Photograph by Jeff Kravitz / FilmMagic / Getty

We fade in on a modest suburban home. Sombre, atmospheric piano music plays. Inside the kitchen, a husband and wife sit at the table. He opens an envelope and reads its contents, shaking his head slowly and passing the paper to his wife. It’s a medical bill. She puts her face in her hands, sobbing. He thinks about going over to comfort her but then doesn’t. That would be lame.

Two more victims of Obamacare.

But wait! Where’d that muscular electric-guitar riff come from? And why is a long-haired man in a fedora and a fur coat suddenly standing in their breakfast nook? Wait—it can’t be . . .

Kid Rock: Hey, bitches! Are you tired of getting dicked around by the Washington establishment? Sick of laws getting passed by professional politicians and not pioneers of late-nineties rap-metal? Then vote for me, Kid Rock, for Senate!

Wife: Sounds good!

Husband: If you ask me, Washington could use a little shaking up.

Kid Rock: Many of my lyrics are about having sex with prostitutes.

We now move to a back-yard barbecue. Family and friends. A warm moment. A young man in military fatigues—he must be a recently returned veteran. He cracks open a cold beer and looks up at the sky, giving a little smile. He’s home. Home in America.

He’s also smiling because Obama isn’t President anymore.

But wait! Where’d this long-haired man come from, and why is he wearing a T-shirt inviting Democratic voters to perform fellatio on President Trump? Hold on—it’s . . .

Kid Rock: What’s up, bitches? It’s me, Kid Rock, and I’m running for Senate! One of my songs is called “American Bad Ass,” so you don’t have to guess what my favorite country is.

He turns toward the camera.

Kid Rock (whispering): It’s America.

Veteran: How did you get in my yard?

We cut to an economically ravaged public school. A group of young children sit at their desks as a teacher writes “4+4=9” on the chalkboard. (Four plus four is actually eight; the teacher’s error shows just how badly Obama has let this school down.)

But wait! Where’d this long-haired man wearing sunglasses and waving a Confederate flag come from? It looks just like—

Kid Rock: My name is Kiiiiid!!

Teacher: Excuse me?

Kid Rock: Sorry, bitches, I’m Kid Rock. That was the opening line from one of my old songs. I’m running for Senate.

Child: Kid, who?

Kid Rock: Kid Rock. I’m now a nonthreatening country-rock musician, but, before I reinvented myself, I was seen as a dangerous and subversive nu-metal artist whose CDs all required parental-advisory stickers.

Child: What’s a CD?

Kid Rock: Look, just tell your parents to vote for me.

Teacher: What’s your platform?

Kid Rock: My what now?

We cut to an abandoned auto factory. A depressing sight. A broken American promise. A—wait, hold on. The factory is actually open. Perhaps because of President Obama’s eighty-billion-dollar investment in the auto industry. Just forget it.

Let’s cut to a group of farmers instead. Yeah, that’s perfect. These are rugged, blue-collar men. Men of action. Men who have no time for Washington insiders. Men who, for the sake of argument, were all swindled in a Ponzi scheme orchestrated by Obama wearing a fake mustache.

But wait! Where’d this long-haired man come from? And why is he panting so heavily? It’s—

Kid Rock: I’m . . . Kid Rock. I’m running . . . for Senate.

Farmer: You feeling O.K. there? Need to sit down?

Kid Rock: Just out of breath a little. This . . . is the fourth . . . place I’ve had to run . . . today.

Kid Rock leans over, resting most of his weight on a cane, which looks not unlike the kind a pimp would carry.

Farmer: Take your time.

Kid Rock: O.K., thanks. Feeling better now. Vote for me. I’m just like you guys, except I’m a rich and successful recording artist. But, like you, I don’t know how laws are made.

Farmer: Laws are made in Congress after being introduced, amended, voted on, and signed by the President.

Kid Rock: You’re out of my fucking commercial.