(Blood drained from his knuckles now bleach white in the darkness.) Vice President of what? The closet? Surely the President of the closet would at least have the power to unlock it.
Hello? Is someone in there?
No! Damn it. Just be quiet, he’ll go away. Maybe I should pretend to have a girl in here. No, I can’t fake that level of satisfaction. (Audible snickering)
Mr. Vice President …
If you open that door, I will have you excommunicated.
Mr. Vice President, I don’t think that’s a power your office possesses.
Power my office possesses. What power? I once denied Bork a seat on the Supreme Court. I once crafted and lifted the Violence Against Women Act into being. I once drove an ’87 Camaro. What kind of power do I have now? My office. The only thing my office has is a physical office, which apparently lacks a bathroom.
Mr. Vice President, I’ll be back with the secret service.
With Ted, he won’t talk to anyone about it.
Oh great, that bastard Ted who gave me the codename Bald Eagle. Ok, collect yourself Joe. There’s nothing wrong with being old, bald, and majestic like our national symbol. People like that. But in a President, no, they want Jack Kennedy without a coat in 20-degree weather, Teddy Roosevelt assaulting them with half-bitten words, and FDR wrapping steel around his legs so he can lift his country out of depression. They don’t want this old bird in the oval. But then what do I do? I have all this work left in me. How did I get trapped like this?