Press Briefing with the Apostle of the Apocalypse: Pete Hegseth

Somewhere in the marble-smeared undercarriage of democracy—possibly a press crypt retrofitted with gold drapes and a faint scent of nacho cheese—Pete Hegseth, Fox’s resident warrior-poet and Trump’s unofficial pressroom field general, took the stage with the flair of a substitute gym teacher assigned to teach theology.

The room—a pit of feverish keyboard commandos from outlets like Trump Talk, Trump Porn, MagaMinutes, and The Daily Patriot Pantload—was already humming with cheap vape clouds and louder-than-usual prayer.

Hegseth, wearing a suit from Slick Dick Clothiers and a tie made from Mike Flynn’s facial skin, stood before a podium made from a repurposed tanning bed. He began:

“You’re scum.”

There was a pause. Then, as if on cue, a dozen phone-camera operators gave each other enthusiastic thumbs-up, high on allegiance and Monster Energy. One blogger from “Melania’s Mirror” burst into tears of patriotism.

“Trump is a warrior,” Hegseth snarled. “The commander-in-chief was so in control he held a Big Mac in one hand, a Big Gulp in the other, and yelled ‘BOMB!’ through a straw. No one in history has pulled off such a balancing act. Not Churchill. Not Patton. Not Guy Fieri.”

The crowd gasped, then erupted in claps that seemed choreographed by the Heritage Foundation.

And then it got biblical.

“Never question Trump’s ability to penetrate,” he declared, his jaw locked like a Dodge RAM stuck in 4WD.

A nervous tremor passed through the front row. A blogger from Trump Porn raised a trembling hand. “What size… was the load?”

The room fell silent, save for someone softly humming Lee Greenwood.

Hegseth glared.

“There you go,” he said with the conviction of a man who’s eaten crayons in battle. “A proper assessment may take months. Iran won’t be able to call a cleaner until the extent of the damage is visible from space.”

This was followed by a Q&A as surreal as a Dali acid flashback. A contributor from Trump Talk—barely 21, wearing a “Reagan’s Ghost is My Co-Pilot” t-shirt—asked a fellow youth operative, “What kind of scum are we?”

Without missing a beat, the young patriot stood, saluted the ceiling, and proudly proclaimed:

“We are the scum of Trump’s bathtub ring. We bathe in the glory of the Epstein soup.”

There were cheers. And gurgles. And a standing ovation from a man in a red, white, and blue Speedo labelled “Uncle Grope.”

The lights dimmed. Hegseth vanished through a side door labeled “MILF Strategy Room.”

And somewhere, maybe in a bunker below McDonald's, the former president laughed—mouth full of Filet-O-Fish, legacy full of ketchup.

God help us all.