Me and the FBI

The FBI is in the news a lot lately. And many people are eagerly awaiting the results of the big investigation.

If you're a Republican you're no doubt looking forward to having FBI Director Comey spell out in excruciating detail how there never, ever was any collusion between campaign surrogates and Russian intelligence officers. And that the numerous meetings with Manafort, Sessions, Flynn, and Gordon as well as the subsequent failed memories about those meetings, were all simply coincidental. A haphazard collection of random Russian-related events.

If you're a Democrat or an Independent (like myself) you're eager to see the concrete evidence that demonstrates how the last election was stolen by a wart-neck, unwashed twatwaffle.

And if you're an FBI agent, you'd better be looking over you shoulder everywhere you go. Gonna run down to the QuikyMart for a YooHoo? You'd better pack some heat. Cause KGB or whatever they're called these days seem to very busy cleaning up the messy entrails.

I don't know if any you have had direct contact with an FBI agent, but I have.

The year was.... never mind what year it was.

The place was Belmont Shores in New Jersey. And I found myself, as well as some high school buddies in a huge beach flophouse. There must have been about a dozen girls and guys in this house from all over the Tri-State area. We didn't all know each other, but for that debauched weekend, we all shared the same purpose.

One of the strangers in the house looked like a professional athlete. He was at least 6'3" and had the build of a Lou Gehrig. But baseball was not his game, espionage was. After a few beers, he showed us his official FBI badge, just like the one in the picture above.

After a few more beers, he started telling war stories. Fascinating war stories. Like how he was assigned to shadow a KGB agent living here in the states. He explained how it was his job to keep tabs on Sergei or Petrov or whatever his name was, and file weekly reports on all his activities.

"Monday, Sergei ordered a pastrami sandwich at Sal's Deli."

"Tuesday, Sergei ordered the corn beef at Sal's Deli."

"Wednesday, Sergei goes into Sal's Deli and buys Tums."

Crazy, right? But so is the flip side.

Because as Mr. FBI agent explained, the KGB guy was shadowing him as well. And filing the same kind of "intelligence" reports back to Moscow.

Here's where it gets interesting.

That Saturday night in New Jersey, amongst all the parties and beach bonfires, I got arrested by Belmont Shore's finest. The cops nabbed me and this other woman for smoking marijuana on the street. And guess who was with us the whole time?

Agent #739 of the Federal Bureau of Investigations.

Which means the whole incident was also recorded for posterity's sake by KGB Agent #182. So somewhere in the dusty bowels of an under-heated cinder-block Soviet building, there is a file with all the sordid details of my Jersey-shore incarceration.

It's a little creepy.

I feel your pain Precedent Shitgibbon, I feel your pain.