CELL PHONE NOISE
“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?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Fuck maps.”
“Okay.”
“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?”
“Shaggy–”
“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.”
“Sure.”
“You should’ve heard it. He sounded like an ugly high school girl talking to the varsity quarterback: giggling, and damp-pantied.”
“Ew.”
“Know what he did at the end of the call?”
“No.”
“‘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.”
“Yup.”
“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!”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT
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