Joe Biden — the man who couldn't finish a sentence, a presidency, or a jog up the stairs at Air Force One — is writing a memoir. Or more accurately, ghostwriter Mark Zwonitzer is writing one for him, and publisher Little Brown is paying $10 million for the privilege of printing what promises to be the most unintentionally hilarious book since Biden's last one.
What could possibly go wrong?
The Spectator's Alexander Larman published a devastating preview of Biden's upcoming literary catastrophe, arguing the memoir is set to be a self-inflicted wound that exposes the canyon-sized gap between Biden's self-image and the smoldering crater of his actual presidency. The man who spent four years insisting he was sharper than ever is about to commit 300 pages of evidence to the contrary.
And here's where it gets really fun. Remember, there are 70 hours of recorded interviews between Biden and Special Counsel Robert Hur — the same recordings the Biden White House fought like rabid weasels to keep hidden from the public. Biden's own spokesperson TJ Ducklo insisted at the time that "the DoJ themselves have said these tapes serve no public interest." No public interest. Seventy hours of the sitting president chatting with a special counsel, and we're supposed to believe nobody needs to hear them.
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Mike Howell of the Heritage Foundation saw right through the smokescreen. "These tapes will further prove the massive lie regarding Biden's fitness for office and the fact Biden revealed classified information," Howell said. Classified information that Biden himself confirmed in the most Biden way possible when he told someone — on tape — "I just found all the classified stuff downstairs." Downstairs. Like he misplaced the TV remote.
Then, because the man has never met a contradiction he couldn't barrel straight through, Biden told the country in 2024: "I did not share classified information. Guarantee you, I did not." The guy who said he found classified documents in his basement guaranteed us he didn't share classified information. We feel very reassured.
This is Biden's second crack at memoir glory. His 2017 book, Promise Me, Dad: A Year of Hope, Hardship and Purpose, came and went like a polite sneeze. Even Dr. Jill Biden got in on the act with her own offering, View from the East Wing, which is presumably about the drapes. Larman draws a brutal comparison to playwright Samuel Beckett, whose Krapp's Last Tape sold a grand total of 11 copies at trade price and 17 overall. Biden should be so lucky to match those numbers with the truth.
The real problem isn't that Biden is writing a memoir. It's that he apparently believes his presidency was a success worth memorializing. The $10 million advance from Little Brown is essentially a retirement gift from a sympathetic publisher, and every page Biden approves is another page his critics will use as ammunition. The Spectator is right — this book isn't going to rehabilitate his legacy. It's going to be Exhibit A in the case against it.
Biden's own words have always been his worst enemy. He's just never had to pay a publisher to prove it before.
Congratulations, Joe. You finally found a way to make your presidency even more embarrassing — in hardcover.
