It's a beautiful day across the nation's capital. The sun's shining, the birds are chirping, and a nuclear winter has begun. Wait a minute… I'm jumping ahead of myself now.
My name is John, I was once a White House correspondent for the Washington Post. If you're reading this, you're one of the very few who survived the nuclear apocalypse. The weeks leading up to "Trumpsday," as we called it, were wild and tumultuous. A scandal here, a scandal there. For us new to the whole political press thing, it was entertaining. We had new stuff to write about throughout that week, and with all the leaks that we had obtained from the inside the White House, it was even better. For a journalist, I don't think I could've dreamed of anything better.
And then it happened.
Our perfect union.
Gone.
All it took was a five month long investigative piece, a bunch of drugs, a stash of pornography, and two investigative journalists hiding out at a bar.
And Bill Clinton.