarity that people with actual reality-based grievances have been using at protests for decades. So I threw up a clenched fist and also pursed my lower lip a bit to give them my most steely look. This, I thought to myself, this image will look great on a beer koozie.

Yeah, I’m still selling those. And T-shirts and coffee mugs. The hell with Politico and their lawyers. I’m the president.

Right, not yet. But almost. Trump can’t live forever, you know. Have you seen how he eats? Someone has to be ready to lead the rubes when President Quarter Pounder finally goes to the great drive-thru in the sky. And who else can do it?

Mike Pence? He’s got the charisma of wheat germ. Ron DeSantis? People’s pets drop dead when he shows up on TV. Tom Cotton? Too busy luring small children into his gingerbread house in the woods.

Mike Pompeo can’t go three minutes without yelling at someone for not donating money to him. Nikki Haley is a woman. Ted Cruz is Ted Cruz. I guess the party could run Rubio out there again, if they can tear him away from whatever Lego rocket ship his staff is distracting him with this week.

No, America will want a real manly man to lead it, with manliness. And who better than a manly man who wrote the book about masculinity and manhood? No seriously, it's coming out next May! It's all about how great societies need men of character "to defend what is just and true," and calls on American men to reject the wokeness that has infected our schools, our businesses, our military, and that's making our sons all want to dress like Ryan Gosling in that Barbie movie.

Seriously, an open jeans jacket with no shirt? Is he dating Barbie or hitting Twink Night at the Blue Oyster?

No, it has to be me, Josh Hawley. Which is why I ran like some sort of coward from the people I had just a couple of hours earlier been rallying to support my objections to counting the electoral votes. Clearly my greatness is such that I could not risk being torn limb from limb like a Doberman with a bacon-scented stuffed animal clamped in his jaws. I had to flee in order to protect you from not one day being led by me! I fail to see what's so complicated about this.

[New York Times]

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