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From the personal diary of SEAN HANNITY



I really thought Cohen would be able to invoke lawyer-client privilege—he promised me he could–and I still don’t exactly understand what went down in New York, except that that damned judge, Kimba Wood, obviously is an elite liberal. I checked her out on Wikipedia and wasn’t surprised to find out that Clinton—Bill, not Hillary—nominated her for Attorney-General, but she had to withdraw because she was involved in a nanny-scandal. Clearly she is prejudiced against Republicans and conservatives. I can’t attack her directly on my shows, but I can promise you, Diary, that my friends are going to tear her a new one. They’re already spreading the rumor that Wood presided over George Soros’s marriage! Mr. Murdoch even got his friend, George W. Bush’s attorney-general, Michael Mukasey, to write an op-ed piece in yesterday’s Wall Street Journal that was very clever in indirectly defending me by attacking Comey and Mueller. Mukasey owes Mr. Murdoch bigtime; he never would have gotten his job otherwise. It’s good to have someone like Mr. Murdoch in my corner!

That’s what I love about my peeps. They lie so adroitly and manipulate so brazenly. When I was a young journalist, I had a hard time lying with a straight face, but nowadays, it’s easy. The more you lie, the less problem you have with lying. What is “truth,” anyway?

Everybody wants to know what Cohen helped me with, Diary. Like I tweeted, “I never retained him, never received an invoice, or paid legal fees.” Of course, our agreement was that there be no paper trail. Cohen doesn’t leave paper trails behind, which is what his clients love about him. I did pay him—nearly $350,000 so far—but there’s no trail for that: the money went straight into one of Cohen’s offshore accounts, where it waits for him to use when the heat settles down, and no one will ever be able to trace it.

What did he advise me on? It wasn’t “advice” so much as help. You see, Diary, there was this chick I met at a hotel bar in Atlanta: tall, thirtyish, long curly blond hair, big boobs. Really hot—kinda like Stormy Daniels. She said she lived in Frisco and was in town for a convention. We got to chatting—she was drinking Margaritas, and I was drinking my favorite dry martinis. Yeah, we got a little tipsy, and next thing you know we’re in her room, making it. To make a long story short, about two weeks later my secretary at Fox gets an email asking me to call the woman in question, whose name is Desirée. So my secretary calls her, and Desirée tells her she needs some money, or else she’ll go public—and she claims she has secret tape recordings of our encounter.

Well, that’s when I called Donald, I mean, the President—this was shortly after he was sworn in—and told him, and he got me in touch with Cohen, who worked out the deal: $150,000 for her silence. I don’t know the details. I arranged for the money to go to the same offshore account; I assume that somehow he managed to get the money to Desirée, but I don’t know how, and I don’t want to know!

I have no idea what the Feds have on me. Did Cohen have tapes of our conversations? Videos? Emails? Texts? I honestly don’t remember much about our communication. Let me tell you, Diary, when you have a bimbo eruption that can threaten your reputation and career, you go into fight-or-flight mode. All I knew was that I needed to make this thing go away—and that’s exactly what Cohen is good at. He’s done it for Trump for years.

The thing people don’t understand about wealthy, powerful men like me is that we have needs that ordinary men don’t, and the means to realize them. The occasional fling isn’t a luxury for me, it’s a necessity. I mean, I’m under a lot of stress! I’ve talked about this with the President, and he feels exactly the same way. He once told me, “Sean, you and I know that a sexual affair is cathartic. We’re so busy that, every once in a while, we just need the peace and excitement of a roll in the hay with a woman who’s practically a stranger.” Amen to that!

I’m pretty sure I can beat this rap. The Murdochs are solidly behind me—hell, I’m their biggest earner, they damn well better be! So my job’s safe. Rush has been outstanding in his support. He has his own fixer—I don’t know the guy’s name, but he supposedly helped Rush with that little OxyContin problem, and I know for a fact that Rush has had bimbo eruptions too. Matter of fact, Jeanine Pirro told me Rush got involved with a cabana boy at a Mustique resort, back around 2012. She said he had to pay him $1 million to keep it on the Q.T. That’s a lot of dough, but Rush makes something like $30 million a year, so I guess he can afford it.

Next time I see the President, I’m gonna ask him how he manages to smuggle women into the White House, or Mar-a-Lago, or Bedminster, or overseas, wherever he’s at. I myself am going to have to cool it for a while, which pisses me off. I mean, I can always “take care of myself,” but you’d be amazed how many beautiful, hot ladies throw themselves at me, and it’d be a shame to have to say “No.” But I have no choice. This Cohen business has been embarrassing. I’m gonna have to watch my back for a while.



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