Steve Bannon had a hand on it, and so did a Kremlin spy, of course, before they gave it to Rudy and he started bleating about it to the Post.
I want to tell those people they can quit fussing about that computer, because I know exactly where Hunter’s Biden’s laptop is. It’s in my garage. I bought it a couple years ago, at the swap meet in Santee. I know, I know. Hunter lives in Los Angeles, not Santee, but the swap meet there is kind of like a black hole for unwanted merchandise, and Santee is way closer to LA than Delaware is.
I knew it was Hunter’s the minute I powered it up. There’s a screenplay on it, and it’s by “Biden Hunter.” Maybe you don’t know this, but there’s a local ordinance in Los Angeles that requires everyone who lives there to write at least one screenplay. Hunter’s is called “The Ukrainian Candidate,” and it’s about a handsome young guy who likes to party and take warm baths with candles who meets a beautiful former Miss Crimean Peninsula who has become a CIA asset. She enlists him in a desperate struggle to save Europe from a nuclear catastrophe. There is an ongoing battle with a half-human monster whose exposure to intense radiation at Chernobyl gave him super-strength and the ability to microwave frozen perogies with his eyes, so the monster is very pro-nuclear catastrophe. About halfway through the hero and the beauty queen realize they are in love, of course, and there’s a black moment when the hero and the monster have to duke it out, hand to hand, and the hero seems doomed, until suddenly, he wins and the monster falls off a precipice to his death.
It’s just like everything else on Netflix, and Hunter notes that in several bitter asides. “It’s just like everything else on Netflix,” he fumes. “Why won’t they buy it?” He does try to enlist his Vice President dad’s influence, but not on behalf of corrupt foreign interests. “Screw Burisma. When are you going to talk to Warner Brothers?” he whines, in a draft note to the current Presidential candidate.
There’s also a little residual cocaine on the top, and a couple razor scrapes, because after a hard night of partying, nothing gets those creative juices flowing like finishing off any coke you might have left over.
But what’s not on it is any emails, which makes it exactly like my computer. All my emails are on the Internet. I have to open up Chrome to see them. When I do, there they are, ready to be impatiently deleted, so I can accumulate more. Because I have had my email address for more than twenty-five years, my account has a complex ecosystem of spam, offering me everything from cheap boner pills to six-figure jobs working for imaginary companies out of India, which has to be cleaned out every couple days. Any email I ever got or sent that I didn’t delete is stored on my account.
But when I flick off my browser, they all disappear. They’re not on my hard drive. You could hack them, of course, and in my darker moments I wish you would, but you don’t need my laptop to do that. Ask Hillary.
Sure, sometimes I think, Oh, this email is especially incriminating, so I should probably PDF it and save it to my hard drive, but I never do.
I’m betting neither did Hunter.