What I wouldn’t give for a time machine. I don’t necessarily want to go anywhere, I just would like to take a peek a few years from now and see if it’s humanly possible for ordinary Americans to travel abroad without people smirking, pointing and saying, “Look, it’s one of the dummies that voted for that shitshow back in ’24!” I think I may have my membership card with the Democratic Party laminated so I can whip it out and say, “Not me!” The clip you’re about to see is memorable. You know Pete Hegseth is a degenerate, but did you know how flamingly stupid he is?
He's describing the job of the Secretary of State, not the Secretary of Defense.
— Huey Trane (@HenYay) February 7, 2025
It’s worse than that. The truth of the matter is that in the Trump administration all the cabinet post jobs have a single description: kiss Trump’s ass publicly and praise him. That’s it. That’s the entire thing. The actual doing of the actual job is of no concern, as long as the Marmelade Monarch is sufficiently appeased on any given day.
He’s not the only one. Watching Hegseth is a lot like watching the opening to Dr. Strangelove, you know that things are only going to get worse. And why? Because all the characters on the screen are either evil or stupid. Some of them are both. And the one character that actually know what’s going on and is trying to fix things, is not being listened to, so the situation just continues to degenerate.
This image above is what got Hegseth the gig. Trump decided he “looked the part.” And since form triumphs over substance every single time, voila. You and I see a degenerate TV talking head, Trump sees the head of the largest department in government. Rick Wilson scripted the perfect ending for Hegseth. You’re gonna love this.
Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth didn’t just like bourbon—he needed it. He’d gotten the job with nothing more than booze, bluff, bravado, and Big Donnie backing.
Tonight, he was running low on all four. He could feel it in his guts. Something was off.
The Hay Adams Alibi bar was crowded, a sea of suits murmuring about appropriations and little Washington scandals that didn’t matter: whose job Elon had chopped that week, Mitch McConnell’s funeral seating, the third tax cut bill.
Pete sat in his favorite corner booth, nursing his fourth drink and pretending not to notice the Russian woman sliding into the seat across from him.
She had ice-blonde hair, lips the color of murder, and a presence that made the air heavy. Ace knew her type: expensive and dangerous. Her name was Irina, or at least that’s what her card had said, handed to him earlier in the week during some NATO summit he could barely remember. She spoke in a low, silky voice, her English perfect but her accent impossible to place.
“You look tired,” she said, her gaze cutting through him like a scalpel.
“You look expensive,” Pete replied, the corners of his mouth tugging into his signature smirk.
Irina didn’t laugh. She sipped her martini, eyes locked on him like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re in deep trouble, Pete.”
Pete leaned back, playing it cool, even as his pulse quickened. He might like this game.
“You think I want to fuck you?” Her laugh was low, smooth, chilly. “You’re already fucked, so let’s do business.”
The smirk dropped. He set his glass down harder than he meant to, the sound sharp enough to turn a few heads. “Careful, lady. You don’t know who you’re talking to.”
“Oh, I know exactly who you are.” She leaned in now, her perfume wrapping around him like smoke. “A man with too many vices and too few allies. The Pentagon doesn’t trust you. Congress barely tolerates you. And your debts, the women, the man you thought was a woman…well, Moscow keeps very good records.”
Pete’s stomach turned. He felt the heat rising in his neck, the bourbon not sitting now sitting like a pool of hot acid in his gut. He couldn’t decide if he was drunk or angry, but he knew he was in trouble.
“You should leave,” he muttered, trying to sound threatening but coming off just desperate. “My security detail…”
Irina smiled. Not the coy kind, but something more feral and hungry.
“Where? Maybe you should look at your phone.”
There it was on Twitter. TRUMP TO HARD DRINKING SECDEF: YOU’RE FIRED.
The stories cascaded past his notifications screen. Immediate effect. Being replaced tonight with a former General Big Donnie liked seeing on Fox. A Senior White House source — fucking Elon — said the drinking, the women, and the money were an embarrassment since Big Donnie knew nothing.
“You think it’s unfair, don’t you, Pete? That you’ll lose that latest pretty wife and never work again, yes? Maybe it is even prison because of some of the bribes. You’re already compromised, Mr. Former Secretary. Now, you have nothing. Nothing but information to sell.”
He shot unsteady to his feet, gripping the table’s edge to keep himself upright. “I’m a patriot!” he hissed, not believing it. “Get out of my face, or I’ll have security throw you out.”
Every eye in the joint was on them, but Irina didn’t move. She just stared at him, unfazed, as if she’d seen bigger men than him crumble. He could sense people getting the last Insta of his humiliation.
He knew what would happen.
The movement would turn on him. Devour him. His friends would disappear, and his chits would be worthless. Donnie had abandoned him. Now, the humiliation would never end.
”Look around. It’s all over. You don’t have security. All you have is me. Enjoy your drink, Pete,” she said, rising gracefully. She slid a folded piece of paper across the table and disappeared into the crowd.
Hegseth didn’t open it right away. He downed the rest of his bourbon first, then grabbed the note with shaking hands. It was a list of numbers. His debts…every last dollar he owed, and then some. The number was bigger than he thought.
It had a list of the girlfriends, the mistresses, the hookers. It, too, was bigger than he thought.
When he stumbled outside into the cold night, his security detail and the line of SUVs he loved were gone. Instead, a black sedan idled at the curb, its windows tinted jet black, its plates diplomatic.
The back door opened, and a voice with a thick Russian accent said, “Get in.”
Pete hesitated, scanning the empty street. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if he’d wake up tomorrow…at least not in America.
But he climbed in anyway.
We’re living in a pulp fiction novel. What, us worry? (And you wonder why MAD Magazine is no longer in business?) We live in a post-MAD, mad, mad, mad world.
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Thanks for printing Rick Wilson’s lovely satire of both Hesgeth and hard-boiled private eye novels. Rick’s Substack writings are pay-to-read and frankly I can’t afford any more subscriptions. This piece of Rick’s is bitter-sweet (like all proper satire) and while it echoes stuff from giants like Raymond Chandler, it’s also a nod to the marvelous Tracer Bullet, who appeared not often enough in the adventures of Calvin & Hobbes.
At least he didn’t go into DTs in front of the world. Petey you better have vodka available stat nearby in case the sweats, and shakes come upon you at a bad time. Try having a water glass nearby full of gin or vodka on ice. Looks like water. Glad to help.
This could apply to.most GOP types.