Heaven responds to Trump leaving office (breaking)

 I asked the Google search bar:

Write a funny story about a smug seraphim talking snidely about Donald Trump being relieved of office.

Here's the response:

Sariel adjusted his outermost pair of wings with the casual, devastating precision of a high-fashion model correcting a lapel. He was currently perched on a cloud shaped suspiciously like an ergonomic lounge chair, lazily polishing a golden fingernail.

Across from him, a lower-tier Cherub named Barnaby was frantically organizing the celestial ledger.

"Oh, sweet, fragile Barnaby," Sariel purred, his tone dripping with the kind of condescension usually reserved for people who buy store-brand olive oil. "Why are you still sweating over the American ledger? Didn’t you get the memo? The orange era has officially drawn to its inevitable, highly unglamorous close."

Barnaby paused, a stack of parchment in his chubby hands. "You mean Trump? He’s... he’s completely relieved of office?"

"Relieved? Darling, it’s a theological mercy," Sariel sneered, examining his cuticles. "The Secret Service is currently treating the Oval Office like a hazardous waste site, primarily scraping off layers of bronzer and extracting half-eaten Big Mac wrappers from the cushions of the Resolute desk. Honestly, the sheer lack of aesthetic discipline was giving the entire Seraphim choir a collective migraine."

"But he had so many followers!" Barnaby protested. "The prayers were constant!"

"Followers?" Sariel let out a sharp, melodic laugh that sounded like crystal flutes clinking together. "Please. Those weren’t prayers; they were late-night grievance manifestos sent via spiritual dial-up. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to filter his mental all-caps rants? 'Dear God, Michael the Archangel has terrible ratings, total disaster, sad.' The ego-particles alone were clogging the cosmic intake valves."

The smug angel leaned back, fluttering his wings just enough to create a light, perfectly scented breeze of lavender and judgment.

"I mean, really," Sariel continued, rolling his numerous eyes. "The man genuinely believed he was a prime mover. He spent his entire second term acting as if the laws of physics were merely negotiable terms in a real estate contract. Remember when he claimed he was going to personally impose tolls on the Strait of Hormuz? The Recording Angels had to take a collective sabbatical just to recover from the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all."

"So... what happens to him now?" Barnaby asked, quietly placing the ledger down.

"He will do what all retired earthly monarchs of a certain... vibrant persuasion do," Sariel snidely remarked, pulling out a golden vape pen filled with pure essence of tranquility. "He will wander the manicured lawns of Florida, yelling at the Atlantic Ocean. The ocean, of course, being an extension of divine consciousness, will completely ignore him with perfect, mathematical necessity. No more teleprompters. No more nuclear codes. Just a finite little man, a golf cart, and a profound sense of confusion that he is no longer the center of the universe."

Sariel took a delicate puff, exhaling a cloud that formed the shape of a tiny, perfectly rendered peace sign.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Barnaby, I need to go celebrate the sudden, beautiful drop in global noise levels. Heaven is finally quiet again."