"Hasta la vista, baby ..."
Pete Hegseth finds his voice.
It’s Wednesday morning in Norfolk, Virginia. A 45-year-old man with white supremacist tattoos coating his torso stands bare-chested before a bathroom mirror. The water is running from the sink. Wagner’s “Die Meistersinger” plays softly in the background. He is muttering to himself. We cannot hear what he is saying, but it feels unpleasant.
From behind, a woman approaches. It is his wife, Samantha Jennifer. She has a confused look plastered to her face.
JENNIFER: “Honey, what are you doing?”
PETE: “Running lines.”
JENNIFER: “Honey, all those months in rehab.”
PETE: “No. Lines for today’s press conference at the Pentagon.”
JENNIFER: “Oh, baby. I love hearing you play big boy general!”
PETE: “Can I practice on you?”
Jennifer nods glowingly, then sits on a camo-decorated bathroom chair.
PETE: “Pretend you’re a retarded lib media member.”
JENNIFER: “Like, a trans them with pink hair?”
PETE: “Sure. Now ask me a question about Iran?”
Jennifer clears her throat.
JENNIFER: “Pete …”
PETE: “Honey, we’ve gone over this. It’s either ‘Sir’ or ‘Mister War Secretary.’ Or ‘Mr War.’”
JENNIFER": “Oh, sorry, babe.” Clears throat again. “Mister War …”
PETE: “Yes, retard loser from NBC …”
JENNIFER: “Why is the war going so badly?”
PETE: “Babe! What the fuck?”
JENNIFER: “Oh, duh. Right. Sorry. I was just reading about the American casualties.”
PETE: “What do we always say, Babe? I do the reading, you do the cooking and dress like sexy nurse.”
Jennifer clears her throat.
JENNIFER: “Mister War, what makes America so great?”
Pete Hegseth grins for a second, then turns back toward the mirror, puts on his serious face and straightens his shoulders.
PETE: “Well, Jennifer—Iran wanted war. And we gave them [long pause] Gwar!”
Awkward pause.
JENNIFER: “Honey, I don’t understand.”
PETE: “Gwar—the rock band. ‘Scumdogs of the Universe.’ Like, we brought the metal to Iran! Bam! Thud! Whoo!”
Awkward pause.
JENNIFER: “I don’t think that works, babe.”
PETE: “Hmm. OK. Um. How about—‘Iran thought they were in for a cake walk. But now we’re … walking all over their cake!”
JENNIFER: “I guess it’s a little better.”
Pete looks frustrated.
PETE: “They called him the supreme leader. Well, now we call him ‘Dead.’
JENNIFER: “Who’s dead?”
PETE: “The supreme leader.”
JENNIFER: “Of where?”
PETE: “Fucking a. How about something like, ‘I guess Trump Steaks didn’t fail after all. Because we just London broiled Iran!’”
Pete smiles. He’s impressed with himself.
JENNIFER: “Technically, London Broil is just a cooking method. Not a cut of meat.”
PETE: “For fuck’s sake.”
Pete opens the mini-fridge under his sink, grabs a can of Budweiser. Cracks it open, stares up at a photo of Joseph Stalin framed above a window.
JENNIFER: “Honey, we’ve talked about this …”
Pete hushes his wife.
PETE: “Quiet, woman. I need to think! I need to think! I need to think!”
He grabs a nearby pen, stabs the can, shotguns it. Wipes his mouth with a towel.
PETE (to himself, staring back in the mirror): “Let’s fucking go, big boy! You’re the secretary of war of the United States of America. You’ve got this! All those pussies don’t understand who you are! You’re the motherfucking man! You didn’t wet yourself in ninth grade! You didn’t have a crush on Mitch Gaylord! You weren’t voted Most Likely to Never Open a Book! You are Pete motherfucking Hegseth!”
Jennifer looks concerned. Pete steps toward her.
PETE: “LL Cool J once rapped, ‘Mama said knock you out.’ Guess what? We just knocked out Iran!”
JENNIFER: “Oh, babe. Way too DEI.”
PETE: “Nobody thought Rocky could beat Drago—and he kicked his ass! Now, so did America!”
JENNIFER: “Drago was Russian. This is Iran. Different countries, babe.”
PETE: “No, babe. I’m pretty sure Iran is in Russia.”
JENNIFER: “Um, no.”
PETE: “Iran wanted to play with fire. Now—they’re on fire!”
JENNIFER: “I think I have an appointment …”
PETE: “Iran thought we would run. Well, I-never-ran!”
JENNIFER: “With my therapist …”
PETE: “Whose house? Trump’s house!”
JENNIFER: “In Bermuda …”
PETE: “Elton John once sang, ‘I’m still standing …’”
JENNIFER: “Dear God …”
I think that Pickled Pete refers to himself as the "Secretary of War". It's much more real than the "Secretary of Defense". I think "Secretary of Death" would be better, but that really fails in the focus groups I imagine.
Line between truth and satire has become unrecognizable. I am pretty sure this is a parody of Pistol Pete, but there's a small chance this was an actual encounter.
Welcome to trump's America.