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Last Friday I stumbled into an ugly DC building on Pennsylvania Avenue in search of the IMC (International Mensa Convocation) where I was scheduled to speak.
After a lingering probe of each of my numerous body cavities, the comely security guardette directed me to check out a meeting room on the second floor where she said there were “a number of other odd-looking people” gathered.
After bullying my way through the second-floor crowd I emerged in front of a podium. I recognized the square-jawed Special Counsel Bob “Ferris” Mueller holding forth, and knew immediately I wasn’t at a Mensa meeting.
“My extra-special Grand Jury today,” intoned Ferris, “returned an indictment charging I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby with an attempted conspiracy to lie to the FBI about Russian interference resulting in the election of the fat guy with big hair.”
“You mean Trump, right?” CNN’s Jim Accoster said.
“Well, Jim,” Ferris harrumphed, “that’s all I’m at liberty to say at this time. My extra-special Grand Jury will reconvene in March when we hope to bring perjury indictments against more foreigners who will never see the inside of a courtroom.”
“That’s next month!” Accoster exclaimed, a tiny ball of spittle exploding from his lips.
“March of 2019, Jim,” Mueller said. “We will introduce evidence at that time to show the effects of collusion on the election, which we are calling … anyone?”
No one raised a hand.
“Voo… anyone? Doo… anyone?”
“Voodoo politics,” I blurted.
“Correct,” Ferris said.
“Special Counsel Mueller,” I said, pressing my advantage. “Scooter Libby was Dick Cheney’s chief of staff who pleaded guilty to lying to the FBI about whether he outed Valerie Plame Wilson as a CIA agent, even though Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald knew at the outset of his appointment that Richard Armitage had spilled the beans.”
“Exactly,” Mueller said. “My close friend A-Rod Rosenstein has given me access to all of my close friend Patrick’s files, who had been preserved all these years by my close friends, former DNI Jim Crapper and former Attorney General Eric “The Red” Holder.”
“So, what does Scooter Libby have to do with Russian collusion?” I asked.
Ferris sneered, rested his gigantic ex-Marine jaw in his right palm, and looked with pity down on me over reading glasses borrowed from Chuck “Bo Buck” Schumer.
“You’ll see,” Mueller said. “All in good time.”
“Do you plan to investigate Hillary Clinton’s destruction of emails and her private server, the Uranium One deal, or the Clinton Foundation pay-to-play scheme?”
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Ferris said to me, scratching his granite jaw.
“What about the DOJ and FBI lovebirds, Peter Strzok and Lisa Page, or DOJ’s Donald Ohr and his wife Nellie who worked for Fusion GPS?” I asked.
Mueller gestured to a very tall guy in a TSA security uniform, who dragged me out through the parting crowd of media people, some of whom tried to hit me.
“You’re Ferris Mueller’s close friend and mentee, Jim Comey,” I said after he flung me to the DOJ linoleum outside the room.
“Maybe,” he twittered.
I thought I saw his eyes twinkle far above me, but he was so tall I couldn’t be sure.
“Maybe not,” the tall man chirped.Published in