L4L Scoop Of A White House Gala

“WASHINGTON – Hardcore gambling habits run rampant throughout the main blood stream of the American lifestyle. Trips to Atlantic City – where you can see gross examples of the American Imprint: a sex fiend, coke head, huffing butane from his Bic lighter while he waits for the 40-year old prostitute to return with a fresh Old Fitz and the dealer to turn the flop – are not an uncommon sight for the keen observer. A shot of booze and jaded judgment… All I need is another jack; jack me up with a stiff Mojito, little lady, and send me some warming vibes as the one-eyed face bares itself running along the river… Even here – hundreds of miles from Atlantic City, in the lobby of luggage pickup of the Washington Dulles International Airport – there is no shortage of walking examples of true degenerate slime.

“”The girl over there,”” I overheard one seemingly drunk, slack-jawed hick murmur to another as I waited for my baggage to scroll down the trough, ‘has got to be legal. Look at the way them sweet tits just flop around.’

’A hundred bucks says you’re a pedophile,’ the other said in response. ‘You game for a little wager?’ The two reached for their wallets and began whispering something I could no longer decipher. Time to move in for a closer look?

’Did I hear you gentlemen right?’ I asked as I leaned between them, shrouding my eyes with my steadfast pair of pilot’s aviators, sporting an entertained, shitty grin. ‘You think she’s eighteen, is that right?’

’Take a look at that ass, you faggot,’ the more drunken one said. Judging by the aroma, my hypothesis would be a cheap Kentucky bourbon spirit. ‘You wanna tell me she ain’t fit to hog out?’

’There’s no doubt you’ve got a gifted eye,’ I said, ‘and impeccable taste, as well. Get your money together and I’ll go ask her how old she is. I’m a seasoned gambler, you see, and there needs to be an objective eye in the middle of a wager like this. This is how we do it down South. No frills, just results. Agreed?’

They both nodded and walked over to the bench along side the lobby wall. I had to intervene before those animals lost control of themselves. Who knows how perverted these slack-jawed drunks could’ve been? What starts out as a harmless bet winds up with an innocent, underage Catholic girl gagged in the trunk of a broken down Buick, with a head full of chloroform and an Everclear bottle neck shoved in her anal cavity. A good person like myself, no matter how passive and sedated, can’t sit back and watch the drunken fiends cut loose.

’Excuse me,’ I said to the obviously underage girl as she stood in front of the luggage trough, ‘there are some weird people talking about you over there, and I’d suggest you get your things and leave this place at once.’ She gave me a frightened look and began scanning the room in a panic. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll stand with you until your things arrive.’ I wasn’t sure if she trusted me, either. After all, why should she? Some weird looking fucker – smelling of booze and breathing surprisingly heavy – approaches a beautiful little girl, standing alone in the airport lobby, silently praying no one gives her the slack-jawed slimy shuffle. Sometimes intervening between the scabs and the sludge works out for the best?

My trip to Washington had a more pressing purpose. By some modern miracle, LushForLife.com was granted an invite to a gala held at the White House: an award ceremony for a group of professional sporting fisherman, of which Dubya and his group of cohorts are all members. There was a limousine waiting for me upon exiting the terminal; a driver with a smug grin, smelling of the same right-wing political ideology that in no time would be surrounding me. My first voyage to the White House would no doubt offer some interesting and bizarre findings – at least I hoped. That’s why people like myself never leave our compounds without being properly equipped?

The ceremony was incredibly mundane – unable to stomach for anyone who isn’t completely obsessed with gutting the underbelly of an oversized marlin and playing around with its entrails. That sounds fine and dandy for some people, but for those of us who subscribe to some faint idea of decent behavior, the process is inconceivably disgusting.

In the White House lobby, by no means of logical reasoning, staff members Dan Bartlett and Andy Card were performing a bizarre act where they would juggle a collection of flaming vodka bottles back and forth over the original copy of the Bill of Rights.

’You’ve got to try Condoleeza’s Sea Breeze, buddy,’ Card said while he gawked towards the ceiling, keeping track of the flopping flaming booze bottles coming in his direction. ‘It really will pound your ass into comatose sedation. A weekend in Tijuana with Mexican hookers and a kilo is baby food compared to this.’

If these twisted bastards are tweaked enough to engage in this sort of thing, they may be onto something. The hired bartender was sent to the gala floor to collect empty tumblers, high-ballers, and ashtrays while the Secretary of State manned the bar. ‘What’ll it be, white boy?’ she said to me with a crooked eye and a drooling lip.

’I’ve heard your Sea Breeze is one for the books.’

She stopped cleaning off the counter and looked up at me with an indistinguishable, surprised glare. ‘If you’re carved out of true grit, which you look like you are, it’s the right way to go.’ She poured the drink with her back turned from me so I couldn’t see the contents of her concoction. For all I know, the mix could have contained the mystical Cypripedium acaule that I’ve been trying to track down for weeks.

Violent sounds of commotion surfaced in the distance from the direction of the Oval Office after I took my first massive gulp of what was likely the best drink I’ve been served within the entire greater D.C. area. If Rice’s political career eventually ends in shambles, she’ll always have a bartending gig to save her from ultimate disaster.

I walked into the President’s bureau and finally found the decadent behavior that I knew the degenerates where capable of performing. These bizarre fishermen may happen to be despicable bastards, but some of them are so twisted that occasionally we can agree on what is truly awful?

One of them was holding a random secretary intern over the desk, pounding his Rodney into her bared, pale rear entry hole. Another one danced around, performing some sort of aboriginal primitive dance while sporting a severed tiger shark head as a cap. ‘Um knum shee-bhye, um knub shee-byee,’ he said as he pranced about in a circle, swatting a half dozen or so other men on the skull – who where kneeling on the ground, with full erections and their heads facing the floor. Too much of something was definitely flowing throughout the walls of Andrew Jackson’s beloved homestead? I’ve traveled to the distant corners of this deranged fuck-rock and I’ve never seen such bizarre, complete disregard for all that is decent and tolerable as I was exposed to tonight.

What remarkable and screwy behavior these staunch, God-fearing Republicans are capable of encompassing?



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