Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: Maggie haberman (page 1 of 3)

Maggie Haberman Was Just Fooling Herself If She Thought This Call Was Not Forthcoming


“Gosh, I wonder who this could be. Hello?”

“Baberman! P-Dog here!”

“Speaker Ryan, it’s three in the morning.”

“Prime time, dude! You should stop by the house. It’s me and Zippy and Rosey and Big Mick and Little Mick. Dude, we’re raaaaaaging! Little Mick just fuckin’ Iced Zippy. It was legendary.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You know what Icing is?”

“Sadly, I do.”

“You slam a bottle of Smirnoff Ice down in front of your bro–”

“I said that I knew what it was.”

“–and he’s gotta down that shit. No matter what he’s doing! Rosey got me once when I was plowing the intern with herpes.”


“It’s cool. Not like I can get it again, y’know? I go raw on that chick.”


“I go raw and I go hard.”

“I need to get an unlisted number.”

“You see me give all those old fuckers the finger this morning? I let ’em have it, man.”

“You resigned via a carefully-worded letter.”

“I’m the fucking MAN!”

“You said you were going to spend more time with your family.”

“I am. My bros are my family.”


“I would DIE for my bros, Maggie!”


“Hold on, Mags. Dude! Dude! Dude! I can’t handle anymore 311. Put on the Sublime record. Hey, I’m back. Gotta ride herd on these boys.”

“Much like you failed to do in the House.”

“That place sucked. All I wanted to do was take Social Security away from the country. And all those dickweeds in there were like, ‘How?’ And I was like, ‘I don’t know how, just do it.’ They just sucked.”

“Did you accomplish anything in your almost 20 years in Congress?”

“I got, like, a warehouse full of office supplies. I could totes open up a Staples.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, dude, I got sooooooo fucking rich. Folks were lined up to give me money. And check this out: do you know who writes the rules about what to do with the money?”


“Me! So, like, I kept a fuck-ton of it.”

“But what did you do for the money?”

“I asked for it. It’s like you don’t understand how politics work, dude.”


“Can you keep a secret, Sugar Mags?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You wanna go see Dead & Company this summer?”

“Concentrate, Mr. Speaker.”

“Oh, right. Can you keep a secret?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Ah, fuck it, I’ll tell you anyway. I’m nine MGD’s in. We–the Republicans?–we are gonna get fucking CURBSTOMPED in November. I’ve seen the internal numbers. Well, I had them explained to me. Anyway, we are going down faster than the intern with herpes.”

“I’m sure she has a name.”

“I’m sure she does, too. I just never bothered to learn it.”


“She has less status than me. Why should I care about her?”

“Just continue.”

“Dude, blue wave? It’s not gonna be a blue wave. It’s a fucking brown wave. You know what that brown is?”

“I do. You don’t have to–”

“Shit, Maggie. A shit tsunami is headed our way. A tshit tsunami. We’re losing the Senate. I’m gonna be as far as I can from this and let Fuckhead and Turtle Boy take all the blame. Let the tshit recede. Then? 2024, maybe 2028? Ryan for President, baby.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I do. Turns out Americans are fucking ‘tards.”

“Not false. What are you going to do now?”

“Ah, dude, that’s a good question. Thinking about me Rosey buying a van, seeing the country. Maybe Europe? Like, take a year and just see all the history and shit, fuck some hairy chicks. Or maybe move to Portland. I dunno. The future is wide open.”

“Do not quote Tom Petty at me.”

“Nothing but blue skies, Magzilla.”

“Paul, out of all the Speakers of the House this country has ever had, you’ve certainly been one of them.”

“WOO! The white man’s A-minus!”

“I’m hanging up.”


“Did you just Ice me?”

“Drink that shit!”

“It doesn’t work over the phone, Paul.”

“Pound that shit, dude!”


A Partial Transcript Of Donald J. Trump’s Remarks At The White House Easter Egg Roll, 4/2/18

“Great, look, children. Hello, children, I am the President because I beat Hillary Clinton very, very badly. She was bad. Can you say ‘Crooked Hillary?’ Many of her friends ate children, or had sex with them. John Podesta. Podesta the Molesta. Bad guy, kids, and I want you to forget all about that because I am the President, like I said and everyone knows, and I will keep you safe while you look for whatever. Eggs? Eggs, whatever, great.”


“What is it doing? It’s making a noise, and not a very good one. An awful noise, If I’m honest. Someone come get it. General?”


“General Kelly? Where’s my General?”

“Right next to you, sir.”

“General? Is this you in the bunny suit?”

“No, I’m not in the fucking…no, sir. Swivel.”

“Like this?”

“No, that’s bending over.”

“I can’t see you, General.”

“Straighten up and turn around.”

“Like this?”

“You’re doing the Macarena.”

“I was the first one to do the Macaroni. No one gives me credit for being a pioneer of dance. Oh, there you are. Get rid of the kids.”

“They all fled, sir.”

“Good, good. Bring ’em back when they’ve graduated business school. I let the wives do the kids, General. That’s their deal. Kids. They got snot all over them, real gross stuff. Shit everywhere. Not my thing! Wife does that, and the nannies, whatever. And then, you know, you got nannies in the house and sometimes you can get in there. You a nannybanger, General?”

“I never married, nor had children, sir.”

“Fag? I don’t care, just asking.”

“Sir, we have had this exact conversation five times a day for going on a year now.”

“Let’s talk to the press.”

“Oh, please, no.”

“Press? Where’s my press? Press?”


“You are all fake news.”

“Sir, can you say whether–”

“Maggie, lemme take someone else’s question. I’ll call you secretly later.”

“Jesus, man. Not out loud.”

“Press? Where’s the press? You, Jim. Jim, are you lying or failing?”

“Neither, sir. I’m with CNN.”

“You are lying and failing. Very, very fake and negative and maybe not nice. Very not nice, when I have set records with every segment of the black economy. The wall is being built. It’s almost done, very close to being complete and so beautiful. No one has a wall like this. China called me, this is true. They called and said, ‘Mr. Trump, our wall is good, but you have the best wall.’ They said that, and it was a real compliment to me because, you know, they’re known for their wall. But mine is better. Great, great wall. They said, ‘Maybe your’s should be called the Greatest Wall.’ They said that. The Chinese.”

“Do you have any comment on the new tariffs they’ve announced?”

“There are recreational vehicles full of Mexicans coming up here right now. As we speak. Huge line of RV’s heading north, and they’ve all got knives and diseases and because we don’t have the wall, many women will be violated and shot with Uzis. They’re coming from everywhere. There’s Mexicans from Argentina, Colombia, wherever. And they’re on their way. Maybe that’s a job for the Army? General? Can I bomb Mexico to stop Uzis?”

“Do you want Buffalo wings, Mr. President?”

“Yes, let’s do that. When I went to Wharton, which everyone recognizes is the best business school in the world, I was thinking about going pro in wing-eating. Nobody could beat me. People would come up to me on the street and say, ‘Hey, I heard you ate the most wings, 80, 90, 100, who remembers how many?’ And I didn’t have any trick. I’m just good at a lot of things naturally.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring back the kids. I have important things to tell them. Only the good ones. You know. The good ones. Only American kids.”


“Kids, we’re at the White House. Many, many Presidents have lived here and the staff keeps it up real nice. Super-duper shape. A lot of the staff are blacks, but they still work hard. Shrubs are overgrown? Bing bing bong, you got neat shrubs. You could even live here if you’re in a wheelchair. Roosevelt. Wheelchair. Still won World War Two. Never stood up, but he won a war. That’s big, that’s killer. And I got snipers on the roof. Snipers, come on out! Snipers? Where are my snipers?”

“Sir, we like to downplay the ‘snipers on the roof’ thing.”


“Sir, the children.”

“They all have to go back to Mexico.”

“Yes, sir. Wings?”

“Let’s do wings, great, absolutely.”

Maggie Haberman Receives The Customary Late-Night Phone Call


“Jesus, it’s like every night with these idiots. Hello?”

“Maggie! H.R. Fuckmaster here!”

“Why do you people think I’m your exit interview?”

“Shit, you’re a Trump White House tradition, Mags. Get fired in the most limp-dick way possible, steal a bunch of office supplies, take a shit in the Map Room, call you.”

“You took a shit in the Map Room, General?”



“Fuck maps.”


“You don’t understand what I was over there. I was Jodie fucking Foster.”

“How so?”

“I had my finger in the dike.”

“Very inappropriate.”

“Shit, I’m in the Army and drunk. You’re gonna hear some fucked-up nonsense on this call, li’l lady.”

“Uh-huh. Were you the one who leaked the DO NOT CONGRATULATE story?”


“Don’t call me that.”

“–I cannot overstate the boldness of the font, nor the largeness of the type. Jodie Foster could’ve read it.”

“Why would Jodie Foster have trouble reading it?”

“Cuz she got her head buried in muff. Weren’t you listening before?”

“Let’s just not mention Jodie Foster any more.”

“Fine: Ellen, whatever. Pick a lesbian.”

“Let’s just abandon the whole metaphor.”

“Enormous fucking letters, Maggie. And you know what swizzlestick-dick did? He takes the briefing packet and puts his fish sandwich on it. You don’t understand how many Filet-O-Fishes he’s going through lately. He’s more tartar sauce than man now.”

“The President stress-eats.”

“Ever see him eat fries? He jams his little fucking baby hand in the bag and comes up with this bunch, and they stick out of his wee fist. Then he shoves it all in his that face-asshole his dentist pretends is a mouth. Then he squirts ketchup straight from the packet in there. I retched the first time, and I’ve been in Army hospitals.”

“Doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“So he puts the sandwich on the briefing and picks up the phone. Maggie, I shit you not: Ball Cheese starts congratulating Putin before the call was even placed.”

“Ball Cheese?”

“That’s my name for him.”


“You should’ve heard it. He sounded like an ugly high school girl talking to the varsity quarterback: giggling, and damp-pantied.”


“Know what he did at the end of the call?”


“‘You hang up first. Okay, you hang up.’ He did that bullshit for five damn minutes!”

“This is not good.”

“He was doodling ‘Mrs. Donald Putin’ over and over on the briefing.”

“He picked up the Filet-O-Fish?”

“Oh, yeah. They don’t get neglected for too long around hungry hippo.”

“So you were the leaker.”


“Might as well go out with a bang.”

“We’re all gonna go out with a bang, Magriculture.”

“Wow, don’t call me that.”

“Get on down here to the Turkey Shoot.”

“Why are you hunting at three in the morning?”

“Turkey Shoot’s a bar. They got pudding wrestling.”

“Is that like mud wrestling?”

“Yeah, but with pudding.”

“I’m gonna pass. Anything else you want to leak before I hang up on you?”

“Stephen Miller is straight-up summoning demons in his office. Pentagram, candles, fucked-up old books, the whole nine yards. Fucker sacrificed a redhead the other week.”

“That’s not good.”

“It would be worse if the dead-eyed cumsock was any good at magick.”

“What now?”

“Magick requires skill, Mag. It’s not just reading some Latin and waving your hands around. Luckily, Miller’s as mediocre at spell-casting as he is at everything else. He keeps trying to bind Eldritch Ones but getting, like, dickish sprites. They’d wander the halls slapping asses. I’d just shoot ’em.”

“What the fuck is happening over there?”

“It’s getting weird.”

“Yeah. Hey, I’ve always wanted to ask: what does H.R. stand for?”

“Humongous ‘Rection.”

“Good night, General.”

“Come wrestle me in pudding!”


Another Completely Anticipated Late-Night Phone Call To Maggie Haberman


“I had to expect a call tonight, in all honesty. Yello?

“Maggie. It’s Tyrannosaurus Rex here.”

“Secretary Tillerson. Wait, is Secretary like President or Judge? Do you get called that forever?”

“Hell, call me Tilly. I don’t give a fuck.”

“That much has been proven true.”

“I feel like a weight’s been lifted off me. An enormous, sloppy, dimwitted, orange weight. And the rest of ’em ain’t no prizes. Kelly’s got a stick so far up his ass he gets splinters in his nostrils. McMasters is a giant pervert. Real into armpits”


“He loves ’em. Rips pictures outta magazines and tapes ’em up on the wall. Always talking about ’em. First time he said to me, ‘Rex, you see the pits on her?’ I thought he said tits.”

“Also inappropriate.”

“But more normal. Whole damn White House is full of weirdos. Mattis wears a cilice.”

“A what?”

“A cilice. It’s a band with spikes on the inside; you wear it on your thigh.”


“Mortification of the flesh. Mad Dog has some very interesting views on sin. You got any idea what the fuck he’s doing in the Middle East?”

“Fighting ISIS?”

“BZZZ. The correct answer is ‘Whatever the fuck he wants to do.’ You think the fucking moron has any clue what’s happening over there? He doesn’t even know where over there is. He thinks the capital of Afghanistan is Chachi. I tried to brief him on Libya once. He made it five minutes and started talking about McNuggets.”

“What about them?”

“‘I like the circle McNuggets. Some people say the one with the little handle, but circle shape is a very beautiful shape.’ You know how he fucking talks.”


“Then he gets the whole room to start arguing about which is best dipping sauce. Jared and Ivanka are for sweet-and-sour, Steven Miller’s for barbecue, and Kelly’s a honey mustard man. Everybody’s yelling at each other about fucking flavored corn syrup, and he’s sitting there with that sticky smile of his. The one where he doesn’t show his teeth?”

“I know that one.”

“That was every meeting. Well, every meeting where he didn’t call Janine Pirro in the middle of it so we could listen to her views on Islam.”


“Not a fan.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s complete fucking chaos 24/7. Actually, more like 3/5. Sloppy might be the laziest sumbitch I ever met. You know he doesn’t even chew any more? He had Hope Hicks do it for him. Spit it up into his mouth like a baby bird. And this is in front of a room full of people. McMasters would get hard watching.”

“Jesus, why?”

“I told you: he’s a pervert.”

“Mr. Tillerson–”

“Sexy Rexy.”

“–did you accomplish anything in your year at State?”

“Redecorated my office.”

“Anything else?”

“Hey, you try getting shit done with a mental defective in charge. Man’s dumber than a bucketful of dicks. You should thank me that things ain’t worse right now.”

“I’m not thanking you.”

“Don’t give a fuck.”

“Had to hurt getting fired by tweet, though.”

“Couldn’t say I didn’t see it coming. I been searching my name on Twitter for months waiting. Can’t be surprised when a shitbird shits on you.”


“Besides, I got an appointment tomorrow. Gonna work off all the stress from this week.”

“Gym? Massage?”

“Robert Mueller.”

“Much better.”

“You alone over there? I got a sixer.”

“Good night, Tilly.”

“Happy trails, Maggie.”

Maggie Haberman Must Have Expected This Late-Night Call


“Hello, Sam.”

“Hi, this is Sam Nunberg and…how did you know it was me?”

“I’m the only person in Washington you haven’t talked to today.”

“The Nun’s on a run!”

“You sure are, slugger.”

“Mueller can suck on my huevos. They’re pink, plump, and shiny. Just like my head.”

“Sam, are you okay?”

“I’ve never been better, Maggie. Know who’s not gonna be okay?”


“That fuck. I’m thinking about going over to his office and putting him in a figure-four leglock.”


“That’s my finishing move.”


“I’m a beast, Maggie.”

“Are you drinking again, Sam?”


“Then that wasn’t the sound of ice cubes and whiskey?”



“I’ve switched to vodka.”

“Sam, stop drinking.”

“How will I wash down the pills?”

“Don’t take any pills.”

“Did you hear what they wanted me to do? Find ALL my e-mails! Years worth! And they wanted me to do it in one weekend!”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t even know where they are. I checked the basement, but that’s where I live. Checked my parents’ room. Nothing.”

“You live with your parents?”

“My parents and I live together as equals.”

“Okay. So, you said something today about how you thought President Trump had colluded with Russia?”

“Oh, he toooooootally did. I have no precise knowledge of what happened, but I don’t not know what happened.”


“I wasn’t in the room, but I was also in the room. If you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Just trust me on this one.”

“Absolutely not. What the hell set this off, Sam?”

“What? Monday fun-day Nun-day?”


“Listen, Marble–”

“Not my name.”

“–this may be the xannies talking, but I will DIE for Roger Stone. I will DIE for that man.”

“You have the worst taste in men.”

“He is a BUTTERFLY. He is a gorgeous butterfly made of kindness and high-fashion! That man took me in and taught me about politics, and life, and a lot of pervert shit I don’t wanna get into, but I enjoyed. Don’t worry about that: I wanted to do everything, but I don’t feel comfortable listing the acts for you.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable having them listed.”

“We made each other hand-happy.”

“Told you I didn’t want to know.”

“He dressed me up as Nancy Reagan and made me service strangers at laundromats. Roger hid inside a dryer and masturbated.”

“Stop talking, Sam Nunberg.”

“Donald Trump is not a good man, Maggie. He treated me and Mr. Stone very badly. He called me Sam Cuntberg many times, and that was hurtful. I worked so hard for him, and he called me that. Meanwhile, Lewandowski’s banging Hope Hicks in the bathroom of Trump’s campaign office, Bannon was skimming money from the campaign, Carter Page was colluding with everyone he could find, and his idiot children are skywriting ‘Come and do treason with us’ over the Russian Embassy. But he called me names.”


“So you think I should respond to the subpoena?”


“Huh. I’m gonna call in to QVC and see what they have to say.”

“Good idea.”


After Many A Peaceful Evening, A Late-Night Call Comes For Maggie Haberman


“Jesus. Fuck, I’m awake. I’m awake. Nothing but old bits tonight, huh? Hello?”

“Good evening, Ms. Haberman. This is Robert J. Mueller.”

“It’s three in the morning, Mr. Mueller.”

“I stopped sleeping two months ago; I just don’t have the time. We’re drinking from the firehose of stupidity in my office.”

You dropped some big indictments today.”

“Big? Please. You ain’t seen nothing yet. I was quoting Al Jolsen there, Ms. Haberman.”

“I understood the reference.”

“Obviously, I was not wearing blackface when I said it.”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind until you brought it up. So, today wasn’t big?”

“All I did today is whip it out. Not only have I not yet begun to fuck, but I haven’t even gotten hard yet. And I’m a thorough lover, Ms. Haberman.”


“I’m setting the stage. Previously, there was a strong contingent sticking with the ‘Russia did nothing wrong’ line. They’ll abandon that now for ‘No collusion.’ Then I’m gonna prove unwitting collusion, and they’ll accept that and retreat to ‘We didn’t commit treason on purpose.’ From there, we’ll get Junior to flip and testify to willful collusion. The argument will then be ‘The President himself didn’t do anything wrong.'”

“And then?”

“And then, Bob Mueller’s gonna cum justice all over America’s face.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve been drinking.”

“I gathered.”

“You would, too. My job is getting depressing. Everyone’s so damned dumb. Those Russian hackers? Those super-cyber warriors? They were posting selfies from work on Instagram and hashtagging it #internationalespionagelol.”

“Not stealthy.”

“Everyone involved in this asshole parade is the opposite of a ninja. You know ninjas, Ms. Haberman? Japanese, quiet?”

“I am aware of ninjas, yes.”

“The opposite. You can see them coming, and they leave nothing but evidence. And none of them are Japanese.”


“Although I wouldn’t be surprised if the Yakuza showed up in this. Russians, Americans, Mafia, Chinese businessmen.”

“Chinese businessmen?”

“They’re like Ferengi. I think they smelled the corruption all the way from Beijing and floated here led by their noses like Pepe LePew when he got a whiff of skunk-puss.”

“They were usually cats, Mr. Mueller.”

“Puss-puss. You know what I mean. Oh, and the Israelis.”


“That’s offensive, Ms. Haberman. I thought you were better than that.”

“Oh, wow, you’re right. I’m sor–”

“Of course it was fucking Jared. He loves those hummusfuckers. Promised Natanyahu that if Trump was elected, Israel could start bombing the shit out of Gaza again.”

“Make Israel great again?”

“I shit you not: those were the exact words the pale little fuck said to Bibi.”


“In return for some ‘campaign donations.'”

“Did you say that last phrase with quotation marks around it?”


“So you meant…”

“Briefcases full of cash.”

“Jesus. So you’re gonna indict some Israelis, too?”

“Mm, no. We made a deal with the Mossad in return for their help with…listen, Ms. Haberman: I’m working at unbelievably high levels here.”

“Apparently. So we’re just gonna concentrate on the Russians?”

“I’ve been waiting for my chance to get even with those tsarist fucks since the very first time Charlie shot at me with an AK47. This goes all the way to the top over there. I’m thinking about indicting Putin.”

“You’re going to indict Vladimir Putin?”

“No. I’m thinking about it. It makes me happy to do so. It’s going to be bittersweet charging the President of the United States with a crime. I wish I didn’t have to. But Putin? Fuck that guy.”

“Mr, Mueller?”


“How does this end?”

“One of two ways: poorly or terribly. And you wanna get down on your knees and pray for the first option.”

“Good night, Mr. Mueller.”

“Justice never sleeps, Ms. Haberman.”

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.”


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