I won’t lie to you — my last-minute sojourn to the majestic watering hole of grand American thought that is the annual Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) has not gone as planned.
First, I discovered that my invitation was never lost in the mail at all, because the halfwits who run this fly-by-night operation didn’t invite me. Moreover, they called security to escort me off the premises when I attempted to coerce them into seeing reason. To add insult to injury, my blog — which is clearly the best conservative blog in the country — isn’t up for Saturday’s Blogger of the Year award.
So without an invitation or a horse in the awards race, and with paid registrations being sold out, I can’t gain legal entry to the Gaylord National Hotel, where CPAC is taking place. As a result, I’ve had to settle for holing up in a Howard Johnson’s several miles away.
The only silver lining is that the HoJo’s bartender knows how to make a mean Old Fashioned. OK, the bevy of angry, sex-crazed, conservative women roaming the streets of National Harbor aren’t bad either. In fact, I encountered a small group of them while reconnoitering the bar this morning. Unfortunately, it only set me up for more disappointment.
“Good morning, ladies,” I said, flashing a winning smile as they entered the room. There were three in total, all dolled up in various shades of that blazing conservative red I love so much. “What brings you to town this weekend?”
“The future of our country,” said the one I was most interested in, a striking blonde with boobs like cantaloupes.
“Amen,” said the second, a rather flat-chested brunette with a depressing resemblance to Ann Coulter. “We’re headed straight to hell if we can’t get things back on track. It has to start here, and it has to start now!”
“Hear hear,” I said, finishing off my fifth Old Fashioned of the day. “Look, I’m about to have another cocktail — why don’t you ladies join me? My treat.”
“Are you serious?” said the third member of their party. She was a true beast of a woman, cursed with both a bloated, unappealing body and the face of a warthog, so I knew she was going to be trouble. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover that she’s one of those Log Cabin Republicans. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning!”
“Well as I like to say, it’s always ten-thirty in the morning somewhere.” Then, to the bartender: “HoJo my good man! Another Old Fashioned for me, and whatever the ladies want. Put it on my tab.”
“Look dude,” said the bartender. “I already told you — the name’s Dwight, not ‘HoJo.'”
“Yes, well, I’m the one with the money so I’ll call you whatever I damn well please. Now hop to it. Ladies? What will it be?”
“Uh, look,” said the blonde. “We appreciate the offer and all, but we came here to advance the cause, not get shitfaced at a third-rate hotel bar with a stranger.”
“Hey!” said the bartender. “Howard Johnson’s isn’t third rate, it’s an American—”
Ignoring the bartender, I extended my hand to the women. “Stranger?” I said. “Allow me to rectify that. The name’s Carver, Oswald Carver. Of the East Egg Carvers, to be precise. Perhaps you’ve heard of my blog, Oz’s Funhouse?”
“I don’t think so,” said the fat one. “What is that, some kind of sex blog?”
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s a conservative blog. In fact, the best conservative blog in the country.”
“Oh?” said the brunette. “Are you up for Saturday’s blogger award?”
“Well, no. But—”
“Ha!” the fat one barked. “Can’t be that good then! The CPAC people know a good blog when they see one.”
Biting back my anger, I forced a smile. “A simple oversight, I assure you.” Then, after plucking a bag of OxyContin from my pants pocket and shaking it seductively, I added: “And if liquor isn’t your thing at this time of day, then perhaps I can interest you in some sweet, sweet Oxys?”
“Are you out of your mind?” the blonde asked.
“Not yet,” I assured her, “but I’m doing my damnedest to get there. Come on, let’s crank this party up to ’11’ and head up to the more intimate setting of my suite. I brought a lot of Viagra with me too, just so you know.”
And that’s when everything went to hell. The blonde and brunette slowly backed up while the fat one produced a rape whistle and a canister of pepper spray. “No!” she screamed before dousing me with vile chemicals, blowing her whistle like there was no tomorrow.
Naturally, I closed my eyes tightly to protect them as well as I could, which is why I never saw which one of the harpies smacked me with a purse. What I do know is that the damn thing must have held a lead weight, because it knocked me unconscious. When I came to, I was in my darkened room, my wallet and drugs were nowhere to be seen, and “Vile Pig Rapist” was written across my forehead in permanent marker.
So anyhow, my travel advisory for CPAC is “avoid at all costs.” The people who run this event are amateurs, and patriotic citizens can’t even go a day without being assaulted and robbed. But that’s life in Obama’s America for you — hope you’re happy, libtards.