Robin keeps his press credentials and gleefully eats free food and drinks free drinks...confessions of a schmoozy sellout

Happy Hump Day, or as they’re declaring things here in Philly it’s Humpin’ Hillary Day (wait, that didn’t come out quite right). The votes are cast and the Queen of the Unindicted is now her party’s official nominee.

Tonight she’ll make her acceptance speech, The Trump will tweet what a corrupt, lame bovine she is and then we’re off and running for a showdown in November.

It’s been a weird turn of things here in Philadelphia. The Democratic National Convention really didn’t go off as smoothly as everyone had hoped. What with the (alleged) involvement of Russians in leaking the DNC emails that clearly showed the process was rigged, the DNC Chair’s subsequent resignation and the cavalcade of protesters outside the convention site raising hell that Bernie didn’t get a fair shake.

There’s been a lot of speculation among us professional (and, in my case, semi-professional) media as to the Russian’s interest in creating problems for the Dems. The general consensus here in the Media Tent (aka, Schmooze Central), is that the stupid Russians figure that by fracturing the party and spinning it off into disarray, it’s more likely that Democratic voters just won’t bother to vote, which translates into a vote for The Trump.

Maybe the Russians aren’t so stupid after all!

I suppose Vlad of Putin has enough ego to want to ensure he can go head-to-head with The Trump. I mean, as near as I can tell, they’re both half crazy. Who knows what will happen if The Trump is elected and those two fools begin bumping heads.

But, we’re a few months away from having to face Armageddon, so for now we have countless debates and more wild rhetoric to endure as one side or the other tries to convince us that they’re the lesser of our two evil choices.

I’ve lost track of Cousin Fred. The last I saw him, I was in the Official Media Shuttle being whisked to an Official DNC Media Reception. Cousin Fred was laying in the gutter along Broad Street with a half-eaten cheesesteak sandwich on his chest and a spilled Harp Lager can in his hand. He’s really down now that Gigi has gone back to work shaping that carcass The Trump wears atop his gourd into something resembling hair.

I’ll cheer him up. We have to be back at The Compound no later than Friday afternoon. There’s a special once-in-a-decade gathering of charter members of the Pathetic Order of the Jackrabbit - Original Charter (POJOC) at The Compound that evening. Cousin Fred doesn’t know it yet, but we’re installing him as a Member Wannabe, which means he’ll be fetching drinks for us all night long.

As such, he’ll receive his skull cap with only one jackrabbit ear. He won’t get the second ear until after he’s initiated…probably around 4AM Saturday morning…assuming anyone is still standing.

But…back to the events at hand. I’ve not seen much of the virginal vegan Brooklyn Hodensack, our handler from Southern Living. She doesn’t have press credentials like me, so she hasn’t been tagging along on the official media schmooze events.

She has, however, been hounding me late at night when the party’s here in the Schuykill Suite end. But I’ve been producing at least 1,000 words every 12 hours, so even she seems a bit more at ease.

And, may I say, that it is a much smoother ride at crap like this (i.e., Democratic National Convention) when you are able to maintain your press credentials? Early Monday, I was working some of The Curmudgeon’s delegates on the convention floor, hoping to inspire similar insurrection that we witnessed in Cleveland, but it just didn’t happen. They’re all too worn out to do much insurrecting. So I wasn’t able to have my credentials revoked this time out. Imagine that!

And, also let me say that the alleged convention rigging that the Russians allegedly inspired, if not carried out, is really politics as usual in America. Some may recall the Democratic Convention in 1960 when Bobby Kennedy was working behind the scenes to strong-arm Adlai Stevenson supporters into supporting his brother’s nomination. Word has that he sold his soul to get Jack elected, for all the good that did.

Eh, well…the fat’s in the fire now. We’re sliding toward hell on Earth in November. It’s going to be a close one, no doubt. Hold on to your skirts, sports fans, the worst is yet to come.

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