You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Paaaaaaaaarty, If You Are Director of the FBI

Everyone is mad at me for chugging a beer in a locker room. What’s the big deal? That locker room was filled with my dearest, closest friends who I just met. They just happened to be professional hockey players who just happened to win an Olympic gold medal moments before. What’s the problem?

When I first walked into the locker room they were like, “Who the fuck are you?” and “How did you get in here?” and I was like, “Hilarious, guys! Seriously! You’re killing me!” And then I reminded them that I could kill them, given that I am the Director of the FBI and I travel everywhere with my buddies from the SWAT team.

They had no choice but to let me into the locker room, given that I compel the weight of the national security and intelligence apparatus. However, they would have let me in regardless because, as you can probably tell by looking at me, I know how to party.

I was so proud to be there with my uber-masculine hockey buddies to share in a special moment. A gold medal? What an incredible, hard-fought victory for which I will readily take credit even though I’ve never been on skates.

Don’t be so mad at me for getting a little carried away, okay? You may think by watching the video clips circulating on social media that I had never before attended a party in my life, a suspicion bolstered by the way I move awkwardly through space with the distinct stench of desperation. However, I assure you that I am, and have always been, one of the boys. A consummate Alpha Male.

If the people want to get mad about something, they should get mad about my travelling to the Olympics in the first place on a private jet. I mean, I was furious when government officials in my position used their taxpayer-funded private jet to travel for work purposes. Rest assured that when I use the taxpayer-funded private jet, I am not doing any work.

Okay, I admit, I was doing a little work this time. As the person responsible for overseeing major crimes investigations, and as someone who takes that important job extremely seriously, I was investigating a serious crime in that locker room.

A Beer Crime!

Beer was spilling everywhere! I was also spilling it too, like a baby trying a sippy cup for the first time, given that chugging beer with my alpha male buds is not an activity in which I am usually invited to participate. The beer was mixed with tears of gratitude, for finally being accepted by a bunch of jocks, even if they had no choice because I told them that I could have their families arrested and deported if they refused me. So strong are the bonds of brotherhood.

God, I love being the Director of the FBI. There is a cool factor in simply wearing the FBI logo. I’m like Fox Mulder from the X-Files. I could be tall, like him. I could be a recovering sex addict, like the actor who played him. Maybe then I wouldn’t need to bribe women with lavish, inappropriate gifts to hang out with me.

And what an epic night! The locker room party got lit!  In the middle of it, I decided to put a call in to my boss, the President, to let him know that I have friends, and to update him on the status of our national security readiness given our impending war with Iran. (Party later with some Ayatollahs?) I confess that I didn’t mean to livestream the misogynistic conversation between the President and the hockey players denigrating the women’s hockey team; however, in my defense, I was really drunk. Luckily, the law completely absolves people from any liability if they are intoxicated. (I know this, because I went to law school.)

I cannot wait until the Stanley Cup finals. I’m going to rent us the party room at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, a building that I hear is nice, even though I’ve never actually been there. I will invite all my hockey buds, order some strippers, and maybe get a chocolate fountain. We’ll have pizza, play drinking games with our gold medals, and take turns urinating into the Stanley Cup and daring each other to drink it. I’ll get hammered of course (for liability purposes) and wake up in a ditch somewhere with a member of the SWAT team rubbing my back as I puke.

Screw the haters.

I am the Director of the FBI, and I like to paaaaaaaaaarty!!!!!!!!