Mike Pence.

The very sound of his name brings to mind albino purse poodles, lightly masticated tapioca starch, and unscented urinal cakes. Or a mayo-larded potato salad that looked safe when you were in line at the church potluck, but somehow just isn’t sitting right anymore.

To call him nondescript would be an insult to off-white vinyl flooring. I know the guy was vice president for four years, but beyond that, what is there to know about him? And what could possibly be in his memoir? Endless photos of him staring at Donald Trump like a constipated otter in an animatronic jug band?

I just can’t imagine what he’d fill one book with, much less two. But, hey, he was famous, so someone wants to give him an advance to write books—plural.

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