Michael Cohen

16 phones: A Michael Cohen sing-along

When the FBI raided Trump fixer Michael Cohen’s office, home and hotel room, they found and seized a cache of old cell phones—sixteen cell phones, to be precise. You have to wonder why Cohen held onto all of them. It is possible, after all, to transfer one’s contacts to a new phone. It’s possible, too, to destroy a phone and its memory, if it contains things you don’t want discovered. One could speculate that he kept them for sentimental reasons, or because he thought that someday a Blackberry would be a valuable collectors’ item. Not likely, though. A more plausible explanation would be that Cohen hung onto his old phones because they house, in their micro-memories, some important things that didn’t transfer over to the next generation of mobile phone. And what might those things be? Could they be saved voice mails and “taped” conversations with people Michael Cohen worked with? Cohen is known to record conversations—perhaps to retain them to play back in the future as embarrassing evidence or leverage, perhaps to use them as gossip fodder, or perhaps to play them for the merriment of his friends.

Whatever his reasons, the seized cell phones are now in the hands of the special master appointed to evaluate the attorney-client privilege-ness of what they and other documents contain. Are they the 21st century equivalent of the incriminating Nixon tapes? We may never know. Suffice it to say, though, that Cohen is probably sweating—as are all the people he may have talked to over 16-phones-worth of conversations.

So, in honor of the 16-phone seizure, I’ve composed a parody of Tennesse Ernie Ford’s, “16 Tons.

Here is the original 1955 hit. My lyrics follow:

Okay, now you’ve got the melody. Here goes

 

16 Phones: A Michael Cohen sing-along”

Some people say my ethics are stuck in the mud,

 I never had to worry: I had Trump as my bud.

I said I’d take the bullet if it came down to just us,

But I’m getting run over by Donald Trump’s bus.

 

You load 16 phones, and what do you get?

A lot of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t harass,

I’m holed up at home tryin’ to save my own ass.

 

I was born a fixer, and I’m good at the game.

Bully and Sleazeball are my middle names.

The Boss trusted me with the nastiest jobs,

And I’m consigliere to the Trump family mob.

 

You load 16 phones, and what do you get?

A lot of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t ask for more:

I’ve sold my soul to the Trump-any store.

 

I was born on Long Island, just a privileged kid,

I’m working for Trump now, and you know what I did.

I paid off some women and threatened the rest,

And now I’ve been raided, and I’m facing arrest.

 

You save 16 phones, and what do you get?

A lot of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t harass:

I’m holed up at home tryin’ to save my own ass.

 

Some people say I’ll flip and just tell it all,

Listen, you assholes, I’m not takin’ the fall.

Shut up for a change, and try to be wise,

‘Cuz I’ve got the goods on all of you guys.

 

You save 16 phones, and what do you get?

A ton of old recordings and a lot of new sweat.

Mr. Mueller don’t ya call me, and don’t harass:

I’m holed up at home, tryin’ to save my own ass.

 

 

Copyright 2018, Gloria Shur Bilchik