WASHINGTON, D.C. — As soon as he set foot inside his hotel room, it hit Bob Mueller like a ton of bricks. He’d forgotten to tell Congress something so vital and important to the stability of the republic that he even went so far as to write a note to himself on his hand so he wouldn’t forget.
“God damn it! I was on the Hill for a badillion hours today and I can’t believe I forgot! Shit,” Mueller kept repeating to himself. “Shit, shit, shit, double-shit, shit!”
Mueller pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and waited for the party on the other line to pick up. When they did, Mueller made it clear from the outset that he was extremely displeased with himself.
“Well, I did it,” Mueller told whoever he had called. “I testified before congress. I didn’t stray from report, but I did give them some very important things to think about, like how the president can be indicted once he leaves office, and that the kinds of things that fat orange butt whistle did may not be illegal per se, but they’re shady and dangerous AF.”
The man on the other end congratulated Mueller.
“No! Spare me your congratulatory platitudes! I fucked up! I didn’t give them the one thing I think the entire country needs to hear and understand,” Mueller said with true sadness and concern in his voice. “I had the nation’s attention, and I blew it! Blew it I tell you! I. Blew. It.”
Mr. Mueller walked to hotel mini bar and found a small bottle of Bombay gin. He opened the bottle, poured it into the glass on top of the minibar, and sat down on the bed. Mueller kicked off his shoes.
“Look, I get it, I gave the country what they need to understand their president is a racist white collar crook who thinks he’s above the law, and that’s all well and good,” Mueller conceded, “but I got up to bat in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded and hit a base clearing triple, instead of the grand slam I know I’m capable of.”
Knocking back the gin in one gulp, Mueller wiped his mouth. He sighed. It’s been a long few years, and the man is ready for some respite from the hubbub.
“Oh well, I guess someone else will have to tell congress how badly Trump wants to bang his own daughter,” Mueller said. “Because God knows we found plenty evidence of it. Frankly he talked about it in every conversation. He even mentioned it in the written answers he submitted to my questions. But, you know what? I’m done. I’m spent. Mueller, out.”
Mr. Mueller hung up the phone. He picked up the hotel phone and ordered room service. As he ate his macaroni and cheese and watched reruns of “Gilmore Girls,” Bob Mueller dozed off, still in most of his suit he’d worn that day.
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Writer/comedian James Schlarmann is the founder of The Political Garbage Chute and his work has been featured on The Huffington Post. You can follow James on Facebook, Spotify, and Instagram, but not Twitter because they have a definition of hate speech that includes “calling Ann Coulter the C-word.”
