A Kegger by Any Other Name. . .

It was sometime around midnight last night at the Qorvis/NRA/tobacoo lobby party (so much evil, so little time) when the jacketless young men crawled up on stage and started getting jiggy with the go-go dancers. It was a little while later when we saw one of them put his tie around his forehead and perform the frat boy mating call: "Woooooooooo!" We wish that young man well.

We had been worried about sticking out at the event, and we did: Not so much because of the tattoos, the wife-beater shirt, or the $5 Target sandals, but because we were not nearly as drunk as everyone else. And we were pretty fucking drunk. But we weren't as drunk as the human bowling ball who was ruining her nice Banana Republic skirt in the downstairs VIP lounge with multiple trips to meet Mr. Floor, and not so drunk we didn't think, upon seeing two club workers with tom-toms roam the room, "Didn't we come to a GOP party toescapedrum circles?" And we weren't even drunk enough to ask the really hot chick in the sparkly silver halter top if she was really a Republican. All in all, we really should have drank more.