We cats are relentless critics of the White House Correspondents' Dinner (which, we're sad to say, is looming on the horizon once again). It's unseemly that the Washington press corps cozies up to the office holders they're responsible for covering, and even turn it into a kind of Hollywod-on-the-Potomac. We hate it.
Can we say the same thing about the Gridiron Dinner? It's just as awful, but less visible.
Presidents have attended the Gridiron for more than 100 years, but it's always been private and off the record, so you'll never find it on C-SPAN. Still, word leaks out about what gets said and done. And last night's Gridiron was... ugh.
Unless, of course, you think it's amusing when journalists perform skits and sing parody songs about the news, nod, nod, wink, wink. You know what? Maybe that kind of thing worked in another era, when we actually had a competent grownup behind the desk in the Oval Office. Not now.
For Donald Trump to stand at the lectern in a room full of journalists and joke that he "likes chaos" ("It's really good," he said) is not only not funny, it's frightening. Because aside from Robert Mueller, reporters are the only people who are going to save us from this Trumpian nightmare we're in. And knowing the press's track record ("But her emails!"), and that they're sitting in a ballroom at the Renaissance Washington Hotel chuckling along with him, it's more frightening still.
How can we keep going with these lame inside-the-Beltway traditions when our government is disintegrating? It's just what Vladimir Putin wants, and it's pathetic and alarming.
Like the rest of America, we cats are tired of the tumult. We want it to end. We want to feel safe again. But we won't until these terrible people are gone. Please, Bob Mueller, hurry up, because the press won't save us. We cats HISS.
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