“I’m Prince of War now, got it? I’ll do what I want. Text what and who I want.”
Well, that was a new one. I have to say in all my years covering politics on this, the world’s most trustworthy-esque political news and discussion site, I’ve never been in direct contact with a member of the president’s cabinet, much less had such newsworthy materials sent to me from them.
Imagine my shock and surprise to get a text from Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth. Imagine my lack of shock at it coming at 3:30am his time, filled with typos and what I can only assume was the text version of drunken, slurred speech. But then, imagine my shock and, frankly, horror at opening my phone up to Petey Wifebeaty’s texts and finding dick pics and nuclear launch codes in them.
When I called up the Department of Defense this morning, I asked to speak to Secretary Hegseth. I was told that he usually doesn’t stumble into the office until about 11am, after he’s had his breakfast martinis and brunch Bloody Mary flight. So I told them Pete can call me back whenever he got in. A tired-sounding Hegseth called me just after 2pm his time.
“The fuck do you want, bitch,” was how Hegseth greeted me.
@jamesschlarmann Building up that backup account with the hits. #windmillcancer #trump #politicalsatire #fyp #politik #politics #backupaccount #liberal
“I’ll call you what I want and treat you like I want, or you can expect a drone-fired boot up your ass and invite from Pam Bondi to a permanent stay at Club Gitmo…”
I reminded Hegseth that as an employee of the federal government, he is quite literally my employee. I didn’t want to be “that guy,” but I did tell the Secretary of Defense that I pay his salary, which is at least partially true. In fact, I probably pay more of his salary every year than his own boss does. Hegseth vomited in a nearby trashcan, took a few Alka Seltzer, and then told me to go fuck myself.
“LOL, go fuck yourself, bitch. I’m Prince of War now, got it? I’ll do what I want. Text what and who I want. I’ll call you what I want and treat you like I want, or you can expect a drone-fired boot up your ass and invite from Pam Bondi to a permanent stay at Club Gitmo, Amen, Praise Jesus’ Name!”
“I woke up here, booted, and felt ready to take accountabilty and kick some fuckin’ ass in the name of Jesus Bald Eagle American Christ and Donald Trump…”
I apologized and told Mr. Hegseth that I never would have called him if I’d known he was an angry drunk. That seemed to make him angrier, my mentioning his drunken rage.
“Uhhhh, I’m not an angry drunk, actually, right now, asshole. Okay? I’m an angry, hungover guy who was drunk when I went to bed about an hour and a half ago on the Über ride from my apartment. But I woke up here, booted, and felt ready to take accountabilty and kick some fuckin’ ass in the name of Jesus Bald Eagle American Christ and Donald Trump, so I can say confidently that I do owe an apology to the American people, and to Hillary Clinton specifically for talking shit about her carelessness with American security.”
I heard a bit of a fart, and a burp, and then a long pause before Pete continued.
“But I ain’t gonna give it. So suck it, fucks. All of you. All of you fucks. Suck it. Suck it and suck me. Sieg Heil, Amen, Praise His Name!”
I suppose that is about as close as I’ll ever get to uncovering the truth about why Pete Hegseth sent me pictures of his dong and the country’s nuclear launch codes. Maybe I’ll ask the other guys on the group chat if they know why. I’m sure Vladimir Putin isn’t too busy to chat.
