An Unnatural History of the United States, Year 2021–2025

Once upon a thyme, in a White House not so far away, the President of the United States was not a man, but a fern. A drooping, slightly damp Boston fern with a remarkable ability to mumble incoherently in the wind and yet still inspire 81 million votes.

His name was Joseph Rootin’ Biden, affectionately known to staffers as “Ol’ Photosynthesis Joe.” He spent most of his time in a sun-drenched corner of the Oval Office in a vintage terracotta pot, whispering to the thermostat and occasionally demanding ice cream be poured directly into his soil.

The nation had been tricked—or perhaps politely gaslit—into believing Joe was a man. But really, he had been planted decades ago by the National Botanical Society, who had long believed that human leaders were too unpredictable. And so, in 2020, they executed Operation Bloomberg—the first successful installation of a plant-based president.

His Cabinet was no less green.

• Vice President Kamala Camellia was a flowering bush who smiled perpetually and deflected every question by curling her leaves.
  
• Secretary of Defense was a cactus named Lloyd Prickleton, who refused to deploy troops unless it was to a greenhouse.
  
• Secretary of Transportation Pete Butta-root-edge was a turnip in a blazer who spoke fluent compost and once got lost during a press conference because someone moved his pot 3 feet to the left.
  

The whole Cabinet was planted in the Rose Garden and wheeled into meetings by interns wearing Kevlar gloves and emotional support lanyards.

Most Americans didn’t notice.

The media simply described Joe’s long silences as “deep contemplative states,” and his tendency to fall over as “an ancient yoga posture known as Leaf Collapse.” Jen Psaki, the Press Secretary (a Venus flytrap), bit every reporter who asked real questions and was eventually replaced by a ficus with Wi-Fi.

Occasionally, Joe’s teleprompter would malfunction, and he’d say things like:

“We hold these leaves to be self-evident… that all chlorophylls are created…you know the thing.”
The press would nod, declare it “historic,” and cut to commercial.

But there were whispers.

A rogue gardener named Jack Hoe noticed the truth one day while trimming hedges near the Situation Room. He overheard the Cabinet arguing about soil pH and whether NATO should switch to peat moss diplomacy. “They’re plants,” he muttered to himself. “Holy mulch, they’re actually plants.”

Jack tried to warn the country, but Twitter banned him for spreading “horticultural misinformation,” and Snopes declared his claims “mostly false, with traces of bark.” He vanished shortly after, last seen being fed into the White House compost pile during a “Clean Infrastructure Week” event.

Meanwhile, First Lady Jill Biden, who was not a plant (but certainly watered Joe often and occasionally sprayed him with Miracle-Gro before speeches), insisted her husband was “as vibrant and cognitively sturdy as any potted lifeform I’ve ever known.” She once gave a stirring speech titled “Roots of Democracy: Why Pruning Is Patriotic” to a room full of unionized bonsai trees.

As the years went on, the country adjusted.

Laws were passed in Braille-for-Bark. Executive Orders were signed in sap. Congress was slowly replaced by The Grove—a sacred circle of sentient shrubs that only voted during full moons.

The national anthem was replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the Pledge of Allegiance became:

“I pledge allegiance to the sun,
and to the photosynthesis for which it stands…”

Foreign leaders caught on eventually. Vladimir Putin once tried to uproot Joe during a summit, but was thwarted by Kamala Camellia, who sprayed him with peppermint oil and declared it a “climate-positive conflict resolution.”

In the end, the American people didn’t revolt.

They liked their leafy overlords. Inflation was blamed on aphids. Gas prices were explained as “seasonal pollination spikes.” And the economy was kept afloat by exporting Biden’s clippings to Europe as a rare medicinal herb called “Elderleaf.”

But deep in the greenhouse corridors of the Capitol, one succulent plotted rebellion.
His name? The Orange Gourd.
The End.
(or is it just a new growing season?)