Mitch McConnell Retires: America’s Saddest Roomba Finally Powers Down

Well, well, well—if it isn’t Mitch McConnell, the Senate’s Grim Reaper, finally dragged offstage by the one opponent he couldn’t filibuster: gravity.

After decades of embalming democracy and sucking the marrow out of government, America’s favorite political corpse has announced his retirement. Not because of honor, reflection, or some sudden surge of conscience. No—because his body finally noticed it was 83 and said: “We’re done here.”

For half a century, Mitch wasn’t a leader. He was a parasite in a navy suit. He turned the Senate into hospice care for progress, where bills went to wither, rot, and die. He didn’t guide America forward; he chained it to a radiator in his basement and sold the key to the highest bidder.

He was never a visionary, never a statesman. Just a turtle-faced swamp ghoul with the charisma of wet cardboard and the ethics of a payday loan shark. His one true talent? Grinding democracy into paste with backroom deals and dead-eyed persistence. He made obstruction into an art form, if you can call smothering a nation in cynicism “art.”

And then, the unraveling. Mitch stopped looking like a cunning villain and started looking like the world’s saddest Roomba—spinning in circles until the battery dies. He froze mid-sentence at microphones, his brain buffering in public while the nation wondered if someone should hit Control-Alt-Delete. He stumbled on stairs, stared blankly at reporters, and glitched out every time someone mentioned 2026. Retirement wasn’t a choice—it was the blue screen of death catching up with him.

As for his legacy? Rot, cowardice, and decay. He could’ve buried Trump after January 6, could’ve actually defended the republic for once in his miserable career. Instead, he punted to “the courts”—the same ones he’d already stuffed with zealots who think The Handmaid’s Tale is a how-to manual. That’s not strategy; that’s cowardice dressed up as cunning.

And the reward for his loyalty? Trump treated him like a dented can of creamed corn. Called him “Old Crow,” smeared his wife with racist trash, mocked him in public—and Mitch took it, debasing himself for a man who never respected him. Imagine torching your own soul for Donald Trump and still winding up the punchline. That’s Mitch McConnell’s crowning achievement.

So now, he shuffles off into “retirement,” which is just code for waiting to die. Maybe he’ll wander through Kentucky bourbon distilleries, sipping Old Crow while muttering, “Was it worth it?” Spoiler: it wasn’t. Because history won’t remember “tactical brilliance” or “legislative genius” when it comes wrapped in rot. It’ll remember Mitch as the cockroach who outlived everyone else, until—finally, mercifully—he didn’t.

So farewell, Mitch. May your golden years be long, humiliating, and filled with endless reruns of your own failures. You didn’t save the Senate. You didn’t save the country. You saved nothing—not even yourself.

At this point, the only thing Mitch McConnell will ever pass… is away.

The bizarre story of the U.S. deporting Mexican dogs, read here…