Disgruntled Republican and warmonger Liz Cheney has a message for America: Vote for the candidate you’d want to babysit your kids.
“If you wouldn’t hire somebody to babysit your kids, you shouldn’t make that guy the President of the United States,” she said on stage with Kamala Harris, using her neocon street cred to stump for the lefty progressive.
Okay, Liz. You want to go there? Let’s do it. Who would you rather have babysit your little darling angels?
.@Liz_Cheney: If you wouldn’t hire somebody to babysit your kids, you shouldn’t make that guy the President of the United States pic.twitter.com/lN6XXbFHmF
— Kamala HQ (@KamalaHQ) October 22, 2024
Donald Trump shows up at 7 p.m. on the dot in his signature suit. You’re embarrassed, knowing what your child can do to a crisp, white shirt. “Don’t worry about it; I have plenty,” he says, before teaching your four-year-old to stand up straight and tie a perfect half Windsor without looking in the mirror. Dinner? McDonald’s, of course, and Trump calls ahead to make sure Grimace and the Hamburglar are there to give your kid a private show. Afterwards, they go home and turn on “Home Alone 2” for a very special cameo, where Trump explains what McCauley Culkin is like in real life and how much fun a kid can have in New York City. He promises to fly the whole family out this Christmas. (RELATED: Click here to watch ‘Cleaning Up Kamala’)
Uh oh, the little guy doesn’t want to go to bed just yet. He’s kicking and screaming, and gets juice all over Trump’s shirt just how you knew he would. “He’ll tire himself out,” Trump thinks to himself, nonchalantly. And what do you know? You come home 30 minutes later to one tired kid, fast asleep in his room.
Meanwhile …
Kamala Harris shows up at 7:13 p.m. as you stand anxiously waiting in the foyer. You were supposed to be in the car already, but she wastes more of your time with a half-baked excuse for why she has to leave early.
“What’s for dinner?” your kid asks, as Kamala starts rifling through the liquor cabinet. “Coq au vin,” she says in a phony French accent, her cackle unable to conceal the joy in an excuse to break open the good stuff on someone else’s dime. “But I want chicken nuggets,” your kid whines, a whine that Kamala pretends not hear.
“Your mom’s out of garlic. Run on down to the store for Aunty Kamala,” she says with an encouraging smile. She pops a handful of ice cubes into a nine ounce pour and flips on Showtime as your kid struggles to zip up his coat before heading out into the cold alone.
Chicken’s ready. Honestly, not bad; you’ll enjoy the leftovers later. Even your little picky eater liked it. But then … crash. A roasting pan full of warm jus, all over Momala’s pantsuit. That’s what happens when you make a five year old clear the table.
“This is Chloé you little brat; do you know how much this costs?!” she screams.
You walk in just as she’s reaching for a wooden spoon, your crying child flung limp over her knee. A Showtime sex scene plays on the TV in the background. You stand in the door speechless.
An uncomfortable cackle breaks the silence. It’s fine, she explains. She grew up in a “middle class household,” where this is just what people did.
This article was originally published at dailycaller.com
