In the wild world of American politics, sometimes the antics can seem more like a sitcom plot than anything resembling reality. Take, for instance, the recent kerfuffle over the January 6 committee and its supposed misdeeds, unfolding like a soap opera. Highlighting this drama is none other than Benny Johnson, who seemingly found himself in the thick of it, desperately pleading for a pardon from former President Trump. It’s comedy gold as Benny does his best to distinguish himself from a fellow by the name of Benny Thompson. Spoiler alert: They’re not exactly identical twins.
Benny Johnson, in a flamboyant display of denial, insists he has never collaborated with Democrats or Liz Cheney—a claim that’s as hard to swallow as a two-day-old fruitcake. While he concocts a defense more convoluted than a pretzel at a county fair, he insists that any destroyed evidence isn’t on him. No, that must be the other Benny—the one with the beard and a penchant for looking like a thumb. He’s made it clear that he’s not about to let an easily confused name ruin his good time in the spotlight.
As the plot thickens, Johnson calls for a live-stream from the Oval Office featuring a cozy tête-à-tête with Trump. Just imagine: a candid conversation where Johnson finally clears his name while also promising he’ll ask questions shorter than those of Sean Hannity. Who wouldn’t want a front-row seat to that circus? It’s like watching your friends argue over who has the better pizza place—entertaining and utterly pointless at the same time.
In a delightful twist, it appears Johnson’s world revolves around making excuses and dodging responsibility like a pro. He even resorted to memes, using the classic “It wasn’t me” defense made popular by the singer Shaggy. Who knew that a dash of nostalgia could be so effective? Johnson’s list of grievances against political rivals reads like a child’s complaints against the cafeteria food: he doesn’t like Liz Cheney or Nancy Pelosi, and those meanies are just trying to ruin his day.
As a cherry on top, Johnson’s insistence that the January 6 committee hid evidence feels like a poorly scripted movie. It’s like a plot point that nobody asked for but couldn’t help but laugh at. Watching politicians squabble about who gets the blame for a situation gone awry, while simultaneously searching for any semblance of consistency in their narratives, is a real treat. It’s as if they’re all competing for a best supporting actor award in the theater of political absurdity.
In the end, readers can take away one simple truth from this political drama: when it comes to excuses and deflections, Benny Johnson deserves an honorary spot among the greats. A plea for a presidential pardon turned into a comedy routine in front of the whole nation? Now that’s something everyone can chuckle about while shaking their heads at the sheer audacity of it all. And if nothing else, it’s a reminder that in American politics, when the chips are down, humor—even of the absurd variety—might just be the best policy.
