I have a particular fascination with how media props up the crumbling legitimacy of American institutions. Since the dawn of cinema, we’ve been fed mythologies—rewritten histories and portraits of presidential nobility that would make a Roman emperor blush. This brand of storytelling appears to be a propaganda masquerading as idealism, designed to pacify dissent with warm, fuzzy platitudes while convincing people that incrementalism is the height of political courage. Take The West Wing, which presents Washington’s elite as flawed but virtuous centrists, always out-debating their cartoonish opponents. Even fans of the show used to joke that it was “porn for liberals”—a comforting fantasy utterly divorced from reality. Veep is the antidote to that delusion.
That’s like trying to use a croissant as a fucking dildo. No, let me be more clear: it doesn’t do the job, and it MAKES a fucking MESS!
The series opens with Vice President Selina Meyer (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) stewing in the impotent rage of her ceremonial role, sidelined by an unseen president who couldn’t care less about her. Her staff is a circus of dysfunction: the sycophantic Gary (Tony Hale), the perpetually frazzled Amy (Anna Chlumsky), the catastrophically inept Mike (Matt Walsh), and the ruthlessly opportunistic Dan (Reid Scott). Together, they scramble to buff Selina’s tarnished image, lurching from one PR disaster to the next. The only tenuous link to the White House is Jonah Ryan (Timothy Simons), a human panic attack who remains blissfully unaware that everyone despises him. As the show evolves, it sharpens its claws—adding the sardonic chief of staff Ben (Kevin Dunn) and the deadpan statistician Kent (Gary Cole), both tasked with molding Meyer into something resembling a viable candidate.
Veep premiered in 2012, on the cusp of Obama’s second term, and was the brainchild of Armando Iannucci, the British satirist behind The Thick of It. That series—and its 2009 film spin-off, In the Loop—excelled at capturing the frantic, backstabbing chaos of political life, where optics trump substance and self-preservation is the only ideology. Veep transplants that same venomous energy into the heart of American power, exposing the petty, venal, and deeply unserious people who run the country.
By the time Veep wrapped in 2019, the Trump era had made one thing painfully clear: reality had outpaced satire. But before diving deeper, a disclaimer—I don’t buy into the tired Conservative/Liberal binary. The two-party system is a straitjacket for political thought, a duopoly designed to keep debate shallow and change cosmetic. These days, I’ve drifted hard toward the Socialist/Communist end of the spectrum, a perspective that’s effectively nonexistent in mainstream U.S. politics. One of Veep’s masterstrokes is its refusal to define its characters’ political affiliations. You can guess, but the show never confirms—because ideology is irrelevant in a world where power is the only principle. Beliefs are as malleable as polling numbers.
[Furlong] It’s not going to be easy with this big, gangly pissflap who moves like…hey, what do you move like, Will?
[Will] I move as slowly as a Mississippi detective investigating the murder of a young black man, sir.
Some critics argue Veep grew cruder and more exaggerated after Iannucci’s departure, but I’d argue it was just keeping pace with reality. The 2016 election ripped off the mask: American politics had always been a farce, but now the audience could no longer look away. Trump was a carnival barker who stumbled into the Oval Office; Clinton treated the presidency like an inheritance she was owed. The GOP embraced open fascism, while Democrats dug in their heels, insisting the same stale centrism would eventually work if we just tried harder. The takeaway? Electoralism was never going to save us. Veep just had the guts to say it first.
Selina Meyer is the perfect avatar for Veep’s brand of razor-sharp cynicism. Early on, she clings to a few tattered principles—until they inevitably clash with her thirst for political wins. But when fate (or sheer incompetence) thrusts her into the presidency after Hughes resigns, the show pivots to her desperate, often farcical scramble to legitimize her accidental power. Meyer, played with tragicomic brilliance by Julia Louis-Dreyfus, is a woman who’s bulldozed her way into a corner: the only escape is the Oval Office, where she might finally feel the love she’s convinced she deserves. Spoiler: She won’t.
[Kent] All this melodrama really explains your three divorces.
[Ben] Well, I’d like to divorce your head from your fucking NECK.
In Veep, politics isn’t about policy—it’s about ego, served raw with a side of pettiness. Every interaction crackles with jealousy, every alliance is a transaction waiting to implode. The result? A world where even decades of shared history can’t forge a genuine connection. Early seasons tease the humanity of Meyer’s staff—briefly. But by the end, Dan’s a power-hungry husk, Amy’s sold her soul so thoroughly she’s morphing into a Kellyanne Conway caricature, and Mike, the lovably clueless press secretary, lands a “prestigious” news anchor gig—a punchline so perfect it’s almost poetic.
Meyer’s descent follows a grimly hilarious arc, culminating in a final-season flashback that underscores the tragedy of her political “journey.” Once, she was bright-eyed, eager to make a difference—until the climb to power sanded away every shred of principle. By the end, betrayal is her native language: she’ll stab an ally, or they’ll stab her, all in the name of survival. Even her rare moment of competence—brokering a deal to “free” Tibet—is ruined not by failure, but by her successor getting the credit. For Meyer, it’s not enough that the deed is done; she needs the applause, the legacy, her name in the history books.
You’re playing a very dangerous game of chicken with the head fucking hen, cause if I don’t win the White House, O’Brien is going to sink your stupid little boats. Then you’re going to look like a hair-sprayed asshole in your 1980’s-mother-of-the-bride dress. And if I do win, I will have my administration come to your shitty little district and shake it to death like a Guatemalan nanny. Then, I will have the IRS crawl so far up your husband’s colon, he’s gonna wish the only thing they find is more cancer.
