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Girls Just Want to Have Trust Funds

we're just going to slit our wrists nowYou may have wondered if it's possible to retch with disgust and laugh with nihilistic abandon at the same time. . . It is! We know, because we just stopped retching long enough to make this quick entry about The Hill's latest contribution to District anthropological studies, "Trophy wives in training," in which we learn about a group of blonde and might-as-well-be-blonde women who have formed a club for the express purpose of keeping other people out:


It’s not just that The Madison is exclusive. So what? If everyone could join, no one would want to. Good for these ladies for wearing their haughtiness on their sleeves. In a town notorious for its dishonesty and obfuscation, The Madison is refreshingly in-your-face about who’s hot and who’s not.
Refreshing, indeed. Refreshing like a fart in an elevator. Refreshing because who's hot lists are so. Fucking. Hard. To. Find.

And how best is it that it's called The Madison? Will they rumble with other gangs named after the pampered children of McMansioned exurbs? The Whitneys? The Morgans? It doesn't matter -- when those kind of girls fight, we all lose. And this will shock you, but Wonkette operatives have written to say The Madison girls are Smith Point regulars. We don't doubt that they bond with Jenna over proper barstool-diving form. But, hey, at least it's not a retrograde bastion of prissy and self-satisfied sexism. Oh, wait. . .

Certainly, the fellows at the Capital Club, The Madison’s male equivalent, see the sisterhood as something of a future first wives club. Said one: “We’re starting a breeding program. We’re going to maintain the blue-blood line.”
Oops! Spoke to soon. Oh, God, the retching has started again. . .

Trophy wives in training [The Hill]

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It's the night before the two-night Democratic primary debate extravaganza, and we're already tired. Turns out having 20 candidates spread across two nights when only six or eight of them matter is not the must-see TV we all thought it was going to be! But that's not to dissuade you from getting excited! We're excited! We're so excited! We're so ...

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SCARED!

In case you need a reminder, here is how it's going to go down:

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Lately he's been blowing smoke from another orifice.

After a cursory examination of the TWELVE filings in the case against California Congressman Duncan Hunter just in the past 24 hours, we can confidently declare that that guy is a fucking idiot. The prosecutors have him by every last one of his short and curlies -- which is what happens when you use your campaign credit card to pay for hundreds of thousands of dollars of ski trips, video games, tuition, and plane tickets for the family rabbit.

A rational human being would have pleaded down a year ago and given up his congressional seat, since he could cash out and make a lot more money as a lobbyist anyway. But not Duncan Hunter! He made the federal government chase him down and document every last carton of cigarettes, round of tequila, and Uber ride of shame home from his many girlfriends' houses in a 60-count indictment filed last August. And still this dumb sumbitch refused to admit he was caught, even after his lovely wife (and co-conspirator) Margaret Hunter flipped on him this month -- which is what happens when you use your campaign credit card to carry on multiple affairs and you piss off the US Attorneys enough that they put every 7 a.m. Uber ride in your indictment.

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