We're Not in The District Anymore!

The July Nose

The Nose, Dear Readers, has had the distinct pleasure of your intimate acquaintance for several years now. However, nothing in this extended dalliance, even the 2010 dethronement of King Blackberry, rivals the Machiavellian imbroglio of the past two months.

From the ingenious incompetencies of the 2010 Gray campaign (the term which led to the coining of ‘Sulaimania’), to the mundane mechanics of mortgage fraud, the District’s politicians have plumbed the depths of depravity to dally with their doom.

Struck by the ubiquitous, unique unseemliness of the District’s lawmakers, ‘ex-felon’ will be established as a synonym for ‘ex-councilmember’ in the American Lexicon. Yes, despite an absence of home rule, the District has managed to join the ranks of famously fraudulent states.

Rhode Island, Nevada and Michigan! You can’t touch us!

Meanwhile, our fair Gotham continues to await the fate of its erstwhile Mayor (aka The Undertaker).

Forced by an intrepid fellow scribbler to deny imminent resignation, a claim rendered hollow by antics of a colleague’s recent public reversal of fortune, The Undertaker chose to fly off to China. Undoubtedly the task of pitching street cars to eastern investors in the baleful hope of repatriating a few pennies of the enormous wealth siphoned off by America's large oriental trade imbalance is vastly preferable to fleeing down the corridors of the Wilson Building pursued by slavering reporters who are not even respectful of a quickly slammed door.

Yes, Dear Readers, We’re not in The District anymore.

Rather, The Nose believes that the entire Wilson Building has been physically uprooted and transported into an alternate reality that more closely approximates Oz sans Toto.

How else does one explain ex-prisoner Marion Barry calling out a colleague on the subject of tax liens and a misdemeanor conviction? Perhaps, they both share the same accountants or have retained the firm of Cooke, Wilmot & Bolden?

Could the District’s ongoing legislative burlesque become even more gelastic? Join The Nose, Dear Readers, in putting on your Imagination Caps.

A long time ago in a galaxy not so far, far away...

Just imagine a completely crushed Fully Loaded Navigator lying on the street in front of the steps of the Wilson Building, two sartorially trousered appendages extending beneath the heavily dented frame. Councilmember Tommy 'Goody-Two-Shoes' Wells and The Nose stand surveying the wreck.

“Well, I'm a little muddled. The Reporters tweeted me because a certain columnist had just dropped a fully Loaded Navigator on Pennsylvania Avenue on our Chair. And there's the car, and here you are, and that's all that's left of the Chair himself,” Goody-2-Shoes observes.

The Nose appears a bit perplexed.

“And so what the Reporters want to know,” Wells says looking deep in The Nose eyes, “is, are you a good pol, or a bad pol?”

Oh, but I've already told you, I'm not a politician at all -- lawmakers are well-dressed, corrupt, tax cheats,” The Nose observes demurely.

“What was that?” Wells looks around and guffaws. “I am laughing because I am a politician. I'm Tommy, The Saint of Ward 6.”

The Nose looks to the right and left, and then curtseys gracefully. “You are? I beg your pardon, but I've never heard of an honest pol, much less one possessed of a halo.”

“Only bad politicians take bribes and park such elaborate rides in front of the Wilson Building,” observes Wells. “I myself peddle to work on a lowly two-wheeled bicycle.”

A gaggle of Reporters swarms the two from either side of the Wilson Building.

“The Reporters are happy because you have decisively ended the rumors about the Chairman,” wryly states St. Tommy.

“Oh. But, if you please -- what are Reporters,” queries The Nose?

“The little people who live in the Wilson Building and you are now their national hero, my dear. It's all right -- you may all come out and thank him. It's all right now - you may all come out.”

St. Wells breaks out his iPhone and begins tweeting furiously,

Come out, come out
wherever you are.
And meet the grizzled columnist
who fell from a star.
He fell from the sky,
He fell very far.
And Columbia he says is the name of the star.
He brings you good news.
Or haven't you heard?
When he fell out of Columbia,
a miracle occurred.

The Reporters singing in reply:

We thank you very sweetly
For doing it so neatly.
You've eviscerated The Chair so completely

St. Wells, typing madly:

Let the joyous news be spread
The convicted Chair at last is dead!

Reporters serenading:

Ding Dong!  The Chair is dead.
Which old Politician?
The one killed by his own ambition!
Ding Dong! The cheating Chair is dead.
Wake up, you sleepy head.
Rub your eyes
Forget your meds.
Wake up, the .chastened Chair is dead.
He's gone where felons go
To Club Fed near Mexico
Yo -- ho, let's open up and sing
And break out the whiskey.
Ding Dong! The merry-oh!
Sing it high
Sing it low
The convicted Chair is dead.

Remember, Dear Readers, there is still one more Navigator remaining in the city’s fleet.
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