New Rule: If You Die in Office, We Get to Sh*t in Your Urn
By The American Gadfly, Founder of MisinformationSucks.com
Let me start with a little civics refresher: In a representative democracy, we allegedly hire people to work for us. They're called politicians. They draft laws, fund wars, kiss babies, and occasionally send our kids to die in deserts for reasons that look suspiciously like oil and military contracts.
And for this service—this sacred contract—we the people bestow upon them outrageous salaries, insider trading immunity, free healthcare, taxpayer-funded funerals, and the right to die on the job like it’s some kind of royal succession.
But no more.
New Rule: If you die in office, we, the people, reserve the right to defile your urn. Metaphorically. Or maybe not. You spent your final breath clinging to power? You get to spend eternity as a porta-potty for democracy.
You Weren’t a Pharaoh, You Were a F*cking Senator
Let me be clear: This isn’t about death. Death is natural. Dying in office is a choice. An egotistical, narcissistic, grotesquely American choice. Like deep-frying butter or giving Elon Musk a taxpayer-funded playground.
You think if your Amazon warehouse worker dies on shift, they’re embalmed in a mahogany box and paraded through the halls of power? Hell no. Their biometric badge gets reassigned by lunch.
So why do we treat the crusty, half-lucid Senate corpses like they're King Tut?
Diapers and Democracy Don’t Mix
You can’t drive a car at 95, but you can nuke a country? You can’t name your own grandchildren, but you’re deciding on TikTok bans and military budgets?
Joe Biden. Dianne Feinstein. Strom “Weekend at Bernie’s” Thurmond. These weren’t politicians. They were undead obstacles to a functioning republic. Bureaucratic speed bumps in Depends.
They don’t get statues. They get composted. Or better yet, we get one final act of catharsis.
The Power Lust Is the Point
Why do they hang on? Why do they treat a resignation like it’s ritual suicide? Because the office isn’t about service. It’s about power. Access. Vanity. A sick addiction to the cameras, the title, the ability to delay your own obituary with another press release.
And when they finally keel over mid-filibuster, the political machine doesn’t say, “Damn, maybe it’s time we institute term limits.” No. They say, “How can we spin this into a campaign fundraiser and a statue unveiling?”
We’re Done Mourning Cowards
If you die in office, it’s because you were too weak to step aside and too arrogant to admit your time had passed. You robbed your constituents of fresh leadership. You clogged the arteries of democracy with your calcified ego.
So yeah. We get to shit in your urn.
Because that urn is ours. We paid for it.
It’s Not About Vulgarity. It’s About Accountability.
This isn't about being gross. It's about ritual. A new American tradition. A populist middle finger in biodegradable form.
Imagine the catharsis:
A public urinal shaped like Mitch McConnell’s jowls.
An urn that doubles as a punch bowl at the next Democratic Socialist cookout.
National Shit Day, where every politician who refused to retire gets commemorated with a live-streamed Porta-John parade.
You want the glory of dying in office? You get the glory of being turned into a civic bowel movement.
A Modest Proposal, With Real Results
Maybe if they knew the final outcome of dying on the job was eternal humiliation instead of flag-draped canonization, they’d finally do what no term-limit legislation could ever accomplish:
Step the fuck down.
And if they don’t?
Well… hope you liked fiber.
Because your final resting place just became America’s most democratic toilet.
Support the rule. Sign the petition. Bring the bucket. And long live the republic.
—The American Gadfly
MisinformationSucks.com | Truth Hurts. Bring Wipes.
