When I arrived at Vice President JD Vance’s office for what I assumed would be a run-of-the-mill political interview, I had no clue I was about to tumble down a rabbit hole lined with polyester stuffing and plastic eyes. The experience was less “West Wing” and more “Toy Story” meets “The Shining”, and I’m still not sure I’ve fully recovered.
The Lobby: A Foreshadowing of Fluff
It started innocently enough. I stepped into the lobby of Vance’s office, expecting the usual sterile government decor, maybe a flag, a framed Constitution, some uncomfortable chairs. Instead, I was greeted by a scene that screamed “yard sale gone wrong.” The receptionist, a stern woman with a perm tighter than a tax loophole, sat behind a desk adorned with a Beanie Baby squirrel, its tiny paws clutching an acorn like it was guarding state secrets. “The Vice President will see you shortly,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing as she caught me staring. “And don’t touch the Beanie Babies. They’re very special to him.”
I nodded, suppressing a smirk, and plopped into a chair. That’s when I noticed the walls. Forget “Employee of the Month” plaques, these were motivational posters featuring Beanie Babies. A floppy-eared dog stared at me under the words “Persistence: Be Like Buddy.” An owl with a graduation cap preached “Wisdom: Learn from Owlie.” A frog in a tiny crown urged “Leadership: Leap Like Freddie.” It was quirky, sure, but I figured it was just some staffer’s attempt at morale-boosting kitsch. Oh, how wrong I was.
The Office: A Shrine to Stuffing
The receptionist eventually waved me through, and I entered Vance’s office. He greeted me with a handshake so firm it felt like he was testing my grip for some secret Beanie Baby ritual. “Welcome! Have a seat!” he boomed, grinning like a car salesman who’d just unloaded a lemon. The guy seemed normal enough, polished suit, slick hair, the whole VP package, until I took in the room.
His office wasn’t just tidy; it was a Beanie Baby museum. Glass cases lined the walls, each a shrine to plush perfection. One section boasted patriotic Beanies, eagles with star-spangled wings, bears clutching miniature flags. Another showcased international Beanies, with a French beret-wearing snail and a sombrero-clad armadillo glaring at me from their perches. Most unsettling was a shelf of custom Beanies that looked suspiciously like political figures, a bear with a red tie that could’ve been Trump, a bespectacled owl that screamed Pelosi. On his desk sat a plush elephant, trunk raised like it was about to trumpet tax cuts.
I sat, trying not to gawk, and launched into my questions. Economics, healthcare, infrastructure, standard stuff. But Vance had other plans.
The Interview: Policy Meets Plush
“So, Mr. Vice President,” I began, “what’s your approach to tax reform?”
He chuckled, grabbing a pig Beanie Baby from his desk. “Taxes are like Porky here. Loves to eat up all the money, oink, oink!—but we’ve gotta keep him on a diet. Slim him down, or the whole farm goes bust!” He wiggled Porky’s snout for emphasis, snorting like a man who’d spent too long perfecting his barnyard impressions.
I scribbled notes, unsure if I’d just heard a policy or a nursery rhyme. “Right. And healthcare?”
Vance swapped Porky for a bear with a stethoscope. “Meet Doctor Fuzzy! Our system’s got a fever, and Fuzzy says we need to cut the fat, make it lean, efficient, like a good checkup. No more Band-Aids; it’s time for surgery!” He tapped Fuzzy’s nose, beaming as if the bear had just aced med school.
“National security?” I pressed, hoping for something concrete.
He snatched an owl Beanie Baby, General Hoot, apparently. “This guy’s the key. Wise, watchful, ready to swoop on threats. We need to be like Hoot: feathers up, talons out!” He mimicked a bird of prey, flapping his arms with alarming conviction.
The metaphors were weird but manageable, until they weren’t. As I asked about infrastructure, Vance’s eyes flicked to the massive Beanie Baby display on the wall. His fingers twitched, like a kid itching to raid a toy chest.
Buddy the Dog: The Breaking Point
Mid-sentence, he was comparing bridges to a Beanie Baby turtle named Shelly, Vance lunged for the display, snagging a floppy-eared dog named Buddy. He thrust it at me with the urgency of a man handing over a live grenade. “You need to understand Buddy,” he said, voice quivering with intensity. “Pat him. Now.”
I froze, pen hovering over my notepad. “Uh, what does this have to do with infrastructure?”
“Everything!” he barked, shoving Buddy closer. “Pat him! He needs to feel your energy, it’s critical!”
I glanced at Buddy’s vacant plastic eyes, half-expecting them to blink. “I’m good, thanks,” I mumbled, leaning back.
Vance’s face darkened, his smile vanishing. “Pat. Him.” His tone was a steel trap, his stare drilling into me like I’d insulted his mother.
Reluctantly, I gave Buddy a tepid pat. Vance exhaled, shoulders slumping as if I’d just defused a bomb. “Good,” he whispered. “Now you’re getting it.”
The Hidden Room: Enter the Beanie Sanctum
Before I could recover, Vance stood, beckoning me toward a shadowy hallway behind his desk. “There’s something you need to see,” he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “The real power behind the throne.”
My stomach twisted, but his glare brooked no argument. I followed, heart thudding, as we approached a heavy wooden door, bolted like a bunker. Vance unlocked it with a jeweler’s precision, glancing back with a smile that was all teeth. “Come in,” he purred, swinging the door wide.
Inside, darkness swallowed us. The air was thick, musty, like a thrift store on steroids. As my eyes adjusted, I saw them: shelves of Beanie Babies, stretching floor to ceiling, each bathed in eerie spotlights. In the center, a single beam illuminated a glittering dragon, Ember, the apparent king of this plush purgatory.
Vance approached Ember like a priest at an altar, lifting it with trembling hands. “Ember speaks truths no one else hears,” he murmured. “He guides me, shows me the shadows others ignore.”
I shivered, the room’s oppressive vibe sinking into my bones. “That’s… impressive,” I managed, aiming for neutral.
He turned, eyes gleaming. “Impressive? This is sacred.” He gestured to the shelves. “See the Economy section? Bull for growth, bear for caution, I consult them daily. Over there, international relations: each Beanie has its own voice, its own demands.” He pointed to a panda. “China’s tricky, but Pandy whispers her secrets to me.”
The Meltdown: Gratitude or Bust
I nodded, trying to keep up, when Vance’s mood flipped like a switch. His face hardened, Ember clutched to his chest. “You walk into my sanctuary,” he said, voice low and venomous, “share my secrets, and yet…” He paused, eyes narrowing to slits. “Have you said thank you once?”
I stopped breathing. The room shrank, shadows clawing at the edges of my vision. “I—”
“Have you said thank you once?” he roared, knuckles whitening around Ember. “Do you know how many would kill to touch him? To hear his wisdom? And you stand there, ungrateful, like some… some peasant!”
My mouth went dry. “Thank you, Mr. Vice President,” I croaked, barely audible.
He blinked, rage evaporating. “That’s better,” he chirped, setting Ember down with a pat. “Now, where were we? Oh, infrastructure!” He grabbed a roadrunner Beanie Baby, Roadie, naturally. “Roadie’s all about smooth highways. Fast lanes, no potholes!”
I stammered a reply, still reeling, as he led me back to the office, chatting like we’d just discussed the weather.
The Exit: Wingman and a Watcher
Back in the light, Vance clapped my shoulder. “Great talk!” he said, as if I hadn’t just dodged a plush-fueled tantrum. “Before you go, a gift.” He handed me a bat Beanie Baby, Wingman. “He’ll keep you safe from the dark forces out there. Listen to him, he’s wiser than he looks.”
I forced a smile, clutching Wingman. “Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”
As I stumbled out, the bat tucked under my arm, a cold dread lingered. I glanced back at the building, and there he was, Vance, framed in his window, waving cheerfully with a Beanie Baby in hand. His grin was wide, but his eyes… his eyes were a void, glinting with something unhinged.
Behind JD Vance’s polished facade lurks a man possessed, not by ambition, but by polyester prophets. I glimpsed that darkness for a moment, and it was enough to know it’s real. Wingman sits on my shelf now, staring silently. Sometimes, I swear he moves. And sometimes, I wonder what he’s whispering.
