The dinner after-parties are of course the talk of the town. Why? Who knows. It's just a bunch of rich self-important assholes getting shitfaced with other rich self-important assholes. The only people who care are so far up their own asses. That they even think we should care about what cocktail some bureaucrat asshole is drinking blows my fucking mind.
The Washington Post continues to perpetuate this slop. The article written by Libby Copeland and Dana Milbank is such a fucking disaster. It's a tale of two people getting drunk. There, I just summed up the entire article in one sentence. It's also written in a style that's too cheeky by half. To wit:
There's already a line at the Costa Rican Embassy, and some dude in front of us is helping his friends cut ahead, which makes us feel very fourth grade (Hey! No cutting!), and the poor shlubs who aren't on the list are being made to wait in a roped-off "penalty box."
"We were invited by Ludacris!" a woman wails.
Pathetic creature.Geez, guys. That wasn't very nice. Whatever. On to the celebrities! Let's see who else our intrepid reporters ran into:
There's Georgette Mosbacher mincing past in high-high heels, looking like she should be carrying a teeny-tiny dog in her arms.
I don't know who that is. The article gives no explanation. A quick wiki check shows the following:
Now, where were we? We see Marc Cherry, the portly "Desperate Housewives" creator who looks the teensiest bit like Karl Rove.
This gets a pass because Cherry was on Arrested Development. He inspired some hot boy-on-her? action. That's right, I am making stupid jokes that only Arrested Development viewers will understand because I am getting so fucking bored with this stupid article.
We chat up [Michelle] Kwan, who reports that during dinner she gabbed with Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice about how hard it is to find the right ice skates.
Man, these two so-called "reporters" couldn't even track down a gold medal winner? Lame.
Valerie Bertinelli is in a corner sitting on some stairs, surrounded by People people, and pronouncing herself a "wallflower."
Jesus Christ I have no idea who this fucking person is either. Again, Copeland and Milbank give the reader no explanation. It turns out she's mostly famous for being Eddie Van Halen's ex-wife. Copeland and Milbank should be lauded for looking straight into the luminosity of these mega-stars and not even flinching.
Minutes later, she stands up on the stairs and surveys the hot and sweaty crowd, looking for her boyfriend, Tom Vitale.
Oh my God. This is the third mystery person in this stupid piece-of-crap article. Wikipedia is of no help unless Vitale is the Senior Vice President of Programming & Original Movies for the Sci Fi Channel. That seems hella obscure for a mention in the Style section of the paper.
Then this happens:
We mosey over to the Capitol File party at the Colombian ambassador's residence, by now quite fuzzyheaded from teeny-weeny drinkie-winkies, and on our way in we catch sight of booted "American Idol" contestant Chris Sligh.
Hey, Chris! What's it like to be temporarily famous?
"Hopefully, it's not temporary," he says politely.
At least they explained who the fuck Chris Sligh was. Then they go on to make fun of him. For not being famous enough. Yeah, Chris Sligh! You are no Tom Vitale! Take that! BURN!
And "teeny-weeny drinkie-winkies"? Really? That's what you two agreed on? This was a collaborative effort. One of you should have realized how stupid that phrase is.
The article abruptly ends right about there. I hate this fucking town. The city gets so worked up over an after-party hosted by Christopher Hitchens and attended by the chick who was married to the "Panama" guy. This is what drives the city's gossip. The self-importance is nauseating. These people are not famous. No one cares. Or, more accurately, no one should care. This city is so fucking masturbatory. Politicians! Journalists! Drinking! This is the apex of the Washington social calendar and the Post can't do better than to print a run-in with Michelle "Ha Ha! She Fell Again" Kwan.
I hope Copeland and Milbank have hangovers.