December 14, 2005
A Night on the Town with Wonkette
As befits a viciously unpopular “weblogging” outfit, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” possesses its own Washington office, which is home to a bevy of Washington correspondents. Naturally, we refer to the District of Columbia, not the state of Washington: We’d set up shop in the latter if we thought reports from Walla Walla would charm anyone, but, quite frankly, they won’t.
Most of the time, dear reader, our humble Washington correspondents offer no news. Apparently, not much is happening in the nation’s capital, with the exception of the fact that the Bush administration is turning our country into a police state. Or so we’re told.
Imagine our collective surprise, then, upon receiving a poorly wrought facsimile from our Official Washington Desk. One of our humble correspondents—let’s just call him “Chip”—had some gossip to share about an interesting night on the town he spent with numerous journalistic types. Among those hacks in attendance, dear reader, was none other than Wonkette, one of the great gifts Al Gore bestowed upon us when he invented the Internet. (The other, of course, is Internet pornography, and even Jerry Falwell prefers Internet porn to Wonkette.)
For those of you blissfully unaware of this woman, allow us to inform you that Wonkette is a famed DC-based gossip “weblogger,” who writes juicy tidbits about such fetching vixens as Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein. No wonder her “weblog” is really popular!
When we first learned that “Chip” had spent an evening with Wonkette, we felt a mite guilty. After all, we previously harped and harpied about her inane television appearances in this space. If we remember correctly—and we believe that we do—we referred to her as: “a thin, wan 30-something gal who looks as if she’s been genetically engineered to live in a bog. She makes an albino look like Isaac Hayes.”
As if that weren’t sufficiently nasty, we also opined that Wonkette “clearly resembles that girl from your kindergarten class who used to pick her nose and eat it.” Now that “Chip” had come (almost literally) face to face with this creature, we must admit that we were mildly embarrassed by our vituperations.
“Chip’s” report makes clear, however, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had no reason to feel bad. Wonkette fully deserves all our contumely—and then some. In fact, since Wonkette enjoys offering up all kinds of dirt on Washington types, we figured that we should return the favor.
Accordingly, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly present “Chip’s” missive from DC, which has been slightly edited for the purposes of euphony:
A Night Out With Wonkette
This past weekend I was out and about (as our Canadian friends say) with a few fellow journalists, enjoying some beers in an unbecoming tavern here in Washington. Whereas the other journos in attendance slaved away for such outfits as The Daily Telegraph, NPR, and The Independent, I wowed them all with my status as an official junior Washington correspondent for “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” Apparently, our “weblog” is well-respected by the fourth estate.
Anyway, a few draughts into the evening none other than Wonkette arrives, joined by another female. To be perfectly honest, at first I only vaguely recognized her: She looked like some horrid gal or other who went out with me on a lousy date. On second glance, however, I realized that I was wrong: This was Wonkette, the Internet equivalent of a lousy date.
I immediately attempted to make some small talk with her. Whilst her friend was very pleasant, Wonkette was an obnoxious, self-important twit. She routinely ignored pleasantries the other guests offered, preferring to spend her entire night glued to her Blackberry.
On occasion, Wonkette peered up from her little gizmo, in order to wax ostentatious about her luminous career as an e-scribbler. “My father,” she declared, “wants me to sign copies of my forthcoming book for his friends. And I’m like: I don’t even know who these people are.”
As you can imagine, this did not go over well with her audience, which was slightly less interested in her execrable rantings than she. If by “slightly less interested” you mean “not interested at all.”
To make matters worse, in the middle of the evening, whilst others were fully enjoying a convivial atmosphere, Wonkette bellowed to us that she must leave, in order to meet up with her husband. Everyone in attendance must have thought: God bless that wretched man who’s married to this odious chucklehead.
About a half hour later, our party wended its way to another bar. And in this tavern was—lo and behold!—Wonkette, without her hubby. Just to make things more painful for her, we sat at the very next table, whilst she studiously ignored us.
For this reason, I am forced to agree with Cathy the Cakeeater, whose anti-Wonkette stance is as firm as anyone’s. Wonkette is truly a self-obsessed moron. In a just world, she’d be treated like a racehorse that outlived its usefulness.
Needless to say, then, this was a rather unpleasant experience. And it got worse. Anytime I told an acquaintance that I’d spent some time with Wonkette, my interlocutor either didn’t know who she is or found this entirely unremarkable. “I saw her a few weeks ago at a party to which she was not invited,” said one such pal.
It appears as if Wonkette attends every soiree in DC—even though she wasn’t invited to any of them. There’s some gossip for you.
Oh, and by the way, Wonkette does resemble that girl from my kindergarten class who used to pick her nose and eat it.
