Okay, fine, cancel the fucking drapes!
Cancel all the furniture, too. The custom-built teakwood desk. The executive chair. The plush deep-pile carpeting. Cancel the fucking Telluride couches and the fucking Herman Miller coffee table and the fucking tasteful Waterford crystal vase I was going to fill with flowers and place on the fucking Maitland Smith end piece in a way that said classy and warm and inviting, but not too inviting because I don’t want Denmark’s ambassador to be that comfortable when I’m bullying his country full of smørrebrød-gobbling, sun-deprived Nordic freaks to sign over Greenland. I obviously don’t need to furnish the corner sitting area of my luxurious UN office when there isn’t going to be an office.
Christ! I was such a compliant lickspittle for years. I praised Dear Leader, I sucked up, I deified him to a degree that would have embarrassed Baron Harkonnen’s courtiers! I was a one-woman dervish of supineness. So many people lost any ounce of respect they might have ever had for me. Quite a few of my old classmates and teachers went public, telling reporters what a disappointment I turned out to be. I was fucking pathetic! And look where it got me!
I’m sorry, honey, you’re right, Mommy knows better than to use the bad words. It’s just that I’m so mad right now. It’s a hard pill to swallow, and I really don’t care if I’m disturbing our Mommy and Me yoga class.
I mean, I even out-lickspittled Lindsey Graham, and that son of a bitch is a lickspittle’s lickspittle.
And for what? So I can go back to the House with my tail tucked between my legs and my position in caucus leadership gone? So I can make five-minute speeches on the House floor when the only people in the chamber are the chair and some pages? So I can grind my teeth into powder every time Marjorie Taylor Greene tells me, “Girl, we need to git you on a treadmill, that baby weight ain’t gonna take itself off”? So I can pretend Paul Gosar doesn’t make my teeth itch?
God, all the toadying I did to get that nomination. All the press conferences where I praised Donald Trump as the best president ever. All the weekends at Mar-a-Lago choking down bleu-cheese-soaked wedges of iceberg lettuce and smiling and telling him that five-star Michelin restaurants don’t serve salads that good. All the 3 AM phone calls where I had to convince that senile old turd that he had really called me and not Pia Zadora.
What? Yeah, yeah, the kid straddles my thigh while I’m in crescent lunge, I get it, this isn’t my first practice, Jenna.
And I was going to get to live in New York fucking City! Broadway shows! Great restaurants! Hobnobbing with diplomats and important people of international stature! Meeting with the world’s leaders! Being part of major debates! No more voting to rename post offices or proclaim some random Tuesday to be National Electrical Outlet Day. No more getting spit on by Jim Jordan when you’re just trying to have a normal conversation. You know how he always yells in hearings and press conferences? That’s how he is all the fucking time. “How was your weekend, Jim?” “FANTASTIC, ELISE. I CLEANED OUT THE GARAGE. THEN THE WIFE AND I DROVE UP TO CHAGRIN FALLS AND ATE ICE CREAM. YOU SHOULD COME TO OHIO SOMETIME! WE HAVE A 16-SIDED BARN I’D LOVE TO SHOW YOU!”
You’re goddamn right I was crushed.
Good God. I wanted to be UN ambassador so I wouldn’t have to keep visiting podunk little tourist traps, ooo-ing and ahh-ing at every fucking cable knit sweater some country housewife ingeniously makes with alpaca hair or whatever. No more commuting back to rural upstate New York every weekend to listen to all my constituents complain about this or that. I didn’t run for Congress to listen to any of that crap. I ran for Congress to eventually get the hell away from all of that crap. My seat was supposed to be a stepping stone to bigger and better things.
You don’t want to do downward dog with Mommy, honey? That’s fine, you just sit right there on the end of my mat and smile real big like you’re not completely dead inside. You should know how, you’ve seen Mommy do it a million times.
And I was almost there! It was in my grasp! I just had to sit tight for another couple of weeks, and then it was goodbye Hicksville, goodbye Jim Jordan, goodbye not being able to walk ten feet from my office without being accosted by some right-wing TikTok influencer who wants me to give a shoutout to all his knuckle-dragging followers, and hellloooooooooo New York!
I bet the Mommy and Me yoga classes are a lot better too, without some other mommy side-eyeing you because DOGE just laid her off so the government wouldn’t waste any more money on her cancer research. Yeah, I see you and your side-eye, Susan! Maybe you’d like to put little McKenzie down and take this outside.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Listen, it isn’t my fault Trump and the Republicans are so unpopular that they are in danger of losing special elections in congressional districts they just won by 20 or 30 points five months ago. It’s not my fault Mike Waltz is such an incompetent phlegm wad that Republicans are now in danger of losing the special election to replace him. It isn’t my fault Mike Johnson is such a weenie that Trump has to corral our own caucus members before a vote, and would much rather have me there to do it. I mean, that’s what you have a House Whip for, but who the hell is going to be scared of Tom Emmer, who looks like the whitest, most sun-bleached Easter Island head?
No one, that’s who.
Well, I guess the unpopularity is my fault a little bit, since I’ve spent the last few years being one of the most visible Trump lapdogs in Congress, and now he’s about as popular as syphilis. I always sneer at people who say Trump destroys everything he touches. My ascent proves the opposite! If it wasn’t for me utilizing my talent for sucking up by hitching my wagon to the most easily flattered president we’ve ever had, I’d still be a back-bencher trying to get the Appropriations Committee to throw a few million dollars at my district to repave some roads. I was so close to being able to say, “Call your congressman, this ain’t my problem.”
Oh, you’d all like me to stop being disruptive? Well, I’d like to be UN ambassador, but sometimes we have to give up our dreams.
Why don’t you namaste my ass, Jenna.
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I mean, I'm not sad that this pathetic ass-kisser is crushed, but it's not like in Trumpworld the UN Ambassador is an esteemed position. I mean, he gave it to Nikki Haley ferchrissakes, and he hates that woman.
Liz Cheney is smirking, cackling dryly and shaking her head.