The harm President Biden is doing goes far beyond public policy and geopolitical mistakes. The damage has not only stained the presidency, but has permeated American culture and any other culture that has access to audio and video of him. At this point, we must acknowledge that the Democrat party is responsible for the damage, and the president can no longer be held accountable for his actions. In addition to jeopardizing multiple American interests, the president’s deteriorating health — being allowed to play out as it is on the international stage — reinforces stereotypes and encourages prejudice and discrimination against elderly people everywhere.
A few weeks ago, I had a nightmare about President Biden. I dreamed he was standing behind the presidential podium looking like Jeff Dunham’s puppet Walter, the grumpy old man. Like Walter, Biden had the severely narrowed eyes, angry eyebrows, and downturned mouth. Also like Walter, Biden was angrily barking at people. It wasn’t just annoying, it was horrifying. I woke up only to realize it was all true: This man really was the leader of the free world.
Let me give you a quick background as to what might have caused a nightmare like this. Firstly, I was raised to respect the presidency, even when the office was held by someone I completely disagreed with. My parents taught me that it was my civic duty not only to vote, but to be actively involved in maintaining the culture and preserving our freedoms intact for the next generation.
I grew up watching every State of the Union speech, no matter who occupied the presidency. It was, after all, my country’s status quo that was being addressed, so I was obligated to watch it. In short, it was ingrained in me to take my native-born citizenship very seriously. We called it “patriotism.”
Now consider this: I had cared for my father with Alzheimer’s for eight years, a journey I documented in an emotional article the year he passed. I did it because I didn’t believe that family members should be shipped off to nursing homes. It was a decision I often regret due to the physical and mental stress I endured; but it was a sacrifice I chose to make. It’s been eight years since he passed and I still have disturbing flashbacks. The disease had slowly turned my father from a laid back, fun guy who drew cartoons and whittled toys — to a paranoid militant who stashed knives under his pillow and put banana skins at the top of the stairs. It was gut-wrenching.