The time the Secret Service detained me because I bofa’d Donald Trump Jr

It was 10.30 PM on June 11th, and I was landing at New York’s JFK after a trip home to England. Handing in my passport at the security desk, I was led away to an interviewing room. A Homeland Security officer searched my bag before two men in suits walked in, introduced themselves as Matt and Vito of the Secret Service, who told me “anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” just before my heart fell out of my ass.

On a chair next to Vito, I saw a two-inch-thick file with my name and date of birth on it, and my mind raced with increasingly grim possibilities – had I somehow planted drugs in my own bag back from London? Was I accidentally plotting a murder I didn’t know about? Did I join ISIS by mistake?

With Vito next to him, and the Homeland Security guy standing in the doorway, agent Matt began speaking: “In November 2017, you sent texts to Donald Trump Jr.” I laughed with relief. Two Secret Service agents were interrogating me because, in one of the dumbest episodes of my life, I got hold of the president’s firstborn son’s cell phone number and bofa’d him.

The bofa gag, as anyone who has used it will tell you, is one of the purest forms of comedy. It’s a simple and extremely childish joke that deserves its place in the cretin prankster’s hall of fame, next to the updog, the wedgie, and the wet willy. The premise is straightforward. I use the word “bofa” in a sentence, then you, a rube, asks “what’s bofa?” and then you get owned with the response “bofa deez nuts bitch!” A real classic.

Last year, on a slow news day in November, I found Don’s number online. It wasn’t hard. Donald John Trump Junior, a keen animal slayer and gun aficionado, has posted his private Hotmail address a number of times on hunting forums like “Specialty Pistols” and “Len Backus’ Long Range Hunting”, under the name DJTJR. He even tagged his location as New York and signed off as “Don.” Genius.

By Googling his email address, a PDF appeared which seemed to be a Trump Organization contact sheet, now vanished, listing Don’s cell. I put the number into Facebook’s search bar, and up popped Don’s personal profile, confirming it was him.

So I did what anyone normal would do. I texted the number, pretended to be Hope Hicks, President Trump’s then-communications director, and then bofa’d Don into outer space. “Hi Don, Hope here on my private cell,” I messaged him. “Just to keep you in the loop, got a copy of the new BoPher report to send you. It’s going to drop early next week and is sure to cause a storm.”

I was certain he would see through it. Surely nobody, not even the president’s largest son, would fall for a such a stupid gag, especially from an unknown number. But after a few minutes, he replied: “BoPher?” and my heart filled with joy.

“BOPHER DEEEEEEZ NUUUUUUUUTS BICTH #420 #69 #FUCKFACE #HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH,” I wrote back, attaching a photo of a finishing move from Wrestlemania. He didn’t respond, even though I texted him a bit later saying “Reply to me you coward.” I put the texts in a short post on babe.net and congratulated myself on a job well done.

I sweatily described all of this to the stone-faced agents, Matt and Vito, in the interviewing room of JFK Terminal 7. Our encounter included an awkward minute where I struggled to tell them what bofa is and how you do it – “Make me laugh,” said Matt, as I stumbled over how it works, not quite believing I wasn’t living through a NyQuil-induced fever dream. I was told that because I had pretended to be Hope Hicks, I could be charged with impersonating a government officer. “It was a crime what you did,” Matt would tell me later on. “False impersonation.”

(But I looked this up after I left, and it would appear that in order for impersonating a government officer to be a crime, you need to swindle “money, paper, document, or a thing of value” out of your target, whereas I just did it to call Don a fuckface.)

I never texted him again. OK, maybe once when I found a Facebook comment Don made expressing his appreciation for motorboating a woman’s breasts. Fine, and then three more times during his quite funny divorce.

But it was the bofa incident Matt and Vito really wanted to investigate. Then they started unraveling the conspiracy. Some of the questions they asked me included: “Do you own weapons? Do you have any interest in weapons? Are you affiliated with any organizations, political organizations? Do you have any specialized skills or training – combative, explosive, firearms? Have you ever planned any travel since you saw an interest in Donald Trump Jr?”

Matt then asked about my relationships, asking for contact info of people I know. While they’ve yet to call my mum and tell on me, they did phone my girlfriend and then my editor 10 days later. They ran through the same questions to suss out if I might be an impulsive and highly-trained ex-commando with a collection of knives.

“He sent a long string of profane text messages and stuff like that,” said a third Secret Service agent named Drew who called the babe office. “My main focus is to gain an understanding of his capacity potentially for violence.”

Back in JFK, as Matt took my photo and asked me to waive my privacy rights for him to search my health records, I was told not to contact Donald Trump Jr any more and delete his number. He asked me to confirm I would never show up at Trump Tower and try to kill him. Which is fair.

After an hour in total, I was told that other Secret Service agents would be in touch, and I was free to go. I walked out stunned, full of unanswered questions. Was this the end of the investigation? Would this have been harder were I not a toffee-nosed Brit with the appearance of a sickly viscount from Downton Abbey? And could I ever do another bofa as good as this?

So Don, if you’re reading this, have you seen the controversial new Ligma report that’s about to drop?

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@hshukman