Screenshot : CNN

I know, I know, I know, I know. Joe Biden is everyone’s cool and tough septuagenarian home slice. And while I’m not in the business of granting white people invites to the mythical and now waaaaaaay overcrowded cookout, I know “Uncle Joe” is on a lot of people’s invitee lists. (Also, if he is invited to your cookout, make sure not to invite Anita Hill. Or ask him to answer any questions about Anita Hill. Or even say the words “Anita” and “Hill” while he’s there.)


And, of course, we’d all love to see the Darth Cheeto get crunched. Like, my dad and I play the “Everything Has a Price” game sometimes, where we come up with some ridiculous task (“Would you eat an entire jar of mustard?”) and then keep raising the price (“Would you do it for $500? No? OK, what about $1,000?”) until one is found that’s worth it.

And while the “How much would you pay to see Trump get his ass kicked?” game isn’t quite the same thing, it’s close. (For the record, I’d pay $5,000 for that.)


But both of these ancient white men need to take a seat. On the list of “Things I Need to See” and the often overlapping list of “Things That Need to Happen,” watching these full-grown mayonnaise boys break each other’s hips just ain’t it.

And trust me, as someone who’s been to the Golden Corral and Cracker Barrel and Old Country Buffet and Bob Evans and most other locales for fine white dining many, many, many times, TOO MANY TIMES—and have been there during peak hours—I’ve seen old white men fight before. Over meatloaf, over omelets, over parking spots, over embroidery. And unless you have a thing for mummies playing badminton, you’re not missing anything.

Watching old white men fight is like watching two wet paper bags slap-box. Perhaps it sounds intriguing, but you’ll just leave feeling bad for whoever has to clean up all that sausage gravy.