Ted Cruz and Marco Rubio are both flamboyantly splayed in the two outdoor chairs that I fitted with tempurpedic pillows (Cruz keeps bogarting the joint before it reaches Rubio as a joke, but Rubio got too high off a grav bong hit so he doesn’t know what is going on anyway). Hilary Clinton is trying to pick a record to set the mood with Carly Fiorina, who insists that Fleetwood Mac is too obvious and suggests that the two of them are “floozies.” She wants to listen to Joni Mitchel. Trump had rushed up my parent’s staircase so that he could sit on the most elevated and luxurious spot (my twin bed), but when Bernie Sanders told everybody that he didn’t mind standing, because he had chores later and would only hang for a “a rip or two,” Trump decided to stand too. He is glowering at Sanders from across the room while Sanders scolds Cruz for being such a joint-hogging prick.
Rand Paul is on the futon smoking a Pall Mall while he packs his new vape pen that he pulled out of his jean jacket. He is telling Mike Huckabee, (who is sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor, staring reverently at the Michelangelo poster on my ceiling) about THC levels and the differences between Indica and Sativa. Huckabee is too stoned to listen, having secretly smoked a blunt with Lindsey Graham in the downstairs bathroom a few minutes ago. Graham has already left my parent’s house because he casually mentioned pegging to Fiorina, who deliberately ignored the comment and made him feel super awkward about it. John Kasich found my dad’s liquor cabinet and drank a quart of Jack Daniels. He decided to go for a joyride “because dope parties never have the right kind of chicks,” but could only convince Bobby Jindal to go with him, who was more afraid of his Best Bro For Life getting hurt than anything.
George Pataki is just sort of there. He isn’t smoking because he doesn’t “like that kind of high.”
Both Jeb Bush and Chris Christie are downstairs talking to my dad about their plans after college, but Christie is being kinda pushy and my dad thinks he is just trying to get a business card. He likes Bush better because Jeb’s dad sent him a bottle of French chardonnay once, even though his dad used to make parent-teacher conferences go on for wayyy too long. Ben Carson is flipping through my old Green Lantern comics, waiting for Trump to talk to him about who is hitting up their dealer later. Rick Santorum is locked in my bathroom. He’s sick from the undercooked chicken I “accidentally” gave him. Clinton saw me do it, but didn’t say anything.
I’m in my desk chair doing dabs with Lincoln Chafee, who is sitting on the floor and talking some seriously funny shit about the metric system and that one time he “fucked a Puerto Rican girl” when his grandparents took him on a Disney cruise. Sure, dude. I want to hang with him for a while, but unfortunately I have to get everybody to leave because I can hear Jimmy McMillan shouting at my neighbor’s poodle about “who runs this motherfuckin’ yard.” Dude simply cannot hold his drugs.