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Late Nite FDL: FOUND! The Lost Notebook of Ana Marie Cox

wonkette's notebook

(Some of you may recall that the Time Magazine columnist formerly known as Wonkette lost her notebook at Yearly Kos.  This document has in fact fallen into my hands.  I can’t tell you exactly who the double super secret source [*cough* Jane Hamsher! *cough*] is who FedEx-ed this to me from Vegas on Sunday, but it’s, uh, quite a read.  Some excerpts are below.)

Thursday, 6/8


Las Vegas

At least, we think this is Vegas.  Goodness!  We actually came to in a hotel elevator sans panties.  We tried to match the number on our keycard to a door number, but a helpful member of the housekeeping staff informed us that we were in the wrong hotel!  Now that we have cabbed to the proper hotel, we have a moment to take stock of our surroundings.

Funny, the last thing we remember was that bitch stewardess in first class telling us we couldn’t have another Screwdriver.  I told her, "I’m a columnist for TIME MAGAZINE, you stupid sky-wench!  I can have as many goddamn Screwdrivers as I fucking want!"  Maybe we shouldn’t have taken that bar Xanax (or was it two?) at Reagan National.

Now we just need to track down some vodka and find out why we have Joe Klein’s business card and $50 in our pocket. 

Friday, 6/9


We’ve just returned from smoking a joint with MoDo in her room.  "I don’t understand what’s going on, here," she kept saying, "There’s nobody fabulous here."  Maybe if she wasn’t so damn high all the time, she’d know what was going on here.  But come to think of it, neither do we.  Who invited all these old people?  Maybe they’re here for another convention and the fabulous people will get here tomorrow.

"I don’t understand what’s going on, here," MoDo said again. We must have smoked too much of her skunk-weed because she started to look to us like Towelie from South Park.  It got weird so we left.

And thank Time Warner that we did.  We got an email from GLENN R!!!!  He told us not to call his home number anymore because of his wife, but then he asked if we think he should shave his back.  We told him YES because the gays do that and ANYTHING the gays do is HOT!!!

Now we’re going to take some Ambien, wash it down with some room-service scotch, and drift off to sleep dreaming of our sweet **GLENN**!!  Ooooh, DADDY!!


We hate it here.  Worst convention ever.  All these stupid idealistic bloggers and their pie-eyed crap.  We’re barely getting recognized!  No one has asked for our autograph all day.  Saw MoDo earlier, getting her picture taken with tourists like a cardboard cut-out of the President.

"Oh, this is all so tedious," she whispered to me, "I still don’t know what’s going on.  I don’t think these people know who we really are."

"Maybe they’re confused because you’re behind a subscription wall," we said, taking two Percocets out of the bottle in her Gucci bag when she wasn’t looking.

"Maybe they don’t know who you are because you don’t actually write much of anything anymore," she said.  (BITCH!  BITCH!  BITCH!  We were THE FIRST LIBERAL BLOGGER!  How DARE she!  We thought about taking her Gucci bag to go with the Percocets, but she would probably miss it before the convention’s over.  Bitch.  She better be glad it isn’t Sunday, or that bag would be coming with us back to Washington.)

Just sent an email to **GLENN**(!!).  Here comes Matt Bai.  Maybe he’s got some coke.


FUCK!  Byron York says he has our missing underwear from Thursday.  He wants to know why they’re the ones that say "Tuesday".  FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!

Saw Nagourney and some others, but no one here can compare to our ***InstaLover***.  WHY isn’t he HERE with us?! 

This convention sucks.  There’s no one we want to sleep with.  No one wants to talk to us about who they think has a biggest cock of the 2008 hopefuls or whether Hillary likes thebuttsex.  All they want to talk about is the NETROOTS?!  Groan.  We’re a columnist now.  We don’t do netroots anymore.

The way people are treating us, you’d think we built our entire reputation on semi-coherent ravings about the genitalia of the powerful, raunchy DC gossip, and oblique beltway humor.

Oh, wait.  We did.

Matt’s coke was excellent, but we’re coming down.  We’re going to call his cell phone and see if he’s got any more.



Can’t stop crying…


We know we weren’t supposed to call G.R. at home.  We didn’t expect his evil cunt bitch whorebag wife to answer. Evil BITCH!  HATE!!  HATE!!  HATE!!  We hung up and called Hitchens, but the woman who answered the phone said he was passed out under a taxi.  We called Sully, but he was in someone’s bondage sling and said he’d have to call back in five or six hours.  We called Joe K, but he never answers his cell after sundown on Friday.  We feel so alone.  SO.  ALONE.

Surely there’s a bar open in this piece of shit hotel or SOMEWHERE!   We can’t have taken all the blue Valiums we brought with us, can we?  We need an apple martini!  NOW.  NOW NOW NOW NOW!!


(Editor’s note: There is a furious scribble of lines here, and it appears that Miss Cox stabbed the pen straight down into the page several times.  There is nothing further except an entry near the back of the book that simply says, "Valerie Flame?".  We have been unable to ascertain what this means.) 

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TRex is a 60-million-year-old theropod who enjoys terrorizing trailer parks, stomping his enemies, and eating things that get in his way or annoy him. He is single and looking for a new boyfriend. He's 60 feet tall, green, with delicate forelimbs, large, sharp teeth, and a lengthy tail. Turn-ons include political activism, bashing conservatives, and volcanoes. Turn-offs are vegetarians, right-wing blogs, and killer asteroids.