James Comey, America’s favorite tall tale-spinner in a suit, is back at it—this time not with memos or melodramatic press conferences, but with seashells. Yes, seashells. The former FBI Director, who once fancied himself the guardian of the republic, thought it would be clever to post a beach arrangement spelling out “86 47.” And if you’ve ever spent five seconds on the internet, you know full well what “86” means: get rid of, eliminate, or—if we’re being blunt—kill. “47” just so happens to be Donald Trump’s presidential number should he win again. Coincidence? Not likely.
Comey, naturally, backpedaled faster than Joe Biden leaving a press gaggle. He took the post down and insisted it meant nothing sinister. Just a whimsical beach moment with the Mrs., apparently. Because nothing says “romantic coastal stroll” like coded political death threats in the sand, right? But here’s where it gets really rich: he claimed he had no idea what “86” meant. That’s right. The former FBI Director—the guy who oversaw criminal investigations at the highest level—wants you to believe he doesn’t know street slang that’s been around since diners were serving milkshakes in glass cups.
Not surprisingly, the Secret Service didn’t buy the naïve beachcomber act either. They reportedly had a “chat” with him, and while Comey insists it was all harmless, even MSNBC’s Nicolle Wallace couldn’t help but let the absurdity of the whole thing waft through her show like the scent of low tide. During his interview, Comey doubled down on his beach artistry, calling the shell arrangement “clever” and full of “artistic flair.” This is what he’s going with. The man who helped launch the Russia hoax is now channeling Bob Ross with passive-aggressive shell messages.
Then, when Tulsi Gabbard dared to suggest Comey should face charges for the post, he acted like someone had kicked over his sandcastle. According to Comey, he’s the real victim here—just a poor, misunderstood husband strolling the shoreline, now being pounced on by meanies who don’t appreciate his “flair.” It’s almost performance art, the way he pivots from high-ranking intelligence chief to barefoot beach poet in distress.
But Jesse Watters wasn’t about to let this one slide. In came Johnny, his fearless correspondent, to bring the trolling to Comey’s doorstep—literally. At a sparsely attended book signing, Johnny approached the towering former G-man and politely handed him a copy to sign. Then came the curveball: “Why did you want to ’86’ President Trump?”
EXCLUSIVE: Johnny asks @Comey to sign his seashell. pic.twitter.com/4l4dytUMRL
— Jesse Watters (@JesseBWatters) May 21, 2025
Boom. Game on.
Comey’s mask slipped immediately. He refused to answer “questions like that now,” which was basically code for “I didn’t think anyone would dare call me out to my face.” Johnny followed up, asking about the Secret Service interview, which seemed to further chip away at Comey’s carefully cultivated calm. But the knockout punch? Asking Comey to sign a seashell. Twice.
At that point, you could see the wheels grinding behind Comey’s eyes—he was fuming. He declined, and a handler whisked Johnny away, but not before he asked again what magical beach Comey’s finding all these politically loaded shells on. What’s next? A Biden 2028 oyster? A “Let’s Go Brandon” starfish?
@FoxNews Love this!! He went from being head of the FBI to stuck in the corner of a UPS store with people making fun of him.🤣 @Comey https://t.co/BUcICaTQ6C
— LilRascal (@rascal113646) May 21, 2025
The whole thing was delicious. Here you have a man who has spent the last eight years moralizing from the mountaintop—lecturing the rest of us on truth, decency, and duty—reduced to an awkward, rattled mess by a guy holding a conch.
And that’s exactly the point. These elites think they’re so clever, so untouchable, floating above the rest of us on a cloud of MSNBC praise and publisher advances. But then they get cornered by their own hypocrisy—tangled in the web they spun for others. And for once, someone didn’t let them skate away with the usual smug grin and a book blurb.
Now every time he steps near a coastline, you just know someone’s going to shout, “Hey Comey! Can you sign my seashell?” And honestly? That’s the accountability he’s going to have to live with—one awkward clam at a time.
