If you substitute Biden for Alice in Through the Looking-Glass, the story works.
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Biden was rambling on in this way when he reached the wood: it looked very cool and shady. “Well, at any rate it’s a great comfort,” he said as he stepped under the trees, “after being so hot, to get into the—into what?” he went on, rather surprised at not being able to think of the word. “I mean to get under the—under the—under this, you know!” putting his hand on the trunk of the tree. “What does it call itself, I wonder? I do believe it’s got no name—why, to be sure it hasn’t!”
He stood silent for a minute, thinking: then he suddenly began again. “Then it really has happened, after all! And now, who am I? I will remember, if I can! I’m determined to do it!” But being determined didn’t help much, and all he could say, after a great deal of puzzling, was, “L, I know it begins with L!”
Just then the Fawning media came wandering by: it looked at Joe with its large gentle eyes, but didn’t seem at all frightened. “Here then! Here then!” Joe said, as he held out his hand and tried to stroke it; but it only started back a little, and then stood looking at him again.
“What do you call yourself?” the Fawning media said at last. Such a soft sweet voice it had!
“I wish I knew!” thought poor Joe Biden. He answered, rather sadly, “Nothing, just now.”
“Think again,” it said: “that won’t do.”
Joe thought, but nothing came of it. “Please, would you tell me what you call yourself?” he said timidly. “I think that might help a little.”
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll move a little further on,” the Fawning media said. “I can’t remember here.”
So they walked on together though the wood, Joe with his arms clasped lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawning media, till they came out into another open field, and here the Fawning media gave a sudden bound into the air, and shook itself free from Joe’s arms. “I self-identify as a Fawn!” it cried out in a voice of delight, “and, dear me! you’re a human child!” A sudden look of alarm came into its beautiful brown nose, and in another moment it had darted away at full speed.
Joe stood looking after it, almost ready to cry with vexation at having lost his dear little “fellow-traveller” so suddenly. “However, I know my name now.” he said, “that’s some comfort. Joe—Obiden—I won’t forget it again. And now, which of these finger-posts ought I to follow, I wonder?”
It was not a very difficult question to answer, as there was only one road through the wood, and the two finger-posts both pointed along it. “I’ll settle it,” Joe said to himself, “when the road divides and they point different ways.”
But this did not seem likely to happen. He went on and on, a long way, but wherever the road divided there were sure to be two finger-posts pointing the same way, one marked “TO TWEEDLEDEM’S HOUSE” and the other “TO THE HOUSE OF TWEEDLEREPUB.”
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