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I like the article on Jill Biden, at the same link. I heard from soewehere that Jill is really the one who pushing Joe because she REALLY wants to be First Lady at any cost - this article says it all:

Ronsday – “Call Me Doctor” Jill
October 14, 2020

Ron on Jill Biden.

Sittin here with a buttered bagel and a cuppa mud that’s tellin me I need to change brands, I got to thinkin ‘bout somethin I read a few days ago . . . elder abuse.

Article had links to several pieces on how we’re seeing more attacks on older people by various younger segments of our decaying society. Almost none of the assaults were triggered by anything the victims did, only by what agitators, anarchists, BLM, Antifa, and other thugs encouraged.

As an 80-yr-old myself, there’s no way I could defend myself against a younger, stronger, propagandized snowflake or never-Trumper or black reparationist. I don’t carry weapons when Monsterdawg & I go for our mornin walks, and he’s getting old, too. Prob’ly could do some serious bitin, but not much effective fightin.

But one link had a different take on the issue – Jill Biden . . . No, ‘scuze me – DOCTOR Jill Biden and who it really is who wants Sundowner Joe in the White House.

She knows full well, prob’ly better’n anybody else, just how slow and weak and scatterbrained he is. Camel-La knows it, too . . . it’s what she’s bettin on. Hell, EVERYbody knows it, ‘cept Joe.

Now, since I’m older than Joe and have for years been aware of the decline of my body and my memory, I’m qualified and entitled to call him out on his decrepitude, his hypocrisy, his gaffemeistering, his inability to pursue a thought to its logical conclusion without intensive earbud coaching and/or a teleprompter.

DOCTOR Jill has another year to go before she turns 70, and no doubt she feels she’s still at the top of her game. But this is her last chance to grab the brass ring and get back on the covers of fashion magazines, talk shows, interviews, formal dinners, and into the power-induced world she used to know as Mrs. Veep.

When Joe recognized reality and bowed out of the 2016 race, all the glamour and glitter dried up. There still was money, piles of it, but no real political or social power as she’d become accustomed to.

SHE’s the one who wants to drag his enfeebled sorry ass across the finish-line threshold of 1600 Penn’s Woods Lane. Joe is only vaguely aware of what’s going on. He knows he’s campaigning for something, but only because of embellished residual memories from past campaigns, like some kind of conditioned response.

No decent, caring wife would push a mental cripple into the center ring of a brutal political circus. The only kind of woman who’d do that is a Borgia, a Harris, a Rodham/Clinton, and for her OWN sake, not his.

Joe is the goat, the sacrificial lamb, the placeholder. He dimly senses some sort of reward at the end of the trail, but it’s elusive, ephemeral, blurry, ambiguous . . . like hearing distant cheers from a large crowd but not knowing what they’re cheering or why.

No, Jill does NOT have his best interests in mind . . . only her own. Joe loves the camera, but he really doesn’t remember why. Jill needs that adoration, that fawning, that flattery, that sweet political flatulence the media inundated a shaved silverback fashion disaster with for 8 years while her partner set racial relations back half a century.

Doctor! NOBODY I know with a doctorate in Fine Arts or Education or any other discipline which immediately suggests the holder can’t pour piss out of a boot even if the instructions are on the heel would insist on the title outside the moldy, decaying, ivy-covered walls of left-wing academia.

Hell, gazillions of lawyers hold the J.D. (Juris Doctor) degree. But if they insisted upon being called “Doctor” for it, they’d be laughed out of the courtroom. I have the Master’s Degree in English Lit, but I sure’s hell ain’t gonna go ‘round havin people call me “Master.”

Jill is a gold-digging sadist who’s betting on lies, mail-in vote fraud, and ballot harvesting to install her mentally absent husband behind the Resolute Desk to give her one more golden afternoon atop Olympus before she herself begins that painful slide back down the slope toward political and social oblivion reserved for washed-up wives of vainglorious politicians.