For some reason, Joe Scarborough’s morning show did a special Sunday morning edition, solely for the purpose of discussing the previous evening’s gala shindig Press Correspondents’ dinner.
Pardon me for asking, but when did a glorified prom become cause for a special edition of a morning news-and-opinion show to be aired during the weekend? Granted, the oil spill was a particular concern to everyone and worthy of special coverage. The Arizona immigration issue was certainly newsworthy as well, not to mention the breaking news story of the failed bomb attempt in Times Square.
Instead, viewers were treated to the sight of Scarborough, Mika Brezinsky, Willie Geist and media whore, Arianna Huffington, gaggled around what appeared to be a faux cafe table against a backdrop of the White House, discussing the gossip surrounding the previous evening’s social soiree.
They all looked much the worse for wear, although they were obviously hoping the effect created was that of two super-sophisticated cosmopolitan couples, meandering back in the early hours from a Monaguesque bacchanal, and pausing in a sidewalk cafe for an espresso and a gossip-fest.
Although it was early morning on the East Coast, the day looked overcast, or early enough for the sun not to have risen sufficiently. Nevertheless, three of the four sported sunglasses. Mika was still wearing the clothes she’d worn to the event and slumped sullenly in her chair, obviously feeling the effects of too much drink and too little sleep. Scarborough wore shades as well, and what appeared to be his evening suit. Geist looked like a rumpled frat boy.
Huffington was also decked out in shades and at pains to keep her face in profile, with no close-up shots. She’d not yet been to bed, and it was obvious the tit-tape applied to her hairline during her daily facial had long since lost its grip and her incipient jowls were beginning to drop, thus, revealing every one of her real 63 (admitted 59) years by the dawn’s early light.
The quartet was there to discuss the wonderland which suddenly erupted the previous evening when the glitzy glamour of Hollywood blended with the political power surge that sizzles in Washington.
“HEV’reybuddy lahfffffs celebrities, dahlinks!” trilled Whoreanna, sounding more ZsaZsa than ZsaZsa, herself (and has anyone seen the pair of them together in one room). “Vashinkton lahffs Hollyvud and Hollvud lahffs Vashinkton.”
That was a prelude to a backdrop of photo opportunities, showing wet-knickered celebrity bimbos posing prettily with staid, patrician politicos – with either person doubtless wondering who the other might be. I caught a glimpse of Jon Bon Jovi in one flick, Michelle Pfeiffer in another.
I thought this was an annual dinner given the White House Press Correspondents. Since when did it become the Oscars away from home? Who are these people, and why are they there? Last year, Sting and Trudie Styler were invited, with eco warrior Trudie cadging the couple’s private jet and ferrying the eight people absolutely necessary to put her skinny frame together for one evening, one of those necessary people being a feng shui expert).
The whole broadcast was a cacophony of name-dropping, which – I suppose – was meant to impress the viewer. I can’t say I slept any sounder in my bed, having been told by Fuckington that all of the political establishment adored her special guest, Scarlett Johanssen, they worshipped at her feet.
Forgive me, but I don’t want people I elect to ponce about of an evening worshipping at the feet of an peroxided latent adolescent who scrubs up well, and I don’t care if her intellectual credentials included spotting Bernie Sanders across the room and sprinting over tables to confront him. That anecdote didn’t cut any ice with me, and it shouldn’t with anyone else.
I don’t give a rat’s ass which nameless Hollywood actor hung out with Willie Geist and increased Geist’s street cred amongst people who normally wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole, and I wanted Mika, daughter of Democrats, to respond to Whoreanna’s pointless bragging of having met Scott Brown and having been told that Brown named his eldest daughter after her, by snapping: “Think about it, you dumb bitch, when the girl was born twenty years ago, you were a fucking Republican so far to the Right you make Sarah fucking Palin look libera! Now shut the fuck up and order me an Alka Seltzer on the rocks. My head is splitting!”
The whole ego-stroking episode is given pride of place on Huffington Post, just under the main story of the oil spill and the President’s visit.
I find it astounding that this pathetic parvenue and blatant social-climber should consider herself a natural spokesperson for the middle classes. Many members of the class she purports to defend probably waited on her table the previous evening.
On a day when the Gulf Coast is being ravaged by an oil spill, when unemployment is rife and rising and when those who are employed are often either underemployed or working three jobs to make ends meet, that this superficial dilettante should waste time telling the little people she thinks she serves about the party lives of the rich, the famous and the powerful.
I don’t know whether this was a jump-the-shark moment for Whoreanna, but it certainly reeked of “let-them-eat-cake” attitude.
There is a lot of heated discussion going on in America now, sparked by the Arizona immigration debate, regarding immigration reform. It seems that everyone is agreed that immigration should continue in some way, but that there are, indeed, two types of immigrants: the “wrong” type of immigrant and the “right” sort.
I think Arianna Huffington falls in the former category.
I would like to know if her papers are in order.