I'm Uncle Joe Biden, not "Buden", and I'm your worst nightmare, you sick fuck. You think I messed up Cornpop? I'm going to put you away forever. I coordinate a 50-state cabal and you're never going to get free of us. Nothing that happens to you is by chance and all of it proceeds from my legal pad, my typewriter, and a stack of carbon paper. Fani Willis? I had footage of her at an Upchurch concert. Now she does what I say. Judge Merchan? He did blow with Hunter, and I have the cell phone video.
Oh yeah -- your illiterate tweets and Truth Social screeds? We hacked your spellcheck, you dumb ass. That's why your perfectly spelled messages, in exquisite English, come out like the ravings of a goth 7th grader with all Cs and Ds.
That chronic incontinence, that forces you to stock up on hefty-size Depends? I have friends at AquaFina who owe me, you poor sap. (Try switching brands -- I got em all covered.)
Best of all, I'm the master of genial, folksy, crinkly-eyed kindliness. "Who, me? A plotter? I don't know what the Sam Hill he's talking about."
This message will erase in five seconds. Schmuck.