Friends, White House Correspondents, countrymen lend me your ear…pass me a beer and a small plate of fear. The rotten part of me loves the hypocrisy of folks running around the District of Columbia with “Press” badges on. If it wasn’t for all the social lubricants in the rooms and after parties the entire experience may as well be Chaplin flick with ragtime jazz playing in the background. The White House “Elite” rubbing elbows in a silent movie where everyone is smiling and not one soul dares to flick the “mute buttons” off their collective lapels as the whole show would go from Barnum and Bailey to Bobby and Whitney (which in my humble opinion is/was the only real reality show).
It is very difficult to behave as a journalist at the White House Correspondents Association Dinner when your mouth has been sewn shut, your arms have been chopped off and you need an IV in your neck to get anything into your body that resembles a “spirit”.