It’s 7:30 in the morning in Washington, D.C., and the city is already humming with the anxious energy of people who gave up everything for a shot at power. The deputy director of the FBI, appointed by Trump because—of course—he was, is sitting in his four-walled office, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is what he signed up for. Cash is there too, always there, turning on the faucet, chewing another sandwich, haunting the halls from dawn till dusk. “He gets in at 6:00,” the deputy mutters, “doesn’t leave till 7 at night. I’m in there at 7:30. I work out in my apartment, but I stare at these four walls all day in DC. Alone.”

“Yeah, that’s called a job,” Jon Stewart would say, voice dripping with that signature mix of empathy and sarcasm. “You have a job. That’s what they are. You go in at a specific time, to a specific room, mostly four-walled, and you’re there all day. It’s work. It’s a job. And yeah, there’s probably a dude in there you hear all day. He turns the water on, you hear it. He’s chewing another sandwich. You hate this job. It’s annoying. It sucks. How do you not know that? For God’s sake, you’re on the right. Haven’t you even read Dilbert? Work sucks.”

But the real drama isn’t just the grind—it’s the loneliness. The deputy is separated, not divorced, but maybe divorced, maybe just alone. “We love each other and it’s hard to be apart,” he confesses, voice cracking. “Can I bring my wife to work? Would that be okay?” Stewart would lean forward, eyes twinkling, “We all miss our wives. What the—? The only one who’s going to come out of there unscathed is press secretary Karoline Leavitt, because I don’t think she’s got any principles left in there to die.”

Enter Karoline Leavitt, the White House’s newest press secretary, spinning gold from straw with a smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “President Trump is truly the most transparent and accessible president in American history,” she declares, voice smooth as glass. “We have truth on our side at this White House. It’s frankly ridiculous that anyone in this room would even suggest that President Trump is doing anything for his own benefit.”

Stewart can’t help himself. “By the way, I think the more she lies, the bigger her cross gets. Is that possible? It’s like some sort of weird Pinocchio cross.” The audience laughs, but the tension in the room is palpable. Trump’s open secret isn’t policy—it’s attention, ego, and wads of money. Ninety deals in ninety days, all for his family, while the world he promised to fix burns in the background.

And then, just when you think reality can’t get any more surreal, Trump reposts wild claims about Joe Biden—executed in 2020, replaced by clones, body doubles, and robots. Stewart’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re saying that the Joe Biden, who doesn’t even know where he is, is actually an incredibly advanced cloned robot? How much ketamine are you on? A lot.”

Political strategist Mark Reynolds shakes his head, “This isn’t politics anymore. It’s performance art.” Dr. Emily Carter, a psychologist, adds, “The stress, the isolation, the constant barrage of misinformation—it’s no wonder people in this White House feel like they’re losing their minds.”

The city outside the White House keeps moving, but inside, the walls close in, the truth bends, and the only way to survive is to roll with the punches and hope you’re not the next one caught in the crossfire. Stewart’s final punchline lands with the weight of a warning: “When reality is stranger than fiction, all you can do is laugh—or cry.”

And somewhere in D.C., a deputy director stares at the ceiling, Karoline Leavitt polishes another line for the cameras, and the circus rolls on, leaving the rest of America to wonder if anyone in power remembers what it’s like to just be human.