I’m the Mom Who Bumped into Hillary in the Woods Burying James Comey’s Body

November 11, 2016

The day after the 2016 election, I couldn’t stop crying. I had to get out of the house and clear my head. So, I put on my hat and coat and took my daughter on a walk through the Chappaqua woods.

It was quiet, peaceful and just what I needed to put my feelings in perspective. And then, I heard a rustling in the trees. I looked over, and who should I see but Hillary Clinton herself, burying the body of FBI Director James Comey.

I couldn’t imagine my luck. What unlikely stars had aligned for me to bump into my hero like this?

“You know,” Hillary said, her cheeks pink with the November cold and the exertion of digging a grave. “The biggest tragedy isn’t that I lost the election. It’s that no one will ever get to see my victory pantsuit.”

“And that a dangerous demagogue won the presidency?” I replied.

“IT WAS MADE ENTIRELY OF GLASS,” she said, hopping into the deep hole to arrange Comey’s body. “It was going to shatter to reveal another pantsuit underneath, woven from Bernie Sanders’ fine silver hair and buttons made of Susan B. Anthony’s delicate finger bones.”

Then she smiled, wiped the blood off her hands, and Bill took our picture.

“Wait, wait let me try that again,” he said. “Accidentally got Vince Foster’s unmarked grave in the background.”

“He’s kidding,” said Hillary. “That’s the pit where I savaged my private email server with a hammer. Gosh, it feels good to laugh.”

I couldn’t believe how gracious she was on the day after the biggest defeat of her life. She could have been at home sulking, drinking, or staring at her puffy-eyed, tear-stained face in the mirror while wearing the all-glass pantsuit Gucci would never allow her to return. But no, she did what any strong, capable woman does in the face of loss: She murdered the man responsible and buried the evidence deep in the forest.

Hillary looked at my daughter and me. “Boy, this could have been one of those great, humanizing social media moments for my campaign, couldn’t it?” she said.

I had to admit, she was right. Smeared in dirt, blood and sweat, she looked like a cool grandma who didn’t give a shit about politics, corporate donors, or the sanctity of human life.

“Do you feel any guilt?” I asked Hillary. “For example, what if James Comey’s actions inadvertently resulted in you losing the election, but, if he had lived, he would have gone on to testify against Trump in Congress, leading to his impeachment?”

Hillary grinned. “Like that would ever happen.”

“What’s that pinned to your blazer?” my daughter asked.

Hillary knelt down next to her. “This is the blue ribbon the DNC gave me for winning the popular vote.”

“Can I hold it?”

“Of course not,” Hillary said with that big booming laugh. “But you can help me burn it.”

And burn it we did, while Bill played Beyonce’s “Sorry” on his saxophone and two bald eagles made love in mid-air. I’ll never forget that moment, and neither will my daughter.


Bizzy Coy is a humor writer who contributes to The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, Splitsider, The Establishment and The Higgs Weldon. Sign up for her Tinyletter, “Bizzy In Your Box” or hang out with her on Twitter @bizzycoy.

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