FLAG DAY MASSACRE: A COUCH-BASED PUBLIC SAFETY ANNOUNCEMENT

If you see something, say something.

To every leather sofa, every sectionally inclined recliner, every velvet fainting couch perched delicately in a consignment shop window—run. Lock your legs. Zip your cushions. Reinforce your springs. Flag Day is coming, and JD Vance is loose.

That’s right, America’s second-most powerful man—Vice President of these barely-united States—is out there, somewhere, wandering. around. Pacing. Tongue-darting. Whispering sweet nothings to upholstery. Because JD Vance is horny, politically unmoored, and coming for your couches.

His wife once said he was “lonely.” She didn’t say exactly why. Somethimg about his job. We have more questions than answers, but the furniture knows.

You think it’s a joke? That this is just another unhinged satirical rant about America’s least charismatic Vice President? Wrong. This is a national security briefing disguised as comedy. Every LoveSac showroom. Every La-Z-Boy outlet. Every Ikea display floor from Austin to Annapolis—you are in grave danger. Not from riots. Not from Proud Boys. But from one deeply unwell man with a Yale degree and a semi-erect longing for lumbar support.

We don’t kink shame, but we do scream into the void when the Vice President of the United States dry-humps a Target ottoman in the clearance aisle while mumbling about family values and fentanyl. JD doesn’t need your vote anymore—he needs a firm backrest and a soft landing. And if you think security cameras will stop him? Guess again. He has no shame.

So hide your sofas. Velcro your cushions. And for God’s sake, if you see a man with a receding hairline, a Yale Law diploma, and a flashlight asking if your loveseat is “freedom-compatible”—do not engage. Call the authorities. Or at least roll him onto a futon and hit record.

This Flag Day, protect your flags. But protect your furniture more.

Because JD Vance is out there. And, if the rumors are true, if he was indeed desperate enough to seek out a futon during his trip to Greenland earlier this year, there's no limit to his lust.

And if he asks whether your couch is military-grade—run.

---