“Thanks for doing this.”

“Thanks for having me, George.”

“Let’s start simply. Did you ever think you’d write a book?”

“I actually wrote a children’s book several years ago. It was about a giraffe named Taffy. He gets adopted by a family of horses, and feels different because of his height.”

“Did that come from personal experience?”

“No, George. I have never been a giraffe.”

“Sure.”

“I also wrote a few drafts of a YA novel about a very special girl named Bockheim Worldstomper.”

“What’s so special about her?”

“She’s freakishly tall.”

“Mr. Comey, let’s get back to the president.”

“Bad man.”

“You say in your book that President Trump ‘has wee little baby hands that could barely grip one of my gargantuan fingers,’ ‘looks like a raccoon fucked a creamsicle,’ and ‘the stench of one who didn’t wipe properly, if at all.'”

“What’s your question, George?”

“Isn’t that a bit petty?”

“George, I attempted to be as descriptive as possible in my book, A Higher Loyalty, available now for pre-order on Amazon–”

“How did you do that? We’re talking.”

“–and part of that description entailed a full reading of Mr. Trump, who also has a whiff of cheap meat about him. Like, if you left a bagful of sliders from White Castle out in the yard all day.”

…

“Yeah, that’s actually what he smells like.”

“I have a way with words.”

“Now, the first time you met Mr. Trump was at Trump Tower right after the election.”

“Yes. CIA Director Clapper and I went over to brief the President-Elect on several security matters.”

“And what happened at that meeting?”

“It very quickly turned into lunch. The President-Elect had a party sub delivered to the conference room. I would estimate that he put away at least 18 inches of sandwich in less than 20 minutes. Let’s say an inch a minute. He ate with no joy, his jaws grinding in a machine-like fashion. It was as though he had been tasked with the meal rather than blessed with it. I was afraid for my soul, George.”

“Because of the sandwich?”

“No. The sandwich was delicious. It was the gestalt of the thing. Reince Priebus was kneeling at the President-Elect’s feet, and he would snatch the scraps right out of the air with his mouth.”

“That’s weird.”

“I was deeply unsettled.”

“Then what?”

“Having temporarily sated himself, the President-Elect called out, ‘Okay, fucky-sucky time.’ Three women of an uncertain provenance entered the room. One of them commented favorably on my height, and rubbed my arm in a suggestive manner.”

“How did you respond?”

“With a boner. I am a happily-married man, but I’m still human. The boner was unbidden, and golly I wish I hadn’t gotten it, but what we’re missing these days in our politics is the truth. And the truth is: I stiffened”

“All right.”

“The President-Elect noticed my tumescence, and, using his middle finger and thumb, ‘flicked’ my glans through my trousers. I was deeply unsettled.”

“I would imagine.”

“It was as if the world had gone mad. The President-Elect stood up on his toes so as to be closer to me. He called me ‘Jim.’ My penis hurt, and I wanted to rub it but felt that would be inappropriate, or that Mr. Trump would take it as a mating signal. ‘Jim,’ he said, ‘I need boner loyalty.'”

“Boner loyalty?’

“Yes.”

“What is that?”

“I have no idea. He said it around a half-dozen times.”

“Was there more penis-flicking?”

“There was, George. Plus, Reince Priebus was chasing two of the women around the table like Harpo Marx.”

“This is a hell of a meeting.”

“You should read the book.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

“Yes, I am.”