Washington Hilton Hotel
White House Correspondence Dinner
Some comedian was on stage, making jokes about something or other. I wasn’t listening to him.
Brian Williams was next to me, and he was a bit chatty. He had one of those fancy suits, and a daring little bow tie to match. (And by the way, don’t you think a bow-tie is just as useful as a mans nipples?) Anyway, that’s just me.
It was one of those 10,000-dollar-a-plate dinners. And the who’s who in Washington gathered at the Hilton to tell bad jokes, and to get the President to make fun of himself.
Even Bezos was here.
What, he owned a 20-million dollar house smack dab in the middle of Kalorama; and he owned the Washington Post too, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to eat bland food, drink cheap champagne, and maybe sneak in a photo with the President, in the name of a scholarship in some poor third-world country? Yes, it was Biden’s first correspondence dinner, and The Donald wasn’t there for obvious reasons.
I wish I had half his paper. The comedian tore into Trump again (just like the man tore down his own presidency).
You might not have half of Donald’s paper, but I know you’ve got twice the dick. Brian Williams leaned in and whispered in my ear. You know what they say about black people. He glanced at his other side, a sarcastic look on his face.
He was one son of a bitch.
Bezos burst out in laughter.
Brian Williams hated Trump with just as much passion as he liked toying with me. A southern thoroughbred; he’d grown up a poor kid in a broken home in Mississippi, raised by foster families just to be dumped on the streets right out of High school. He’d enlisted in the army. Did a few tours in Iraq. And now he was a reporter.
A veteran and a reporter in the same lifetime. Like how the hell does that happen? He just wouldn’t say.
Obama took the floor. He was black, but he could pass for white where I came from. Oh! And he was a millionaire now! He’d probably sold a couple million Dreams from My Fathers by now. (It’s a book; just so you know, and I wasn’t from the same village as the man’s father, but Mr. Williams doesn’t need to know about that now, does he?)
Of course, Obama dug into Trump too. Something about the Birther movement. Apparently, Trump still thought Obama’s real birth certificate was still back home.
Give me a break!
Okay, mine was back home, but I was still going to sling mud at him in the paper tomorrow. I was with the Washington Post. Bezos was my boss.
2020. Obama shook his head and let out a huge sigh.
It’s surely been a wild ride, folks. An awkward pause ensued.
Did any of you realize that Americans would rather vote to get high, than vote for Donald Trump again?
The crowd was rolling on the ground with laughter.
Yes, that’s right. The great states of Georgia… He paused to count with his fingers. Arizona, New Jersey… hell, even South Dakota; they all voted to legalize marijuana than to listen to another one of Trump’s lies.
Yea. I remember looking at one of the ballot papers.
Shall this state allow the use of recreational marijuana? The question had its own ballot paper; it even had its own ballot box to put it in too.
It’s a question I would like asked back home, by the way.
Anyway, the former president’s time was up. It was now time for Joe Biden to take the stage.
He was tall. He was quite the young man too. Its been over 30 years now since he took his first shot at the presidency.
His first time had been a disaster. Oh, no! Not that first time, jerk.
Turns out he’d used some British M.P.’s speech word for word in one of his campaigns. Copy and paste. A rookie mistake. So he took the L.
But here he was. The President of the United States of America. The man with the nuclear launch codes. Good old sleepy Joe, but boy! were we glad to see him. We’d waited all night just for this.
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I was heartily clapping for Joe. Brian Williams was, for once in his life, silent, and busy clapping with the rest of us too.
Bezos was clapping too.
Funny, up and till then, I didn’t think it was even possible for billionaires to clap for other people.
But somebody was faintly tugging at my shoulder.
We amka banaacha ufala.
It was my boss!
The newsroom was usually a whirlwind of chaos. Papers on the floor, people yelling at each other, writers squeaking away at the keyboard. But at that very moment, the room was hella quite. Everybody was looking at me like I was crazy.
It was embarrassing.
Did I say all that out loud? I was one to meet shame or pain, head on. The best way to deal with such has always been to embrace them. Always been a come as it may man.
Bro, kumbe si mamovie tu unaendanga kuscript majuu. Something nasty was coming down. Naona ata ndoto zako hua unaperformia huko huko tu.
They all laughed. I laughed. It was a light moment.
I shamefully excused myself and went to the washrooms. Time to splash some water on my face, and get back to work.
I was going about my business, when I noticed a cigarette butt tossed on the floor. It was not even half smoked yet.
Kwani just how little nicotine do you need to smoke just to get high? I had no idea.
Then it hit me!
Trump was a half-smoked cigarette butt too!
Or a half-eaten burger. You know, whichever one tickles your fancy.
Point is, the people had gotten high off his four years worth of drama, and they couldn’t wait to toss him aside.
Just like the cigarette.
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Well, I wonder what it’s like to be a one-term president. Especially here in Kenya.
We are at number four, right?
I’d assume that as we get on to number 7, 8, or 9, they will start having these little dinners to talk about how nobody let’s down the toilet seat for them anymore.
And guess who they won’t pass the salt to?
But wouldn’t you rather be a really good one- term president than a mediocre two-term president?
Again, that’s just me.
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