Millions Heartbroken After Police Find Mitch McConnell in His Home Alive and Well
Louisville, KY – In a devastating blow to the millions who had been quietly—and some not-so-quietly—hoping, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell was discovered alive and physically intact Thursday morning after police performed a routine wellness check at his Kentucky residence.
Responding to what officials described as a “wellness check predicated on a premonition by a local psychic,” police arrived at McConnell’s home to find the 209-year-old Republican lawmaker not only alive, but deeply engaged in his daily routine: orchestrating a deranged and meticulously curated tableau of psychological horror that he simply calls "Tuesday."
The home, dimly lit and faintly smelling of old bourbon and shoe polish, painted a harrowing portrait of McConnell’s private life. His office, the centerpiece of the house, featured a massive oak desk buried under dusty, unopened mail from AARP, a half-eaten bowl of Werther’s Originals, and a hand-drawn map titled “How to Gerrymander Black Voters into One Unshakable Block of Futility,” which relied heavily on NBA stickers.
In a nearby wooden rocking chair—programmed to creak to the tune of “Oh My Darling, Clementine”—sat a voodoo doll of Barack Obama, riddled with pins. Each pin was labeled with a miniature flag denoting specific grievances: “Obamacare,” “Dodd-Frank,” “Michelle’s School Lunches,” and “That Tan Suit.” The doll was surrounded by wilted carnations and propped beside a flickering Mexican prayer candle of Santa Muerte, the folk goddess of death, which McConnell reportedly prays to before Senate sessions and lovemaking.
Lining the walls were dozens of framed photographs—none of which featured anyone he actually knew. Every frame still contained the original stock photo: smiling families, faux weddings, two golden retrievers in a wheelbarrow. All of them frozen in a happiness McConnell had neither lived nor sought, gazing out onto a room where time had clearly stopped—and liked it that way.
Perhaps the most haunting discovery was McConnell’s model train, which wound its way through every room of the house like a looping fever dream. Each boxcar carried Confederate figurines—some wielding gavel-shaped weapons, others painted in painstaking detail to resemble members of the Senate Judiciary Committee.
The train made three routine stops:
A rodent petting zoo, featuring the taxidermied bodies of mice, voles, and squirrels McConnell had hit with his car. “Some were accidents, some were tests,” read a handwritten note taped to the wall. Each animal wore a small felt hat and name tag (“Lil’ Lindsey,” “Ruth Bader Gnawsburg”).
A Civil War reenactment, featuring two opposing squirrel battalions, complete with hand-stitched uniforms and a battlefield McConnell described in a Post-it note as “accurate but spiritually Southern.”
The Crucifixion of Jesus, portrayed by a skinned guinea pig nailed to a Popsicle-stick cross. The backdrop featured a Lego Jerusalem and an American flag with only 13 stars. Every half-hour, the train passed the scene while a tape recording played “Battle Hymn of the Republic” followed by McConnell whispering, “He died for deregulation.”
McConnell did not acknowledge the officers, except to offer a single Werther’s Original from his breast pocket—an offer he did not intend to follow through on due to his known anti-handout stance.
After the press reported McConnell to be alive and well, backlash to the announcement was swift. Across the country, parades were called off, Instagram tributes deleted, and millennials were forced to put away their Dance Dance Revolution mats, which they had excitedly prepared to place on his grave while power-stomping to “Another One Bites the Dust.”