Sean Hannity: A White House Slumber Party Memoir
The following are entries pulled from my diary (yes, I have a diary, don’t laugh) that I wrote during my very luxurious Trump White House slumber party. Their purpose is to inform you, the little people, that life in rich, white America is far superior to the lives you sad poors lead. I hope you find them as pretentious as I meant them to be.
I just arrived at the White House front gates and was personally greeted by Donnie. Donnie. Not Donald Junior. I can call him that now because he gave me a diamond-encrusted “MAGA” hat and a stogie lined with the bone marrow of immigrants. We’ve met quite a few times, but I don’t recall him ever being as gracious as he was while welcoming me into his home. God. I am so glad it’s HIS home now.
After he briefly emasculated me in front of his staff (I sort of enjoyed being treated like a piece of trash by the greatest living human), Donnie brought me into the game room where he explained the night’s main activity: game hunting. “My sons love big game hunting, you know. Shooting elephants in the face and things of that sort.” He went on to say that the game we’d be hunting would be actual people who have trespassed on White House property. Donnie called it “a solution to my bad hombre problem.”
Four rounds of chasing and shooting real criminals with Secret Service-issued, taxpayer funded handguns made for a couple of hungry sleepover companions, so Donnie just asked the White House chef for some french fries and a couple of well-done steaks smothered in ketchup. But when the chef brought us our food out, I cut right in front of Donnie and took mine first. I couldn’t help it. I’m Sean Hannity. I have to eat my food before everybody else, every time. Being a dick satisfies my hunger almost as much as a dry steak prepared by a minority.
The steaks were delicious but I think they made me tired. I don’t know about Donnie. This guy legitimately does not blink an eye. Always talking and on to the next thing. I will say that he is an excellent father. Even with me as a house guest, he still found time to tuck little Eric into his California king bed stuffed with giraffe fur. I went along to witness the beautiful spectacle of fatherhood, only to be flattered by Donnie’s own flesh and blood. Eric said, “Sean, I want you to know that there’s no better patriot than you.” Can you believe that? The Trumps are just so nice and honest. Unlike the media not labeled “Fox News.”
It’s been hours since the bedtime deadline has passed in the Hannity household, and yet Donnie is sitting on the floor of the bedroom in his bathroom scouring the Times for something to tweet about. Like I said, the guy never sleeps. I didn’t particularly have a problem with it, but it was keeping me awake so I went downstairs to clear my head of the incessant typing. There, I discovered a wide-eyed, disheveled Steve Bannon staring blankly into a mirror and mumbling something about a holy war between Christianity and Islam. I remember thinking to myself, “America is gonna be just fine.”
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