PLEASE EXPLAIN WHY THE FUCK HUNTER BIDEN ISN’T RUNNING FOR CONGRESS

Nine rehabs, two trials, 12 felony counts, and three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck all found. Congratulations, America, you just fully vetted your next congressman.

Hunter Biden’s dad once told him to stop cussing so much.

“It’s your fault. I sit and listen to you.”

This is the son of the bloke who called Obamacare a “big fucking deal” into a live mic, so the defence rests. The swearing is genetic. And after marinating in 4 and a bit hours of Hunter’s recent interviews, the IHIP News sit-down and the Vlad TV marathon, I’ve come out the other side with one question rattling around my skull like a bolt in a hubcap.

Why the fuck isn’t this man running for Congress?

I’m not being a smartarse. Well, I am, but I’m also dead serious. Pour a beer and strap in.

The most vetted human being in recorded history

Here’s the CV that got buried under a decade of laptop shrieking. Yale Law. Before that, a year in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps on 80 bucks a month, running an emergency services centre out of a church basement in Portland for families who couldn’t keep the heater on in winter. Chairman of the US board of the UN World Food Programme, the outfit that feeds 70 million people a day, where he helped drag in $2.6 billion. Vice chairman of Amtrak for 6 years. Taught foreign service at Georgetown for 4.

Then the universe took to him with a cricket bat. Mum and baby sister killed by a truck when he was 2, him and his brother pulled broken out of the wreck. Beau dead of brain cancer at 46. Nine rehabs. A crack habit he calls, flat and unblinking, a slow suicide. And then the bit no politician in history has survived: 22 years of his digital life, every email, every text, every voicemail, every naked photo, hacked, flogged off and dumped into the public square. Actual members of the United States Congress held up blown-up prints of him rooting. In Congress. On the taxpayer’s dime. Your tax dollars at work, America: dick pics on an easel.

And after all that? After 7 years of investigation by a Trump-appointed US attorney, 5 congressional committees, 2 trials and 12 felony counts, the grand total of corruption tying his old man to any of it was three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck all. What they found was an addict. Who got sober in June 2019 and has stayed sober for 7 years while the entire western media used his rock bottom as a piñata.

Which makes Hunter Biden the only politically unkillable man in America. There is no oppo research left. They’ve already blown the lot, and he’s still standing there asking if that’s all they’ve got.

So what does the political brain of a bloke like that actually sound like when it’s switched on? Roll the tape.

“The single greatest mistake of my father’s administration was the leadership of Merrick Garland... Did you not see these people storming the Capitol of the United States of America, beating cops, and running congressmen and senators literally out of the building?... It’s a layup. He doesn’t do anything.”

The president’s own son, publicly kneecapping his dad’s attorney general, and being completely bloody right about it. While the Democratic establishment was doing its little “when they go low, we go high” interpretive dance in the corner, Hunter named the exact failure that gift-wrapped Trump’s comeback. No consultant on God’s green earth would let a candidate say that out loud. Which is precisely why it needed saying.

The bloke can actually read the board

And it’s not a party trick. While the Axelrod and Rahm Emanuel wing of the party was clutching its pearls so hard it drew blood over Zohran Mamdani, Hunter looked at the same bloke and saw exactly what was in front of him:

“They look at Zohran Mamdani and they go, ‘Oh my god, it’s the end of the Democratic Party.’ I look at Zohran Mamdani and I go, ‘There’s a leader’... He made promises and you know what he did? He kept them. He’s lowering rent. He’s building co-op grocery stores... free kindergarten. That’s what people care about.”

And the new bloke has come through on every single thing he said he would, which in modern politics is roughly as common as a unicorn doing a burnout in the Woolies car park. The consultant class swore he’d empty the city; instead he’s filling fridges, and Hunter clocked it before a single strategist got their invoice in.

Clock what that actually means, too. The son of the most famous centrist Democrat alive is openly barracking for the democratic socialist wave, the rent-freezing, grocery-co-op, tax-the-top mob that gives the Axelrod wing night terrors. That’s another fucking tick in the Congress column right there. He’s not reading the room from a focus group PDF, he’s reading it from the ground, and the ground is telling everyone the same thing: people will vote for the bloke who fixes the rent, not the bloke who triangulates about it. Somebody fetch the smelling salts for the DNC, and a ballot paper for Hunter.

On Iran, he landed, unprompted, on the same analysis this rag has been beating like a rented mule for months: the only country winning this war is Russia, which was cooked at 40 dollars a barrel and is now doing backstroke through oil money thanks to the Mango Mussolini’s Strait of Hormuz masterclass. And Hunter’s tally of the ceasefires is now officially entered into the Boy Who Cried Hormuz ledger:

“He has delivered peace in Iran at least 40 times in the last 36 days. I think if anybody gets the Nobel Peace Prize, it should be for delivering peace to the world 40 times in the same war.”

Forty. Times. Even a Biden’s counting the same taco shells we are.

One email versus the actual bloody ledger

Now the receipts, because IFLA doesn’t run on vibes and neither should you. The “smoking gun” that launched a thousand hearings, a million Fox segments and Comer’s entire personality was one email from a Burisma board secretary who rocked up to a World Food Programme dinner and thanked Hunter for the chance to shake his dad’s hand. There are photos. There were 27 witnesses. That’s it. That’s the crime family. A handshake and an hors d’oeuvre.

Meanwhile, here’s Hunter reading out the other mob’s books like a coroner at an autopsy:

“Donald Trump just reported $1.4 billion in cryptocurrency income alone in the first year of his presidency... Don Jr just got a $678 million loan guarantee from the Department of Defense, the largest loan guarantee ever given... or the $6 billion that Jared Kushner has in a private equity firm, all from Gulf States as he negotiates a war as an unofficial representative of the United States. So let’s forget all of that and let’s come back to Hunter, because this must be really important to you.”

No notes. No staffer whispering in his earhole. Just a bloke with a ledger in his head and a blowtorch in his hand. And it gets better: Don Jr’s shiny new “Executive Club” charges half a million a head for the stated purpose of rubbing shoulders with daddy’s administration, the most expensive private club in America bar one. Have a guess. Go on. Mar-a-Lardo. The grift is so naked it should be on Hunter’s laptop.

Against all that, the Biden family fortune: Joe hasn’t bought a single stock or bond since 1972. Ranked the poorest man in Congress for 40 straight years. One asset, a house. When he finally made a quid he wrote a book and bought Jill the beach house he’d been promising her for 4 decades, which is the most dangerously wholesome financial crime ever committed. He’s 84, fighting stage 4 cancer, and writing another book. He is not flogging gold fucking sneakers out the back of a van, Bibles with his name on them, or coins named after his grifting missus.

The constituency’s already sitting there waiting

And here’s where this stops being a pub argument and starts being maths. Fifty million Americans are dealing with addiction or white-knuckling their recovery on any given day. Hunter’s number, and the research backs him. It cuts clean through MAGA, moderates, greenies and crazy lefties alike, because addiction doesn’t check how you voted before it moves into the spare room. It’s the one thing in American life everybody’s got in the family and nobody in public life will bloody touch.

He’s building a free aftercare program in LA with Peak Path Health, aimed at the exact hole where insurance boots people out after 30 days and drops them back on the same corner they got sick on. He’s launching a million-story recovery archive at hunterbiden.com/recovery. And his pitch to the still-suffering is the best piece of raw retail politics I’ve heard since democracy sailed:

“If I can make it through that shit and stay sober, call me. Sign up. Come to me. I don’t care how. Join.”

That’s not a celebrity spit-polishing his image. That’s a candidate with a platform, a portfolio and a base of 50 million before he’s filled in a single form. And if Congress never happens, any Democratic administration with a functioning frontal lobe should be fitting him for the drug and recovery portfolio yesterday. He’d be the first bloke to ever hold it who knows what the carpet in the ninth rehab smells like.

The transparency clue, or: pay attention, Democrats

Now cock your ear, because this is the bit that made mine prick up. At the end of the Vlad interview, Vlad, a man who’s been on the internet since it was dial-up screeching, tells Hunter the one true superpower online is transparency. People get destroyed trying to hide things. Kamala lost, in Vlad’s read, partly because she was guarded to the point of hermetically sealed, wouldn’t do the real sit-downs, never let a soul see who she actually was, while Trump would happily blab shite at anything with a red light on it. Then Vlad says it straight: if you ever run for office, you’d have a real chance of winning.

Hunter’s answer?

“I’ll only do it if you’ll be my vice president, Vlad.”

A gag. Sure. But rewind the tape. When 2028 came up earlier he laughed, started saying “I came on Vlad TV to announce my candidacy for...” and then caught himself with a “shit” and a grin, before adding, “If I announce for president, then I do want somebody to drug test me.” Mate. That is not a no. That is a man who’s clocked exactly what Vlad’s clocked: the pillory they built him has a podium bolted to the top of it.

“They tied me to a post. They threw their fruits and vegetables at me and they lit me on fire, and at the end of the day the fire went out, the crowd went home, but I still had a platform and I was still standing.”

Every single thing they stripped off him, the privacy, the money, the reputation, is the exact inventory of stuff politicians lie awake at 3am terrified of losing. He’s got nothing left to protect and 22 years of receipts proving there was never a crime under any of it. Transparency isn’t his strategy. It’s his entire remaining net worth. And in a post-2024 world where voters can smell a focus group through drywall, it might be the most valuable currency in politics.

The closer

So when Vlad asked what he’d say if Trump plonked down next to him right now, the man who lost his mum, his sister, his brother, his marriage, his privacy and very nearly his pulse, and who’s watched the Tangerine Palpatine torture his 84-year-old, cancer-riddled father for a decade including hanging a picture of an autopen on the White House colonnade like the world’s saddest art installation, gave the only answer a self-respecting human being could give.

“I would tell him to go fuck his fucking self. That’s what I would tell him. And please leave... This man has tried to torture me for fucking 10 years... What fucking kind of man would I be if I didn’t tell him to go fuck himself? What kind of man would I be?”

That’s not a bloke losing his biscuit. That’s a bloke explaining, calmly, why telling the president to get fucked is the dignified option. Political judgement sharper than the entire DNC consultant class. Receipts by the pallet load. Fifty million constituents pre-installed. Radical transparency as a load-bearing wall. And absolutely, gloriously, nothing left to lose.

Please explain why the fuck he isn’t running.

Everyone loves an underdog. This one already walked out of the fire, patted the smoke off, and asked who’s next.

IFLA ~ Gman

I love a fucking underdog.

AUSSIE TO YANKIE ASSIMILATION DECODER WORD THINGO

A standing feature for our American readers, who keep emailing to ask what the actually FUCK-ON-EARTH do half these words mean. Australian and American are technically the same language, the way a magpie and a bald eagle are technically both birds: one of them swoops you every spring for walking too close to a tree, holds the grudge for years, and remembers your face, and the other one is the magpie. The differences go all the way down.

When one of your politicians disgraces himself, he gets a book deal, a podcast, a cabinet position and a commemorative coin. When one of ours disgraces himself, he gets rolled by his own party before the arvo smoko and is never spoken of again except at trivia nights. Your congressional hearings run for 7 years, cost millions, and produce blown-up photographs of a man’s donger on an easel. Ours run for an afternoon, someone calls someone a mug, and we all go to the pub. You investigate the president’s son for a decade and find three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck all. We would have checked, found nothing, and shouted the poor bastard a parmy by Friday. And when your president tortures a recovering addict for 10 years, the addict eventually tells him to go fuck himself on camera, and your country calls it a scandal. We call it Tuesday, and frankly, we call it earnt. Below, the latest extended explainer thingo additions decoded.

bloke Guy, man, fella. Used so universally and without weight that calling someone a bloke implies basic competence and harmless ordinariness, even when the bloke in question is a 79-year-old convicted felon with the nuclear codes.

lawn bowls The sport of Australian retirement: rolling a weighted ball across a manicured green towards a smaller ball, in whites, at a pace that makes cricket look like a knife fight. Home ground is the bowlo, the local bowling club, where the beer is cheap, the carpet is older than the members, and the raffle is legally binding. Barefoot bowls is the youth-outreach version, played by hungover 20-somethings who discover, to their horror, that the 80-year-olds are sharks. Do not confuse it with lawn darts, the American backyard pastime of hurling a spike at your relatives, which Uncle Ray is constitutionally entitled to play every 4th of July regardless of how he votes. One of these games has a governing body and a dress code. The other was banned by your own government for killing people, and honestly, that pairing tells you everything about both countries.

losing his biscuit Losing his mind, his composure, or his entire grip on the situation, all at once and usually in public. A step beyond spitting the dummy and a step short of institutionalisation. The biscuit in question is structurally a Weet-Bix: looks solid, holds its shape for years, then one drop of pressure and it’s sludge on the lino. A bloke can lose his biscuit over a parking fine, a Senate committee can lose its collective biscuit over one email about a handshake, and a certain former president loses his daily, on camera, in a tone we can only describe as full froth.

losing his rag Losing his temper, specifically. Where losing his biscuit is the mind going, losing his rag is purely the fuse blowing: voice up, veins out, dignity optional. Brief, loud, and usually over by smoko. The important distinction for American readers: a bloke who tells the president to go fuck himself in a calm, level voice after a decade of provocation has not lost his rag.

plonk / plonked Two words for the price of one. Plonk the noun is cheap wine, from the Diggers mangling “vin blanc” in the trenches and bringing the word home as a souvenir, and it covers anything in a bottle that costs less than the headache it delivers. Plonked the verb is to sit or drop something down heavily and without ceremony: you plonk the shopping on the bench, you plonk yourself on the couch, and if a disgraced president plonked down next to Hunter Biden tomorrow.

quid, a Money, from the pre-decimal pound, still the standard unit of honest earnings 60 years after the currency changed. To “make a quid” is to earn a living; to make “a decent quid” is to do well without robbing anyone. The related insult “not the full quid” means a few cents short of intelligence. Both senses matter here: a bloke who made his quid writing a book and bought his missus a beach house is one thing, and a family flogging gold sneakers, branded Bibles and half-billion-dollar Gulf coins is not making a quid, it’s running a till.

Tangerine Palpatine Third drawer of the Trump taxonomy cabinet. The tangerine is self-explanatory and colour-matched to the spray booth. The Palpatine is the Star Wars emperor: an old man radiating malice from a big chair, croaking about unlimited power, surrounded by cloaked underlings too frightened to mention the obvious decay, right up until the day his own apprentice throws him down the reactor shaft. We note simply that the man has appointed a great many apprentices, and shafts are notoriously slippery. Deployed for the specifically imperial moods: military parades, gilded ballrooms, and hanging portraits of an autopen on the colonnade.

three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck all The most precise measurement of nothing ever devised by any civilisation. Standard “fuck all” means nothing; “sweet fuck all” means nothing, fondly; but three-fifths of five-eighths of fuck all is nothing calculated to 2 decimal places, nothing that has been audited, nothing you could stake your mortgage on. Which makes it the single correct unit for what 7 years of investigation, 5 congressional committees, 2 trials and 12 felony counts found connecting Joe Biden to his son’s business dealings. Do the maths yourself: it works out to 0.375 of fuck all, and even that’s rounding up.

wharfie A dockworker, from the wharves, and the historical gold standard for Australian industrial swearing: union-built, forklift-certified, capable of stripping paint at 40 paces before the first smoko. “Sweary enough to make a wharfie blush” is therefore the top of the scale, a level of profanity so dense the professionals take notes, and it is the exact register a certain president’s son operates in when the topic of his father comes up. Wharfies also famously stood up to actual fascists in the 1930s by refusing to load pig iron for the war machine, so the pedigree is swearing AND judgement.

SOON