Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: Maggie haberman (page 1 of 2)

The Return Of Maggie Haberman’s Late-Night Callers


“Wha? Huh? Oh, right. The three a.m. phone calls. They’d let up for a while. Hello?”

“Hey, Maggie, you see the iceberg I just steered the Shitanic into?”


“Guess how many shirts I’m wearing.”

“I don’t want to–”

“Nine. Nine shirts at once.”

“–guess how many shirts you’re wearing.”

“It’s my thing. Don King had his hair, I got multiple shirts.”

“Steve, why are you calling?”

“You see that little letter he sent out today? I can see his little fists balled in rage, and they disappear into his cuffs and he has to, like, struggle them back out. And that gets him even madder and Hope Hicks starts crying and oh, God, I bet it was beautiful. Who do you think read it to him?”

“I heard that he read the whole thing all by himself.”

“Like a big boy. Wow. You think he was doing that thing with his mouth?”

“Where his fish lips curl back and you can see his teeth?”

“Yeah. He did that once while I was eating. Put me off of Arby’s for good.”


“Dude, I downplayed his fast food problem. Fucker eats ’em all. I didn’t even know that Arthur Treacher’s still existed, but he has it twice a day. Shit, I saw him put away some Hardee’s once.”

“I don’t even know what Hardee’s is.”

“You read the bit about the sheets?”

“Yeah, where he strips his own bed. What’s that about?”

“It’s not just metaphorically that Donny shits the bed.”

“Oh, Jesus, no.”

“Once a week or so. Weird thing is that he isn’t asleep when he does it. You know he hits the sack around 6:30 p.m., right?”

“I wish I didn’t know that the President of the United States retired before Jeopardy came on, but I am aware of that fact, yes.”

“Oh, man, wouldn’t you love to watch him watch Jeopardy? Dumb fuck would argue with Alex Trebek. ‘You are fake clues.'”

“Fake clues.”

“See what I did?”

“You’re a wordsmith, Steve.”

“Yeah, I’m the tits. Anyway, limpdick puts on his peejays and gets into bed at dusk, but he doesn’t go to sleep. Sits there watching cable news and calling people until midnight. The stewards bring him fish sandwiches, but not on a plate. Gotta be in the wrapper, in the bag. He just dumps all the trash next to him on the bed and rolls around in it. And, you know, like I said: once a week, he’ll just shit himself during Tucker Carlson or whoever.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Uh-huh. He’s a sub-human cretin, Maggie. You’ve talked to him.”

“True. So what’s the next step, Steve. You’ve been declared a non-person by the Party.”

“I know, right? I’m Snowball now.”

“Watch our for icepicks next time you visit Mexico.”

“You kidding? The only idiots more incompetent than the White House are the ones who lost the election to them. You know she’s a lez, right?”

“She is not, Steve. And even if she were, that would be inappropriate.”



“Like a thirsty dog drinking from the bowl.”

“Jesus. You know the President’s threatening to sue.”





“–HAHAHAHAHA. Ha. Wow, I haven’t laughed like that since I watched that chick get run over in Charlottesville.”

“Holy shit.”

“Let the shit-smeared fuckwit try! Let’s go to discovery! Fucking stooge.”

“You think he’s not gonna do it?”

“Even his lawyer isn’t crazy enough. I am, but his lawyer isn’t.”

“I’m gonna hang up now.”

“Sure you don’t wanna come over and party?”

“I have two sleeping children in the house, Steve.”

“Shit, bring ’em over. We’re fully stocked.”


Maggie Haberman’s Phone Rings Late At Night Even On Holidays


“Oh, fuck me. It’s Thanksgiving. Why are they calling on…yeah, what?”

“Hello, Maggie. It’s me, Al Franken.”


“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately. It’s warranted. As you know, I’ve long been a champion for women’s issues and–”

“Oh, stuff it with that. Why can’t any of you keep your hands to yourselves?”

“Well, Maggie, sometimes the ass calls to you. You chicks, y’know, you put out vibes.”

“We don’t. Women let you know when they wanna hump.”

“Are you saying you wanna hump?”

“Senator, you’re in trouble.”

“I called Lorne Michaels for some advice. He’s pretty good with PR.”

“What did he say?”

“Didn’t have time to talk. Variety is writing a story about him that comes out Friday. It’s getting ugly.”

“Getting? You mean the decades of systemic harassment and titty-squeezing women have endured weren’t ugly, but now that men are paying for their actions, now it’s tough to look at?”

“I have long been a champion for women’s issues and–”



“I’m gonna take this and not come back, Senator.”

“Wanna come over for Couch Tour?”

“Good bye.”


“Miz Maggie, this is Congressman Joe Barton, and I wanna send yew a picture o’ mah hog.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Ah got so many. All sorts o’ angles. Taint’s involved in a couple o’ shots. Some ladies like that, some don’t. You a taint girl, Miz Maggie?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, ah know. We havin’ a whole house tomorrow. Big ‘ol turkey. Yew wanna see a picture?”

“You’re going to send me a dick pic, Congressman.”

“Yew got me! Ah was. It was a trick.”

“I am a clever one.”

“Now, Miz Maggie, if you tell anyone about this conversation, it’s a felony.”

“That’s not how it works.”


“Who the fuck is this?”

“We could Skype.”

“Goodbye, Congressman.”


“Maggie, it’s Congressman John Conyers. Are you wearing clothing that gives you free access to your titties?”

“Completely inappropriate.”

“Nah. Friendly banter.”

“Rough week, huh?”

“Everyone’s lying but me. I have done nothing wrong. You know what they called harassment? Sneaking up behind women while they were at their desks and laying my hairy root on their shoulder. That’s wrong now?”

“Not ‘now.’ Always. That has always been wrong.”

“But that’s my move!”


“I would say “There’s a mouse on your shoulder!” and when they would look, I would slap ’em in the face with my meat.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Sure, you can; you just need enough meat. Short-dicked man can’t play that game.”


“Oh thank God. I’m hanging up on you, Congressman Conyers.”

“Press the phone up against your titties.



“Ms. Haberman, this is Roy Moore and I’m going to get right to the point: do you have daughters?”

“Oh, hell no.”


Maggie Haberman Receives A Late-Night Phone Call From Whom You’d Expect


“Just one night of peace. Just one…yeah, what do you want?”

“Hi. We need two pies, one with pepperoni, and an order of cheesy bread.”

“Hi, Don, Jr.”

“Is this Papa John’s?”

“No, it’s Maggie Haberman.”

“That’s the weirdest name for a pizza place.”

“I’m not a pizzeria, Junior. I’m a reporter for the New York Times.

“The lying, failing New York Times?”

“Ohhhh, right. You’re fake news.”

“Sure. Busy day, huh?”

“Everybody’s stupid. No one knows what’s going on. My FRIEND Julian was trying to help my dad make America great, and the media is making, like, this whole thing about it like it’s a federal case.”

“It is literally a federal case, Junior.”

“WHY? I didn’t do anything wrong. Maggie?”


“Do you have any pizza at your house you could bring over?”


“I’m so hungry.”

“Junior, tell me about your relationship with Julian Assange.”

“Julian Asswich is my friend.”


“Hasaaaaaan CHOP! Remember that? From the Daffy Duck cartoon? Big Ay-rab guy with a sword. Do you know they throw buildings at homosexuals?”

“Concentrate, Junior.”

“Julie’s awesome.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“We met on Twitter. He’s my tweep.”

“Don’t ever say that word again.”

“And we, like, send each other memes. That guy? That guy memes.”

“Uh-huh. What else?”

“Couch tour.”

“Don’t you bring couch tour into this. Leave couch tour out of it.”

“Okay, so you tell me what the problem is. He sends me a link to a site.”


“A lying, failing fake news site that wants to say fake things about my dad.”


“And he gives me the password to the admin page. So I log in, right? And it’s one of those sites with the About page where they have little bios for everyone who contributes? So, I changed all their info.”

“To what?”


“I called them all gay.”

“Good one, Junior.”

“Even the ladies!”

“Wow. You’re like Lenny Bruce.”

“I don’t know who that is. Is he a winner?”

“Not really. Listen, Junior: that’s a crime. What you just described is a crime.”

“Calling people gay? I swear that political correctness is killing this country. We need to build a wall.”

“To keep out political correctness?”


“Uh-huh. The crime is hacking. Hacking is a crime, Junior.”

“Pssh. Hacking’s not a crime. Hacking’s fucking awesome. Besides, I covered my tracks.”

“How so?”

“I switched my browser to incognito mode.”

“Yeah, you covered your tracks.”

“I’m fucking Archer, man.”

“You are. What else did you guys discuss?”

“Chicks. Star Wars. The gym. Chicks.”

“You said chicks twice.”

“That guy fucks. That guy memes, and that guy fucks.”


“Oh, and he would give me tips on when he was going to drop some heavy information. Like, a heads-up. And then I’d tell my dad. And, like, my dad looked at me with…I don’t know. I’ve never seen that expression on his face before.”


“I guess. He didn’t slap me in front of people like he usually does.”

“All happy families are alike, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

“Wow. That’s deep. Is that Kanye?”

“No. Junior, you keep getting yourself into deeper and deeper trouble with these Russians.”

“I wasn’t talking to the Russians this time. I was talking to Julian from Wikileaks.”

“I stand by my statement.”

“It’s just all fake news! The Democrats and the Deep State and George Soros and Hillary Clinton are the ones who collude. No collude from me. They have so much collude.”


“Do you know what collude means?”

“I keep meaning to look it up.”

“Junior, you need a lawyer.”

“My dad’s lawyers said that I didn’t.”

“That’s because they’re setting you up to take the fall.”

“My dad wouldn’t do that. He told me I was his favorite. I mean, he was looking at Ivanka when he said it, but I was in the room.”

“Right. Junior, I’m going to bed. Try not to fuck up any more than you already have.”

“Okay. Forget the pizza. Could you make me a sandwich and bring it by?”


At This Point, Maggie Haberman Should Be Expecting These Late-Night Calls


“C’mon, man. Just…just…c’mon, man. Yes, hello?”

“Ms. Haberman, are you a ninja? I know the law, which is why I don’t need a lawyer to make this phone call, and I know that you have to tell me you’re a ninja if you’re a ninja. There have been several attempts on the lives of me and my dog Laika, and most of those attempts were perpetrated by ninjae. The plural of ninja is ninjae.”

“Carter Page. Was wondering when you’d call.”

“I did not identify myself. How did you know it was me?”

“Just a guess.”

“I spoke with the Senate the other day. They were lovely people, but some of them believe the filthy lies that the media shits out of their face-assholes.”


“Journalists don’t have mouths. Below their oversized noses are recta. The plural of rectum is recta. They spew the night soil of falsehood, and the whores lap it up from the dirt. Society debases itself for your lies, Ms. Haberman.”

“Okee-dokee. Carter, have you been drinking?”

“My tap water has been poisoned with tiny robots.”


“What do you see when you look at Mr. Trump? Can you see the gold shining in his eyes, too?”

“I don’t see that, no.”

“He is a great man! I am a little man, but he’s a great man. His hair is the size of Orion’s Belt, but shinier. I’m a little man and he’s a great man. I’m a pair of claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas. How many times do you wear socks? I wear socks once and then burn them. It’s a worthwhile expense to keep the ninjae from getting your DNA.”

“Uh-huh. You want to tell me about the testimony?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“This is a phone call, Carter. You don’t need to plead the Fifth.”

“I still do, though. The plural of Fifth is Sixth.”

“It’s not. Carter, did you really suggest that Trump visit Moscow during the campaign?”

“Yes, of course. It’s the City of Lights.”

“It’s not.”

“I was working very hard on that project. I was getting my ducks in a row until I realized that the ducks were all secretly plotting against me, and I killed the ducks and ate the evidence. I don’t even like duck. I’m a turkey man.”

“Go on.”

“If Mr. Trump went to Moscow, then everything would fit. All the keys would turn purple. Do you understand? The keys would turn purple. I’m excited just thinking about it.”

“Me, too.”

“I told Mr. Sessions and Ms. Hope about everything I was doing. We Skyped a bunch of times, but the CIA kept stealing the internet.”

“And who was your contact in Russia?”

“I didn’t meet any Russians.”


“I met all the Russians.”


“I also met the FBI. I met with them several times this year.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t remember. The FBI men were always wearing the same suits, so they blurred together. They asked so many questions, and none of the questions were purple at all. I think the FBI men may have been with the CIA. Or ninjae. There is also the possibility that they were ninjae working for the CIA. Which is, of course, the worst of all worlds.”

“Carter, are you seeing a psychiatrist?”

“I need a psychiatrist about as much as I need a lawyer.”

“Yes! Exactly! You need a psychiatrist and a lawyer.”

“I’m a turkey man.”

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now.”

“I knew you were a ninja.”


Maggie Haberman’s Late Night Phone Calls Continue On With No Sign Of End


“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. Three in the fucking morning. Every time. None of them sleep. What?”

“Uh, hi. Aeroflot? I need a plane ticket. Preferably to Moscow, but Ukraine or Belarus will do, too. Whichever flight leaves first. I’m a Caviar-Level member.”

“This isn’t Aeroflot, Manafort. You called Maggie Haberman.”

“From the Times?”


“Well, shit, it’s not like I could be in any more trouble at this point.”

“Skipping town, Paul?”

“Absolutely not. Just wanted to get in a little weekend vacation.”

“In Belarus?”

“Or Qatar.”


“Maybe Morocco.”

“Why Morocco, Paul?”

“The waters.”

“Not the fact that it has no extradition treaty with the US?”

“Does it not? I had no idea. Wow. You journalists sure are smart cookies.”

“Cut the shit, Manafort.”

“I can’t go to jail, Maggie. I’m used to the finer things in life, like not being anally raped.”

“I hate these phone calls.”

“This is a witch hunt, that’s what it is. All I did was secretly accept payoffs from a foreign country to influence American government officials. That’s not a crime.”

“It totally is. It might be several crimes, in fact.”

“Oh, what do I know about the law? I’m just a small-town international lobbyist.”

“You work for dictators.”

“Hey, everyone’s got a tough boss.”

“No, not metaphorical dictators. You work for literal tyrants who have their enemies tortured and killed.”

“Yes, but I never sexually harassed anyone. I think that counts for something this week.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Probably not. Maggie, this ain’t looking good. Mueller’s got everything. He never stops. He never sleeps. He’s like the shark from Jaws, but taller. Maybe I could jam a scuba tank in his mouth and blow him up.”

“That won’t work.”

“Have you seen his mouth? It’s really big.”


“Jesus, I’m gonna get hosed. Why’d I get involved with these amateurs? That little fucking Kushner kid is gonna send me to jail. You know he came up with a money laundering scheme?”

“Kushner? What was it?”

“He said we should take the money, convert it into change, then bring it down to the Coinstar machine at the supermarket.”

“That sounds like Kushner.”

“Stupidest people you’ve ever met. Don Junior used to text me. ‘Hey, it’s Junior. How’s the collusion coming?’ I am screwed.”


“I’m considering throwing myself on the mercy of the court. I mean: it is my first offense.”

“I don’t think ‘first offense’ means anything when the offense is treason.”

“My lawyer says I might get probation.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Lisa Bloom.”

“You should get a new lawyer.”

“Probably. Hey, Maggie? Buddy?”

“Not your buddy.”

“You got an extra passport laying around?”

“I’m hanging up the phone.”

“Okay. Listen, don’t tell anyone about this call, okay?”


“No dice, Mr. Manafort. You called down the thunder and now you’re getting the lightning.”

“Who is that?”

“This is Robert Mueller. I’ve been tapping Mrs. Haberman’s phone for months.”



“I’m everywhere, Mr. Manafort. You attempt to leave the country and I will know.”


“That guy’s good.”

“I’m going to jail.”

“Looks that way.”

“I’ll give you three million dollars in change to drive me to Bolivia.”


Even On Vacation, Maggie Haberman Receives Late-Night Calls


“Goddammit, I’m on vacation. Why do they only call at three in the morning? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yeah, what?”

“Maggie, it’s Bob Corker.”

“Hello, Senator.”

“Call me Corky.”


“No one ever wants to. So weird.”

“What do you want, Senator?”

“Whatcha up to?”


“Sure. Just calling to shoot the shit. Jaw atcha f’r a while. Be folksy. And tell you that John Kelly has physically wrestled the nuclear football out of Trump’s hands three times this week. So, you know, just keeping in touch.”

“Uh-huh. What, uh, was that thing you slid in there?”

“Oh, nothing. Just talking. Titans don’t look so great this year, huh? That soggy-brained bastard’s gonna get us all killed. How’s the weather by you? Still hot?”

“Senator, I see what you’re doing.”

“Was it obvious?”

“A little bit.”

“Maggie, imagine an orangutan. Big ol’ cheekflaps, orange, the whole deal.”

“Right. Orangutan.”

“Majestic creatures. So like us.”

“Get on with it, Senator.”

“Okay, so take this orangutan and deprive it of sleep for, like, two or three nights running. Then you take some whiskey. You know we make the world’s finest whiskey in Tennessee.”

“Highly debatable.”

“You take the whiskey and you hit the monkey right the fuck in the head with the bottle.”


“Whatever. And then y’ give it a Twitter account and the nuclear codes. That’s the situation we’re dealing with at present. And it ain’t a secret. Less people knew about that fat Jewish fellow. White House is leakier than a lazy colander, man.”

“I hear stories.”

“Not all of ’em! It’s scary, Maggie! He’s fixin’ to bomb Korea!”

“Does he know there are two?”

“No! I cannot overstate the depths of the man’s stupidity and recklessness. You got, like, a handful of adults over there. Kelly, Mattis. They take turns distracting him. Tell him stories, that kind of shit. Kelly straight-up jingles his car keys in front of him a couple times a day. Probably why Dummy’s trying to fire him.”

“Trump’s trying to fire Kelly?”

“Shit, yeah. Who do you think leaked that thing about Kelly’s phone being compromised? Trump’s mad at him for not letting him talk to Roger fucking Stone all day.”

“Jesus. Who would replace him?”

“I don’t know. OJ? Who the hell would take this job but the damned?”

“Well, it’s brave of you to speak out now that you’re not running for reelection, Senator, but you helped Donald Trump become president. You were on the short list to be Secretary of State.”

“That a joke about my height?”

“No, sir.”


“Did you not realize he was unstable all this time?”

“Course I did! Man’s nuttier than a gay bathhouse in pecan country! But we all thought he was, you know, manageable. We thought we could control him, but our creation got away from us.

“If only there were some sort of warning in literature or film about this very thing.”

“You said it, Maggie.”

“Can I go to sleep now?”

“Absolutely. You have yourself some sweet dreams, young lady.”

“Huh. You’re not gonna say anything sexual or hit on me?”

“Oh, no. I like little boys. Everyone in Congress knows.”


Dammit, Let Maggie Haberman Get Some Sleep


“Y’know what? I’m gonna be optimistic. Maybe this is good news. Good news comes at three in the morning sometimes, right? Sure. Hello. Are you good news?”

“Maggie! It’s Rexy. You’re having tea with the Tiller-man.”

“Guess not.”

“Listen to me. I’m gonna bitch-slap him.”

“The president?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone because that’s probably a crime.”

“No ‘probably’ about it.”

“Maybe the next cabinet meeting. Yeah, the next cabinet meeting. I wanna do it in a room full of people.”

“So they see it happen?”

“No, so they pull me off him. If it was just me and the dipshit, I wouldn’t be able to stop beating him once I got started. I know ju-jitsu, y’know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll fuck a man up, Wouldn’t even need the ju-jitsu. Tai chi would work on him. You know that slow shit Chinese ladies do in the park?”

“I know what tai chi is, Secretary Tillerson.”

“Jesus, don’t call me that. Don’t fucking remind me. I was in charge of Exxon, Maggie. Fucking Exxon. I controlled armies. I could crash a country’s economy in a morning. It was the bee’s tits, Maggie. Now look at me. Waltzing out in front of these parasites to defend a fucking simpleton.”

“Today was not a great look for anyone.”

“You know where I’ve been all week? China. Ever been to China? The air is so thick you could fuck it. But y’know what? I’m trying to keep the world from collapsing from under the dead weight of that crayon-eating sonofabitch and he’s tweeting pitchforks up my ass. Fuck him. Fuuuuuuuuck him. Brain made of roadkill and dried piss.”

“I’m guessing the story about you calling him a moron in a meeting is true, then?”

“Not entirely.”

“What was wrong about the story? You didn’t call him a moron?”

“No, no, no: I called him a fucking moron. It’s that I also called him a lot of other shit.”

“Such as?”


“That’s not right.”

“You remember that show ’bout that retarded boy who got into adventures? Name was Corky.”

“I know the show you’re talking about.”

“So I like to call Trump that.”

“In meetings?”

“Everywhere. Called him dumber than a shit salad in the State Department cafeteria in front of everyone. Lunch-ladies heard me.”


“They laughed real hard. Gave me a double-helping of mac and cheese.”


“Can’t help it, Maggie. He’s just so fucking stupid. You know what stupid means?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Okay, see, you got four types of people. Some folks are wise, and they figure out a way for everyone to win. Other folks, they’re wicked; they succeed only at others’ expense. Third kind is the foolish man who profits all but himself. And last, you got stupid fuckers. Stupid fuckers manage to fuck it up for themselves and everyone around ’em. That’s what stupid means.”

“That’s actually pretty good.”

“I’m doing the thing he wanted me to do! I’m trying to destroy the State Department! And he won’t fucking let me!”

“Stop yelling.”

“That’s fucking stupid. This fucking guy. You look in one ear and you can see straight through to the other size of the wig.”

“I don’t think that’s a wig.”

“It’s fucking fascinating is what it is, Maggie. I spend most of my time during cabinet meetings trying to figure it out. When you get up real close, it looks like a sick kitty-cat.”

“It’s not normal, no.”

“For Christ’s sake, I didn’t even want to do this job. But, you know, he talked me into it.”

“He? President Trump?”


“Right. Secretary, I’m going to bed.”

“Fuck that. You ever drink $10,000 scotch?”

“I don’t think so.”

“C’mon over. Me and the maid are doing shots.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Gonna get freaky.”


Maggie Haberman Receives A Phone Call Late, Late At Night


“I hate my fucking life. Why do they keep calling? Why do they…yeah, what?”

“Maggie? Hi, Tommy Price.”

“I had a feeling you’d find my number.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Sleeping. It’s three in the morning.”

“Breakfast time in Rome. You should see the spread the Four Seasons puts out. A literal tub full of bacon. Can’t beat it.”

“Why are you in Rome?”

“Government business.”

“You got fired today.”

“Right, sure, but here’s the thing: no one took my credit card back. So, you know.”

“I know what?”

“Uncle Sam’s paying for the party.”

“Dr. Price.”


“No. What you’re doing is a federal crime.”

“Oh, those don’t exist any more. Just state crimes.”

“You might be right.”

“You should join us, this place is great.”


“Brought the whole family. We’ve got a floor to ourselves.”

“Dr. Price, can you explain just what the fuck you were doing? A million bucks in travel expenses in six months? That’s almost impressive.”

“Well, Maggie, I took over at Health and Whatever Whatever on February 10th. And on February 11th, I came to a realization.”

“Which was?”

“Fuck this shit.”

“Uh-huh. If you didn’t want to do the job, why didn’t you just resign or not take it in the first place.”

“Because then they wouldn’t have given me the credit card. Duh.”

“What else have you bought with that thing?”

“Not much. Mostly the travel. Some jet-skis.”


“Not too many. Like, not an absurd amount of jet-skis. But more than two.”

“What else?”


“You bought a cat with taxpayer money?”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“I apologize.”

“Accepted. Catapult.”

“You bought a catapult with taxpayer money?”

“Big sucker. My son was arguing for a trebuchet, so I flew down to see him at college six or seven times to discuss it.”

“Why did you even need a catapult?”

“How else was I going to hurl things?”

“This is the most irresponsible use of government funds I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, hey, hey! I gave quite a bit to Irma.”

“I have a feeling you’re not done with your thought.”

“I wasn’t. Irma is a stripper.”

“Of course.”

“Much like President Trump, I am a job-creator.”

“Hand-jobs are not jobs, Dr. Price.”

“They cost a grand apiece.”

“Holy shit, were you overpaying for everything?”

“They were exemplary tuggers, Maggie.”

“I truly wish you hadn’t used my name in that sentence.”

“Many of the things reported in the press were false, though. Some of the more questionable activity did occur, but there’s quite a bit of fake news.”

“Such as?”

“Politico said that my wife and I went to Europe and Asia on military jets.”


“We also went to South America.”

“Jesus, man.”

“When Rio calls, you answer the phone.”


“Funny story about Rio: got all my jet-skis stolen.”

“That’s not funny. I’m hanging up.”

“Where are you? Washington? How about I send a plane for you?”

“Good night, Dr. Price.”

“You want some ivory? I bought too much ivory.”


The Late-Night Calls Never Stop At Maggie Haberman’s House


“Aw, c’mon. What did I do to deserve this besides kill those hobos? Hello?”

“Am I speaking to Margaret Lindsy Haberman?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Robert Mueller, ma’am. Are you Miss Haberman? Answer the question and remember that you’re under oath.”

“I am, but I’m not.”

“Ma’am, I’m calling in reference to certain phone calls that may or may not have been placed to you in the early morning hours of…Jesus, are they calling you every night?”

“Just about.”

“So you do admit that you have been receiving phone calls from the Trump Administration and various related persons?”

“You have a very prosecutorial tone.”

“I’m a prosecutor.”


“When did the phone calls begin, Miss Haberman?”

“Mooch. It all started with Mooch.”

“Mr. Scaramucci, yes.”

“Have you called him in for questioning, Mr. Mueller?”

“Off the record?”


“Like, four times already. Scheduled to come back in on Tuesday.”

“Jesus, what did he do?”

“Do? Nothing. He’s not in trouble at all, but we just love the guy. Got the best stories. Did you know he knows Bono?”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Miss Haberman, what did you and Mr. Scaramucci discuss?”

“His penis.”

“You talked about his penis for the entire conversation?”

“No, sometimes we were technically talking about other subjects, but the theme was always his penis.”

“You’re speaking about subtext.”

“There ya go.”

“Mr. Bannon also called you?”

“Several times. He’s garrulous.”

“He is. Keeps stopping by our offices to–and I quote–‘talk shit about Jews.'”

“That sounds like him. Don’t tell me he’s implicated in the Russia thing.”

“There’s no Russia, no Russia.”

“I’m messing with you, Miss Haberman.”

“You got me.”

“Everyone falls for that. People don’t realize how robust my sense of humor is.”

“Very robust, Mr. Mueller.”

“There’s so much damn Russia.”

“That’s the vibe I’m getting. And Steve Bannon’s involved?”

“Oh, no. That man hates foreigners. Truly and deeply. Wouldn’t collaborate with a Russian. I don’t even know if he’d have a beer with a Canadian.”

“Big Steve’s got his principles.”

“He smells like someone cut open a durian fruit in a port-a-potty.”

“That, too.”

“I see that Donald Trump, Jr., has also reached out to you.”

“Yeah, Fredo.”

“Oh, that’s funny. We call him that, too.”

“How much trouble is he in?”

“All. Fredo is in all the trouble. I’m suffering from choice over here about who to turn into witnesses and who to send to jail. These are some of the sloppiest numbskulls I’ve ever come in contact with. Ever see a baby eating spaghetti? Like that. There’s evidence just everywhere.”

“I’m sure.”

“Sean Spicer also called you several times?”


“Manage to make it through the phone call without chopping one of his legs off?”

“Just barely.”

“You should see this guy’s journals. He took notes on everything.”


“Absolutely everything. There’s even little sketches of where people were sitting. He’s actually not a bad artist. His lines remind me of George Grosz.”

“That should be helpful.”

“They’re just about making my case for me. That and the fact that I’m currently tapping the phones of everyone in the White House.”


“We are still off the record, Miss Haberman.”


“It’s an old-fashioned Tennessee Dick Tug going on over there. Lots of crying and hate-sex, too. Imagine Jabba’s Palace, but if David Lynch directed it.”

“The White House is a bit of a mess; yes, sir.”

“All Kelly does is put out fires. Actual fires, Miss Haberman. Someone over there’s a firebug.”

“This is a weird year.”

“We think it’s Omarosa. Miss Haberman, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you say so. Good night, Miss Haberman.”

“Good night, Mr. Mueller.”


“You think he heard me?”

“No, we’re safe, baby.”

“I love you, Baberman.”

“I love you, Mooch.”

Stop Picking Up The Damn Phone, Maggie Haberman


“I hate everything about everything and everyone. FuuuuuuuuuuuckWHAT?”

“Haberman, it’s Big Steve.”

“Not calling you that, Bannon.”

“You think Charlie Rose is a queer? He was making fag-eyes at me the whole interview.”

“It’s three in the morning. What do you want?”

“Wanted to see what you thought of 60 Minutes. Been watching it on a loop since it aired. I look hot.”

“Not really.”

“I’d fuck me.”

“You looked like you were stitched together from seven or eight other, uglier, men. At times, your skin was literally bubbling.”

“Unfortunate side effect of daddy’s concentration juice.”

“I’m not asking what that is.”


“Not a thing.”

“I was on my game, Haberman. Laid out my views for the future.”

“Which are?”

“Destruction. Terror. And mayhem.”


“Pass me a sissy, and Maggie I’ll slay them.”

“Don’t quote Ll Cool J at me.”

“He’s a modern-day Thucydides. Haberman, do you know who built America?”


“No. The opposite of that.”

“Record says otherwise.”

“Look into your heart, though. Doesn’t your heart say that Mexicans are rapists?”

“It most certainly does not.”

“Listen: Trump ran on immigration and security. Get it? ‘Immigration’ and ‘security?’


“Nudge, nudge, wink wink,”

“I got it.”

“Darkies, beaners, and homos.”

“I said I got it, Steve.”

“And the mockies.”



“What do you, collect old-timey slurs for Jews?”


“Why am I not surprised?”

“Maggie, America should be for Americans first, and then not for anyone else at all. Imagine how great the other nations of the planet would be if all of those people who came here had stayed where they were. What a wonderful world it would be. And, you know, if women couldn’t vote.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re all so emotional. And some of you are criminals, like Hillary Clinton and my bitch ex-wife.”

“Which ex-wife?”

“All of ’em. Bitches.”


“Lemme tell you the problem with the Catholic Church, Maggie.”

“This should be interesting.”

“Vatican II. That’s where it all went wrong. I can understand changing the Mass from Latin to English, but Spanish? C’mon. If God speaks Spanish, I’ll stick my fist up my ass and use myself as a ventriloquist’s dummy.”

“Can I go?”

“The elites, Maggie. That’s who’s destroying the country.”

“I thought the immigrants were.”

“They’re in league. Lots of collaborating going on here. Circles within circles. And within the innermost circle?”

“Don’t say it.”

“Jew star.”

“You said it.”

“Jew money, Maggie. It rots whatever it touches. That’s why I fight.”

“I’m hanging up the phone.”

“My face is bulging for you, Maggie.”


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