Beer is proof God loves us.
~ Benjamin Franklin
The party was packed, I’m talkin’ back-to-back
There was a rapper that was rappin’ to a beat that was wack
They was going through the motions out on the dance floor
And when the rapper was done they wasn’t yellin’ encore
~ The Fat Boys featuring Chubby Checker, “The Twist”
Meanwhile, in Donald Trump’s White House…
“Well, should we start with an opening prayer?”
The packed East Room in the White House erupts in laughter.
President Donald J. Trump holds his small hands up to quiet the gathered men. It’s all men. The whole party, every patron that has been summoned secretly to attend the celebration honoring the confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh, is male.
Trump continues, “I’m sorry I’m a little late, the great Lou Dobbs – we like Lou, don’t we? – was really giving it to the Dims, isn’t it clever when he says that? It’s so funny. So smart. But I’m here and we’re here and we’re all here to honor the newest member of the Supreme Court, Justice Brett Kavanaugh.”
The party cheers like they’re at the Rose Bowl. In a corner of the East Room is an enormous spread of food and drink, the end of the table capped with three kegs of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and stacks of red Solo cups. A large red, white and blue banner that reads “BEERS FOR BRETT!!!”
The gloating Commander in Chief is in high spirits despite the lack of cameras to play to. Every attendee of the party has had their cell phones confiscated and were swept by Secret Service agents for listening devices and bugs. Trump bellows, “We are winning! We win now! We used to have all these pussies in the Republican Party, quoting fuckin Bible verses and voting their conscience, but they didn’t win! We win now!”
Former Senior Advisor Steve Bannon who entered the party already hammered with White House advisor Stephen Miller on a leash wearing a “gimp suit,” raises a half-empty bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon, shouts some slurred words that couldn’t be deciphered, and takes a swig of bourbon.
As usual, Trump’s hands gesture and gesticulate wildly as he speaks. “The evangelicals, we have them now. They’ve forgotten all that soft shit they said they believe in. It’s great. Now they are with Trump! They believe me now! Can you believe it?”
Bannon takes another pull of Rebel Yell bourbon as a salute.
“Okay,” Trump says, “Let’s introduce the man of the hour, the newest member of the Supreme Court, I did it, I got another one, he’s a great guy, great mind, Brett Kavanaugh!”
Kavanaugh enters the East Room to huge applause. The new Justice is wearing his drinking togs. A vintage leather football helmet from the 1920s Yale team, khaki cargo shorts, Margaritaville flip flops, and a custom #69 Washington Redskins jersey with the name “FFFFFF” on the back.
“We did it!” Kavanaugh yells, clearly already deep into his cups. Then quoting John “Bluto” Blutarsky from comedy classic Animal House, Kavanaugh screams, “My advice to you is to start drinking heavily!”
It wasn’t easy getting access to this foul shindig. It was strictly invitation only. Each attendee received a cryptic text giving instructions on how to enter the White House covertly. Many were loaded in what looked like military transport vehicles and brought to the White House. I, your intrepid White House correspondent, was able to sneak in using the fake identity of Ramone Merrick, a “right wing activist and blogger.” Secret Service confiscated my pens and small notebook at the door, so I have been ducking into restrooms and unused offices to jot notes on napkins and coasters, using a small, telescoping pen that was hidden in my wallet.
There are only a few Senators and Congressman at the party. All Trump loyalists. Spotted are Devin Nunes, Jim Jordan, Louie Gohmert, Chuck Grassley, Lindsey Graham, and a few others. Of course Don Jr. and Eric are mingling and making the rounds. Sean Hannity has a VIP table in one corner. Alex Jones is here. His shirt is already off. Roger Stone is seen handing out small red flyers about an orgy he’s hosting the following night. There’s dozens of right wing media figures and bloggers. Many big oil and energy lobbyists.
Plenty of Saudi royalty, all in white floor-length robes. Shady lawyers and fixers. Owner of the Bunny Ranch brothel Dennis Hof. Scott Baio and James Woods are chatting. Half a dozen New Jersey mafia members who have done concrete deals with Trump for decades. Hard to know all their identities without photos to compare, but for certain there is the rotund Paul “Butter Ass Paulie” Guardabascio, and Sonny “Shanks” Bruno, known for making effective weapons whenever he’s locked up. The gangsters brought their own bread and red wine.
One prominent Trump White House figure who is not at the celebration is Vice President Mike Pence. Pence was strategically sent away to tour factories in Michigan. First Lady Melania Trump didn’t have to be sent on a bogus trip, she’s been holed up in a penthouse in the posh Hay-Adams hotel for over a week and has no idea what’s happening this evening.
With the “Party of Family Values” dead as hell and now existing as the Party of Trump, these Republicans are much more licentious and lascivious than can be believed. Shockingly, the largest example of depravity in this vulgar bacchanal is the Blowjob Booth near the south wall of the room. The booth is staffed by handpicked porn stars of the 1980s, all favorites of President Trump. Ready to service the crowd is Christy Canyon, Nina Hartley, and Ginger Lynn.
“We brought the best,” Trump yells, “the best. Some of my favorites. Great memories of these girls in the bungalows of the Beverly Hills Hotel in the 80s. Ginger, who was I married to when I would meet you there?”
Ginger Lynn lifts her head from her assigned task and says, “Still Ivana, Donny!”
“That’s right. You know, by then, she was, I hate to tell you, but by then she was only a seven. Started as a ten. Big drop off, folks. It was sad.”
That quip earns loud laughs. Steve Bannon laughs so hard he passes out. Topped off full with Rebel Yell bourbon, Bannon knocks out in his chair and immediately pisses himself. He stays passed out in the chair, drenched in urine, plenty dripping onto the floor of the East Room, for two hours. Justice Kavanaugh pulls a Sharpie out of the pocket on his cargo shorts and draws a large erect penis on Bannon’s forehead. Again, the party cheers.
This party is the most shameful display in the East Room since Lyndon Johnson fist-pumped as John F. Kennedy lay in repose following his assassination in 1963.
It’s 2:33 AM. The celebration has been roaring for hours. Last count of passed out patrons is nine. Roger Stone is out cold on his back and for some reason has been air-humping straight towards the ceiling for fifteen minutes.
Brett Kavanaugh is a professional drinker. A Hall of Famer. He seems to know just how much to ingest to be three-sheets-to-the-wind-drunk and still be lucid enough to continue partying. With the party seeming to wind down, it was time for his denouement.
“KEG STAND!” Kavanaugh yells. Then the judge grabs the rim of one of the PBR kegs, flips upside down, and with the help of the only Democrat here Joe Manchin of West Virginia, chugs a pint of beer.
Conservative anti-tax crusader Grover Norquest looks up from being serviced at the Blowjob Booth to give a thumbs up in approval.
The President, seeing the gathering is breaking up and Ubers and Lyfts are being ordered to get home and sleep it off, makes one last proclamation. “Okay, this was a great night, for a great man! Let’s now all hope that the Notorious R.B.G dies soon and we’ll put another Trump judge on the Supreme Court!”
Once again, the party cheers. “Before I say goodnight, still have lots on the DVR to catch up on, here is what we’re working on next, lots of great things.” Trump can barely contain his excitement. “We’re very strongly looking at a wall for the Canadian border. Maybe not a full wall, we might not need that, maybe a thick curtain. And, as you know, the brown people aren’t as a big a problem up there, but we still need a border. We’re thinking about, and, again, thinking very strongly, about issuing white people a password to get through the wall, or curtain, or whatever it will be. But let’s get some thoughts, what do you want to see us work on next?”
The drunken shindig begins to shout out their most coveted requests for the Trump administration. Don Jr. scrambles to get pen from a Secret Service agent and is furiously writing the suggestions on beer
Embattled Attorney General Jeff Sessions kicks it off with, “Segregation now! Segregation tomorrow! And segregation forever!”
Shouts start coming from all over the drunken East Room.
“No more EPA! Get rid of it!”
“Prayer in schools! Mandatory blessing the food in all restaurants!”
“Take care of the queers! Put them all on one island!”
“Abolish the 19th Amendment!”
“Which one is that,” Trump asks.
“Women can vote, sir.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. You wrote that down, Don?”
Don Jr. nods. He’s spelled half the words he’s scrawled on coasters incorrectly.
“What else?” Trump is loving this. The crowd continues shouting.
“Stop and frisk in Black churches! They’re up to something!”
Kavanaugh slurs, “More boooooobs!” “All White football league! They won’t kneel and disrespect the Anthem and our country!”
“These are great, they’re perfect,” Trump says, “We’ll get those done. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.”
President Donald J. Trump waves as he exits the East Room to go watch hours of cable news.
New Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh, the man for whom this hootenanny was thrown, curls up on the floor and falls asleep. A clerk who has worked for him for years is prepared. The clerk puts an inflatable pillow under the judge’s head, puts a wool Pendleton blanket over him, and next to his head, places six Aleve pills, two bottles of bubble gum flavor Pedialyte, and a foot-long meatball sub to help with tomorrow’s looming hangover.
Johnny Wright is a writer living in Portland, Oregon. He is a beef jerky enthusiast and wishes Bigfoot was real.