or, Somebody Talk Me Out of Boycotting "Whose Line Is It Anyway?"
I think I want to be sick. No, really, I WANT to be sick. Like I've eaten a beehive full of little buzzing, stinging bastard bugs, and I have to yack them up for my own good.
More bitching to follow. And yes, I'm sure this has been diaried to death already. Fuck. I just got off work at 11 pm my time -- working my second job, isn't that just fantastic, to quote the brush-clearing Preznit. I haven't had my moment to rant.
Goddamn the Radio and Television Correspondents' Association dinner anyway. Bad enough that on all too many occasions, the powerful pols get to "party down" with the powerful media mavens, moving, shaking, networking, schmoozing, and knob-slobbing. Investigate who? You're kidding me, he and I went outside and pissed on the Hilton dumpsters together. Me and him, we brothers, man. No investigations here. What would happen to my K Street connections? Alan and Andrea wouldn't have me over for Sundowners and shrimp cocktails anymore. Nossir, buddy. Tonight's schmoozing gets followed up by fawning ball-lapping tomorrow, just like always. Who are you fucking kidding?
Let me remind the goddamned Washington press corps one more time: it's an adversarial relationship, you teabagging sons of whores. You don't party with them tonight and expose their crimes tomorrow.
How the hell can, say, David Gregory do a reprise of "Ally McBeal" tonight, two-stepping behind "MC Rove" with a sickly smirk on his face and then tomorrow step up and pepper Rove's point man Tony Snow with tough questions about -- oh, fuck, you fill in the Constitutional crisis or far-ranging criminal scandal or imminent global destruction. Gregory ain't worried. He's grooming himself to become Matt Lauer's replacement -- just like Carson and Leno, man -- and preparing to toss frisbee questions to the rich and powerful. "So, Condi, tell me what's gone right in Iraq so far?" Gaaaaahhh.
(And someone want to tell me why Bush's lascivious homoerotic slavering over Obama's "sleek, hairless pecs" isn't news for some tabloid somewhere? Come on, Lips, out of the closet with you.)
And just to add insult to injury, there's Brad Sherwood and Colin Mochrie, two of my favorite guys from "Whose Line," smirking and rapping behind MC Goebbels and grinning like monkeys in the moonlight. I like that fucking show. I've already made my peace, such as it is, with Drew Carey being a raving conservative. Now those two grinning baboons have gone and yocked it up with the Fourth Reich, in front of God and ten million homeless people watching in bars and shelters and through plate glass windows, and everyfuckingbody. How the hell can I watch that show again? What's next? Wayne Brady donning a white robe and shuffling with David Dukes? Ryan Stiles doing a riff on the last polar bear dying of heatstroke? I know, I know, unlike the goddamned ass spelunkers of the Washington press corps, they're entertainers, and the first rule of that bunch is, "Actors will do any goddamned thing." So the standards are lower. But partying with the stormtroopers? In public?
So tell me I'm not the only one who can't stomach watching Mochrie and Sherwood yock it up on "WLIIA" any longer. Tell me I'm not the only one throwing beanie babies and table lamps and cats at the television every time Davey or Norie or Cokie or the rest of those sorry shits stands up with the cameras rolling and pretends to be Investigative Journalists, watch me just GRILL those criminal fuckers! But hey, it's all in good fun, we're going to go to Karl's after work and throw up on his back deck. No worries, man, Felipe will clean it up afterwards. You can still get good help these days. Nixon's Filipinos are still around if you know who to ask to get them to do your place. A good time will be had by all, and everyone will have their jobs come Monday morning.
Fuck, I'm pissed. Again.