Tomorrow night is the annual White House Correspondents Association Dinner. Fuck the White House Correspondents Association Dinner.
Donald Trump won’t be attending the annual black tie press/ politico/ celeb extravaganza this year. You think that makes it good? No. It means that Donald Trump has done at least one good thing.
You think that the White House Correspondents Association Dinner, a detestable schmoozefest of sickeningly starstruck journalists fawning over proximity to celebrity and power, is now part of the “Resistance?” You think that this celebration of the Washington press corps’ utter philosophical capture by those they cover is something that you can claim has some level of political righteousness because it features jokes about a bad president? No. The White House Correspondents Association Dinner—the embodiment of the winking acknowledgment that those in power and those who are supposed to be checks on that power are really all on the same team—is one of the reasons we have the bad president in the first place.
You think that you can attend this event ironically? You think that you are cool and progressive enough that of course your attendance is implicitly excused because you know it’s bad and you’re just here to laugh with your friends about this crazy scene? No. America is watching and they don’t give a fuck how cool you are. You’re a reporter in a motherfucking tuxedo holding a cocktail and posing for a picture with Jessica Alba and Rick Perry. Your presence does not make the White House Correspondents Association Dinner good. The White House Correspondents Association makes you bad.
I pray to god for a well-timed meteorite strike on the Washington Hilton.
Stop going to this thing.