As the New Hampshire primary results were announced and victories swiftly awarded to Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump, the alarm was palpable among the political establishment. The outcome went against the recommendations of columnists, who fashion themselves as foremost political experts.
How to deal with feelings of disconnect and increased irrelevance? United States presidential elections are supposed to be moments of glory for those in media.
We are not naming anyone, who witnessed any of these meltdowns last night, because we are afraid they may become the targets of erratic behavior. But, based on anonymous, unnamed, unidentified, and unknown sources, I can now report on what happened to some of the most well-known columnists, whose elite status has come under attack by the plebeian rabble.
The Washington Post’s Dana Milbank, who had recently concocted a column on how Sanders is not a “revolutionary,” entered his walk-in closet and headed toward his collection of costumes. He stripped naked and put on his jester costume—but just the top part of the costume. Then, he grabbed a bottle of Maker’s Mark Bourbon Whiskey that James Carville personally gave to him and jumped around his Safavieh furniture while doing a churlish comedy routine about how disappointed millennials will be when Sanders betrays them.
Jonathan Chait of New York Magazine, who was now more frightened and terrified than ever of the Kids Who Love Bernie, wrapped himself in a luxury throw blanket, closed his eyes, and rocked back and forth while trying to relive each self-important moment he had during his last session in the Oval Office with President Barack Obama. W.W.B.D., he said to himself. Maybe the Kids would respond to that. They still like Obama. Don’t they? Well, I do.
Bill Kristol, editor of The Weekly Standard, knelt down before a glass globe filled with one of former Vice President Dick Cheney’s hearts. He delivered an incantation, which blended elements of Christianity and lines from the Constitution. Any person within earshot would have thought it was Satanic. Kristol then mumbled something to himself about never letting the pawns know that he doesn’t know what will happen. He wondered what Cheney’s heart might taste like and dipped his hand into the globe. Some day he would devour the contents and be reborn as the neoconservative sage that this country needs.
David Brooks of The New York Times walked into his luxury shower spa and sat down on the ledge. He turned on all five shower heads on the ceiling and walls. Sitting on the ledge in his Thomas Pink marley stripe dress shirt, he hunched over while talking aloud about “purpose” and “meaning.” Who are The Establishment? What are words if not a series of consonants and vowels? The talk crescendoed into a wail, like he was in a prison cell and could not break free. He moved his body to the corner of the shower and let the water pool around his legs as the steam enveloped his vulnerable self. “I miss Barack Obama!”
Ruth Marcus of The Washington Post saw a bottle of Maker’s Mark Bourbon Whiskey, which James Carville had personally given to her. She poured a glass and stole two of her husband’s opioid pills. Marcus opened her laptop and set her whiskey on her lap. She created five fake accounts, all incorporating symbols of Hillary Clinton’s campaign. She moved on to creating Bernie vs. Hillary memes and shared her favorite one, where she compared their views on Beyonce’s new “Formation” video. Marcus made sure each of the accounts tweeted something about women going to a “special place in hell” and then fell asleep while the remainder of her whiskey spilled down her lap.
Charles Krauthammer entered his library and sat in his Bernadette Livingston sofa chair. He hailed his butler, who summoned a personal quartet he loves because they are skilled at playing Jewish classical music. The quartet members were rousted and brought to his residence at 10 pm, where they played as Krauthammer worked on a bust of neoconservative idol, Irving Kristol, which he had been meticulously creating for the past five years and had restarted twelve times. It was completed, and after Krauthammer recounted Kristol’s entire life story to the quartet, which they had sat through and endured many times before, the members were finally permitted to go home at 4 am.
Sady Doyle, Amanda Marcotte, Jessica Valenti, and Rebecca Traister met at a club in New York that plays an ungodly amount of deep house and techno music. They had three rounds of shots, and then phoned David Brock and tried to have a conversation with him while glow sticks and the stench of “Bernie Bros” tripping balls on molly filled the air. That is to say, they assumed they were all bros whether they identified as men or not. Anyhow, Brock could not hear them over the nausea-inducing bass and asked if this was Chelsea Clinton before hanging up the phone. “Bartender, bring us some Maker’s Mark!” they yelled. No one would bother with them so they hopped on Twitter to feel like they were important again.
Somehow, Ari Fleischer was aboard NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s private jet. Goodell and others from the NFL were talking about where the next stadium would be built when Fleischer spontaneously shouted 2016 Election predictions at them. Jeb Bush wins in South Carolina. Ted Cruz beats Bush in Nevada, but Rubio beats Trump. John Kasich wins one state on Super Tuesday, if he has a good showing in South Carolina. Christie does well in Arkansas. Goodell and his cohorts could not get Fleischer to stop. They were forced to make an emergency landing, where he was left on the tarmac until Peyton Manning could come pick him up.
And, finally, members of The Washington Post Editorial Board shut themselves in a conference room and poured each person a glass of Maker’s Mark Bourbon Whiskey, which James Carville had personally given them. They talked about their favorite death in Spike’s “1000 Ways to Die” series. Then, they decided what would be the best way for Bernie Sanders to die. The conversation shifted to a rather didactic discussion about the end of the political class in America. Each editorial board member broke into uncontrollable sobbing. They climbed on the wooden conference table and cuddled with each other while the projector played Steven Spielberg’s “Lincoln.”