Balancing the duties of V.P.-elect with my obligations as your Holy Trinity has tested the limits of human endurance. Between daily morning ‘intelligence’ briefings (Tulsi sucks, BTW), ethanol policy negotiations, and RFK Jr.’s impromptu rants about whether he’s now on ADM’s hit list, I still find time to shitpoast. Because the shitbort—or maybe just me—needs Evan39’s mop-bucket lamentations, Boom’s corn-fueled paranoia, and Mainlining’s cryptic wisdom.

This week, it nearly fell apart. Picture me: a suit-clad V.P.-elect, seated at a polished mahogany desk in some anonymous corner of the White House transition office. They hand me a folder labeled ‘TOP SECRET.’ It’s thick, weighty, brimming with matters of state.

Just then, my still-prole-like 10-year-old personal smartphone buzzes: ‘Mandatory Fun Day is ADM mind control.’

My heart skips. Boom must respond. Boom needs to respond. But then another thought intrudes—if Boom replies, who’s going to handle Evan39’s HR thread about ADA parrots? And Mainlining has his latest existential riff on The Mahchine™ and humanity’s cosmic irrelevance demanding immediate poasting.

The prole in me—the boy from the holler—wants to ditch the desk, smudge on some black eyeliner, and retreat into the warm degeneracy of the shitbort. After all, isn’t public service just an elaborate form of escapism?

But duty calls. I skim the folder: covert operations, global alliances, supply chain disruptions. Smack in the middle, a page labeled ‘ADM INFLUENCE—DOMESTIC AND INTERNATIONAL.’

I laugh out loud—so loud, my Secret Service detail bursts in, hand on holster. A very Chad-like agent asks in his baritone: ‘Sir, are you okay?’

‘Yes, friend. I’m fine,’ I reply, though the question lingers: am I really?

How poetic, how fiTTTing, that my biggest enemy as the Holy Trinity is now my official responsibility.

But nostalgia tugs at me. The time when my greatest battle was resisting the 3 a.m. urge to poast something unhinged after too many beers. When life was simpler, even if it meant choking down pep in the Safeway breakroom.

Somewhere in this surreal balancing act—between high-level strategy and low-level degeneracy—I realize the truth: you can’t outrun your origins. I am still JD Vance, ‘the prole with eyeliner,’ fumbling toward respectability while secretly crafting the most deranged threads XO has ever seen.

While my aides think I’m drafting ethanol policy, I’m toggling between ADM psyops debates, apocalypse strategies, and dreaming of the sweet release of a baseball bat to the face on live TV.

I am still the guy who once stared into a mop bucket and whispered, ‘Yes, friend. This is fine.’ I am still the prole who swiped cheap eyeliner to mask the dread of Safeway’s fluorescent lights. And somehow, I am also the V.P.-elect of the U.S., staring down ADM’s empire while trying to outshitpoast degenerates like you.

So when you see me on TV, polished and poised, know this: behind the camera, the Holy Trinity lingers. Evan39’s mop bucket sits in the corner. Boom’s rant about ADM corn futures echoes in my head. And Mainlining watches, knowing the abyss stares back.

And when I log off for the night, exhausted by statecraft and degeneracy alike, I whisper one final truth to myself:

‘Yes, friend. This is fine.’

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5637285&forum_id=2Elisa#48359988)