The Other McCain

"One should either write ruthlessly what one believes to be the truth, or else shut up." — Arthur Koestler

When Tony Scambilloni Brings The Chin Music, It Is Not Just “Mere Cash”

Posted on | March 31, 2015 | 8 Comments

by Sissypuss the Blog Kitty

The Cosmos Club wasn’t packed. The power elite of Washington gather rarely, and the guest list for this little party was the sort who value space and privacy almost as much as power. Getting into a joint this posh had meant infiltrating at a truly unreasonable hour, and staying well hidden.

The room had a stage at one end, an eating area in the middle, and seating at the other end. Real plants in large urns, along with the subdued lighting, made staying concealed fairly easy. The party was a raucous Bacchanalia, the kind that requires a Cone Of No Paparazzi. My sharp eyes took in Tony Scambilloni in his tux with the rest of Chin Music on the stage, playing world-class chamber music, while the crowd and the conversation steadily got wilder.

Unable to keep up with the heavy partying, Joe and Jill Biden sat down on the couch in front of me. In between the Bidens and Scambilloni was a who’s who of Progressive elites. Jon Corzine, so mysteriously incapable of showing up on film, had a flute of champaign. Tom Steyer, of course, held a scotch as he held forth on the weather. Jonathan Gruber must have been trolling for customers–I’d have thought him too small-potatoes for this crowd. Was that a Budwiser?

In the opposite corner of the seating end of the room, under a pile of nubile flesh, was Dominique Strauss-Kahn, clinging bitterly to his clothes and the club’s rules of decorum. More bitter than Strauss-Kahn was Bill Clinton standing nearby, threatening to leak from his eyes, mouth, and elsewhere at the sight of so many young women. Bitterest of all was Hillary, standing next to Bill in a pantsuit. Who had done her hair in a Nurse Ratched? There was no need for my Egyptian charm to read any of these minds, even if it had this sort of range. Conspicuous in their absence were the Obamas, but no one seemed to care a whit.

Harry and Landra Reid made the scene, and there was a subtle shift in the party, an expectation. Harry looked as comfortable as a Haisidic Rabbi at a Madrassa. Grey suit, blue tie. Even if the guy wasn’t Mormon, he’d still be the antithesis of a party animal, regardless of age. The room was all: “Why’s HE here?” as the music paused.

And then SHE entered. Monica Lewinsky. No: a jet black cocktail dress. Afar off, Tony nodded, and Chin Music leaned into “Kashmir”

Monica looked at Harry, standing there with a diet ginger ale, and lifted a microphone:

Weren’t my son put beatdown on my face, stars filled my head,
I’m a legislator of both crime and farce, to say what I have said.
To sit with elders of the Progressive race, this world has seldom seen.
They talk of debt for which they sit and wait, when Cthulhu’ll be revealed. . .

First of all, the lady had taken some singing lessons since the Clinton administration–my ears can detect any soundboard trick. Second of all, Reid had all the popularity of a Y chromosome at a feminist conference, even amongst his ilk. The tipsy room threatened to roll over laughing at Reid’s embarrassment.

Reid’s face went very dark, but what was he to say? The people who owned his dented little peach pit of a soul, who had paid Tony to afford him such personal attention, were in this very room. He bowed his head and sulked. There was no humanity left in the room, as one who had ruthlessly built power so many decades was rejected without hope of redemption by his peers.

The band continued expertly through the rest of the tune, oblivious to the human wreckage that was Harry Reid. Lewinsky sang on, but not a word I heard could I relate–the story was quite clear. Until Monica started slinking toward her old boss. It didn’t sound like she was doing a parody anymore, exactly:

Ooh, yeah-yeah, ooh, yeah-yeah, when I’m down…
Ooh, yeah-yeah, ooh, yeah-yeah, well I’m down, so down
Ooh, my baby, oooh, my baby, let me take you there

Let me take you there. Let me take you there

It almost seemed as though Lewinsky had some sub-textual meaning going on, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it might be. Whatever it was, both Bill and Hillary were both fire engine red, though I think for different reasons.

The song ended, and the spell was broken in a crescendo of applause. A dust mote that may have once been Harry Reid blew toward the exit. He warbled over his shoulder: “Romney didn’t win, did he?“.

And then I heard Joe Biden say to Jill: “Wow. I never new Bruce Jenner had fronted Black Sabbath. But at least the transition seems to be going nicely.”

Comments

  • http://evilbloggerlady.blogspot.com/ Evi L. Bloggerlady

    The world of Democrats is a sick and depraved place.

  • http://theothermccain.com smitty

    I wanted to add ‘surreal’.

  • http://evilbloggerlady.blogspot.com/ Evi L. Bloggerlady

    That too!

  • http://thecampofthesaints.org Bob Belvedere

    …his dented little peach pit of a soul….

    Brilliant.

    Monica as Bruce in ‘transition’.

    Brilliant.

    I may just reopen your book again next time I’m on my/the throne.

  • Quartermaster

    A large number of adjectives apply to that madhouse.

  • Brian of the shrinking freemen

    “Bravo I saw say, bravo (quietly golf claps so as not to break the so carefully constructed scene).
    Simply mahvuhluss.”

  • texlovera

    Sounds like Reid got trampled underfoot in the house of the unholy.

    Excellent work, blog-kitty! MEEEEOWWWWWWWW!!!

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