WHEN THE COUCHF*CKER EATS YOUR PETS

If facts no longer matter, then welcome to the feast

Let’s get one thing straight: if JD Vance is allowed to accuse immigrants of devouring your pets, we are equally allowed to say that he’s the one doing the eating. And not just the dogs and cats. Aside from mice, he’s eating every kind of pet imaginable; Hedgehogs. Cockatiels. Goldfish. Therapy chinchillas. Your daughter’s beloved bunny named Pancake. Gone. Into his cavernous maw, lubricated by Fox News talking points and whatever bile Stephen Miller secretes in a crisis.

Because if facts no longer matter, then welcome to the feast. And JD Vance is first in line, bib tied tight, fork in one hand, Bible in the other—using it not to guide his morality, but to beat back the truth while he licks the marrow from a guinea pig’s spine.

This isn’t politics. It’s performance gluttony. It’s what happens when a man who once wrote about struggle and survival decides it’s more profitable to play-act as a God-fearing nationalist while he eats the nation alive. One soft target at a time. One lie at a time. One couch at a time.

And yes, he did fuck that couch. Maybe not legally. Maybe not provably. But spiritually? Existentially? That couch knows what happened. It still screams in the dark, spring coils twisted in trauma, upholstery permanently stained with the scent of performative masculinity and broken campaign promises. That couch was the first to go. Your pets were next. Your dignity, your legal protections, your goddamn grip on reality? All headed for the same digestive tract. Swallowed, dissolved, and excreted into press statements by a man who looks like he was built in a lab for the sole purpose of betraying his ancestors.

He mocks immigrants. He slanders senators. He militarizes cities while pretending it’s for our safety. But the only thing JD Vance is really protecting is his appetite. His sick, bloated, insatiable appetite for power. For cruelty. For the kind of racist narrative-building that ends not in policy but in cleansings, roundups, and fascist wet dreams with whitewashed flags.

Let’s not pretend he’s confused. He didn’t “accidentally” call Senator Alex Padilla “Jose.” He didn’t “misspeak” when he said Padilla wasn’t there because there “wasn’t a theater.” He knew exactly what he was doing: reducing a Latino senator to a stereotype in front of a military phalanx during a moment of mass constitutional crisis. That’s not a gaffe. That’s a script. That’s strategy. That’s how fascism talks when it puts on a suit and pretends to pray.

And when people called it out, what did Vance’s team say? “He must’ve mixed up two people who broke the law.” Let that rot in your mouth for a second. A sitting U.S. Senator. Labeled a criminal. Because he had the gall to demand oversight during ICE raids that disappeared civilians into vans in broad daylight. This is the world JD Vance is building: one where oversight is rebellion, where skin tone is guilt, where facts are just food for the grinder.

And as for the mice? Yes, he leaves them. Not out of mercy, but ritual. JD Vance knows the hunger isn’t his alone. He collects the mice, cradles them like sacred offerings, and delivers them to Stephen Miller, who doesn’t train them or breed them or whisper policy memos into their ears—he eats them. Raw. Whole. One by one. Eyes blinking, tails twitching, little paws scratching at the edge of damnation until they vanish into the pale, unchewing void of a man who feeds on suffering and calcium. Stephen Miller doesn’t survive on food. He survives on symbolism. On purity. On the idea that the smaller the life, the easier it is to swallow without conscience. He eats mice like JD Vance eats truth: with a dead stare and no seasoning.

So don’t ask us to tone it down. Don’t ask for civility while Vance turns the Senate chamber into a bullhorn for state-sanctioned hate and fabricates folk tales about Haitian immigrants like we’re all just white noise in his presidential audition tape. Civility ended the moment the couch screamed. Civility died the day he smeared Padilla, smeared immigrants, smeared the very fabric of America’s pluralism and called it patriotism. Civility ends at the point where our pets vanish and our children ask why ICE has rifles and Congress has none.

JD Vance is not misunderstood. He is not confused. He is not a populist, or a truth-teller, or some Appalachian prophet shouting into the void. He is a man who took everything good in him, drowned it in ambition, and now walks the halls of power chewing on its bones.

So if he’s going to lie—then let us return the favor.

Let us lie with precision. With flair. With righteous venom and poetic vengeance.

Because if anyone is eating pets in this country, it’s not the immigrants.
It’s the man with a couch fetish and God Bless America stuck in his throat like a hairball.

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