Every year on Charlie Rose’s birthday, The Elders of Georgetown – a politburo of elite journalists, editors and anchormen – convene in a secret chamber beneath the home of Sally Quinn where they plot to take over the United States of America. The organization was founded in 1902 and, until now, nobody has written or spoken a single word about them.

I attended this year’s conclave because of my relationship with Wolf Blitzer, who at the time was my lover. The Elders don’t allow husbands or wives, but mistresses, gay lovers and hunk-toys are welcome (Helen Thomas usually shows up with her man slave, a former RNC staffer she abducted six years ago, and now totes around like a dog, tugging on his studded leash when he refuses to eat free range chicken or drink bottled water from a recycled bowl shaped like Osama Bin Laden’s beard). 

Wolf and I were driven to Sally’s house in a black town car chauffeured by an Al Queda evildoer who’d recently made parole with the help of Sanjay Gupta. Wolf was in a pissy mood and worried that I might embarrass him again. He brought up Tina Brown's book party, where I got really drunk on Schnapps and told Joan Walsh that for one summer back in the 80’s I’d coached some T-Ball. I wasn’t in the mood for a fight, so I gently placed my hand on Wolf’s beard and whispered, “I love you.” He turned and gave me that darling look of his, the one that let me know I’d always be his bitch.

The interior of Sally and Ben’s Georgetown home is designed to make visitors feel inferior. There are hundreds of photographs of Ben with Jack Kennedy and, prominently displayed in the foyer, an obviously forged note from Bobby that says, “To Ben, without whom I would be nothing.” Sally greeted Wolf with an elaborate handshake that, much to my surprise, culminated in a fist bump. She asked who I was, and then Wolf, rather crudely, grinned through his beard, slapped my backside and then made a vigorous hand gesture suggesting intercourse. Sally roared with laughter, made some silly pun about “The Situation Room” and led us through the kitchen and into a pantry, where she handed Wolf a sickle shaped key and then politely excused herself to go shit on a flag.

Wolf slid the key through a docket, where upon the pantry room wall lifted, revealing an elevator emblazoned with the image of Alan Alda, whose pensive face split in two when the doors parted. We descended in silence to the chamber floor. I took a deep breath and reached for Wolf’s hand, but he just told me not to fuck up and then pulled a compact from his breast pocket to check his makeup.

We stepped out of the elevator and into a surreal scene that could only be described as a cross between Renaissance Weekend, Cirque du Soleil and a Madonna concert. The chamber was the size of a gymnasium and the walls were lined with leather-clad men dancing in cages. On the ceiling were gigantic murals of Che Guevara, Karl Marx and Ed Begley Jr. Each dinner table was an exact replica of Vladimir Lenin’s tomb, the wine glasses were Soviet red, and little wheels of Brie cheese rested on plates shaped like vulvas.

The hall was filled with perhaps 200 people I recognized from MSNBC and CNN. I saw Rachel Maddow, Jon Meacham and Brian Williams passing around a bowl of cocaine. Tom Brokaw was standing all by himself near the buffet table. He was dressed as a Sandinista and eating sushi from a small plate, pausing between bites to drop rosaries into the mouth of a salivating pit bull. Nobody even looked up from their meals when Doris Kearns Goodwin let out a primal scream, leapt like a cheetah from a dessert table and then tore apart a Santa Claus piñata using nothing but her own teeth. We walked past Walter Issacson, Jonathan Alter and, much to my surprise, the washed up rapper Ice-T. As Wolf and I sat down at our table, the ghost of Peter Jennings floated past whispering, “I hate barbecues and Little League.”

Other than Ted Koppel, who was snorting heroin from the ass of a ceramic baby Jesus, everyone quieted down when Charlie Rose strode onstage wearing a tie dyed turban and called the meeting to order. The Elders stood on queue and then in unison recited the following pledge, “I am an Elder of Georgetown and have committed myself to the destruction of the United States of America. I promise to use my power and influence to oppose money, firearms, the police, straight people, home baked cookies, Ray Romano, happy families, the state of Alabama, Christmas, Wayne Newton, honesty, khaki pants, the Boy Scouts, apple pie, baseball, firefighters, small towns, Joel Osteen, bowling, Budweiser, and Mitt Romney’s hair. But not necessarily in that order.”

Then the lights dimmed and everyone bowed their heads and emitted a creepy ritualistic hum. A lit candle appeared below the face of Charlie Rose, who slowly lifted his outstretched arms and then, with a wild glint in his eye, looked up at the Ed Begley, Jr. mural on the fifty-foot ceiling. The hall continued humming and started to stomp with fury. All of them were looking up at the Ed Begley mural, some of them salivating, others panting like rottweilers. Dana Bash ripped her shirt off and rubbed blood on her tiny breasts.

Charlie Rose exclaimed, “Behold!!!!!!!!!”

Ed Begley’s nose pulled back like a trap door, revealing the swaying bottom of an iron cage. Al Hunt leapt up on his table like a lion, grasping in vain for the cage, which was just beginning its slow descent. Wolf cupped his hands and screamed, “Who is it? Who is it?” Frank Rich and some other people jumped on the table right below the cage’s path, pawing and scrambling to get a hold of it, like starving refugees awaiting a United Nations food drop. When the contents of the cage finally became visible the Elders shrieked like banshees, pushing and shoving one another like mosh pit maniacs.

I craned my head to see what was inside. Wet like a sea lion and hairless as a newborn baby. Shaking in terror with a smoldering cigar protruding from his asshole, one massive body of pink blubber curled up in a wailing ball of despair.

It was Rush Limbaugh.

Charlie Rose shouted “Bon appetite!” and then cackled like a witch. He pressed a button on the podium, prompting the bottom of the cage to open up and dump Rush Limbaugh onto the dinner table, which instantly crumbled. The Elders pounced and tore into Rush, howling and moaning in between bites, groaning and heaving with hunger. Wolf was on top of the pile, clawing and digging for a piece. Andrea Mitchell popped up with an entire arm in her mouth, swallowed it whole and then went back for more.

I steadied myself with a chair and nearly vomited. I turned around and saw that nobody was between the Alan Alda elevator and me. Everyone was still feasting on Rush, lost in a liberal banquet of horror. I had a clear escape route, but knew it wouldn’t last. 

I set my vulva shaped plate on the table, took a deep breath and as quietly as possible took a few steps backwards. I began to turn, thinking I’d chance a full sprint. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wolf. Even though he was chewing on Rush Limbaugh’s thumb, there was still something very beautiful about him. The silver beard, although streaked in blood, radiated charm and vitality. His wondrous white hair made him look every bit the distinguished host of “The Situation Room” that he was. And those teeth, coffee stained and a bit crooked, made him look so very… I dunno…real.

I took a step towards him, knowing that if I could get him out of there, he’d be so grateful, so happy to be away from the Elders and back at my condominium, leaning back into my loving embrace, letting me stroke his beard and rub oil into his chest. He looked up like a hunting dog and we locked eyes. He’d finished eating Rush’s thumb and was working on a pinky.  I mouthed, “Screw these Rush eating Elders of Georgetown. Let’s go home and watch some tapes of “The Situation Room”,” and then gestured towards the Alan Alda elevator behind me. Wolf slowly rose and took a couple steps in my direction. He looked so suave, so ravishing, one big powerful hunk of liberal bias. 

I knew he’d come around.

But then he pointed straight at me and screamed, “He used to coach T-Ball!” The liberal elite Elders all stood up and looked in my direction. Eleanor Clift removed a Rush bone from her mouth and hurled it at my head. I ducked and let it sail past me and smash into a dildo ice sculpture. The Elders charged me, screaming and wailing like a pack of feral hyenas. I turned and sprinted to the Alan Alda elevator, furiously pushing the call button. The Elders were about twenty yards away and had fallen in line behind Charlie Rose, now leading the hungry charge. Finally, Alan Alda’s face split in two, allowing me to leap into the elevator. As the doors closed, Charlie Rose flashed his liberal fangs and shouted, “I’m going to eat your T-Ball coaching ass!”

When I reached Sally Quinn’s pantry room, I stepped gingerly from the Alan Alda elevator, glanced around for Elders and quietly tiptoed down the hallway. Before opening the front door, I looked in the living room and saw Sally Quinn tossing Boy Scout uniforms into her blazing fireplace.

I jumped into a cab at the corner of 33^rd and P and then broke down in a river of tears, images of the media elite Rush feast rolling around my head. The crying let up when we turned onto the Key Bridge, knowing we’d soon be in McLean, where people appreciate khaki pants, Sean Hannity and Mitt Romney’s hair. Then I looked out the window and saw a giant billboard of Bill O’Reilly, his enormous teeth illuminating the night sky like glorious white angels. Seeing his beautiful mane of chestnut hair, his gorgeous mouth and strong chin, I felt as though I were staring into the face of God. I imagined Bill O’Reilly cradling me like a baby, rocking me gently back and forth and whispering over and over again, “We are Americans. And we can kick the living beejesus out of anybody in the world."