G-Man Robert “Big Bobbie” Mueller has had over a year to investigate collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia with bubkes to show (aside from a slew of indictments). Today, The Lint Screen caught up with the towering goon to grill him on his amazing lack of progress.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Mueller said, as he eyes darted about nervously, his pupils playing a rapid ping-pong game. He cupped his paw to his lie hole and leaned forward. “Our investigation is a total sham. The president is absolutely right, this is the biggest witch hunt in history.”
Mueller sat back in his beanbag chair and fired-up a blunt of Alien Asshat marijuana whacky-tobacky. He took a long inhale sucking the smoke deep into his pink sponges. He held it in, suppressing a cough and inflating his chipmunk cheeks. Then, he released a fog of mind-altering stink as he spoke.
“It breaks down like this, bro,” he said, “I’ve always been a flaming liberal, to the left of Karl Marx. I did a stint with the Marines in Nam, just for a cover, and when I got out, I swapped my camos for starched shirts, dark suits, silk neck nooses. The uniform of conformity, dig? Hey, no one would trust me if I let my freak flag fly. My straight act worked because people thought I was some law and order conservative stand-up righteous Republican dude. Pretty cool, right?”
Muller takes another deep toke, turning the remainder of his blunt into lung candy for his hairbrained goofy thinking.
“So, I do my thing being big daddy Fed head. Not a bad gig, really. And after the 2016 election, I get a call from crooked Hillary and Nancy Pelosi. They’re drunk on cheap Chardonnay and pissed about losing the election. They ask me to put a fire under daddy Trump–– want me to do a big investigation, waste a lot of people’s time and taxpayer money trying to make him look bad. I say, ‘cool, let’s hunt the witch!’ They give me a couple keys of primo kush and a case Colt 45 forties, and I round up a posse of liberal stoned ass freaks like myself to carry some torches and help in my charade crusade to burn the Trump empire.”
The tall civil servant begins crying like a little girl who has just seen her pudgy puppy run over by a cement truck.
“It was a setup, man. Trump didn’t do anything bad. Nothing. He’s a good guy. Great guy. The best. His word is gold, a sacred bond. Trump’s known for his impeccable integrity and trustworthiness. He was a big TV star, you know. Stars don’t lie. They don’t have to have dirty deeds done dirt cheap.” Mueller dries his eyes with his pressed suit jacket sleeves, collects himself and continues.
“But that didn’t stop us. We’d wake and bake because witch hunting season was open, bromeister, and we were loaded for bear! Do you want to know what we found? The Trump campaign was a bunch of altar boys. Their morality was beyond reproach. Trump’s tight with Putin–– big friggin deal. The Pootster’s a great leader. But as far as what we were investigating, man, there was no collusion, no cover-up, no nothing.” The Feebie shakes his head and chuckles to himself.
“Now we’re stuck, we got to continue this ridiculous investigation. Chris Matthews and Rachel Maddow’s got to have something to rant about, right? Hannity knows the score, he’s the only guy out there being real and 100%. America is lucky to have a great journalist like him.”
He reaches into his pocket and takes out another fattie. He torches it and it snaps, crackles, and pops its magic evil smoke.
“The truth is, I kind of feel bad for Donald J. Trump, but, what are you going to do?” He bogarts his Thai stick greedily, and Mueller begins a manic giggling jag. “WTF, right?! Dude’s got to do what a dude’s gotta do. Witch hunt, ho, man!”
