GUEST COLUMN: Eat My Brain Pudding, It's Delicious

'Joe Biden is not a question of fitness to serve as president'

September 22, 2022

Editor's noteThe opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the author, Joseph R. Biden, writing in his personal capacity as an American citizen and Scranton-born train enthusiast. They do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of the Washington Free Beacon or those of Joseph R. Biden in his official capacity as President of the United States. 

My fellow Americans,

I just did 29 push-ups. The real kind, no knees. Think you can beat that? Of course I'm not as young as I used to be. Back in those days we used to drive out to the colored, excuse me, the east side of Wilmington. I was the only honky lifeguard on duty and the third-best power forward in the state of Delaware. We used to play in the projects, called the Bucket, I swear to God. There was a young punk named Shoelace who tried to boost my signet ring during a three-on-three, shirts and skins. I was always on the skins team, or I wouldn't play. Let's just say I gave him the full Irish. You shoulda seen the look on his face. It's like my old man used to tell me.


I'm writing this to declare that my mental is focused. One hundred percent. I no more think of myself as being as old as I am than fly. Of course I respect the rights of the people—"We hold this truth, all men and women well endowed by their creator, equal"—to have their own opinions. People might say "You're old" or "Joe Biden isn't fit to be serve the presidents of United States." Just watch me. Try to fight me. Go ahead. Your fat ass wouldn't last a goddamn minute in the Bucket. My brain is the pudding, and that's proof. Eat me and find out. Honest to God.

Barack and I, excuse me, Dr. Jill and her husband—that's me—couldn't be more proud of our 17 grandchildren. They don't want me to talk about the stripper Hunter knocked up, so I won't. I forgot what I was trying to say. Anyway, we had them all over to Camp David over the summer to meet the generals. They pulled up a high-frequency map of the South China Sea on the slide projector. He says to me, "Joe, this is where we'd launch the nukes when China invades Taiwan." We're talking about a full-scale deployment of American troops to defend the island. Not like the U.S. special forces hiding out in Russia to depose Putin, that son of a bitch.

These folks complaining about, "My God, inflation was 8.2 percent last month." Let's put this in perspective. You have a former president—I won't say his name—20 million dead on his watch. We trusted the science, and guess what? The pandemic is over. It's not a national emergency. I wear a mask outside because they tell me to, but I take it off to watch The Black List, listen to records, and make love to my wife. You people might not know this about me but I'm a car guy. God as my witness. You gotta see these new Corvettes they're rolling off the assembly line at the Detroit Auto Show. Solar-powered V8, zero to sixty in 1.7 seconds. Union made. The forearms on these fellas—I can't touch, it's not allowed—but it's like squeezing an elephant's truck. You think I'm joking?


Joe Biden is not a question of fitness to serve as president. Repeat the line. Joe Biden is not a question of fitness to serve as president. You be the judge. I still ride my bike without the training wheels. I can bench-press a 12-year-old, boy or girl. I haven't used the stair lift in weeks. The proof is in my pudding. I eat it every night all by myself with knife and fork. Trust the process. As my good friend Ted Kennedy once said, "Age don't mean a thing if you can afford a good attorney." God love him. What? I'm being told to wrap it up.

Thank you and God bless America and may God prect [sic] our troops.

Joseph R. Biden

End of column.

(Dictated but not read)

Joseph R. Biden, 79, is a Washington, D.C., resident. He is the father of Hunter Biden, a semi-renowned artist, energy executive, and gentlemen's club patron.