Imagine: President "Joe Biden," on the deck behind his Rehoboth Beach house Sunday evening before a most consequential week. He just declared to the nation that only an "act of God" will prevent him from running for re-election. Dr. Jill has gone inside for another martini, extra-dry, no vermouth, no ice, no olive. . . no glass. Chief advisor, Hunter Biden, just drove into Wilmington "to pick something up," he said. Chocolate chip ice cream melts in the bowl on "JB's" lap as he endures another Parkinsonian frozen rapture. His gaze is fixed on the gray-green Atlantic, a blank horizon, much like his current career prospects.

As happens often these days, he slips off to sleep. In his dream, a red phone is ringing.

"Who's this. . .?" he says.
"Me, God. Thought it was time you and me had a little chat. You can't be serious 'bout this re-election thang."
"I'm defending our democracy. Gotta stay in. Defeat Hitler."
"Democracy my ass! You channelin' Hitler yourself a little too much lately. How it is you laid ninety-seven indictments on my dawg DJT? You done George Floyded da man!"
"But. . . but. . . the insurrection—"
"Insurrection my ass! Why you keep sayin' dat?"
"If you repeat stuff enough, people believe it."
"Who told you that?"
"Andrew Weissmann."
"Oh, really? I kicked his ass outa my house more'n four thousand years ago. He ain't nothin' but trouble. Who told you to listen to him?"
"Lisa Monaco and Mary McCord."
"Oh? Them two! Just so you know, I canceled they retirement plan up here with me. They goin' to the other place wid Weissmann. Now, I got news for you, Joey: Ima have to take yo' ass out dis election."
"But why? I've accomplished so much. Did you see me at Gettysburg, beating those insurrectionists?"
"I see everything. Didn't see you around dat day."
"What about when I stormed the beaches at Normandy?"
"Naw. You was in a playpen, going goo-goo-goo. Look, Joey, here's the deal: remember you said 'God bless America' in all them speeches you made?"