Donold J. Grump #29

VS

The DOGIE-Busters Debacle Pt 2

Live from the White House Briefing Room

The fallout from the DOGIE-Busters debacle was still unraveling. Egon Tusk was fuming, Shawn Vanity was smirking, and President Grump was still missing—presumably hiding under his desk after fleeing the last press conference.

But America wasn’t done with them yet.

The tornado catastrophe had left 32 dead, entire towns leveled, and thousands homeless. The footage was heartbreaking—families sifting through the rubble, searching for anything they could salvage.

And people wanted answers.

Why did the early warning system fail? Why weren’t alerts issued in time? And why did it seem like nobody in charge gave a damn?

Today’s press conference was about tornado relief—but everyone knew what was coming.

Shawn Vanity sat front and center, ready for war. The Faux Newz cameras were live, his perfectly tanned face glowing under the lights. His whole career had been about carrying water for Grump, but even he wasn’t buying this one.

At the podium, looking increasingly uncomfortable, was Egon Tusk, now the administration’s designated "guy who takes the heat when Grump runs away.”

Egon adjusted his glasses, trying to look cool and composed. Instead, he looked like a man about to be roasted on live TV.

He cleared his throat.

“We are also here today to address the recent tornado outbreak and the tremendous—tremendous—relief efforts being undertaken by this administration. Let me start by saying we stand with all Americans affected by this tragic event. We are working around the clock to ensure that aid is delivered, homes are rebuilt, and that—”

Shawn raised a hand.

Egon paused, irritated.

“Yes, Shawn?”

Shawn leaned forward, tapping his pen against his notes.

“Let’s talk about the NOAA cuts.”

The room fell silent.

Egon blinked. “I—well—”

Shawn smirked. “You gutted the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s budget. You cut $215 million from severe weather tracking programs. And you eliminated the Advanced Tornado Warning System—the one designed to give communities an extra 10 to 15 minutes to evacuate.”

Egon stiffened.

“Shawn, we had to make hard choices.”

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Hard choices? You cut the tornado warning system but spent $5 million on a golden golf cart for Grump.”

Egon’s eye twitched.

“That cart was an investment in presidential mobility.”

Shawn grinned. “Oh, right. Because walking 20 feet to a putting green is exhausting.”

A few reporters snickered.

Egon clenched his fists. “Listen, we needed to prioritize spending.”

Shawn didn’t miss a beat. “Right. And instead of funding storm chaser programs, radar advancements, or public alert systems, you spent:

• $8 million on Grump-branded hurricane ponchos.

• $14 million on ‘weather prediction AI’ that turned out to be a Magic 8-Ball with a sticker that said, ‘Ask Again Later.’

• $25 million on a new Mar-a-Lago helipad.

• $4 million EVERY weekend so Grump can play golf.

You want to explain how that helps tornado victims?”

Egon’s face flushed red. “It’s about fiscal responsibility!”

Shawn didn’t blink. “Tell that to the families who never got the warning.”

A veteran reporter from the Associated Press spoke up.

“Mr. Tusk, NOAA scientists warned two years ago that cutting early warning funding could lead to delayed tornado alerts. Did the administration consult any meteorologists before making those cuts?”

Egon shuffled his papers.

“Uh—”

Shawn cut in. “Of course not. Because this administration doesn’t believe in science.”

Egon snapped.

“That is not true! We absolutely believe in science! Just last month, the President said—”

Shawn read from his notes. “‘Tornadoes are just wind that got confused and decided to spin instead of blow the normal way.’”

Egon winced.

Shawn continued. “And let’s not forget his solution—when asked about tornado relief, the President suggested:

• ‘We need stronger buildings. Like really strong.’

• ‘Maybe we should build big walls around the tornadoes so they can’t get out.’

• And my personal favorite—‘Has anyone tried dropping big fans in front of them? Maybe blow them back the other way?’”

Egon sighed. “That… was a joke.”

Shawn smirked. “A joke? You joke while Grump golfs and Americans died. Is people dying a joke to you? Do you have any empathy, any feeling for the people who died? For their friends and family? Or is this another 'Thoughts and prayers' moment?”

Before Egon could respond, the doors to the briefing room flew open with a thunderous crash. The air crackled, as if reality itself had just taken a deep breath.

And then—he stepped through.

President JR Biden.

The 5th President of the United States. The toughest of all the Founding Fathers. A real legend.

And he looked exactly like he had in 1785—a towering figure in full colonial dress, his long blue frock coat dusted with the ashes of battle, his tricorn hat perfectly balanced, his boots stained with the mud of history. His face was carved from pure American grit, his gray-streaked hair tied back in a queue, and his eyes—his piercing, ghostly blue eyes—held the weight of centuries.

The room froze.

Shawn Vanity’s jaw dropped. A cameraman screamed and dropped his camera. The White House press secretary fainted on the spot.

And then came the gasps.

“Who the hell is that?!”

“Oh my God.”

“Wait… is that…?”

They could all see him.

For the first time ever, President JR Biden wasn’t just a hallucination tormenting Donnie Grump.

He was real.

Manifested.

Returned.

And he wasn’t happy.

Egon Tusk stumbled backward, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Wha—who—how—”

President Biden strode toward the podium with purpose, his boots echoing through the silent room. He exhaled through his nose, the weight of America’s sins pressing down on his broad shoulders.

With a single movement, he reached out and shoved Egon aside like an annoying court jester.

“You. Out. Pack your bags and go back to Texas. Your Pissla car company is having problems. Parts are flying off of your cars because you're using Elmer's school glue and duct tape. And your rockets keep blowing up. OUT!”

Egon scrambled away, tripping over his own feet.

The cameras zoomed in, capturing every impossible detail of this colonial titan’s return.

Shawn Vanity, ever the loyal spin-doctor, tried to compose himself. “Uh, excuse me, sir, but—who exactly are you?”

President Biden turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto him like a hawk spotting a rat in a powdered wig.

He adjusted his lace cuffs, smoothed out his coat, and then, in a voice that shook the very foundation of democracy, he said:

"I am President JR Biden—the 5th President of these United States. A Founding Father. A man who walked with Washington, drank with Hamilton, and punched John Adams in the mouth for being too soft on the British. I have been sent back to give guidance to that sad and pathetic excuse for a leader you call Donnie. To every American who lost someone in these storms—I am sorry. Your government failed you. And I promise you this: we’re bringing back the funding. We’re fixing this. And no one is ever gonna die again because of Donnie’s stupidity.”

The room erupted into absolute chaos.

“WHAT?!”

“That’s not possible!”

“Oh my God, it IS the 5th President, for real!!”

A Fox producer ran out of the room screaming.

A historian from the Washington Post spilled his coffee all over his laptop.

Shawn Vanity, for the first time in his life, was completely speechless.

And then, from the side of the room—a whimper.

A pathetic, miserable, cowardly whimper.

All heads turned as Donnie Grump emerged from behind a curtain, his face as white as his diaper.

President Biden’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah. There you are, Donnie.”

Grump staggered forward, sweat pouring down his orange, bloated face.

“W-what are you doing here?” Grump stammered. “You’re—you’re not real! You’re a—”

ZAP!

A bolt of pure historical justice crackled through the air, shocking Grump so hard that his wig nearly flew off.

The room gasped.

“HE JUST SHOCKED THE PRESIDENT!”

President Biden cracked his knuckles.

“I’m here to make sure you don’t lie, Donnie. And I got plenty more of that for every time you do.”

Shawn Vanity regained his composure. “Hold on, hold on—are we really supposed to believe that you’re a ghost? A Founding Father? That you—”

President Biden cut him off.

“Boy, I didn’t get shot at by Redcoats, survive Valley Forge, and invent the concept of ‘getting ripped’ just to be called a damn ghost by a powdered-faced news mannequin.”

The reporters gasped again.

Shawn Vanity’s eyes twitched. “I do not wear powder!”

President Biden glared at him.

“Then why does your face look like it came out of a wig factory explosion?”

The room erupted in laughter.

Shawn’s tan cracked.

Egon sputtered.

Grump tried to slink away.

But President Biden wasn’t done.

He slammed his fist on the podium. “Let’s get back to the real issue.”

He turned to the cameras.

“You want to know why those tornado victims didn’t get a warning?” he growled.

Another fist slam.

“Because Donnie and this clown gutted the damn system.”

The room tensed.

Biden leaned forward. “Donnie didn’t just cut NOAA. He mocked it. Called meteorologists ‘a bunch of nerds with too many beakers.’ Said ‘I have better instincts than satellites’. And what happened?”

He looked around the room.

“Thirty-two people died. Because a coward in a golden diaper thought he was smarter than reality.”

Biden’s voice dropped to a growl.

“And where is he now?”

The room looked around.

No Grump.

Not even a hint of him.

A reporter gasped. “Wait—where did he go?”

A low whimper came from under the podium.

Shawn Vanity leaned forward, peering over the edge.

Grump was curled into a ball, clutching his gold-plated pacifier, praying for mercy.

President Biden grinned.

“That’s what I thought.”

He adjusted his tricorn hat, nodded once to the press, and marched out of the room.

The cameras stayed fixed on Grump.

A man who had spent his entire life pretending to be strong.

Now reduced to a whimpering, shaking, pathetic coward.

And outside, in the halls of the White House, President Biden’s booming voice echoed through the corridors:

“Next time, Donnie—DON’T MESS WITH THE WEATHER.”

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Just remember if you have someone in your life that loves you, holds you at night, makes you laugh, cry...

Then you are richer than

"He Who is PU!"