Marjorie Taylor Greene—Congresswoman, CrossFit fanatic, and full-time conspiracy content creator—was having a bit of an image problem.
Her approval ratings had dropped somewhere between “unsalted rice cake” and “pothole in heels.” Her fans still loved her, sure—but even the tinfoil hat crowd was starting to question if maybe, just maybe, they’d been inhaling too many glue sticks.
Desperate for reinvention, Marjorie turned to her most loyal and mystifying supporter: Randy Q. Beaverbump, a former rodeo clown turned flat-earth lifestyle coach.
“Marj,” he said, adjusting his lizard-people-detection goggles, “what you need… is a symbolic cleansing. A rebirth. A legendary fruit.”
He held up a picture of a durian.
Marjorie squinted. “That looks like a medieval weapon.”
“That’s how you know it’s good,” Randy said. “It smells like Satan’s armpit, but legend says it resets the soul. One whiff and poof!—your aura becomes bulletproof.”
Intrigued, Marjorie ordered one online from ThaiFruitz4Patriots.com. The durian arrived in a triple-sealed steel case marked “DO NOT OPEN IN ENCLOSED SPACES.”
Ignoring all warnings, she cracked it open inside her office.
Within seconds, the entire wing of Congress smelled like a landfill’s garbage smoothie. Fire alarms went off. Ted Cruz passed out. Matt Gaetz started crying and blamed China.
But Marjorie? She ate the whole thing. With a spoon. On live stream. While staring into the camera whispering, “This is my truth now.”
The transformation was immediate.
Her hair suddenly had bounce. Her tweets became confusing but poetic, like:
“The aliens are already here. But they just want a good education system. And snacks.”
She began wearing silk robes and speaking only in cryptic riddles:
“The moon is fake… but empathy is real. Namaste, America.”
Her followers were shook.
Randy Beaverbump declared her “ascended,” and gave her a new title: The Pungent Prophetess.
Inspired, Marjorie announced her next big move:
“I shall personally hand out a durian to every member of what used to be the GOP. From this day forward, we are no longer Republicans. We are… the Scrotum Party. S-C-R-O-T-U-M: Smelling Change, Revolutionizing Our Truth Using Mangos. Or close enough.”
At the next press conference, she appeared with a basket of durians and forced Lindsey Graham to sniff one. He hasn’t blinked since.
Mitch McConnell’s reaction was recorded in slow motion—his soul visibly left his body for 12 seconds before returning with a faint whimper.
Kevin McCarthy tried to Google “how to politely fake death during fruit assault.”
Meanwhile, CNN ran with the headline:
“MTG Weaponizes Durian in Attempted Political Awakening; Nation Holds Nose.”
Thailand, watching from afar, issued a polite statement:
“Please stop blaming us for this. We love durian. Just not like that.”
And Marjorie? She’s now meditating atop a pile of decomposing fruit, tweeting about the healing power of scent warfare.
And somewhere, in a bunker full of expired pineapples, Randy Beaverbump is smiling proudly, whispering, “She’s finally ripe.”
