The Fatcats Club

There is a place in New York where they all hang out — Limbaugh, Hannity, Beck, Coulter, Ingraham, Liddy when he's in town.  They have their regular table where they all sit, right in the middle of the room, where they can see everybody and everybody can see them.  They talk about whatever is happening, whatever is on their minds, so the conversation is always a little different; and yet, if you were to eavesdrop on them not just today, as we have done, but regularly, you would find each time very much like the last.

Rush Limbaugh pulled a sterling silver clipper from his inside breast pocket and snipped the end of his cigar.  He lit it, inhaled, and blew a long trail of smoke up toward the ceiling.  His wooden chair creaked as he leaned back against it and said, “My housekeeper called me this morning from Palm Beach and told me I got this letter from the town council.”  He puffed again on the cigar.  “Seems they’ve passed an ordinance that says no one is allowed to illuminate their beachfront property with artificial light from March through October, because it poses a danger to the giant sea turtles.”

G. Gordon Liddy took a sip of his wine and shook his head.  “For goodness sake, they’re sea turtles.  What have they got to do with the lights at your house?”

“They’re attracted to lights they can see from the beach, apparently,” Rush explained, “and when the hatchlings come out in the spring, they crawl up the beach toward the lights instead of going out into the ocean where they belong, and they die.  It’s apparently a major cause of the decrease in the sea turtle population.”

“That’s ridiculous and demeaning,” Ann Coulter said.  “You’re a person, you shouldn’t have to change for a bunch of turtles.  This is what happens when government listens to the tree-huggers.”  Their waiter — former Oklahoma Congressman J.C. Watts — approached to refill Ann’s wine glass.  “Thank you, Julius,” she said politely.

“You should set traps for the sea turtles,” Sean Hannity suggested.  “Then kill them and grind up the meat and sell it like tuna.  Like that tuna you used to advertise on your radio show that was chuck fulla dolphin meat.”

“That was a parody,” Rush said.  “There was no such product.”

“Oh, I see,” Sean said.  He took a gulp of wine.

“Anyway, I have nothing against sea turtles,” Rush said.  “A few years ago, a bunch of friends and I walked down to the beach after a big mama sea turtle had dug her hole and laid her eggs, and we followed her all the way back down the beach into the water.  We were all amazed, it was a beautiful thing.  I just don’t see why the hell I should have to turn my lights off for it.”

G. Gordon had finished with his salad.  Another waiter — noted writer and economist Thomas Sowell — appeared and took the empty plate away.  “Thank you, Thomas,” G. Gordon said.  “By the way, I thoroughly enjoyed your latest article on Townhall.com.”

Thomas bowed graciously and smiled.  “Why thank you, sir.”

“Not to change the subject, but am I the only one who thinks that the 9/11 widows and the Hurricane Katrina survivors are more annoying than the terrorists at this point?” Glenn Beck asked.

“Oh, I’m totally with you on that one,” Ann said, raising her glass toward Glenn.

“I mean, really,” Glenn continued, “have you ever heard such a rotten bunch of complainers?  ‘Oh, I lost my husband!’ or ‘Oh, I lost my house and all my possessions!’  Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

Laura Ingraham shook her head disapprovingly.  “Everyone wants something handed to them, no one wants to work.”

Across the dining room at another table sat the quartet of Bill and Hillary Clinton, Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives Nancy Pelosi, and U.S. Senator from Massachusetts Ted Kennedy.  Nancy gave a sigh as she looked over her menu.  “I’m gonna have to buy carbon offsets for that goddamn plane I’m flying in,” she said.  “It’s the only way not to look like a hypocrite.”

“You could fly in a smaller plane,” Hillary suggested.

“Yeah, that’s gonna happen,” Nancy said as she clapped the menu closed.  Their waitress — California Congresswoman Maxine Waters — walked up with pad and pencil in hand.  “I’ll have the special,” Nancy told her.

Bill and Ted ordered the special as well.  When her turn came, Hillary asked, “What is the koala plate, exactly?”

“It’s a eucalyptus leaf salad, topped with grilled koala meat,” Maxine answered.

Hillary shut her menu.  “I’ll have that.”

Maxine was on her way back to the kitchen when Bill reached out and touched her arm, pulling her back to the table.  He pressed a folded, hand-written note into her palm and instructed her to deliver it to Ann over at the other table, along with a bottle of wine.  Maxine nodded, walked over to the other table and handed the note to Ann Coulter and poured her a fresh glass of wine.  “From the gentleman,” Maxine said.

“What kind of wine is it?” Ann asked, lifting and examining the glass.

“It’s our featured vintage, the blood of PFC Angela Farnsworth, mother of three, killed in Iraq in 2004.”

Ann took a sip.  “It’s excellent, thank you.”

Ann unfolded the note.  It read, “417 at the Waldorf.  Hillary’s gone after 7.”  Ann refolded the note and tucked it away in her bra.  She fished a pen out of her purse and scribbled a message of her own on her napkin.  She flagged down another waiter — Minnesota Representative Keith Ellison — handed him her note and told him to deliver it to Bill.

J.C. Watts appeared next to Rush.  “Would you like a refill of your Snapple?”

“Yes,” Rush said, handing the waiter his glass.

“What flavor was it?” J.C. inquired politely.

“Diet Sweat of the Common Man Tea,” Rush replied.  J.C. nodded and hurried away.

Bill received Ann’s note at his table.  It read, “7 is too late — I’m on a plane.”  He grunted dejectedly and stuffed the note into his jacket pocket.

Hillary’s cell phone rang.  She answered it:  “Senator Clinton.”

“Hillary!  Got something new for you, Madame Senator.”  It was James Carville.

“Go on, James,” Hillary said, listening intently.

“Seems one of the guests at the Obama fundraiser Geffen hosted last week is a member of the motion picture academy that voted for Goodnight, and Good Luck for Best Picture last year instead of either Crash or Brokeback Mountain.”

“That’s excellent, James.  Get the word out that Obama is accepting money from racists and homophobes.”  Hillary snapped her phone shut.

J.C. returned to the center table with Rush’s refill of Snapple.  “Excuse me, Rush,” he said, “but you have a phone call.”

Rush acted as though he hadn’t heard.

“Rush,” J.C. repeated, louder.  “Excuse me, Rush.”

Rush inclined his head very slightly in J.C.’s direction.  “I cannot hear you . . .”

“Mister Limbaugh,” said J.C., “you have a phone call.”

Rush turned to J.C. and smiled.  “Thank you, Julius.  Who is it?”

“Michael Reagan.”

Rush’s smile evaporated.  “Did you already tell him I was here?”

“Yes sir.”

“Godfuckingdammit.  All right, bring me the phone.”  Rush leaned forward on the table and groaned.  “I’ve been trying to duck him for years, but he just never stops.  Always wants to talk, always trying to get me to hang out with him.”  J.C. handed Rush the phone.  Rush cleared his throat.  “Mike?  Yeah, this is Rush.  Hi!  How ya doin’? . . . Yeah, no — listen, I can’t.  I really can’t, I have to go get new batteries put in my cochlear implant. . . . No, it’s an all-day thing, they have to cut my head open and take it out and everything . . . Okay, sure, maybe next time. . . . Good-bye.”  Rush handed J.C. back the phone.  “Wanted to know if I wanted to go out on his boat with him sometime.”

“What a faggot,” Sean said.

“His father is probably spinning in his grave,” G. Gordon observed.

“His adopted father,” Ann added.

Sean stifled a belch and held his hand to his stomach.  He produced his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed quickly with his thumb.  “Sean Hannity for the President, please. . . . Mr. President!  Sean Hannity, how are you doing today, sir? . . . Glad to hear it.  Listen, I was just calling because, well, I think I may have to go to the bathroom soon. . . . Yes, it’s going to be a number two. . . . Are you sure? . . . All right then, sir, thank you.  I have your permission, then? . . . All right, I will call you back then for further instructions.  Thank you, Mr. President.”  Sean tucked the phone back inside his jacket and rose from his chair.  “Excuse me,” he said, and marched toward the Men’s Room at the back of the restaurant.

Arizona Senator John McCain and former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani came through the front entrance and were met by the maitre de — former Ambassador to the United Nations Alan Keyes.  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Alan said.  “I have the perfect table for you, right over here by the window.  The best seats in the house!”  He led them across the dining room to their table.

Rudy leaned in close to John and whispered, “He’s so well-spoken!”

“Harvard really is a remarkable school, isn’t it?” John replied.

Rudy and John were seated.  In a few moments their waitress — U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice — appeared to take their orders.  “Would you like a bottle of wine to drink while you decide on your entrees?” Condi asked.

“I have a question about the special,” Rudy said, pointing to a line on the menu.

“Of course, sir,” Condi said.

“What is the special?”

“The special today is a fine, lean cut of Leonard Wilson, a former assembly line worker at General Motors in Detroit, grilled to order and served with a side of his sautéed entrails.”

Rudy closed his menu.  “I’ll have the special, then.  Medium-rare.”

John closed his menu as well.  “The same for me, only well-done.”

“All right, I’ll put those right in!” Condi said, then put away her pad and hurried into the kitchen.

Over at the table in the middle of the room, Sean returned from the bathroom and sat back down.  “How much are you supposed to tip the bathroom attendant?”

“One dollar is usually sufficient,” G. Gordon said.

“Good,” said Sean, “that’s all I gave that boy in there.”

“Who’s working the bathroom today?” Rush asked.

“Walter Williams,” Sean said.

“Oh, he’s good,” Laura said.  “He tended bar at this RNC fundraiser I was at one time.  I had to yell at him for giving me too many olives in my martini, but after I corrected him he did just a fine job.”

“Know who’s a real jerk?” Glenn said to the rest of the table.  “Keith Olbermann.”

This brought a chorus of agreement in murmurs and nods.  “I’m gonna make him my Enemy of the State this week,” Sean said.  “Totally.”

“Yeah,” Ann said, “let’s run his four-eyed ass back to SportsCenter.”

J.C. returned to the table to ask if anyone would be having dessert.  Everyone declined except for Glenn, who studied the dessert menu with a puzzled expression.  “Can I help you decide on anything, Mr. Beck?”

“I’m having some trouble understanding a lot of these words,” Glenn said.

“Maybe I can help you,” J.C. offered.

“No, Julius, I don’t want anyone to help me understand what I’m reading,” said Glenn.  “That’s not what I’m all about, man.  I’m just a normal guy — a normal, flawed, imperfect guy like everyone else, just trying to figure things out.  I might make a few mistakes along the way, but isn’t that more honest?”

J.C. waited quietly for a few more seconds.  “Will you be having any dessert, sir?” he asked Glenn again.

Glenn closed the dessert menu.  “No thank you.”

Maitre de Alan seated Bill O’Reilly alone at a small table nearby.  “Well well well,” said Hannity, “look who’s here.”

O’Reilly sighed and looked over.  “I’m only here because there was a line at my favorite deli, okay?  That’s the only reason.  I’m a journalist.  I’m nothing like you people.”

Thomas, his waiter, approached the table.  “What can I get you this evening, Mr. O’Reilly?”

“I’ll have the special,” O’Reilly said.

At John and Rudy’s table, Keith arrived with their entrees.  “Condi apologizes for not being able to bring these out herself, but she’s getting ready for her next show.”

“Next show?” Rudy asked, but before he finished the question the lights in the room had dimmed and a spot fell on the grand piano in the corner, where Condi sat smiling.  She played an introduction, then launched into a throaty version of a Sarah Vaughn number that nobody recognized.

Glenn leaned in close to Rush.  “They sure can sing, can’t they?”

Rush nodded his agreement.  Maxine arrived with another note for Ann.  As soon as Ann had read the note, Bill got up from his seat with Hillary, Nancy and Ted at the other table and made his way toward the back.  “I’ve got to go powder my nose,” Ann announced after a minute, then slipped away from the table and followed Bill into the Men’s Room.

“Wow,” Rudy exclaimed as he chewed his steak.  “You were so right, John — the taste really grows on you.”