I’m the Wilson Desk and My Story Is Just As Compelling as ‘Framing Britney Spears’

Bet you didn’t think you’d be hearing from me without my conservator, Mike Pence. Well, it’s me, one of the six desks used in the Oval Office, the one you all decided “had a breakdown” and sent back to the VP’s office. It’s The Wilson Desk, b*tch.

I didn’t grow up intending to be a star. Before I was the desk that Richard Nixon bugged, I was just a small town desk. I was raised by Garrett Augustus Hobart, the Vice President to a President who’s most well known for having his own high school on Glee. Like most desks, I thought one day I’d get married and have a family. I thought maybe, on occasion, I’d have men sit around me discussing whether or not to give people healthcare. But just as a hobby, just for fun.

Then came 1919. Thomas R. Marshall signed the Nineteenth Amendment on me, and, all of a sudden, I was everywhere. In retrospect, I should have known I was just being built up just so they could break me down. Everything’s 20/20 in the rearview, I guess. And yea, if you really need me to talk about it on camera, the suffragettes were pretty racist. But that’s really not my fault. I don’t even see race. I’m technically a desk.

Then came my big break. Tricky Dick said he wanted me. I was in the big leagues now. But soon, the rumors started — he told Perez Hilton he only wanted me because Woodrow Wilson had used me.

Let me set the record perfectly straight: I was never with “President” Wilson. No matter what you heard, I was a virgin through all of WWI. And it’s sickening that I even need to say that. Posing on the cover of Rolling Stone in just my engravings was simply something I did to boost morale for our troops. But, as soon as word spread, it was too late to change public perception, I wasn’t the small-town McKinley-Barkley Desk my Mama brought to Church every Sunday anymore. I was the Wilson Desk now.

And if I’m being honest, for just a bit, I liked it. I smiled for the cameras. I waved to the crowds. I happily accepted my six VMAs (Visual Mahogany Awards). But the rumors kept coming. I tried to ignore them and just do my job. Soon it wasn’t Woodrow Wilson, but the VP of Ulysses S. Grant who I had allegedly been with. I never met the man, he died 23 years before I was even born. Everyone just kept talking about these “great” men I must have been with. Because to them, how else could I, a simple mahogany work space, have gotten to where I was?

The sad truth is, Nixon just wanted me for my body. I wasn’t even a desk any more, I was just a kneehole for the small wooden box that held his precious RECORD button. I need you all to understand, I didn’t have a choice. He made me what I became. I really couldn’t stop it. You have to believe me — I’m literally a desk.

It’s time to be honest — he used to put his feet up on me. But not in a cool, casual, Obama-esque way. He did it to scar me, just because he could. Early in my career I had asked for a glass cover for my own protection. And while I’m so grateful for the protection my security detail provided, there’s only so much they could do when the pressure was just so overwhelming. When my long time assistant Felicia, a White House aide, took me to be refinished without his knowledge, he said, AND I QUOTE: “Dammit. I didn’t order that. I want to leave my mark on this place, just like other Presidents!” Well, Dick, I also want to leave my mark. But not all of us get to control the narrative. Some of us are desks.

After Nixon left, the paparazzi kept coming. I was just a potential money shot of the Watergate Scandal. The people just wanted more and more from me until I was nothing but rotting cellulose. So, I married Gerald Ford, a man who had never even been elected to the Vice Presidency, just hours after meeting him. It was a whirlwind, and I wanted a family. But here’s the thing — I never did have kids, because desks don’t have reproductive systems.

And I know you all want to ask about my relationship with the Resolute Desk. Look, we had something good going. But we were kids. When JFK first brought him up to the Oval, I was enamored. He was handsome and charming, with innocent-looking bleached tipped moldings. And I let myself succumb to him. I gave him my heart, and I gave him my body. And that doesn’t make me a slut, it makes me a desk.

It says a lot about our world that I, a powerful desk made of lady trees, was used by Richard Nixon, blamed, and shoved aside. High school quarterback Resolute Desk remains in office to this day. He’s just one of the guys, and no one even talks about his leaving me for the sex crazed Kennedy administration. Because he’s a desk with slightly higher levels of testosterone, no one blinks an eye that he was at the center of THREE impeachments. If Nixon had gotten impeached, I would have been burned alive on the public stage. Do you know how much fire hurts mahogany? I bet you never even thought about it. I think about it every day, because I have to. Because I’m made of wood.

The fact that Resolute was, if anything, applauded for his role in not only blow jobs but rampant saxophone playing with his bro Clinton makes me sick. Despite Trump’s signing of the Muslim ban with him, he still remains unscathed, supported by Biden and married to People Magazine’s Hottest Desk of the Year, Jessica Birch. And let’s be honest, he’ll probably perform at the Grammys if they ever come back. Well, Resolute, you’re right. Some things ARE better left unsaid, because, well, we’re desks.

Maybe one day you’ll all understand. And maybe you won’t. But I’m with Kamala now, and I have nothing but hope for a brighter day. Because in my core, I know the truth: I’m not a girl, not yet a woman. I am a desk.