Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: james comey

Comey Rules Everything Around Me

Dear 2018,

I give up. Officially and publicly, 2018: I give up. Full and unconditional surrender. Whatever it is you want, you may have or do. I’ll tell you where the money is. You can do unpleasant sex things on me. Uncle, I cry. Whatever it will take to make you act like a normal year, I will do that and I will do it with vigor and joy. 2016 and ’17 were just awful; you, 2018, are fucking weird and I can’t take it anymore. All I’m asking is that you at least pretend to try to make sense. It seems like you’re just free associating at this point, 2018. Please, please, please stop being like this.

Thank you,
Thoughts on the Dead

PS Also: please don’t kill any more Rock Stars.

A Partial Transcript Of James Comey’s Interview With George Stephanopoulos, 4/15/18

“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.”


“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?’


“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.”

James Comey’s Opening Remarks, Translated

Thank you for inviting me to appear before you today. I was asked to testify today to describe for you my interactions with President-Elect and President Trump on subjects that I understand are of interest to you. I have not included every detail from my conversations with the President, but, to the best of my recollection, I have tried to include information that may be relevant to the Committee.

Y’all bitches strapped in? This is gonna get weird.

The IC leadership thought it important, for a variety of reasons, to alert the incoming President to the existence of this material, even though it was salacious and unverified.


Testing, testing. This mic working? Check for sibilance. Sibilance.



Pee-pee parties.

The Director of National Intelligence asked that I personally do this portion of the briefing because I was staying in my position and because the material implicated the FBI’s counter-intelligence responsibilities.

As everyone saw yesterday, Director of National Intelligence Daniel Coats is a giant pussy, and he didn’t want to tell Trump that we all knew about the pee-pee parties. Seriously: giant pussy, and smells like milk.

We also agreed I would do it alone to minimize potential embarrassment to the President-Elect.

Every one of my former colleagues can suck on my hairy nuts for making me do that, by the way.

It is important to understand that FBI counter-intelligence investigations are different than the more-commonly known criminal investigative work. The Bureau’s goal in a counter-intelligence investigation is to understand the technical and human methods that hostile foreign powers are using to influence the United States or to steal our secrets. The FBI uses that understanding to disrupt those efforts. Sometimes disruption takes the form of alerting a person who is targeted for recruitment or influence by the foreign power. Sometimes it involves hardening a computer system that is being attacked. Sometimes it involves “turning” the recruited person into a double-agent, or publicly calling out the behavior with sanctions or expulsions of embassy-based intelligence officers. On occasion, criminal prosecution is used to disrupt intelligence activities.

As you are in the United States Congress, I’m going to assume at least half of you couldn’t spell “dog” if you had your assistant do it for you, and I will spell out the basics of my job in simple and direct sentences containing the smallest words possible. My hand to God: I thought about making visual aids for you cretins.

In that context, prior to the January 6 meeting, I discussed with the FBI’s leadership team whether I should be prepared to assure President-Elect Trump that we were not investigating him personally. That was true; we did not have an open counter-intelligence case on him.

Did you hear that? Sean Hannity just got a hard-on. Regardless of how precisely I worded this to indicate that at the time there was no personal case, this will be the only thing that all of the worst people on Twitter hear.

I felt compelled to document my first conversation with the President-Elect in a memo. To ensure accuracy, I began to type it on a laptop in an FBI vehicle outside Trump Tower the moment I walked out of the meeting. Creating written records immediately after one-on-one conversations with Mr. Trump was my practice from that point forward. This had not been my practice in the past. I spoke alone with President Obama twice in person (and never on the phone) — once in 2015 to discuss law enforcement policy issues and a second time, briefly, for him to say goodbye in late 2016. In neither of those circumstances did I memorialize the discussions. I can recall nine one-on-one conversations with President Trump in four months — three in person and six on the phone.

Shit’s fucked up, yo. Normalizing has become weaponized.

The President and I had dinner on Friday, January 27 at 6:30 pm in the Green Room at the White House. He had called me at lunchtime that day and invited me to dinner that night, saying he was going to invite my whole family, but decided to have just me this time, with the whole family coming the next time. It was unclear from the conversation who else would be at the dinner, although I assumed there would be others.

I didn’t need to include the thing about my family, but I chose to because of how odd it was.

It turned out to be just the two of us, seated at a small oval table in the center of the Green Room. Two Navy stewards waited on us, only entering the room to serve food and drinks.

Not to pat myself on the back, but I painted a fucking word picture there. I’m killing this shit.

I replied that I loved my work and intended to stay and serve out my ten-year term as Director. And then, because the set-up made me uneasy, I added that I was not “reliable” in the way politicians use that word, but he could always count on me to tell him the truth. I added that I was not on anybody’s side politically and could not be counted on in the traditional political sense, a stance I said was in his best interest as the President.

It was halfway through the sentence in which I explained basic civics to the man entrusted with the nuclear codes when the floor became a mouth, spittle-filled and lashing tongue and made of teeth so many teeth there was a roar I do not think came from me but I did not know where I ended and the mouth began there were teeth so many teeth.

A few moments later, the President said, “I need loyalty, I expect loyalty.” I didn’t move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way during the awkward silence that followed.

Much like a Tyrannosaur, the president’s vision works off movement. After ten seconds of stillness, the president no longer sensed me. He went back to his food, concentrating on his peas, which he pushed with his fingers onto his fork.

We simply looked at each other in silence.

Have you read Sartre? It was like that.

The conversation then moved on, but he returned to the subject near the end of our dinner.

Things the president talked about: his election victory, and how it was the greatest in American history; various successes; celebrities he wanted to have sex with; the snazziness of the Navy stewards’ uniforms; golf; one of his children. He also offered to take me on a White House tour four times.

At one point, the president asked me if he was allowed to order the CIA to assassinate Alec Baldwin. I initially assumed this ridiculous request to be a joke, but the president pushed the issue until I was forced to not move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way. He became confused and then changed the subject to how poorly Mika Brzezinski was aging.

At one point, I explained why it was so important that the FBI and the Department of Justice be independent of the White House. I said it was a paradox: Throughout history, some Presidents have decided that because “problems” come from Justice, they should try to hold the Department close. But blurring those boundaries ultimately makes the problems worse by undermining public trust in the institutions and their work.

Then I had to explain what a paradox was. Swear to fucking Christ.

Near the end of our dinner, the President returned to the subject of my job, saying he was very glad I wanted to stay, adding that he had heard great things about me from Jim Mattis, Jeff Sessions, and many others. He then said, “I need loyalty.” I replied, “You will always get honesty from me.” He paused and then said, “That’s what I want, honest loyalty.” I paused, and then said, “You will get that from me.” As I wrote in the memo I created immediately after the dinner, it is possible we understood the phrase “honest loyalty” differently, but I decided it wouldn’t be productive to push it further. The term — honest loyalty — had helped end a very awkward conversation and my explanations had made clear what he should expect.

Senators, I sincerely believe that I could have said any word instead of “honest” and the president would have just jammed it in front of “loyalty” and repeated it.

“I need loyalty.”

You will always get serendipity from me.

“That’s what I want, serendipitous loyalty.”

During the dinner, the President returned to the salacious material I had briefed him about on January 6, and, as he had done previously, expressed his disgust for the allegations and strongly denied them. He said he was considering ordering me to investigate the alleged incident to prove it didn’t happen.

The Commander-in-Chief of the greatest military force in the history of mankind doesn’t know you can’t prove a negative. He had a little bit of gravy on his lip, and he asked me to prove a negative.

I studied the faces of the Navy stewards to make sure neither of them was Allen Funt.

The President signaled the end of the briefing by thanking the group and telling them all that he wanted to speak to me alone. I stayed in my chair. As the participants started to leave the Oval Office, the Attorney General lingered by my chair, but the President thanked him and said he wanted to speak only with me. The last person to leave was Jared Kushner, who also stood by my chair and exchanged pleasantries with me. The President then excused him, saying he wanted to speak with me.

I felt like the pretty blonde who makes it to the end of horror movies. Also, Jared Kushner has breath like a dung beetle.

When the door by the grandfather clock closed, and we were alone, the President began by saying, “I want to talk about Mike Flynn.” Flynn had resigned the previous day.

That’s some fucking writing. You hear that, Rubio, you thirsty little shit? Got my eyes on you, Rubio. Crush you with my giant hands, fucker.

He added that he had other concerns about Flynn, which he did not then specify.

WHAT ELSE IS THERE? Besides the fucking treason, I mean. This might have been the most shocked I was during this whole escapade, but because I am a professional, I did not move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way.

The President then made a long series of comments about the problem with leaks of classified information — a concern I shared and still share. After he had spoken for a few minutes about leaks, Reince Priebus leaned in through the door by the grandfather clock and I could see a group of people waiting behind him. The President waved at him to close the door, saying he would be done shortly. The door closed.

You see how I’m using the clock to reference the theme of time running out? And how I always mention that it’s a grandfather clock so that you’ll think of the sound it makes? Tick-tock, motherfuckers.

I took the opportunity to implore the Attorney General to prevent any future direct communication between the President and me. I told the AG that what had just happened — him being asked to leave while the FBI Director, who reports to the AG, remained behind — was inappropriate and should never happen. He did not reply.

He actually did reply: ten minutes on why the Puerto Rican race was inferior to the Cuban race, but both were superior to–and I am quoting–“the Illegal race.”

On the morning of March 30, the President called me at the FBI. He described the Russia investigation as “a cloud” that was impairing his ability to act on behalf of the country. He said he had nothing to do with Russia, had not been involved with hookers in Russia, and had always assumed he was being recorded when in Russia.

I’m sure he’s telling the truth about the hookers. Sure, literally every time he denies something, it turns out to be true, but I’ll trust him on this one. No hookers.

Then the President asked why there had been a congressional hearing about Russia the previous week — at which I had, as the Department of Justice directed, confirmed the investigation into possible coordination between Russia and the Trump campaign. I explained the demands from the leadership of both parties in Congress for more information, and that Senator Grassley had even held up the confirmation of the Deputy Attorney General until we briefed him in detail on the investigation.

If you’re counting, this is the third time I’ve had to explain how the government works to the president.

He said he would do that and added, “Because I have been very loyal to you, very loyal; we had that thing you know.” I did not reply or ask him what he meant by “that thing.”

Even though it was a phone call, I did not move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way.

That was the last time I spoke with President Trump.

Thank you, good night, allahu akbar.

James Comey’s Notes From His Dinner With Donald

18:00 – James Comey [hereafter referred to as JC] arrives WH. Ring bell for three minutes before maid answers door. Intoxicated. One shoe.

18:05 – POTUS arrives in bathrobe. Does his handshake thing.

18:10 – Tour of WH. Sounds of crying from behind four closets. POTUS misidentifies Map Room, Treaty Room, and Blue Room. At the Lincoln Bedroom, POTUS says, “You can jump on the bed if you want.” JC declines. POTUS reiterates. JC changes subject to electoral college. POTUS forgets about the bed.

18:15 to 19:00 – TV time. Special Report with Bret Baier. Guest is Charles Krauthammer. POTUS makes fun of CK’s face for entire show. Asks to have Flynn investigation dropped during each commercial break.

19:00 to 19:20 – JC sits on couch while POTUS scrolls through Twitter.  POTUS says, “How about a selfie?” JC declines. Usher enters with cigarette dangling from mouth and shirt untucked. Refers to JC as a “too-tall dickweed.” POTUS cackles and slips usher a $20 bill.

19:20 – POTUS and JC to dining room. Waiter is African-American named Lionel Braithwaite. POTUS refers to LB as “Jackson” the entire meal.

19:21 – POTUS says, “I would like you to swear loyalty to me.” JC declines politely.

19:22 – POTUS suggests “we prick our fingers with pins and be blood brothers.” JC declines.

19:23 – Meatloaf.

19:30 – Door to kitchen swings open. Stove is engulfed in flames. LB is fornicating with the drunken maid.

19:31 – 19:55 – POTUS relates plot of 1981 comedy Stripes, but as if it had happened to him.

19:55 – Dessert. POTUS gets a banana split with six bananas and 12 scoops of ice cream. JC receives a slap in the face from LB. POTUS cackles and slips LB a $20 bill.

19:57 – POTUS enthuses about FBI director “J. Edward [sic] Hoover” and remarked on how the “very few people know that J. Edward [sic] was Herbert Hoover’s son.”

20:00 – POTUS and JC retire to WH Residence. More TV time. Tucker Carlson Tonight. There are three large men in Adidas track suits in the Residence. They are not introduced.

20:05 – POTUS says, “A person who’s gonna drop the Russia case says what?” JC does not fall for it. POTUS tries twice more.

20:10 – JC makes excuse to leave. POTUS begs JC to stay. Offers ambassadorship to “whatever country has your kind of snatch. Or cock, whatever, I don’t care what you’re into.” JC declines.

20:15 – On way out, JC observes WH press secretary Sean Spicer writing on Cabinet Room walls with what appeared to be his own feces. Language was some sort of Nordic rune or perhaps Sanskrit.

20:20 – Maid is dead in doorway. Now wearing both shoes.

20:22 – The government car used by JC is on blocks. All four tires stolen. JC retrieves briefcase from trunk and walks to the Metro.

Today: An Explainer

What the fuck just happened?

It’s weird how often that question comes up lately.

Truly. Again: what happened?

Trump fired the director of the FBI, James Comey.

That fucking guy?

Bad penny, that one.

Can he do that?

Absolutely, positively, 100% yes, he can. FBI directors serve ten-year terms to keep them out of ordinary presidential politics, but they still serve at the pleasure of the president.

So, what’s the problem?

Everything else. Literally everything else.

For someone who claims to love the English language as much as you do, you’re being awfully cavalier with that “literally,” pal.

Comey is–well, was–overseeing an active and ongoing investigation that just tonight began the subpoena phase into the president’s collusion with a foreign nation; he was the only non-political appointee in the process. Comey was (is?) scheduled to testify in front of Congress tomorrow regarding Russian interference in the election. Attorney General Sessions–who, if you’ll remember, perjured himself in the Senate on the topic of Russia and therefore had to recuse himself from the investigation–was told to “find reasons” to fire him. These reasons were scribbled down in incoherent memos and letters today (you might think replacing the director of the FBI would be something you cogitate on for a bit, but not our Basketball Head) and every single reason is a load of shit. There is no replacement in the works. There was no coherent message from the administration; in fact, the first statement from the president was a tweet mocking Chuck Schumer.

That is literally everything; sorry I doubted you.

You really should trust me by now.

Just for shits and giggles, what excuse did Trump give?

Hillary Clinton’s e-mails.


Comey’s handling of it, yeah.

I’m gonna go sit in the garage with the engine running.

I feel you.

If Comey’s behavior was so unacceptable last year, then why wouldn’t he have been removed earlier?

Excellent question.

What’s the answer?

There’s no answer. Trump is a lying, treasonous ballsack full of shit who’s desperately trying to head off the investigation into said lies and treason, and he wanted Comey gone. Sessions, who is a lying, treasonous white hood full of shit, came up with some for him and backdated the paper trail. Everything that comes out of the White House is a lie.

Isn’t this what Nixon did? The Saturday Night Massacre?

Yes and no. Nixon tried to fire the special prosecutor, a guy named Archibald Cox, but his AG and the Deputy AG refused and resigned in protest. Luckily, a young man named Robert Bork who was the Solicitor general was more than willing to do the job and fired Cox.

Bork? That fucking guy?

Bad penny, that one.

So, it’s not exactly the same.

Not the same technically, but identical in spirit.

What happened after Nixon did that?

He resigned nine months later.

Guess he didn’t really think that one through. Did Trump think this through?

I retract the question.

Thank you.

Possible James Comey Replacements

  • That terrifying black sheriff in the cowboy hat who hates black people.
  • The ghost of Clyde Tolson.
  • Colonel Klink.
  • Officer Krupke.
  • Jared Kushner.
  • Cop uniform stuffed with pillows and a watermelon for a head.
  • ED-209.
  • Buford T. Justice.
  • The Lawnmower Man.
  • Hans Landa.
  • Anthony “Big Mooch” Scaramucci, head of security at Mar-A-Lago.
  • Hulk Hogan. (“Watcha gonna do, brother, when the 24-inch pythons of justice come for you?”)
  • Dolores Umbridge.
  • Seriously, I think Kushner could do it.
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