Romney, Ryan, Rock Al Smith Dinner, "Run with Wolves" in Zoo

Who says Republicans don’t know how to party?   Not me.  Not anymore.  Not since my Becoming Republican.

Last night after the Al Smith dinner at the Waldorf, me, Romney, Ryan, Bloomberg, and Trump wound up totally wasted in the Central Park Zoo pissing into the polar bear exhibit, howling at the moon.  Good times, man, good times.

Turns out Trump, (who, by the way, likes to be called Bossman Trumpman, which, believe me is hard to say when you’re loaded), is a party animal.  He was swilling vodka from a gold flask in the shape of a trumpet at our table all night, forcing his phone number into the hands of every waitress and waiter in the place, insisting they come see Trump Tower.  Lame, but kind of funny.  You had to be there for that, I guess.

Then when Obama got up to speak, Trump started chanting, “Kenyan, Kenyan, Kenyan,” softly at first but then louder and louder until finally, Paul Ryan kicked him under the table and told him to shut up.  Ryan is a numbers guy; I guess he figured 50 Kenyans was more than enough.  For a second I thought Trump was going to punch Ryan, but after a tense moment, Bossman Trumpman shrugged and offered everyone a hit from his flask.

Ryan spent most of the night complaining about why Obama got the top speaking slot at the dinner over Romney.  “Scholarship to a top prep school, at top of his class at Harvard, president of the Law Review, he gets everything handed to him on a silver platter," he said, shaking his head.  "You know what?  He didn’t build that, somebody built it for him."  Ryan likes to be called Def Jam.

I kept looking around for Rush Limbaugh, but he wasn’t there.  Chris Matthews was there, but no Rush.  “What kind of crap is that,” I asked Bloomberg in the bathroom.  He was standing next to me using the kid’s urinal.  Even then he had to stand on his tippy- toes.  

“It’s New York, kiddo,” Bloomberg said, zipping up.   “The liberals still cling to power.”  

Nice enough guy, Bloomberg, but he bummed cigarettes off me all night so that by the time we got to the zoo, we were forced to scrounge for butts off the sidewalk.  By the way, he hates being called Shorty. 

Romney is totally cool. He was the one who said we had to go to the zoo.  He was pumped about how his kick-ass jokes had totally blown Obama away.  “Let’s run with wolves, my brothers,” he said, leading the charge up Fifth Avenue into the park.  When we couldn’t find the wolves, we settled on the polar bears.

The Secret Service stopped us from climbing into the exhibit with the bears. They were even drunker than we were, but still, it was the four of us against fifteen of them.  Also they had handguns and, because we were in New York, we didn’t.

One last thing – Mitt gave me back my George W. “Mission Accomplished” belt buckle.  He was more than happy to give it back actually.  He slapped it into my hand, glared at me and said, “I don’t ever want to see that thing again.  That thing could lose me the election.”