Oh, the duck. Oh, the risotto. Oh the crepes sporting raspberry and strawberry filling.
Tonight we treated the entire Extreme Mortman staff to a rare night out on the town, or, more accurately, an hour in the basement of the Willard Hotel. That’s where the Hoover Institution held its annual reception, a culinary feast so extravagant it once again earned its reputation as the most dazzling collection of foods since the parents of Extreme Mortman served up three jars of pickled herring at his Bar Mitzvah.
You know how many hip parties rent really beautiful people to just hang out? It seems the conservative Hooverites rent really smart intellectuals to just make interesting observations while sipping drinks.
But wait! What’s that? There, as we sip The Glenlivet, could it be? Yes! It’s Don Rumsfeld chatting up Doug Feith! Not just chatting, laughing. Laughing really, really hard. The kind of laughter that’s so hard it could cause a mistrial if the Scooter Libby jury ever heard it.
We couldn’t figure out the joke, but we saw Feith sipping red wine, and Rumsfeld holding a glass of what seemed to be white. We had Glenlivet, but liberals could have been just plain livid. If only we knew what the joke was. Perhaps the joys of private sector?