Washington Babylon — May 12, 2009, 8:55 am

The White House Correspondents Dinner: “This is the real deal”

The description in the headline comes from Christian Slater, which is quite a testament to the multitudes that assembled at the dinner. A Washington Post reader had a different opinion:

I watched the White House Correspondents Dinner on C-Span, and my reaction was that this looked like a very prosperous group chowing down on cuts of beef that I haven’t seen on my table in many years. Here are my two questions: 1. Aren’t there an excessive number of correspondents covering the White House? They filled half of a very large and packed ballroom (the other half were their guests). 2. And why should we take seriously legislation Congress is considering to bailout the press when news companies supposedly in financial trouble engage in this sort of public excess? For me, it was an in your face “let them eat cake moment,” or a p.r. mistake similar to that made by Detroit car executives who flew their corporate jets to Washington to plead for Congress to give them taxpayer assistance.

Wanda Sykes, the event’s emcee, was almost as funny as George W. Bush a few years ago when, during the dinner, he got on his knees and looked for WMDs under the sofa.

Jon Stewart has more.

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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