Errand Boy

The Diary of J.D. Vance

(dictated, not proofed)

April 7, 2026

Got to Budapest yesterday to stump for Viktor Orbán. People around here keep calling it “Budapesht.” I can’t do it. Doesn’t seem right. It’s like people saying “Keev” instead of “Ki-ev” during the whole Ukraine thing. I don’t care. I’m going to keep pronouncing them like an American. That’s what America First means.

Orbán. Scary looking. Like someone carved Dracula out of a tree stump. But my kind of guy. Tough. He’s done everything in Hungary that we’re trying to do here in America. Got rid of the lefty press. Got rid of the lefty colleges. Got rid of the lefty judges. But he’s behind in the polls. That’s why the Boss sent me. He sent Little Marco a few weeks ago. Didn’t help. That’s why I’m going.

He tells me, “J.D. you’re my closer.”

At the rally, I called the Boss on the phone right in front of everybody. That was a risky move. And sure enough, I got his voicemail. Actually, I got a message that said his voicemail hadn’t been set up yet. Even though it’s been over a year, I blame Biden.

I think maybe the Boss was just napping. He’s like Thomas Edison. Always taking little cat naps. Luckily, someone woke him up, and he answered the second time. I told him he was more popular in Hungary than Viktor Orbán. “That sounds like my kind of people,” he said.

I said some other pretty good shit at the rally, too. “Will you stand against the bureaucrats in Brussels? Will you stand for sovereignty and democracy? Will you stand for Western civilization? Will you stand for freedom, for truth and for the God of our fathers? Then, my friends, go to the polls on the weekend. Stand with Viktor Orbán.”

I bet that puts him over the top.

April 12, 2026

Fuck. He lost.

Not only did Orbán lose. He got his ass kicked. And then to top it off, he conceded. Gracefully. The Boss ain’t gonna like that. Sets a bad example.

And let’s get one thing straight. I did not jinx him. He was going down anyway. Just like Pope Francis. They tried to blame me for killing Pope Francis last year just ‘cause I was the last one with him. Jesus Christ, the man had pneumonia. I swear I saw a guy in a black robe with a scythe hovering over his wheelchair. I’m not a jinx. Wait a minute. That sounds too much like Nixon’s, “I’m not a crook.” Richard Nixon was a crook. That’s why he said, “I’m not a crook.” Well, I’m not a— you know what, never mind. Whoever proofs this transcript delete this part. Just get rid of it.

I gotta say, it’s been a hell of a day. I hear all this about Orbán while I’m in God-forsaken Pakistan for Chrissakes. The Boss sends me over to pull our ass out of this war that Marco and Bibi got us into. I was the only one against it.

Marco has always had his nose up the Boss’s ass. The only one blocking him from the small intestine is Hegseth. That’s why I’m in fucking Pakistan while the Boss takes Marco to an MMA fight in Miami. Marco is not America First. Marco is Marco First. Marco is a neo-con with a hard-on for Cuba. That’s his ultimate goal. To make Cuba the 51^st fucking state. This dude even claimed his parents fled Castro. Turns out, he’s full of shit. They left three years before Castro. Then he says, “Oh I didn’t know. That’s what my mommy and daddy told me.” Gimme a me a break. Maybe we really should take over Cuba. Marco can be president there and shoot plantains up his ass all day. He sure ain’t going to be president here. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Speaking of fuckups, let’s talk Witkoff and Kushner. I don’t know what the Boss sees in these two ripe idiots. Two lemonheads who don’t know a ballistic missile from a pea shooter. They’re slumlords. The only diplomatic experience they have is putting the squeeze on poor people for rent.

After these two clown suits bumbled the negotiations, the Boss pulled me aside and whispered, “I made a mistake sending Larry and Curly on a mission so important.”

It’s not often the Boss admits a mistake. That’s why he was whispering.

He said, “Larry and Curly can’t do this alone, J.D. They need a Moe. I need you to be my Moe. J.D, be my Moe.”

I said, “Only if I can slap ‘em in the face and poke ‘em in the eyes.”

Suffice to say, the meeting didn’t last long. The Iranians refused to open the Strait. I tried to warn everybody that this Middle East war would be a quagmire just like every other Middle East war in the history of Middle East wars. But they didn’t listen to ole James David. They didn’t listen to ole Jimmy V.

Now, I have to slap a smile on my own face and pretend we’re winning.

Hope Marco had fun at the MMA fight, the suck-up.

April 14, 2026

Well, the hits keep comin’. The Boss posts a meme on Easter Sunday of himself as Jesus healing the sick and now, it’s up to me to explain it. Why don’t they ever send Marco in for this shit? He’s Catholic, too. I’ll tell ya why. Because Marco ain’t so well-spoken. Marco’s mouth gets all dry and shriveled up under pressure. He’s a choker.

The Boss played it off. “I thought it was just me as a doctor.” No one’s buying that bullshit. Like a doctor wears a robe and heals people with a glowing orb. So now I gotta go on Fox and say, “It was joke. No one gets the Boss’s sense of humor.”

Between you and me, it was a stupid thing to do. But Usha explained it to me. It’s two o’clock in the morning; the Boss is drunk from lack of sleep; he’s on the toilet; he’s pushin’ hard but nothin’s comin’ out; Melania’s in the next room with the door locked; he’s not feeling the love; he needs love; he never got love; someone draws a picture of him as Our Lord and Savior; he feels loved; someone out there loves him; he wants to share it with the world. He presses send. “See? I’m loved.”

April 15, 2026

Okay, let’s review. The Boss’s got me running over to Hungary so I’m the last one with Orbán before he gets creamed. Then I gotta hightail it to Pakistan with the Two Stooges for another doomed mission. It’s like I’m some kinda Uber Eats delivery boy. And I’m the one who gonna get blamed for not getting the order right.

“Hey, this one’s a loser. Send J.D.”

So where was I yesterday? In a stupid half-empty arena in Georgia for Turning Point USA looking like I can’t draw a crowd. I don’t get it, man. How can I be more popular in Budapest than Athens, Georgia?

But then again, it wasn’t my gig. It was Erika’s. And she didn’t show. I don’t exactly blame her. Says she got death threats. Okay, I buy that. I get that. But I’m the Vice President of the United States, and I showed up. How come I don’t get death threats? Am I not popular enough to get death threats?

What I am is a good sport. I show up. I show up for everything. I go wherever I’m told. I do whatever I’m told. So I’m sitting with my ass hanging out in this half-empty— what am I saying? Three-quarters- empty—arena. And I know what they’re gonna ask me about. The war and the Pope.

Just my luck, they white smoke a new Pope in, and he’s from Chicago with a hair across his ass for the Boss. Boss says Pope Leo is “WEAK on crime.” I don’t know what the hell that means, but now I gotta explain it to people. It’s not like the Pope has a police force. I mean he does have the Swiss Guard. But that’s more like the Secret Service. And they’re Swiss, so how tough can they be? Aren’t these people supposed to be neutral? And why Swiss? The Vatican’s in Italy. That’s Mafia territory. Why wouldn’t the Pope have a bunch of Wise Guys protecting him? That’d make more sense. The Boss would respect Leo more if he was mobbed up.

So the Pope is against the war, which I am, too, but I can’t say anything about that. And neither should he. It’s like that Episcopal Bishop at that inauguration prayer thing saying we need to have mercy on illegal aliens and “the vulnerable.” Just because you wear a robe to work doesn’t mean you have a monopoly on morality. These people need to stay in their lane and not stick their nose into shit that doesn’t concern them.

That’s why I said, “I think it’s very, very important for the pope to be careful when he talks about matters of theology.” Because when it comes to being Catholic, I know what I’m talking about. I just converted. I wrote a book about it. The Pope, he’s been Catholic his whole life. You see what I’m saying? I’ve studied this shit a lot more recently than he has. It’s fresher in my mind.

I’m trying to preserve Western Civilization here. We’re in a Holy War against Islam. I don’t know about your Jesus, Mr. Pope, but mine is not turning the other cheek. The only cheek he’s turning is his butt check while he winds up to kick Mohammed’s ass. We’re doing your dirty work for you. I think what you wanna say is “Thank you.”

April 25, 2026

Usha’s begging me to come to bed, but I’m still too amped up. I gotta decompress. Sort this shit out.

On the dais, I was sitting next to… I don’t remember who I was sitting next to. In between some blond and another guy with my beard. I’m bad at small talk. I didn’t catch their names. I think the blond must have been with Fox. The only brunettes they hire are liberals. No wait, Jeanine Pirro. Sorry J.P. But she was a judge before she was a host. And she’s Italian, so she’s got an excuse. The guy with the beard could’ve been my stunt double. (Note: I should always have some guy who looks like me sitting nearby. If there’s an assassination attempt, maybe they go for him.)

So I’m staring out at the crowd trying to think of something witty to say to the blond. Dammit, she told me her name, too. Just passed right through my head. I gotta get better at that. Not Dana Bash. She’s a midget. Fox doesn’t hire midget blonds. Ooooh, sorry, am I being politically incorrect? Tough shit. It’s a new day in America. Free speech, mother-freakies!

I glance down the table at the mentalist they picked to host. No more fucking smart-ass comedians who hate America. No more Kimmel couch jokes. By the way, let me set the record straight. That was totally made up by some internet troll. I did not have sex with a couch. Shit, now I sound like Clinton. “I did not have sex with that woman.” You know what? Strike that. Proofer, please delete this part.

Where was I?... Oh yeah, the mentalist! That’s right. I do remember his name. It was in the program. At least his first name. That’s ‘cause it was weird. “Oz.” like the “Wizard of…” Then I heard somebody say “Ohz” or was it … “Ooooz.” Damn. Now I’m confused. Anyway, he was doing some trick. And everybody’s jaws are dropping in amazement. Except for the Boss. He looked bored. I found out later the guy was guessing Karoline Leavitt’s baby’s name. That explains it. Piece of advice, Oz, Ohz, Oooze. You want the Boss to pay attention? Make the trick about the Boss.

Anyway, I hear some kind of “bang” like someone slammed a door in the kitchen and before I know it some Secret Service agent’s got his huge mitts on my shoulders yanking me backwards out of my chair. “We gotta go, Sir,” he says. If the Secret Service grabs you and says you gotta go, you gotta go. The only other time that happened was once when Usha wanted to leave a party at Peter Thiel’s. Except she didn’t call me “Sir.” And she grabbed me by the chicken nuggets, if you know what I mean.

Later, I read the guy’s manifesto. It didn’t read like the screed of a whack job. It sounded more like a cross between an Oscar speech and a suicide note. He’s apologizing. Then he’s thanking people. I’ve seen Power Points by the FBI that were less organized. Some of the Boss’s Truth Socials are more unhinged.

Speaking of the FBI, the only one he said he wasn’t going to kill was Kash. What the hell is that about? Is Kash even in the order of succession? Are we gonna find out he’s Kash’s secret lover? What is this, Dog Day Afternoon?

I didn’t realize until I saw the video that the secret service grabbed me before they grabbed the Boss. I think that’s a good sign.

I also noticed the Boss stumbled as they rushed him off the stage. But me, I looked cool, calm, collected.

And spry.

I looked like the future.

J.D. out.