Cry­baby melt­down at White House Cor­re­spon­dents’ As­so­ci­a­tion din­ner

The Washington Times Weekly - - Vlad The Conqueror - BY CHARLES HURT

It is said that Wash­ing­ton is Hol­ly­wood for ugly peo­ple. That is, of course, an in­sult to homely peo­ple ev­ery­where. But if Wash­ing­ton is the Hol­ly­wood of any­thing, then the in­suf­fer­ably te­dious White House Cor­re­spon­dents’ As­so­ci­a­tion din­ner held ev­ery year is, truly, the Os­cars of Wash­ing­ton.

Ev­ery spring, frumpy, ink-stained wretches squeeze them­selves into ridicu­lously mis­matched tuxe­dos and se­quined gowns straining at the seams and — I am not kid­ding — walk across a plush red car­pet to the snap­ping and flash­ing of cam­eras.

This, mere feet from the stone-walled side­walk where Pres­i­dent Ronald Rea­gan was nearly as­sas­si­nated in 1981.

These peo­ple are not known for their good taste. So, ev­ery year the cav­ernous halls of the Hinck­ley Hil­ton are thronged with cham­pagne-swill­ing re­porters and pro­duc­ers and pun­dits and all their fa­vorite Wash­ing­ton sources, by which I mean “Democrats.”

Sure, there are some Re­pub­li­cans pep­pered in their for ap­pear­ance be­cause, af­ter all, Wash­ing­ton is all about ap­pear­ances. The din­ner reached its apex dur­ing the Obama ad­min­is­tra­tion, back when Wash­ing­ton and Hol­ly­wood LOVED their pres­i­dent.

Ac­tu­ally, call­ing the White House Cor­re­spon­dents’ As­so­ci­a­tion din­ner

the Os­cars of Wash­ing­ton is an in­sult to Hol­ly­wood. Tin­sel­town has never seen such self-in­volved snob­bery from so many su­per­fi­cial frauds. Satur­day night’s per­for­mance was pure Wash­ing­ton me­dia at its nar­cis­sis­tic finest.

Olivier Knox — a gi­ant bearded cry­baby who leads White House Cor­re­spon­dents’ As­so­ci­a­tion — wrote, di­rected and starred in the soap opera.

“I don’t want to dwell on the pres­i­dent,” he be­gan, sound­ing like Carly Si­mon. “This is not his din­ner! It’s ours!” he cried. “And it should stay ours!”

All I could hear is: “You’re so vain. You prob­a­bly think this song is about you. “Don’t you? Don’t you?” Pres­i­dent Trump did not re­spond. He was busy en­ter­tain­ing a much, much larger au­di­ence of ra­bid sup­port­ers in Green Bay, Wis­con­sin. Sorry, but crowd size does mat­ter in a sit­u­a­tion like this.

Baby Knox was not fin­ished. Ac­tu­ally, he was do­ing ex­actly what the po­lit­i­cal press has been do­ing for the past two years: He was spread­ing more fake news. In fact, Baby Knox DID want to dwell on the pres­i­dent. And, in fact, the din­ner was ALL about Mr. Trump.

“In nearly 23 years as a re­porter, I’ve been phys­i­cally as­saulted by Re­pub­li­cans and Democrats, spat on, shoved, had crap thrown at me,” he cried. “And there was a brief mo­ment in Afghanista­n when I thought a soldier not quite old enough to shave would shoot me dead for the crime of tak­ing a pic­ture in­side the pres­i­den­tial palace.”

Not clear if this was an Amer­i­can soldier Baby Knox was ac­cus­ing of nearly mur­der­ing him, but it doesn’t re­ally mat­ter since it was all just a fan­tasy any­way.

Baby Knox took a cou­ple of sucks off his paci­fier be­fore re­turn­ing to his tat­tle­tale melt­down.

“And yet I still sep­a­rate my ca­reer to be­fore Fe­bru­ary 2017 and what came af­ter,” he blub­bered be­tween heaves of tat­tle-cry­ing. “Fe­bru­ary is when the pres­i­dent called us the ‘en­emy of the peo­ple.’” Waaaaaah­h­h­hhh! Waaah­h­hhh! So, let me get this straight. The great hero of our epic soap opera has rou­tinely been phys­i­cally as­saulted by peo­ple in both par­ties in his years cov­er­ing Wash­ing­ton. He has been spit upon and had fe­ces thrown at him. A soldier who nearly blew his head off for snap­ping a pic­ture in a war zone.

And he is cry­ing about is some­body call­ing him names? Has this guy ever heard of the First Amend­ment? You know, the one where you can say what­ever you want?

Ob­vi­ously, Baby Knox’s par­ents never taught him the most im­por­tant les­son. Sticks and stones will break my bones but words can never hurt me.

Then again, his poor par­ents. Can you imag­ine what a tat­tle­tale cry­baby he must have been at home? Con­tact Charles Hurt at [email protected]­ing­ton­ or on Twit­ter @charleshur­t.

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