American Caligula

A Parody

Dec 03, 2024

Episode One: You Know The Thing: White Powder, Blue Waves

Our story begins in a moment of quiet reflection—or maybe not so quiet—on the deck of a Navy ship. Hunter Biden, son of a sitting Vice President and occasional philosopher of excess, is unceremoniously shown the door after testing positive for cocaine. Not exactly the career high point one imagines when picturing a life of public service. The Navy brass, unimpressed by the white-powdered audacity, send him packing faster than a Pentagon memo can leak.

But don’t worry about Hunter. His Pops, none other than Joe "The Veep" Biden, isn’t exactly a tiger dad, but he knows how to work a Rolodex. At the time, Joe’s busy warming up for his starring role as America’s “point man” in Ukraine—a country about to get a crash course in democracy-building, Biden-style. Between diplomatic calls and strategizing over pierogies, Joe takes a moment to reassure his wayward progeny:

“Hunter, my boy,” Joe says, his aviators gleaming with fatherly resolve. “You’re the smartest man I know. Seriously. Smarter than Barack, smarter than the Clintons. Smarter than that guy who invented the internet—what’s his name? Gore. Anyway, don’t let the Navy thing bother you. Lies! All lies, son. Lies from...you know...the thing!”

Hunter, clutching a designer briefcase (contents: unknown but heavily implied), nods solemnly. He knows Dad’s got his back. After all, this isn’t just any dad. This is Joe Biden, a man who once convinced a roomful of Amtrak employees he’d personally saved the rail system. If Joe can spin decades of train rides into a legend, what’s a little naval dishonor and international intrigue?

And thus, with a wink, a grin, and possibly a shady overseas business contact, Hunter’s next chapter begins. America may not always reward failure, but if you’ve got the right last name, it’ll at least cushion the landing.

Episode Two: Fossil Fuel Follies And Climatoses

The curtain rises on what can only be described as the American Dream in post-Soviet drag. Enter Hunter Biden, freshly unemployed, but not for long. With a few well-placed phone calls, Joe “Point Man” Biden secures his son a seat on the board of Burisma, Ukraine’s top oil and gas company. Now, you might ask, does Hunter know anything about energy? Negotiation? Ukrainian? Does he even own a suit that isn’t crumpled in the corner of a party house?

The answer to all of the above is a resounding nyet.

But here’s the beauty of the situation: none of that matters. Hunter doesn’t need to show up, read spreadsheets, or learn a single Cyrillic character. For his "services," he’s pulling in a cool $183,000 a month, which is enough to make most corporate sharks cry tears of envy into their low-fat lattes. Suddenly, life is looking up. And when I say "looking up," I mean Caligula-level opulence.

Hunter goes full-throttle on his resurrection tour: private jets, champagne-soaked soirées, and an entourage of women that would make a Roman emperor blush. The drugs? Flowing like a Siberian oil pipeline. The parties? Legendary. He’s rebranded himself as the Leonardo DiCaprio of geopolitics, minus the Oscar.

Meanwhile, back in D.C., Joe Biden is juggling two personas like a vaudeville act. On one hand, he’s Barack Obama’s right-hand man, pushing the administration’s fossil-fuel-loathing agenda with an earnestness that could sell solar panels in Alaska. On the other hand, his son is raking in fossil fuel cash faster than you can say “global warming.”

Joe’s speeches on climate change are thick with that signature Biden charm—a heady mix of old-school folksiness and high-octane BS. “We gotta get off fossil fuels, folks!” Joe thunders at home, while Hunter’s Burisma checks clear in Ukraine. The hypocrisy isn’t so much swept under the rug as it is danced on, like a conga line at one of Hunter’s infamous parties.

But hey, as long as everyone’s having a good time—whether it’s on Capitol Hill or a yacht in the Black Sea—who’s counting contradictions? After all, the Biden brand has always been less about consistency and more about character. And boy, do they have character.

Episode Three: Family Bonding and Leveraging Billions

Hunter Biden, a man of many talents—most notably his uncanny ability to turn any tragedy into a fresh chapter of melodrama—steps up for what might be his most controversial role yet: grieving brother-slash-romantic suitor. When his older brother Beau tragically passes away, Hunter, ever the empathetic sibling, finds a rather...unorthodox way to process his grief. He starts dating Beau’s widow, Hallie, like, almost immediately. Some call it scandalous. Hunter calls it chemistry.

Now, it’s important to note: this is no ordinary family drama. This is the Biden saga, where emotions are big, boundaries are loose, and complications are just plot points waiting to happen. Hunter’s wife, upon discovering her husband’s unique interpretation of “family bonding,” promptly boots him out of the house. But don’t worry, Hunter’s never without a roof over his head. He moves in with Hallie, officially completing the most awkward relationship timeline since Oedipus.

Meanwhile, Joe Biden, the ever-busy patriarch, has his hands full with more than just Thanksgiving seating charts. He’s in Ukraine, conducting the kind of backroom diplomacy that would make Machiavelli proud. Burisma, the aforementioned gas company that made Hunter a very rich man, is under scrutiny by a Ukrainian prosecutor. Like a knight in shining aviators, Joe leverages a cool billion dollars in U.S. taxpayer aid to get that prosecutor axed faster than Hunter’s sobriety at an open bar.

“You’re not getting the billion unless that guy’s gone,” Joe reportedly tells the Ukrainians with all the subtlety of a dad taking away the car keys. And wouldn’t you know it? The prosecutor is fired, and the billion-dollar check clears. It’s not exactly a textbook lesson in ethics, but hey, politics isn’t about textbooks—it’s about results.

Back home, the Biden family becomes the stuff of whispered Beltway legend. Hunter and Hallie’s unconventional romance raises eyebrows, while Joe’s Ukrainian maneuvers raise questions. But for the Bidens, it’s just another week of turning the personal into the political and vice versa.

As Hunter pours another drink and Joe tightens his grip on diplomacy, one thing becomes clear: this family knows how to keep things interesting. Whether it’s love, loss, or leveraging taxpayer dollars, the Bidens have a knack for making headlines—and making everyone else’s scandals look amateur.

Episode Four: Here’s the Deal: Uncle Hunter, Baby Navy

The Biden family drama continues to unfold with the kind of plot twists that make a telenovela look restrained. This time, Hunter strikes up a "friendship" with his 14-year-old niece—raising eyebrows, questions, and probably a few subpoenas. Details remain hazy, as do most things in Hunter’s life, but when Hallie, his dead brother’s widow-turned-lover, catches wind of his antics, she doesn’t exactly take it well.

By “doesn’t take it well,” I mean she goes full Game of Thrones, tossing Hunter out on his wandering, scandal-ridden backside. Hunter, ever the smooth talker, claims the whole thing is a big misunderstanding. “Walking around in front of the kid with almost nothing on? Happens in all families,” he argues, likely while lighting a cigarette with a rolled-up restraining order.

But Hunter’s not one to linger on heartbreak—or accountability. He swiftly shacks up with a hooker he’d been seeing on the side, proving once again that his personal life operates on the principle of why not? Things escalate quickly, and before you can say “prenatal care,” the hooker is pregnant. Nine months later, a baby girl is born. Hunter, ever the doting dad, mistakenly hands her a glass crack pipe instead of a rattle. You know, the sort of mistake any father with a few open investigations might make.

The irony isn’t lost on anyone: the child is named Navy Joan. Yes, Navy, as in the organization that once booted her dad for drug use. It would be a poetic full-circle moment if poetry were written with unpaid child support and ironic detachment.

Meanwhile, Joe Biden is on the precipice of a big decision. With Hunter’s life spinning like a morally compromised carousel, Joe considers running for president. The world watches, half expecting him to distance himself from his human headline generator of a son. Instead, Joe leans into the chaos with all the sincerity of a man who’s never met a microphone he didn’t love.

“Here’s the deal,” Joe declares, gesturing earnestly to a sea of reporters. “My son is the smartest man I know. He’s been through a lot—and a lot has been through him. But I’m proud of him for that. Because at the end of the day, family is family. And Hunter’s got a heart of gold, even if it’s occasionally misplaced under a pile of bad decisions.”

Cue the campaign banners, the patriotic music, and the collective groan of America trying to reconcile their feelings about this particular father-son duo. But if there’s one thing the Bidens have proven time and time again, it’s that nothing—not scandal, not irony, not even glass crack-pipe rattles—can keep them down for long.

Episode Five: Ain’t That America: Tony “Bag’a Donuts”

Hunter Biden and his dad, Joe, are knee-deep in preparations for their next big venture: meetings with Communist Chinese Party-affiliated companies. This, of course, is less a business plan and more a Biden family roadshow with guest appearances from shadowy executives and one very special side character: Tony “Bag’a Donuts” Bobulinski. Tony doesn’t know it yet, but he’s being set up to take the fall should things go south. Every good grift needs a patsy and Tony’s just the guy.

But before the Bidens can jet off to Beijing, Hunter makes a pit stop in Los Angeles, where he scores the holy grail of narcotics: a strain of crack so pure, so potent, it’s simply called “Shit.” The dealer, probably as mystified as anyone by the Biden mojo, hands it over like it’s Excalibur. One toke later, Hunter is blasted into an alternate dimension. Reality becomes a loose suggestion.

Naturally, the next logical step is to rent a car and drive it across the desert to Arizona. Because what’s a little desert road trip when your veins run on liquid chaos? Hunter loses control of the vehicle somewhere near the middle of nowhere and wrecks it spectacularly. He’s lucky to walk away in one piece—or maybe it’s just the Biden family guardian angel working overtime.

Unfazed by this nuclear-level liability, Hertz Rental Car steps in to provide a replacement. But here’s where things get weird—Hunter weird. The Hertz agent appears to Hunter as a Native American shaman, complete with peyote in hand. We'll never know whether this was an actual vision, a hallucination, or an unusually tolerant rental clerk.

What we do know is that Hunter and his shaman buddy partake in the sacred cactus together, and it blows Hunter’s mind wide open. In a peyote-fueled vision, Hunter sees his father Joe as an American Bald Eagle, soaring majestically over the Grand Canyon. The eagle locks eyes with Hunter and screeches something unintelligible but vaguely patriotic, as if to say, “Manifest Destiny, baby!”

Hunter, overwhelmed by this spiritual epiphany, gazes out over the desert horizon and mutters, “Ain’t that America.” It’s unclear whether he’s quoting John Mellencamp, reflecting on his family’s unique role in modern capitalism, or just completely out of his mind. Probably all three.

Meanwhile, Joe is prepping for the Beijing meetings like a seasoned pro. “We’re gonna get this done, folks,” he says to his team, completely oblivious to his son’s peyote pilgrimage and smashed rental car. Because in the Biden world, no scandal, vision quest, or cracked-up Chevy can derail the master plan.

As Hunter stumbles back to reality—or some approximation of it—the next chapter looms: international intrigue, Chinese deals, and the ongoing saga of Tony “Bag’a Donuts” Bobulinski, who still has no idea what’s coming.

Episode Six: Point Man: The Big Guy’s 10% And Jimmy The Weasel

The scene is set at the Bidens’ picturesque Lake Tahoe cabin, where the pine-scented air belies the storm brewing inside. Joe, affectionately known in certain emails as “The Big Guy,” is pacing the room, his aviators off—this is serious. Hunter stands cornered, sweating like a popsicle in July. It’s a family intervention, Biden-style, where diplomacy meets passive-aggressive mafia undertones.

“I knew it was you, Hunter,” Joe growls, his tone half-Godfather, half-dad-who-just-found-the-credit-card-bill. “Don’t lie to me. You went to the Chinese behind my back.”

Hunter, already emotionally unraveling, bursts into tears. “Cause there was something in it for me, Pop!” he wails. “I’m good! I can do things! Hunter do this, Hunter do that, make Hunter run some Mickey Mouse gas company in Ukraine. Make Hunter go pick up the top Chinese spy chief at the airport! I got pride, Pop! I’m your son, and I deserve respect! Did ja’ ever think about that?”

Joe, unimpressed by the theatrics, lights his imaginary cigar and lets Hunter stew in the silence. The moment is raw, dramatic, and just a touch absurd. Somewhere in the background, a loon calls across the lake, perhaps sensing the existential absurdity of it all.

Meanwhile, back in Delaware—or possibly an undisclosed location resembling a law firm parking lot—Tony “Bag’a Donuts” Bobulinski is growing increasingly paranoid. He corners Jimmy “The Weasel” Biden, Joe’s brother and an integral cog in the family machine.

“You sure you guys know what you’re doing?” Tony asks, sweating through his shirt.

Jimmy, not one for nuance, snaps back with a smirk. “Just do what you’re told, fat boy, or you’ll bring us all down.”

Tony blinks, realizing too late that his job description includes patsy, scapegoat, and possibly witness protection applicant. He’s in too deep, and the only way out is through—a mantra that could describe just about every Biden family operation.

Back at the Tahoe cabin, Hunter is still sobbing, Joe is still scowling, and somewhere in Beijing, a shadowy figure is probably toasting to the chaotic genius of it all. The Bidens might not do subtlety, but they sure do drama. Whether it’s gas companies, spy chiefs, or emotionally charged father-son showdowns, the Biden family saga keeps rolling, one shakedown at a time.

Episode Seven: Porn Hub: Primaries and The Mac Repair Guy

It’s 2020, and the Democratic primary is in full swing—or at least it was—until Barack Obama, ever the chess master, steps in and quietly tells everyone not named Joe Biden to pack it up. Just like that, Joe becomes the presumptive nominee, the political equivalent of winning a game of musical chairs when the DJ is also your best friend. Meanwhile, Hunter is...not campaigning.

He’s at a yoga retreat in Baja California, which, for Hunter, means he’s doing yoga the same way Keith Richards “quits smoking.” Hotel rooms blur together, as do the faces—two, three, sometimes four women at a time. His nights are a fever dream of narcotics and indulgence, his stamina rivaling that of a particularly hormonal rhinoceros. Responsibility? That’s a buzzkill he left behind the moment he turned 18.

But even in Baja, Hunter’s past has a way of calling—literally. His Mac Repair Guy is on the line, his tone a mix of exasperation and awe.

“Yo, Hunter,” the guy says, “what am I supposed to do with these laptops you left here? You got, like, a gazillion porn videos on these things. And emails. Lots of emails. Some of them, uh...let’s just say, interesting.”

Hunter, mid-binge, barely processes the question. “F*** it,” he says, a cocktail of tequila and bad decisions slurring his speech. “Give ‘em to the FBI for all I care.”

And because this is Hunter Biden we’re talking about, the Mac Repair Guy does exactly that.

The laptops land on the desk of FBI Director Christopher Wray, who takes one look and immediately calls his predecessor, Jim Comey. “Jim,” Wray says, suppressing a chuckle, “you won’t believe what just fell into my lap. Ten thousand photos of Hunter Biden with hookers, crack pipes, and...God, is that a cheese platter? Plus hundreds of emails detailing every shady deal Joe ever made. What do I even do with this?”

Comey, the sage of selective enforcement, laughs. “Chris, come on. No reasonable prosecutor would bring a case against the Bidens for this. No reasonable newspaper would cover it. And no reasonable person would believe it.”

They share a good laugh, the kind only well-connected men of power can muster when faced with absurd truths no one else gets to see. “But,” Comey adds, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, “let’s see if we can impeach Trump with it.”

Meanwhile, in Baja, Hunter is blissfully unaware that his laptops are now federal evidence. Instead, he’s getting his teeth recapped, trading the damage of years of hard living for a smile that screams rehabilitation chic. Not long after, he sits down with Robin Roberts for a primetime interview about his “journey.”

“I’ve been to hell and back,” Hunter tells Robin, his new veneers gleaming like a toothpaste commercial. “Recovery has saved my demons—or, wait, maybe my demons saved my teeth? Either way, I’m a new man.”

It’s an extraordinary act of reinvention, the kind of pivot that would make even the Kardashians jealous. As Robin nods sympathetically, somewhere in D.C., Wray and Comey are still chuckling over those laptops, Joe is gearing up for the general election, and America collectively wonders: how does this family keep pulling it off?

Episode Eight: The Price of Poetry

It’s January 2021, and Joe Biden has clinched the presidency, proving once again that the Biden family motto is something along the lines of “Rules are for the other guys.” Meanwhile, Hunter, America’s favorite ne’er-do-well, is quietly exiled to Malibu, where he reinvents himself as an avant-garde poet. His verses—equal parts freeform and fever dream—are sold to curious beachgoers for a mere $500,000 per sonnet. Art, after all, is subjective, especially when it doubles as a legal defense strategy.

Hunter’s quieter days, however, are punctuated by the occasional scandal, like when he’s indicted for a gun charge after tossing a loaded handgun into a dumpster behind a 7-Eleven. It’s a classic Hunter move: half reckless, half performance art. “I call it Dumpster Elegy,” he quips to a TMZ reporter while puffing on a vape pen.

Back in D.C., Joe is less focused on his son’s Malibu escapades and more on geopolitics—or what passes for it these days. He pours $100 billion into a proxy war between Ukraine and Russia, threatening a nuclear strike on Moscow in a speech so fiery it momentarily distracts from the economic collapse happening at home. But this is just the warm-up for the week’s real headline: The Blanket Pardon.

Late one Sunday night, under the cover of America’s collective Netflix binge, President Joe Biden issues an unprecedented pardon for “the smartest man I know,” his son Hunter. It’s an all-encompassing free pass, covering every criminal act Hunter committed from January 1, 2014, to the present. The list reads like the rap sheet of a Bond villain: bribery, wire fraud, money laundering, sex trafficking, gun charges, tax evasion, crack-fueled benders—anything and everything Hunter touched is wiped clean.

The country is stunned, but not surprised. After all, “JB” had promised repeatedly during his campaign that he’d never pardon Hunter, but those assurances turned out to be as hollow as Hunter’s book deal promises. It’s the ultimate dad move: not just bailing out your screw-up kid but rewriting reality to make him untouchable.

The blanket pardon raises obvious questions. Why did Hunter plead guilty to those tax charges in federal court in L.A.? Simple: a trial would’ve opened Pandora’s box, exposing the labyrinthine money transfers through Hunter’s Rosemont Seneca accounts straight to the bank accounts of Biden family members—brother Jim, wife Sara, possibly half-sister Ashley, and, of course, “The Big Guy” himself. The money trail is damning, but now, thanks to the pardon, it’s also irrelevant.

Yet, while Hunter basks in his newfound legal immunity, a bigger question looms: where’s Joe Biden’s pardon for Joe Biden? After all, pardoning Hunter without covering his own tracks is like mopping the deck while the ship sinks.

As America grapples with the implications of this extraordinary abuse of power, it becomes clear that the road to a restored constitutional order will be a messy one. If consequence is to have any meaning, the past must be reckoned with, no matter how inconvenient or explosive it may be. The Bidens’ story is no longer just about family drama or political hypocrisy—it’s about the survival of accountability in a system designed to keep power in check.

But for now, Hunter sits on a beach in Malibu, penning sonnets to his lost innocence, while Joe delivers speeches about democracy to a nation teetering on the edge. As waves crash against the shore and echoes of corruption ripple through the halls of power, one thing is clear: history may not absolve them, but it sure knows how to write a cliffhanger.