Once upon a time, in a forgotten farm on the outskirts of a dusty Ohio town, there lay a piece of pig dung, scorned amidst the manure and straw. It wasn’t just any dung; it had dropped from a particularly gluttonous pig that had devoured a strange, glowing mushroom growing near the pen. No one knew it, but that mushroom had mutant properties, and thus began the most unexpected story of all.

At first, the dung didn’t seem different. Days passed, chickens pecked around it, and flies buzzed over it as usual. But one night, under the light of a full moon, something strange happened: the piece of manure began to tremble. It started with a slight shudder, then a lump began to form. By dawn, it had sprouted a pair of tiny, glowing eyes and an odor that, though still repulsive, now carried a peculiarly charismatic edge. In this early stage, it named itself "James Donald Bowman," a simple name reflecting its humble farmyard origins.

Over time, the dung mutated further. It grew clumsy limbs and a mouth that babbled incomprehensible words. It was then that it decided it didn’t want to stay on the farm, trampled by muddy boots. It took the name "James David Hamel" and rolled toward the town in search of a better life. On its journey, it stumbled upon a tattered, muddy pamphlet about communism lying in a puddle. Reading it with its glowing eyes, a spark of resentment ignited within: it knew it was a despised piece of dung, and it vowed to dedicate its existence to making the rest of the world miserable, feeding on that bitterness as if it were its vital manure.

James David Hamel was cunning. It learned to speak by mimicking the farmers and soon discovered that, with a bit of composure (and some stolen perfume from a local store), it could pass unnoticed among humans. Its smell, though strange, had a hypnotic effect—people found it oddly charming. It began attending town hall meetings, offering absurd yet convincing ideas like “More dung for everyone!” while secretly plotting to sow discord. People applauded, mesmerized by its fecal charisma, and it shortened its name to J.D. Hamel, a practical alias for its first forays into public chaos. It was during this stage that it noticed its now more expressive eyes exuded a dark, sticky substance, which it used as eyeliner: cerebro-fecal fluid, a foul liquid that oozed from its mutant brain, giving it an even more unsettling aura.

Its rise was meteoric. It won local elections with promises of “fertilizing the future” that masked its true desire to drown the world in misery. Soon, it became a recognized politician in the capital. Debates were its forte; opponents, baffled by its twisted logic and intoxicating stench, couldn’t compete. It was then that, donning elegant suits (though always leaving a damp trail behind), it chose to refine itself and adopted the name "James David Vance," a title honoring its roots while projecting a façade of grandeur. It wrote a memoir titled Hillbilly Dung Elegy, laced with resentment disguised as nostalgia, which catapulted it to national fame.

Finally, in a historic election in 2024, it settled into its ultimate form as "J.D. Vance" and was named vice president of the nation, serving alongside a leader as eccentric as itself. As vice president, J.D. ruled with a blend of cunning and chaos. Its speeches were a jumble of agricultural metaphors and promises of abundance, but behind the scenes, it worked to spread discontent, fueled by the rancor of its own fecal nature. Some claimed they’d seen it mounting the White House sofas and rubbing against them suspiciously, as if channeling its fury into bizarre acts. It denied the accusations with a wet, earthy grin, saying, “I’m just fertilizing the groundwork for a fairer world.” No one could prove it, but plants grew unusually fast near its office, and the air always smelled of resentment.
In the end, J.D. Vance’s rancor grew so potent that it gained a perverse power, like a twisted King Midas. Everything he touched—laws, people, even the marble halls of power—turned to dung. The nation crumbled under his influence, buried in a stinking mire of his own making. The town never knew the truth about his origins or intentions, but as the world sank into chaos, J.D. sat atop his fecal throne, grinning, finally at peace with his wretched self.

The end.