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Trip Report Washington DC, October 1998


 
  



 





  

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The 1998 Washington DC Trip
 from Volume 131 - Backlash Landslide


Our Van Gogh tickets came in and we're off to Washington DC.
For the first time ever, we're traveling with a companion.
He's a world-class architect, who's done buildings you know
and houses of people you know of, and he's successful enough
at architecting to have a world-class art collection.
We're going to see Van Gogh with an expert.

I also took the Glock, against everyone's advice.

You can pull my hand off the gun..., wait,
you can take my fingers off the barrel... wait,
you can pull the barrel from the... wait,
you can take the gun by the barrel... wait,

nevermind,

Damn.

I was a little worried about taking it, but I kept the flight
crew informed about it, I didn't try to sneak it or anything,
I didn't try to pull a Barry Switzer...

I also learned the correct words to say when informing security
that I'm traveling with a weapon. I figure it's smart to say
"There's a disassembled pistol, locked in my suitcase."

They like this a LOT better than, "...I HAVE A GUN!!"

ADM was, once again, very accomodating to offer us their new G5
for our trip. This one had a fireplace and a piano. The only bad
thing was their schedule conflicted with mine, and we had to
come back early or land at the ADM home office in Wichita
if we flew Saturday.

(more on that later)

So, we're 28,000 feet, flying into Washington DC at night.
Koresh, that's a pretty sight.

The Capitol is all lit up.
The Lincoln Memorial is all lit up.
The Jefferson Memorial is all lit up.
The Washington Monument is all lit up.
But where's the White House?

Maybe it's the angle, although we did it twice,
but you can't even find the White House from the air.
It's hidden in the trees, somehow.
Makes sense - protect Clinton, keep him alive at all costs.

So, we're approaching that REAGAN Airport, the pilot has cleared
everything, and we're about to begin our final approach, when
the tower comes on and asks if we're also known as "BartCop One."

I told the pilot, Enrique, to deny everything.
Enrique said he could lose his pilot's license if he was caught
lying to a federal official, and I told him to do it anyway.
(Liberals don't HAVE to follow rules, you know.)
The tower comes back and says there's a "mixup" with
our flight plan, and for security reasons we had to proceed to
BMI Airport in Baltimore, "if we wanted to land."

Yes, asshole.
We want to land.

I grabbed the mic and told the tower:

"You're making a BIG mistake.
I have friends, Sir.
Powerful friends in the DNC who wouldn't want to hear
of this slight, and if you know what was good for you,
you'll clear us to land right away."

So, we're headed to Baltimore to land the damn jet.
We get to Baltimore, and I realize we now need a car.
I check with the rental places for a car, and they were all sold
out, except for one sissyfied, 4-cylinder, powder-blue Town Car.
This was all the fault of the RNC, trying to sabotage my trip here.
We got the powder-puff Town Car and headed to Washington DC.

When you come into DC from BWI, you're on the Wash-Balt Parkway,
or some damn road like that. When that Parkway ends, you'd better
be caught up with your prayers because you're suddenly in the
Chevy-Chase-National-Lampoon part of town.

At night.

Here I am, with a Glock, Mrs. BartCop, the world-class architect
and I'm driving through fucking Beirut in a gay-blue Town Car.
The GOFP - always trying to destroy me.
I finally spotted a ramp for I-395 and we sped to safety.

Driving in, we went past that new $65,000,000 NRA building.
Our architect friend said it looked "simple and phallic."
There's a shocker...
I felt a little better about the Glock. The NRA wouldn't
have their Home Office in a "dry" county, would they?

We arrive at the Marriott too late to do much.
We grabbed a sandwich and a drink and turned on the TV.

They offer movies at the Marriott.
They offer dirty movies at the Marriott in DC.
They offer dirty AMATEUR movies at the goddamn Marriott.
I need to get out more - open my eyes a little...

First on the list was "Pam and Tommy - The Honeymoon Tapes."
Why is the Marriott offering a "stolen" video of a young couple
acting like Perot's rabbits on their honeymoon through their
Pay-Per-View system? I wonder how the President of Marriott Inc.
would like it if HIS honeymoon video was making the rounds?

Don't get me wrong - I've had this video for a year.

Remember the "Mayhem" tattoo that proved the man in the
Lake Mead porn video wasn't me? (see Volume 94)
That's this video and, surprisingly, their copy was better than mine.
And let me also say that I think both Clinton AND Clarence Thomas
would really, really like the Pam and Tommy tape, but back on point:

Why is this stolen, litigated, private, home video being rented for
the amusement of the customers at the Washington DC Marriott?
They have a little sign on the screen that says,
"Don't worry, the title of the porno movie isn't printed on your receipt."

Marriott Inc. - what a classy bunch.

They also offered "Peggy Gets Off."
They called it an adult "amateur" movie.
Oh, pleeeeeeeeeze!
Marriott Inc. paid a woman named "Peggy" to make a tape
of herself getting lucky with a piece of plastic pipe?

Y'know...
It doesn't seem right.

I'm a free-wheeling, 60's-type, anything-goes kind of liberal,
but this isn't what I want from Marriott Inc. I'd like to think
the sheets at the Marriott are CLEAN, if you get my drift.
I wasn't happy about that, so we only stayed one night.
(...and they didn't charge me for the movie.)

Next day, up at the crack of dawn and we're off to Monticello.
We're going to see the self-built home of Thomas Jefferson.

I like Tommy Jefferson a lot.
He was nobody's fool, and that was 200 years ago.

Here's a quote from Jefferson:

"Politics is such torment,
I would never want a loved one to follow in my footsteps."

...and this was BEFORE Herr Starr and Linda Tripp.

We took the Monticello tour.
Our guide was a little smug and stuffy.
I sized her up as a ditto-monkey.

Isn't that a kick?

A Ditto-monkey giving BartCop a tour of Monticello.
She was giving off this "superior" vibe, like the woman
who gave out enough dittohead to be declared "Miss America."
The new Miss America said "Clinton should resign."

Seems to me, if you're a ditto-monkeyette, you should do like
Rush and Newt say and keep your stupid opinions to yourself.
It's like Bill Bennett (still smoking) said of women on Meet the Whore,
"That thing between their legs ...makes 'em stupid."

So tour-ditto-monkeyette is snarling at me, and I saw an opening.
She just finished with some long-assed rant about how she considered
Monticello Jefferson's greatest architectual achievement,
then asked if anyone had any questions.

I had a remark, rather than a question. I said that, while the house
was very nice, it wasn't Jefferson's best architectual work.

Well, Miss Ditto-monkey snarled again and said if Monticello wasn't
his best best architectual work, could I please tell her what was?

I told her in my opinion, Jefferson's best work was
that wall he erected between Church and State.

OOoooooohhhhhh, ...she didn't like that.
She didn't like that at ALL.

She started whining about what a religious man Jefferson was,
and I told her I had no problem with that, but thank Koresh
Jefferson knew that religio-nuts need to be kept in check,
so he built a brick wall between fantasy and science.

Thank you, Tom!

Suddenly, ...the tour was over.
The others in our group blamed me.

HEY!

It's not MY fault if I'm the only one currently on
Jefferson's property who understood what HE stood for.
At least they didn't call security on me.
It was the first time that week I didn't get arrested.

So, we left Monticello for Mount Vernon - home of George Washington.
(You notice I didn't mention the fact that Jefferson raped a
female slave, which produced at least one child that he denied
while President. That's downright Hyde-ian.)

Let's hope the tour guide at Mt. Vernon isn't another ditt.
Frankly, the place was pretty rundown.
Remember, we were with a world-class architect, who pointed out
the state of disrepair, the cheap paint, the cheesy wallpaper and
the "discount" wood-protection they were putting to the back porch.
They were using cheap materials to make repairs on Our Founder's home.

I figured I might as well risk TWO fights, so I asked,
"What's the deal with the rotting wood and the cheesy wallpaper?"

She said "The Republicans cut our funding! We must become ENTIRELY
self-sufficient by 2000, ...then we get cut off completely."

Those dirty, rotten Republicans.

Companies like ADM get a BILLION DOLLAR tax break,
just so Bob Dole can pad his illegal campaign coffers and buy
his Bag o' Hairspray some self-respect as a "fund-raiser..."

Meanwhile, George Washington's home is rotting?

BIG Tobacco and BIG Guns and BIG Religion raise over a half-billion
dollars so the GOFP can buy "less government,"

...and George Washington's home is rotting.

One other thing:

Jefferson has the better house, but Washington had the view.
You look out the back of Mount Vernon and you see the Potomac.

Wait a minute...

The Potomac looks to be about a mile wide near Mount Vernon.
I remember something about George Washington bragging he skimmed a
silver dollar across the Potomac when he was a kid. The Potomac at
Mount Vernon is wider than the Mississippi River at St Louis.
I don't think anybody can throw anything that far.
It would take Barry Bonds a dozen throws to clear the Potomac

Was Washington lying?

In out hotel, I watched the great debate between Maryland's governor,
Parris Glendening (who we all remember as the Judas who invited
Clinton to come to Maryland and campaign for him, then UNINVITED
him, to the supreme glee and delight of Pigboy Limba) and some
wide-bodied, anti-education, anti-choice, pro-assault-weapon,
ditto-monkeyette named Ellen Sauerkraut.

The debate was boring as hell.
They BOTH had GREAT chances to score knockouts, but they were
so timid, so afraid of rocking the boat, neither scored a hit.

Ordinarily, I'd go with the Democrat, but I don't like traitors.
I don't like traitors one-fucking bit, so I threw my support
behind the wide-bodied, forced-prayer, anti-education,
anti-choice, pro-assault-weapon, ditto-monkey Naziette.

I know she'd be bad for Maryland, and I'm sorry about that.
...but I just can't stand traitors.

The way this night is going,
the traitor will win.

The next day was G. Gordon Liddy day.
I've heard him say his radio studio is in Fairfax,
and we were near Fairfax, so we went looking for WJFK.
Found it, at 10500 Main St in Fairfax.

We drove under/behind the building, but couldn't find his Corvette.
Let me tell you, Liddy is REAL proud of that Corvette.
Just Wednesday, he said "I'd like to fly a Messerschmidt plane
sometime, but that's about as likely as someone driving MY Vette."

Then we spotted it, undercover.

He puts a parachute-type white cover on his precious Vette,
and he has the spot riiiiiiiiight by the door.
There's not 5 feet between his car and WJFK's door.

So, I put a BartCop card on his car and we left.
Liddy's education isn't yet complete.
I wonder if his ass is still sore from our debate0by-fax?

Next up?

The Democratic National Committee, at SE Capitol and Canal,
as though having your HQ on Canal Street was a surprise, guys.
Time to get even with those pricks at REAGAN Airport.
Denying me a runway for my private jet.
They're going to pay now, and pay good.

I walked in the front doors and asked to see the person in charge.
The receptionist was not the usual receptionist you'd expect.
He was an elderly gentleman with a gun and rotting teeth.
He told me I wasn't allowed in the building.

Huh?

"You're not allowed in this building," said the cop.

I said, "You don't understand - I'm BartCop."
Receptionboy said "What's a BartCop?"

Oh, please!

I'm at the Demo HQ, and I get "What's a BartCop?"
I said "I'm BartCop. I want to talk to somebody about
some shabby treatment I got at the Reagan Airport.
Isn't there someone I can speak to?"

He said, "No, we're not open to the public."

"Huh?" I said.
"You're not open to the public?

No WONDER we can't win an election anymore.
We do the Democrats turn their fans away?
Why are you so exclusive?
Why the elitism?

You don't even have a Democratic Hall of Fame?
Show me the pen Johnson used when he signed legislation that
allowed negroes the RIGHT TO VOTE for the first goddamn time!
I got money.

SHOW ME!
Show me FDR's pipe collection.
Show me JFK's putter.
Show me Truman's "Dewey Wins" Headline.
I got money.

SHOW ME!
But noooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
Nothing like that here, according to you!

I was very polite, but STILL, I was shown the door.
For the second time, I was victorious.
I avoided arrest.

I guess I should've suspected something when the receptionist
wasn't an attractive blonde. If you're not open to the public,
might as well have Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy working the door.

So, by now, ...I'm not in a very good mood.

A week before we went to DC, I had a local print shop make some
small business cards with the BartCop.com on them.
I spread those damn cards everywhere.

the Library of Congress,
the National Archives,
the Capitol,
the Freer Gallery
the Senate and House office buildings,
the White House,
the airport,
the Smithsonian,
the National Gallery of Art,
the Willard,
the Marriott,
the Holiday Inn,
Monticello,
Mount Vernon,
every place we went, BartCop cards were placed on shelves,
coffee tables, mantles, lamps, couches and counters.

But not the Democratic National Headquarters.
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
BartCop can't get in the door at the Demo HQ.

(big exhale)

I walk the four blocks to the Capitol, where I get MORE shit.
I go up to the front of the Capital, the very core of the CENTER
of our governing body and I see a life-size statue of Jesus Christ
and two ditto-tangs, right in the CENTER of the MIDDLE of the steps
of the MAIN entrance to the Capitol of our country.

These primates were from "The Christian Civil Liberties Union."
They had a little skit set up, and they had bullhorns.
There little skit consisted of pictures of Clinton and Hitler
with quotes like, "KILL THEM ALL," on the steps of the Capitol.
They were screaming about what a "monster" our President is.
They were screaming how Hitler and Clinton were the same,
on the steps of MY Capitol.

This pissed me off in a non-comedic way.

I stood there, in front of them, reading their propaganda,
hoping they'll ask me if I've been saved, or have an opinion.
I counter-punch a LOT better than I punch.
They ignored me.
The Planet of the Apes loses Round One.

So, I went to a Capitol Guard and asked how it was possible that
a group of insane, ditto-tangs could grab the Capitol steps.

He said it was called "Freedom of Speech."
(slow burn)
This cop is introducing me to the concept of free speech?
That pissed me off.

I said, "So, where do you draw the line?
What if they were chanting, "Fuck Clinton?"
Would that be allowed?
What if they had bloody dolls all over the Capitol steps?
Would that be allowed?
I'd like some answers, please."

He repeated, "Freedom of Speech."

I asked what would happen if I confronted these hoodlums.
The Capitol Guard started getting impatient with me.
He said THEY had a permit, so any "ruckus" would be my fault.

"Yeah," I said, "there'll BE a ruckus, Cubby."
I said, "Who gives out the permits - Newt Gingrich?"

Then, he said he "couldn't understand the words I was using."
By now, I'm into my third piss-off of the morning.

I started to use a WHOLE NEW set of words.
I might not be the most plain-speaking man in America,
but when I get angry, I tend to use words
that have more consonants in them,
(cough)
thereby INCREASING the likelyhood of my point being understood.

...but, no sense in getting a plunger up the ass, right?

I thanked him and walked away, victorious.
I didn't get arrested for a third time.

So I'm walking down Pennsylvania Avenue and I see a door,
right on Pennsylvania Avenue, about the 1000 block or so
that says "Office of the Independent Prosecutor."

Ha!

I figure this is the opportunity of a lifetime.
There was no reason not to, so went inside this grey building.
I see a sign that says "Judge Kenneth Starr's Office"
with an arrow pointing, ...wouldn't you know it, to the right.

I start walking down the hall towards Po' Kenny's office,
and not only is nobody stopping me, two guys nodded "hello" to me
and one guy gave me a smile and a wave.

What's the deal?

Ol' BartCop can't even get past the door at Demo HQ,
but I'm invited in for coffee at Po Kenny's.
Yeah, they had donuts and orange juice for visitors.
Finally, a fellow wandered over and asked who I was.
Knowing that I hadn't (yet) broken any laws, I told the truth:

That I was BartCop, and I wrote a little newsletter on the Internet
called "Bill Clinton - Lying Nazi Whore"

He asked me if I could PROVE that.
Uh-Oh.

I just hoped they wouldn't search me.
They'd find my BartCop.com cards and discover I write
"Rush Limba - Lying, Nazi Whore"

Koresh, he might get me for lying to a federal official,
or trying to obstruct justice, or conspiracy to embarrass him.
I might get that plunger after all.
Then it came to me:

"Sure, call the airport and talk to the pilots on my private jet."

Stroke of genius...

Some guy named Jackie Bennett called the G5 and the pilot
told 'em I was on the Archer-Daniels-Midland payroll.
Bennett looked at me and laughed and said, "You, too?"

Cool.
I was home free.
Not only was I NOT in trouble, but Starr's staff was CERTAIN
I was getting money from ADM, (which I am) and CERTAIN that I
was on their side - a Clinton-hating-fascist, so they opened up.

Bennett: So, what can I do for you?
Do you have any questions?

BartCop: Questions? Yeah, I have a question.
How do you like working for a doucheba...
...dooo ...ah
...duly-appointed special prosecutor?

Bennett: Starr is the best investigator I've ever seen.
He's such a natural detective, and, sometimes, even his
body helps him with these kinds of investigations.

BartCop: Huh?

Bennett: It's like this, Judge Starr can spot a cover-up a mile away.
He can SMELL a crime being committed.
When Judge Starr is on a case, he's so tuned-in to getting
his prey, his body works in conjunction with his powers of
deduction and criminals everywhere had better beware."

BartCop: What do you mean 'his body works with him' on a case.

Bennett: Why do you think Starr travels with twenty pairs of pants?

BartCop:

Bennett: When he gets near evidence of a crime,
when he gets real close to nailing someone,
...his penis sneezes.

BartCop: His WHAT?!?!

Bennett: That's right, his penis sneezes, sometimes really loud.
When he gets new evidence, or a report back from the lab,
or when the pieces of the crime start to fall into place, his penis sneezes.

BartCop: Get ...the ...fuck outta here...

Bennett: ...and sometimes it honks, too.

BartCop: ...I ...I

Bennett: Yes, sometimes it honks like a flock of Canadian geese.

BartCop: Mr. Starr's penis honks?

Bennett: ...whenever it smells a crime.

BartCop: ...any particular tune?

Bennett: If his penis sneezes, he KNOWS somebody is guilty of something.

BartCop: Starr is letting his penis run this investigation?

Bennett: It's OK. His penis runs ALL his investigations.
That's why he's been so successful.
Hell, he's been that way ever since I met him.
I was with him when he heard Espy got free Cowboy tickets.
His penis was braying like mating donkeys.
Hell, it was louder than the St Valentine's Day massacre.
In 1994, when he prepared Paula Jones's petition, his penis
sneezed so much he had to be hospitalized for dehydration.

BartCop: You say, in '94, Starr prepared Paula's petition?

Bennett: Yeah, (giggle) Nobody's supposed to know, ha ha
By the way, you know you can't print any of this...
Judge Starr doesn't like unflattering stories, understand?

BartCop: There's no doubt which side I'm on, Sir.

Bennett: Good boy.


Rape at Red Sage

I was getting hungry, so I met up with the rest of the gang
and we went looking for a nice place to eat.

We found "Red Sage," a snooty steakhouse-looking place,
one block east of the White House.

The placed seemed OK, a little too trendy for me.

My salad was some leafy matter stuffed into a slice of cucumber.
I asked for Ranch dressing, the guy fucking LAUGHS at me and says,
"We only serve vinegarette and some french crap on the salad.
I kept waiting for him to say, "Just kidding."

Nope.

Fine, bring me the salad dressing I don't want...
Your tip meter just started running, Napkinboy.

This was such an expensive restaurant, they didn't even have salt
and pepper on the table. When I asked for it, Napkinboy mumbled
something under his breath about me "challenging" the chef.
Hey, fuck the chef!
For $45 dollars a plate, I should get oral sex with dinner.

I ordered the "Cowboy steak," which was the only thing on the menu
that wasn't callimari or pecan-encrusted breast of red-quail.
AFTER I ordered the steak, Napkinboy explained it was a bone-in
Ribeye, ...and how did I want it cooked?

You can NOT trust these Snooty chefs.

If I'd ordered it "rare" or "medium," it would've come raw.
So, I ordered "medium-well," hoping the $150K-a-year chef would have
the brains to know how hot his oven was, but nooooooooooooooo.

Burnt to a f-ing crisp.

There was more I could tell you about Red Sage,
...but you get the general idea, right?

Then, when the bill came, I looked it over.

F-ing crisp "cowboy steak" was $35.
Margarita was $8.50.
Tuna, extra-extra-rare was $35.
Black, warm Zinfandel was $8.50.
Pecan-encrusted red-quail with Agnew sauce was $30.
and there was an extra $8.50 for ...what is "...GZNHT?"

I didn't remember ordering any kind of "GZNHT."
I asked Napkinboy about it, he said that was for my sneeze.
Napkinboy gave me "Gazundtheit" afterwards.

Now, goddammit, I don't care what ANYBODY says, charging
only $8.50 for a Gazundtheit proves this place has CLASS!

The bill for the three dinners was $148.80,
I gave the SOB a hundred and a fifty.

Napkinboy says, "I'll be right back with your change."
I said, "No, that's for YOU, Cubby."

Napkinboy got a tip of $1.20.
It's my duty to fuck with the snooty.

...and I left him a handful of   bartcop.com  cards.


It was getting late, so we went looking for a hotel.
Our architect friend mentioned that, many years ago,
he stayed at The Willard, so we went there for a room.

Expensive place, that Willard.
They wanted $745 per night - for one room.
Fuck it, we went for it.
I had all of October's ADM cash, and even some cash
left over from the Texas trip to see Jimmy Page.

The Willard is expensive and creepy.
It's set up like the Titanic.
Everything is "real."

You know like when you're in Las Vegas, and you can tell,
even with all their millions, that they're "faking" the luxury?
The Willard is REAL luxury, which isn't my favorite.

Luxury usually means "assholes."

Plus, the A/C was rumbling a little, and it sounded like the
engine room of the Titanic, so we just stayed one night and left.

Snooty hotels, snooty restaurants,
...getting on my nerves.

End of Trip to Washington DC 1998  Part I


Note: You may have already deduced that
I was not under oath when I wrote this Trip Report

Anyone know where Parts 2 and 3 are?



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