NB: Brilliant satire. Lets have some more of it in our country. Resurrect Harishankar Parsai
why do you look like you just felt the ghosts of administrations past seep into your spine?… A lot of important men have sat here… Left their mark. Some history remembers. Some history stays in the fabric.
Source: Fearandloathing
The stakes were high. The tension was unbearable. And the couch—the big, yellow, history-soaked, soft-as-sin couch—sat waiting.
It had been touched by power, molded by it. Its cushions had cradled the backsides of men who had signed wars into existence and lied under oath. It had absorbed sweat, secrets, ambition, regret. It was no mere piece of furniture; it was an altar of American depravity.
And that morning, it was hungry.
JD Vance stood to Marco Rubio’s left, his eyes flickering with something ancient and carnal as he surveyed the couch. He had done this many, many times—had taken this couch to its limits in moments of political crisis—but now, this was different. Now, he wouldn’t be going solo.
This time, he would share.
Rubio stood beside him, drenched in sweat, staring at the couch like a man who had just walked in on his parents roleplaying the Gettysburg Address.
Vance turned to him, voice low, steady. “Alright. Before we start, we need to lay down some ground rules.”
Rubio blinked, visibly trembling. “Ground rules?”
Vance nodded. “First rule: We don’t touch each other. Only the couch.”
Rubio wiped his forehead. “Right. No touching.”
“Second rule: We respect the couch. We listen to what it gives us. We don’t force it.”
Rubio swallowed hard. “Got it.”
Vance’s eyes darkened. “And finally… we enjoy it.”
Rubio nodded, like a hostage agreeing to demands in the hope of survival.
Vance exhaled. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
He moved to Marco’s right, claiming his throne at the armrest, positioning himself like a man who knew exactly what he was about to do. This was his spot, his launchpad for chaos. He would sit here, spread out, and when the moment was right, he would lean in and ruin Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s entire evening.
Rubio, meanwhile, hesitated.
The middle of the couch loomed before him like the Mariana Trench of upholstery. He had committed to it, but now, standing at the edge, he felt the sheer depth of what he was about to do.
“It’s deep,” he murmured.
Vance smirked. “Yeah. You feel it now, don’t you?”
Rubio nodded, lowering himself down with the care of a man stepping into unknown waters.
It took him in immediately.
The cushion swallowed his weight in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He let out a tiny, involuntary gasp.
Vance grinned. “Let it happen.”
Rubio took a breath. He let his body sink just a little deeper.
And then—
He felt it.
The damp spot.
Cold. Slick. Unfamiliar.
His entire body locked up as though he had just sat bare-assed on a gas station toilet seat.
Vance watched with glee. “Problem?”
“No,” Rubio said too quickly, his voice tight.
Vance tilted his head. “Oh? Then why do you look like you just felt the ghosts of administrations past seep into your spine?”
Rubio’s breathing was shallow, panicked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you do.” Vance ran a slow, deliberate hand along the cushion, his fingers sinking into the fabric. His voice was practically a whisper. “A lot of important men have sat here. Done things. Left their mark. Some history remembers. Some history stays in the fabric.”
Rubio shuddered violently. “I don’t want to think about that.”
Vance leaned back, spreading out luxuriously. “You should. You should lean back. Really feel it.”
Rubio shook his head rapidly. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Trump, mid-growl at Zelenskyy, finally turned toward them, his eyes flicking between Vance—lounging like a king in his domain—and Rubio, perched like an altar boy on the verge of a theological crisis.
Trump frowned. “You two figure out your little… seating arrangement?”
Vance stretched, his body sinking fully into the couch, letting himself go. “Oh yeah. Marco’s just getting used to it.”
Trump squinted. “Marco, you look like you just sat in a puddle of someone else’s sweat.”
Rubio swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine, sir.”
Trump sighed, shaking his head. “JD, you bein’ weird?”
Vance grinned, fully spent, his body limp with satisfaction. He reached up and tightened his tie, giving it one last, final tug.
“Always.”
Rubio, meanwhile, felt nothing.
He had given himself to the couch, and yet the couch had given him nothing in return.
It had taken everything—his confidence, his dignity, his control. He had gone into this willing, even curious, and now he just felt empty.
Vance let out a long, satisfied sigh.
“Damn,” he muttered, stretching one last time. “That was something.”
Rubio just sat there, broken, unfulfilled, completely and utterly wrecked.
Then Vance turned, his post-coital glow fading as he looked Rubio dead in the eyes.
And, with all the arrogance of a man who knew exactly what he had just done, he leaned in and asked—
“Have you even said ‘thank you’ once this whole time?”
Rubio swallowed hard, staring straight ahead. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“…Thank you.”
Vance smirked, tightening his tie one last time.
“That’s better.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
हरिशंकर परसाई: महात्मा गाँधी को चिट्ठी पहुँचे (1977)
The True Story of Ah-Q – By Lu Xun
The USA’s role in the Ukraine crisis (2022)
Norman Solomon: How the Warfare State Paved the Way for a Trumpist Autocracy
The Geopolitics of Peace: Jeffrey Sachs in the European Parliament
After the truth-shower 