Washington wakes slowly. Fog drifts over Capitol Hill. Somewhere, an intern drops a coffee. And deep within the Senate gym—where legends are born and press releases go to die—Chris Van Hollen begins his day.
6:00 a.m. — Rise, Grind, Overreact
The alarm goes off. Not a gentle chime. A klaxon. Senator Van Hollen launches out of bed like he’s late to filibuster gravity itself. Breakfast is simple: a shaker bottle filled with something neon, two vitamins whose labels have peeled off, and the unshakable confidence that today, today, democracy will be saved through volume.
He scrolls through his phone. There it is. A tweet from Donald Trump. The jaw tightens. The veins do that thing. The day’s emotional tone is set.
8:12 a.m. — The Committee Room Ritual
Committee meetings are sacred spaces—places for calm deliberation, reasoned debate, and absolutely no yelling whatsoever.
Just kidding.
Van Hollen storms in carrying a stack of papers he will not reference. He clears his throat in a way that suggests a dramatic monologue is imminent. Someone mentions “procedural concerns.” He reacts as though they’ve insulted Maryland crab cakes.
“WITH ALL DUE RESPECT—”
No one is sure who the respect is due to, but it’s clearly not being paid.
11:03 a.m. — Podium Time (a.k.a. The Thunder Dome)
At the podium, the transformation is complete. Brows furrowed. Hands gripping the sides like the lectern might escape. Every sentence arrives pre-angry, as if emotions were preloaded overnight.
C-SPAN viewers at home aren’t sure what the bill is about, but they are confident it has deeply disappointed him on a personal level.
1:30 p.m. — Lunch, Briefly
Lunch is technically scheduled, but it’s more of a concept. A sandwich is stared at aggressively. A beverage is opened with conviction. Someone suggests a bipartisan photo op. The room goes quiet.
3:47 p.m. — Tweetstorm O’Clock
Back in the office, it’s time to do what truly moves the needle in American governance: angry tweeting.
Draft. Delete. Draft again. Add italics for emphasis. Delete again. Finally—send.
Somewhere, a communications aide whispers, “Maybe tone—”
Too late. Democracy has already been subtweeted.
7:00 p.m. — Evening Reflections
As the sun sets over the Capitol, Van Hollen gazes out the window, arms crossed, contemplating the eternal questions:
Did I yell enough today?
Was my outrage sufficiently outraged?
Is there another committee meeting I can be mad at tomorrow?
The answer, always, is yes.
10:00 p.m. — Rest, Recharge, Repeat
The senator turns in for the night, phone charging, notifications on, ready in case democracy needs defending at 2 a.m. via a sharply worded post.
Tomorrow is another day. Another hearing. Another podium. Another chance to look profoundly displeased with the state of things.
And somewhere in Maryland, a crab silently nods in approval.
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