Sunday, February 22, 2009

DC Tea Party at CPAC

Dan Riehl has the news about planning for an anti-tax, anti-"stimulus," anti-Hope protest to be held in Washington this week, so go there and find out how to sign up.

For the past two months, that "CPAC 2009: Register Now!" button has been featured prominently on my sidebar. If you've never been to CPAC, you owe it to yourself to go. It's a right-wing Mardi Gras, with a little bit of infield-at-Talladega thrown in for good measure. Imagine it: 5,000 conservatives in one hotel, with speakers like Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter and RNC Chairman Michael Steele, plus the Pajamas Media "Conservatism 2.0" Conference with Glenn Reynolds, Michelle Malkin and more.

If you're a conservative, CPAC is like Disney World. The exhibition hall is full of cool displays, book signings, T-shirts, and bumper stickers. There's Radio Row, where you can watch guys like G. Gordon Liddy and Kirby Wilbur broadcast live. And of course, there's Blogger Row, where you can -- believe it or not -- watch the Ewok-looking Ace of Spades doing his blogospheric voodoo.

Myself, I'm usually somewhere near the lobby, schmoozing. It's amazing who you can meet in the lobby of the Omni Shoreham during CPAC. You'll be strolling through the lobby, look up and say to yourself, "Hey, isn't that . . .?" And sure enough, it is: Phyllis Schlafly or Mark Krikorian or Elaine Donnelly or Don Feder or whoever. The lobby bar is a whole 'nother scene unto itself.

The parties! The receptions! The hordes of College Republicans! The VodkaPundit vs. Little Miss Attila Martini Debate! Jason Mattera! Michelle Lee Muccio! (Yes, she will be there.) If you miss it, you'll regret it only once -- and that will be for the rest of your life!

"But Stacy, I have to work. I can't just drop everything at short notice and fly off to D.C."

Look, you wienie, it's simple: When you go into work Monday, find some excuse before lunch to go into your supervisor's office and, while you're talking to him, just sniffle a little. In the afternoon, make sure you cough once or twice an hour. Not too much, but just a little. And if anybody says anything about it, just say, "Oh, it's nothing." They don't know that Sunday afternoon you already went on Travelocity and booked your flight and hotel for D.C.

Now, Tuesday: Bring a box of Kleenex and some Hall's Mentholyptus Cough Drops with you. Put them on your desk and use frequently. You're coughing, you're sniffling, you're blowing your nose. But when they ask you about it, say, "No, no, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. Just a minor cold. . . ." At lunch, though, tell the boss you've got to run to the drugstore and pick up some Sudafed. "Just in case."

Needless to say, about 2 or 3 o'clock, you announce to your co-workers that the chills, the aching in your bones, the dizziness and nausea have finally convinced you that maybe you're coming down with something. And, besides, you're needed at home because your wife just called to say they closed your kid's school at noon. Something about viral meningitis going around . . .

That's it -- and Wednesday morning, you call in sick, you're off to the airport, winging your way to the nation's capital for the wildest three days you've spent since the spring break in college when you and your frat buddies made that road trip to Panama City Beach.

And hit the tip jar: Advice like this is worth $20, and the L.A. Gin Monster's coming to town.


  1. Look forward to seeing you there...I will be the one dressed in black.

  2. We got us Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter, Michael Steele, Glenn Reynolds, Michelle Malkin, Gordon Liddy, and Phyllis Schafly. And, by God, schmoozin' cool over there, The Bon Vivant Chickenhawk.

    And many more, the redneck rabble. Talking, loud, fast, uninformed, spittle flying. Alcohol, sweat, cheap cigars, vile cologne.

    DJ Steele Ice spins a few platters. The disco ball glitters. The lights dim. Smoky. Hot. Da Steele Man plays him some Hammer. They gettin' down. Gettin' funky.

    Liddy drools on Coulter's skeletal arm while he shows her the flame trick. She licks the drool off and slips him her hotel key. Limbaugh pops a few oxys and checks out Phyllis. Saggy rack. He thinks about Sarah's pillowy pair. Nice. Next year. Nailin' Palin.

    Outside, in the dark, cold night, The Magic Negro approaches, bayonet dripping. The end is nigh.

    The horror. The horror.