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comeyAfter the public interrogation, the former FBI czar met with the Senate Intelligence Committee members in private to answer questions that he refused to answer in an open setting. Soon afterwards, Comey leaked an audio tape that he secretly had hidden in classic FBI fashion: a 007 style recorder planted in the Windsor knot of his tie. When the top secret testimony was over, James Comey ducked into the mens room to drop the nickel size recorder in the waste bucket for his cohort at the New York Times to dig out of the trash later. Unknowing to Comey, our own reporter, Boo Feeder, was using the restroom for its intended purpose and saw what the fired FBI director let go in the garbage. It is from that tape that we are able to tell our dear readers what went on behind closed doors.

The edited version goes like this:

Richard Burr: Thank you Mr. Comey for meeting with us.

James Comey: Like I had a choice ( chuckles )

Susan Collins: Mr. Comey, you admitted, much to my surprise, that you leaked a memo to the New York Times about your meeting with President Trump but you didn’t leak the fact that the FBI was not investigating the president for any ties with Russia. Or did you and it didn’t get out?

Comey: No Senator Collins, I did not leak anything to the Times. My best buddy did that. He and I have a relationship that is very private so we can share

Mark Warner: Whoa Jimmy! No need to get yourself in another jackpot!

Collins: Mr. Warner! I am not done! Please do not interrupt me when I

Kamala Harris: That’s enough out your lobster lips you old bag! I have some hair dye in my purse you might want to use. There’s a strand of gray peeking through your pine tree hair Suzy honey. Hi Jimbo! You’re looking fine today! How about we do lunch then you can do me!

Comey: No Kam, I can’t do that, sorry. I have to see a man about a boat ( the sound of swallowing water? is loud and clear ). After that my banker asked to see me about a recent deposit.

Marco Rubio: Your banker? Recent deposit? Were you paid to leak that memo and who paid you Mr. Commy?

Comey: It’s Coh-me Mr. Rubik, not Commie. I have served America all my adult life and resent your insinuation that I am a communist. But, if I were a commie, that would not be illegal. As you know there are plenty of commies in Washington DC but I am not one of them. I demand you take that back!

Rubio: Or what? You’ll take your crayons and go

Dianne Feinstein: ( yelling ) Stop it children! Jimmy, you and I go back a long way and I think it’s time we end this nonsense before you say something you’ll regret later. Miss Harris? I’m free for lunch and would love to be with ( pause ) go with you. My treat sweetie! ( a muffled female voice is heard saying “Gotchya baby” but we aren’t certain it was Kamana Harris’ voice )

John Cornyn: Okay, we all have somewhere to go so let’s get on with why we are here. Mr. Comey you say now that the FBI did not investigate Russian interference in our election but didn’t leak that to your buddy or anyone else. But, you did find it necessary to leak a memo about a conversation with Donald Trump who was only hoping that a man who served his country with valor and heroism from public disgrace. Now you infer that there are communists in DC who may be influencing our

Joe Manchin: Don’t answer that Jimmy! ( screaming ) You don’t deserve to be treated like this. You are our friend and noble comrade! You

Burr: HA! Now we know who to put a target on! You and all the other anti-Americans in public office and in the mass media. You are all going down!

Harris and Feinstein: ( in unison ) Going down?!

Harris ( in sing-song ): Glory be! Let’s get outa here Di baby!

And with that, the meeting ended. Comey and most of the senate committee hustled their way out of the building. Kamala Harris and Dianne Feinstein were seen hand in hand running past the horde of photogs into one car then sped away.



This is Fake News! It is written to put a humorous spin on our ever depressing news of the days. None of it is true and not meant to be construed as such!



Written by boofeeder

June 9, 2017 at 6:07 pm

Application To MSNBC For A TV Host Job

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Boofeeder recently applied to MSNBC for the host position vacated by Corrine Brown ( D-Fla) who was to be filling in for Rev. Al Sharpton while he goes on leave for a sex reassignment operation. Whether his or not is not known at this writing. Nevertheless, ex-congresswoman Brown will be away serving time, er … visiting her constituents at Allenwood Federal Prison for the next dozen or so years. The job opportunity comes at a time when Boofeeder would welcome the extra income to support his ailing cat, Boo.

Following is a copy of the application:

Name: Boofeeder

Sex ( if decided ): Male

Age ( you may use a Common Core calculator ): 64 – (12 moons x’s 2 polar bears x’s 3 icebergs ) + 3 fingers = 29 years old.

How many times can you repeat “Russia” in sixty seconds? 179

Which syllable in “impeachment” is emfasized? :  Emphasized? That would be on IM-peach-ment

How many eye rolls can you do when the name “Trump” is menshunnned?  Mentioned? As many as it takes to get the job

Are you able to shout “Trump Loves Putin!” without spitting?  Yes, maybe.

Trump is in Israel now. Give a brief example of how you would begin your report if you were there: Here we are with Trump in Israel which is only 1600 miles from Moscow. That’s less than three hours away from Russia, plenty of time to collude with Putin on how to fix more elections. Russia, Russia, Russia! IMpeach Trump! Russia, Russia. Too damn close to Russia!

Does Miladia Trump speak Russian?  Melania? Of course! ALL Trumps speak Russian. They are Russia’s best friends!

How Much Do You Hate Trump? RUSSSSSSSSIA!!!!!!!

May 22, 2017 Update:

Boofeeder was turned down for the following reasons per an email received this morning that reads in part:

Mr. Ms. or Wz.  Boofeeder, We are happy to inform you that you will not be working for us. You are clearly too enamored with Trump to fill the chair in our esteemed studio. For one, spelling is Not to be korrected. Words cannot be put in a box, they must be free to be themselves whatever that is. Also, 179 times is all you can manage to say Russia in one minute? Our hosts and guests top our minimum requirement of 225 Russias/Minute. Also, we know you are a liar! 2 polar bears times 12 moons? Really? Everyone knows there will be no more polar bears in 12 moons! Study up on Global Warming and speeding up your Russia spewing skills then get back to us. But! Be quick be cause imPEACHment will be sooner than you thing.

So much for that! Looks like Boofeeder will be selling his watch collection to pay the veterinarian.

Written by boofeeder

May 22, 2017 at 3:58 pm


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Written by boofeeder

March 15, 2017 at 6:08 pm


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After an extended vacation our fearless reporter, Boo Feeder,  has returned for your pleasure.  Mr. Feeder played gumshoe to track Bob Beckel to an after hours bar on 14th Street in southeast DC.  Carefully memorizing the secret knock on the oak paneled door, Boo Feeder rapped three times, kicked twice then hummed the tune of ‘One For My Baby’ into the six inch sliding steel hatch. He was let in and, luckily for him, the patrons were too intoxicated to notice or care who the guy with an Orioles tee-shirt tucked into a pair of slightly too large pair of jeans. Feeder was happy to have lost a few pounds these past few months but not nearly as elated to have caught Bob Beckel alone with his cheeks falling over the sides of a barstool. He sat next to the come-back liberal on Fox News and placed his phone between them to record the conversation.

Beckel began with”Orioles huh? They blew it in the World Series last years. Why the hell you thank they’ll win this year? THEY”RE DONE I tell youse! Hey slim, what’s that chatterbox doing on the bar?” 

“It’s my cellphone Mr. Beckel. I’d like to have our one-on-one recorded if that’s okay. Okay?”

“What the hell do I care asshole? Orioles suck!” Beckel said after slamming a bottle of soda on the bar.

“O’s haven’t been to the big show since 1983 when they beat Philly in five but that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Glad to see you’re drinking Coke not Coor’s but why here in a bar? Isn’t it dangerous for an alcoholic to sit at a bar at 3:30 in the morning?”

“None of your effing buzzniss buster. What you here for? Trump put you up to this? That freakin’ lying con man bazztert.” Beck was shouting now. With both fists pounded on the bar he continued “FREAKING LYINGS DRUMP! His goldamn fault that I’m sherry-er. Sum uva BRITCH flat I’m high against.” One cheek followed the other to the floor leaving Bob Beckel to shout more indiscernible words into the unpolished dirty wood flooring.

“But Bob, you’re drinking Coca Cola not some Russian vodka. How can you be drunk? Why do you hate Donald Trump so much? Isn’t anger poison to your sobriety?” Boo Feeder said compassionately. Beckel was like the political equivalent to Howard Cosell; a man you loved to hate. Not like this though. His fellow babbling, incoherent, angry Democrat friends can tolerate such vitriol but Feeder is not one of them.

“Druck? I’m not a truck! So I takes few pills so onest a while. SOO FreakING SO! I don’t take Votka so there your Trump bastred. I love efferyfuggingbody cept that bitsh Thrump. Heza LIAR! What ju mean Russia? You a goddam Russkier from that muffa Republicant Troump? GET OUR HERA BAZZERT! I TOLE YOU LOVE NOT HARE!” Beckel continued the rant rolling on the floor mumbling more profanity.

Boo Feeder watched helplessly as the straight jacket was wrestled on to Bob Beckel’s dirty suit and hauled off to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. His suspenders were taken off for safety sake and tossed in the direction of Feeeder. He picked them up to hang them in his office where they are today. A memorial to the man that once was and is now in need of much prayer.

May God help Bob Beckel and all the other Trump haters that are so filled with anger that they defy the very principles they vie for.


Written by boofeeder

March 15, 2017 at 5:31 pm


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As your dear soon to be departed leader ( from the White House, not from the living! ) was spending enough time saying farewell that he nearly went into a third term, his dear, sweet fifteen year-old daughter was getting sloshed on Vodka at a previously undisclosed location. She declined a seat at the king’s table saying “That’s awight. I got this example to study for. It gone be a bitch Ma! I best be staying home but tell pops good luck. I’ll catch him later. Right?” The fam left her home knowing she would be burning the midnight oils for her history test in the Black American’s Persecution in America class at her private school.

The black, gas guzzling SUV’s glided along to more gas using airplanes and automobiles all in the name of Our Greatest Man Who Ever Became President, Barack Hussein Obama. Damn the climate eating, fossil fuels. Our Black history is more important than some fat, stupid polar bear! So off they went while Sasha closed her bedroom door with her books and one convenient friend: Dad’s best bottle of Vodka.

She took one sip then one more. Feeling the good burn she’d become so familiar with, she let one good, long swallow go down the pipes. Her eyes closed to see Nirvanna playing on the inside of her lids and an amazing little banner-thingy running by in neon fashion saying ” Go Go Go! There’s a party on at a Sidwell’s Friend friend. Go!” So off she went.Out the window, climbed the fence and ran to ( name withheld) house on Quebec St. Luckily for her, the agents in charge of her safety were playing spades on the back deck and never saw the flash of green and red woolen pajama’s go swishing by.

When the teenager came crashing into the modest brick home, the BOSE speakers and the liquor induced commotion held no regard for a First Daughter. It wasn’t until an hour later when Sasha began to sober up from all the running and twerking sweating the booze out of her that she noticed someone laughing Way too loud ” Hashtags everywhere Yo!” Sash, you gone be hashtag queen with where you!”

“Huh?” the youngster said. “Hashtagging me? For effing what? Daddy knows I can kick it just as much as he can. Him and his ‘Beer Summits’. You think I don’t know about what he does in that funny-ass shaped room? Him a Bill Clinton turned that into Party Central and I don’t know? Shiiit. I can kick it all I want and still pass that dumb-ass example tomorrow.”

And so she did. Sasha aced it! There was only one question: Which white people have denigrated Black Americans the most in all of history? “ALL OF THEM! So says my moms!” she wrote and got a 5.0. Four for correctness, one for getting that jump on the Secret Service.

Disclaimer: Unlike your other noteworthy Fake News sites that report bogus reporting as newsworthy, BooFeeder makes NO claim that any of this report is true. But maybe, just maybe…


Written by boofeeder

January 12, 2017 at 11:46 pm

A Night At The AA Meeting With A Fat Man And A Toilet

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Written by boofeeder

June 2, 2015 at 1:00 am

A Night At The Meeting With A Fat Man And A Toilet

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SAM_8873” Hi, my name is Bob and I’m…”

Oh boy. More of the same old same old. Why do I come to these God awful meetings? Just because Todd said it was a good place to meet women? Geeze. I’m taking life lessons from Todd? The perpetual loser that he is? An addict true and through brought to good graces by the tramp he met here? Not hardly. His moment of clarity, as these jokers call it, did come come by way of female persuasion. He woke up in an emergency room at the brink of death then realized it’s change or die. Joanne may have been at his side but it wasn’t she that saved him. It was the fear of death. The manic terror of dying before making his mark that kept him on this side of the grass.

Now Bob up there, what’s so different about his story? Wait, what are they all laughing about? Maybe I’ll take a break from myself and listen in.

” …No! It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. Even more than my first time at a meeting in the basement of the same church my mother drug me to when I was knee high to a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Wine! There I was, sitting at the table trying to listen in on conversations of people that actually had a life when the waiter came with my meal. Oh what a dinner! Veal piccata served over linguine with an oil and ….but I digress . I spread out the linen napkin to cover my excitement when I was overcome with the urge to relieve myself.

If you’ve ever been to a bar on K Alley in Baltimore, you know how narrow they are. This was a restaurant bar with an anteroom having only four dinner tables.  L’amor Lo Chef. You remember? Oh the food! The Wine! The liquer! Oops! There I go again. It was barely seven feet wide by thirty feet long with the tables lining the west side wall. The restroom was at the north end and I was at the first table so it was a thirty foot jog running sideways and apologizing all the way. The building code for a men’s public bathroom in The City That Bleeds, requires a toilet must be in a stall. This bathroom had the sink immediately to the left then on the right a toilet in the middle of a three foot wide stall with a door only 26 inches wide! This was four years ago so you can imagine how hard it was to squeeze my flab into that stall!” Rounds of laughter interrupted his recital then the applause continued for a full minute longer by the still sober ones that remember Bob way back then.


During the accolade a blond, very attractive woman, Sandi, explained that Bob has lost 200 pounds since then. He went on calming his crowd with waves and nods. ” I was sitting on the pot, my thighs being ruptured by the walls, my head being nauseated by the thought of how in the hell was I going to get out but the sudden urge that was so strong only minutes before has taken leave of itself. Knowing that if I didn’t go now, I would soon enough so I gave a pushed with everything I had.

“Auughh! What am I doing here? How in the hell did I get here? Who, what are you? Am I dead?”

The nurses, God bless them, managed to hold in their laughter both at the sight of me and how I got to the hospital. It was Dr. Johnathan Singh that told me. The doctor being but 5 foot nothing, weighing at maybe ninety pounds and speaking in such broken English that taking him serious was near impossible.

He said, and I won’t bore you or insult Dr. Singh by imitating his accent ‘ Robert. You are in Saint Agnus Hospital. In the ICU unit. You were brought here by ambulance while you were unconscious after suffering a ruptured brain aneurysm. You are very lucky. Nearly half the people that have a ruptured aneurysm die immediately. Almost three quarters that do survive have permanent brain damage. You, sir, are one of the fortunate few that has survived with no apparent damage.’

” Little did the doc know that I’ve had brain damage since puberty! I mean c’mon! I’d eat compulsively and get a boner at the sight of food! And drink to indignant excess with and between every meal. Even breakfast!  Who does that? Oh yeah, me! But the childlike doctor didn’t need to know all that.” More laughter.

He continued ” It wasn’t until months after my release that the truth of my rescue was told to me by Joanne. Stand up love!” She did to more clapping and chuckling. ” She had been coming to these meetings for three years by then and was my nurse in the ICU. It was she that brought me to my first meeting. I struggled with denial, of course. Alcohol was not my problem. It was all the twisted bastards that ridiculed my immense ass and the ones that laughed at me and never gave me a break in life that was the problem. Not alcohol! Not food! We all have to eat and who wouldn’t have a drink or two after being made fun of all day? Bastards!” More laughter. ” But when she told the story of my arrival to Agnus, the years of denial came tumbling and rolling down like the walls of Jerhico.

“She said ‘ You need to know the truth my friend. How do you think you got off the john and into the ICU? You walked? No sir. It took six firefighters to extract your four hundred pounds out of that bathroom! There you were, slumped over, pants to the floor, toilet  not flushed, white as a ghost when you were discovered by the waiter. Someone complained that the door had been locked for over ten minutes and he had to go, Bad! Bradley, the waiter, pulled himself over the stall and saw crumpled pants showing themselves under the naked rolls of leg and the back of his favorite customer’s head slumped over his chest, not making a sound. He called 911 to remove the dead fat man from his bathroom. What a shame, Brad thought Damn Bob! You always left a nice tip, dammit to hell!  He always rewarded my fat ass with the first table in line so as to save the embarrassment of bumping into the tables and diners along the narrow walkway thus insuring a 30 percent tip. Sometimes more if I could spare it.

” The paramedics came in not knowing what to expect other than a dead man was trapped in the bathroom. The only EMT trained for the defib machine, just in case the man is not dead, was Tammy, a young woman five foot 2 inches tall, 90 pounds. In the matter of expedience, she did not wait for the male EMT’s to break the door down. She was pushed over the stall, strapped with a stethoscope and automatic defibber in hand, and was nearly overcome by the ungodly mess that was still laying in the toilet bowl. Oh how it must have smelled!” Laughter and pee-ewws still keeping my attention on the slender man at the podium that belied his story.

” Tammy flipped the door open then my tubs of lard went rolling like hot lava across the floor. She and her team of paramedics saved my life that night and Joanne has helped save it every day since. Love of my life, will you marry me?” By then Bob was down on his knees, diamond ring in hand.

How could Joanne resist? A good story with comedy and melodrama is catnip to most any woman. She’ll marry him and bat him around like a mouse for the rest of his life. I couldn’t suppress the laughter at that thought. So, while everyone else in the basement was clapping and crying, I was in the back row laughing uncontrollably. How the shame of it all!

It was my first but not last 12 step meeting. I go occasionally for entirely different reasons now. Not that I find anything wrong with the meetings. Quite contrary. Much applause to those that are able to end a calamitous choice or disastrous  disease, however you look it. But me? I drink maybe one or two beers a year and don’t need to meet any women.  Sandi and I are quite happy, thank you very much.


Written by boofeeder

June 1, 2015 at 4:17 pm