Condi and the Dinner Party of Doom (Reprint!)

The more conservative wing of the Secret Council of American Negroes, their sister group, Negroes of North America (NONA) recently threw a party for newly elected Republican National Committee Chairman Michael Steele. Alas, the party was planned before the man’s many verbal faux pas that would leave the moderates and conservatives of NONA sucking their teeth, tut-tutting and wishing they were anywhere but at Ritz Carlton with the man many had begun to call “Black Glover” when not looking.

But the person who truly wished to be “anywhere but here” was Condoleeza Rice, but the outing was as good an excuse as any to brag about her multi-million dollar book deal to a less rich and powerful, but better looking Michelle Bernard and Amy Holmes.

The trio were in some ways the “Mean Girls” of the conservative set, intimidating other black conservative women with their fashion sense and beauty. Condi and Michelle often pretended to like each other, especially Michelle, since Condi was the “queen” of black, female center-right politicos. Michelle was SUPPOSED to love Condi. Love her. Or at least that’s what she kept saying over and over.

That, and her Manolos were on hit that night.

“I bought them during the Battle of Seattle. Thank God no one cared what I did back then,” Condi joked, making her their off-color “shopping during Katrina” reference.

Condi wasn’t drunk, but she was mauling her way through dirty martinis. Alcohol brought out the “sistah” in her, or at least the politically incorrect jokester. But she could snap it back in line at a moments notice, leading some to wonder if those were really martinis at all.

But they were. Condi had developed quite the alcohol tolerance after eight years in the Bush White House.

Grenadine was her friend.

“You are so funny!” Michelle quipped to Condi’s Katrina/Shopping/”I’m a terrible person” jokes. Condi simply relished in the bad girl attention.

“I know,” she cooed.

Amy Holmes, who was stuffing cheese into a napkin and into her purse while sipping a pomegranate martini as slowly as possible was just happy to get in free. She actually liked Condi and her off-color stories. She liked Michelle too, even though Michelle treated her like shit because Amy was the cute-as-a-button competition. There was a kid sister-like rivalry between them. Like both were vying for Condi’s approval, yet the more polished and perfected Michelle was obviously favored.

Michelle was at least TRYING to be a snob.

“So I said to George, I said, puke not nuke! Oh my God, we almost bombed South Korea. SOUTH!” screeched Condi before she finished off her third dirty martini.

Michelle, laughing harder, shook her head and sputtered without thinking: “He is so dumb!”

Condi’s face grew stern and she grimaced, “George is not dumb. He’s simply not observant. Take that back.”

Even though her good friend George kinda let her catch the buckshot to the face, via Dick Cheney a few times, Condi was still very protective of him. It was OK if she mocked his crocs and presidential socks combo or got drunk on Thursday nights with Colin Powell and threw darts at a picture of Cheney and George. Or that she’d once gotten really plastered one night off of a potent white wine a cut George out of all her photos.

It was fine for HER to get all angry or emotional or pathologically insane, but everyone from the outside looking in needed to STFU as far as she was concerned,

“He did the best he could. We were attacked. 9/11,” Condi said, defending George.

“You know? You can’t just keep saying 9/11 and people will just …,” Michelle said.

“9/11!” yelled Condi, snapping her fingers to shush Michelle.

“Sorry,” Michelle begrudgingly responded as Amy continued to sip slowly. The bar was not free.

“These are really delicious. Too bad they’re $15,” Amy piped up.

“Yes,” moaned Michelle and Condi, rolling her eyes.

“At least the food’s free. It’s really good. I dumped a plate of those chicken satay things in my purse.”

“That is gauche, Amy,” chided Michelle.

“You’re gauche, whore,” snapped Amy, who then quickly smiled and apologized, “I’m so sorry. I’m just so fucking hungry. Rent in the good part of D.C. is a BITCH! Oooo! Is that brie?

Condi, bored of her hanger-ons, scans the room, spotting Republican and ex-jock Lynn Swann, alone, for once. She smiled. Where was the wife tonight, she wondered?

“Don’t look,” Condi said to Michelle.

“Don’t look at what?”

“Lynn,” Condi said.

“Ah, ballers,” said Michelle with a wry smile.

“Yes. Ballers,” repeated Condi.

Amy shrugs while dumping brie in her purse.

“I like Jews. They’re cute. And they can do your taxes!”

“You are so tacky! I don’t know why I even talk to you,” barked Mihelle.

“I don’t know why I talk to you, whore!” barked Amy back, but then quickly apologized. “This cheese is soooooo good. Especially with the satay. Seriously. The top ramen is KILLING me. If it weren’t for dates with rich cute Jews I swear I would NEVER EAT.”

“Oh my God, Amy! Is that Christopher Buckley!” shouts Condi, faking Amy out.

“Christopher? Where?” Amy says in a tizzy.

Amy runs of in search of the elusive, older Buckley as Condi and Michelle share a laugh.

“I thought she’d NEVER leave,” Michelle moaned.

“Isn’t she your friend? I mean, you work together?” muttered Condi.

“Please. All I ever hear is ‘She’s so photogenic! She’s so smart! She’s so cute! She has such potential!’ Gag. I’m sick of her fake conservative, ‘I’m a cute little moderate moppet who says mean things about Obama sometimes, but actually likes him’ act.'”

“Um … don’t you do the same thing on Hardball?” Condi said.

“Um, didn’t you VOTE for him?”

“Um, didn’t YOU VOTE for him and ADMIT IT ON TELEVISION?”

“Fine,” yelled Michelle. “I hate Amy Holmes because everyone thinks she’s hot shit. Are you happy now! You know everyone here hates each other.”

“Point taken,” Condi said as she stirred the olive in her never-ending Grey Goose martini. “Like, I hate you because people like you and your stupid weave and they don’t throw pigs blood on you when you go to Walgreens just to get tampons.”

“And I hate you because you more powerful and better known that me, but you completely fucked it all so now I feel better about myself and I love my weave which is not a weave and it looks fabulous without the help of Washington insiders because I had to do my own fucking hair because I didn’t have a crusty ass flip. I mean, it took you nearly six years to lose that damn thing and it took Michelle Obma six months. Who’s slow on the uptake?”



Condi let out a long sigh and downed her martini.

“I love these parties.”

“Me too!” squealed Michelle.

Condi ordered yet another martini, double and dirty, as she stares at Lynn Swan, doubly and dirtily, wondering to herself about why he would come to a NONA shindig without the wife. Maybe there were marital problems. Condi was a free woman now. No more country to babysit. No more George. Time for living, Condi, thought, yet she was trapped by the bar in the Ritz with that bitch Michelle Bernard.

Condi smiles, “So it’s marvelous. My book deal is totally huge. It’s actually bigger than Laura Bush’s, but that’s a secret.”

“Really,” said Michelle.

“Please? Who would want to read that woman’s book? What is she going to write about? Barney? Her drunk daughters? Killing that guy? If she writes about killing that guy I might buy the book.”

“You are SOOOO MEAN!” giggled Michelle.

“I’m just saying, I was the first black female secretary of state and she was the 42nd white woman to be First Lady. Who’s the woman?”

“You da woman!” barks Bernard.

“Who’s the woman!”

“You da woman!”

As the two go through their loud, drunken mocking Michelle Bachmann and Michael Steele’s “you be da man” call out, Michelle’s big grin suddenly goes sour. She sees someone.

Someone she does not like.

“Oh girl,” she said looking at her watch. “Oh, it is LATE.”

“It’s 7:30 pm. Who are you? George? C’mon. I hear there are gonna be some ballers in here tonight. JC was gonna hook me up with a homeboy of his.”

“It’s just … I have to go! Bye!”

Michelle fled, leaving a confused Condi behind, but all questions were answered all too quickly when a smiling Armstrong Williams tapped Condi on the shoulder.

“Condi! Looking good girl!”

Condi purses her lips and folds her arms.

“You look … alive.”

“You’re so hot in those Manolos, you could be a Cylon.”

“I’m confused. So you’re both gay and a nerd?”

“See?” said Armstrong, getting defensive. “Just because I like your shoes and Battlestar Gallactica does not make me some Queer Eye for the Sci F Guy. Besides, that’s just a rumor. Montel Williams is looking for my dream woman right as we speak.”


“Heard about the book deal. Sweet! I wrote a book up once,” he said, now attempting to put his arm around Condi, but she kept moving away. “But what about 2012? The Republicans would get my vote if they put a little ‘rice’ on their plate. You’d be bigger than Obama! I’d vote RNC all the way!”

“Unlike this year?” mocked Condi.

“What can I say? I always fancied myself a ‘race man.'”

“Do you even know what that means?”

“I voted my race in 2008 and it felt good. I still hate the nigga, but hey, he’s Ivy League. Close enough. Now what do I have to do to get you to run …”

“I’m not interested in politics.”

“…. Away with me?”

“No to both.”

“But … um, yeah, but that Sarah Palin,” sputtered Armstrong, realizing he ws running out of lines. “She’s kind of … you know. 2012? And I just cleaned out my mom’s basement.”

“I said I’m not interested. All I care about in the post Bush Era is book deals, speaking engagements, dating ballers and the mighty dollah, dollah bill.”

“I’m a …”

“Please. What do you weight, 150 lbs? 160 lbs? I could bench press and throw you. I like ’em like JC Watts … only better looking … and smarter … and not JC Watts.

Armstrong tried to pull the old “yawn and stretch” on Condi and she jerked away. He reached for her thigh and got his hand slapped. He touched her shoulder and got brushed off. Finally he leaned to whisper into her ear.

“I should let you know that my 1997 Honda Civic was cleaned today,” he piped up, running out of options.

Just as Condi is prepared to take a Manolo to Armstrong’s groin, the General takes pity on his friend and fellow conservative and interrupts.

“ARMSTRONG!” shouts Gen. Colin Powell.

“Yes, sir!” he yelps.


“Yes sir!”

Condi, sighing and sheepishly smiling, shrugged at the General.

“What can I say,” said Condi, “I’m the hottest woman in here.”

“I find Michelle Bernard very pretty. And that Amy Holmes is a lovely girl. A little crazy for the Jew boys, but lovely.”

“Pleeeeeaaaaaase. Do they speak Russian?”

“No. But did that do you any good?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. I’m working on this 12 step program.”

“I’m sorry, Colin. I didin’t know.”

“It’s for Republicans with Bush Era Remorse. The first step is admitting I fucked up when I said yes to the job. The second is admitting I fucked up when I didn’t quit when I realized how fucked up the job was.”

“Hmm. Interesting. I’ll pass.”

“Of course.”

“I’m surprised to even see you here?” said Colin.

“It was either this or go to Dallas to play charades with Laura, Shrub and Poppy again. And they always drag out that piano, like I’m some trained parrot.”

“Interesting that the animal you went with was ‘parrot.'”

Colin then smirked at his own joke. Condi smirked back, but not in a happy way.

“What?” she grimaced.

“What?” the General said, feigning ignorance.

Powell is having a good time at the joke at Rice’s expense when he spots someone in the distance. He frowns. It is the only man even a war veteran wouldn’t want to go to battle with.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, then turns tail.

“What? What?” Condi cried out.

Colin pushes a person behind him out of the way roughly.

“Every man for himself!”

“Colin! Wait! What’s going on!”

Condi watched as people suddenly flee out of the way like Moses had come to part the red sea of black Republicans. It is then she realizes the worse possible person has shown up at Steele’s celebration party.

It’s him.

He wasn’t a Republican anymore. No one invited him. No one even told he where it would be, yet there he was and Condi was trapped between the bar and a hefty Stanley Crouch. She had no place to go and he was heading right for her, eyes wild, mouth, forever in flames.

Condi braced herself, downed the martini and quickly ordered another.

“CONDOLEEZ-ER!” shouted an angry Alan Keyes.


“CONDOLEEZ-ER, you were the LAST person I expected to be with these traiterous, treasonous, weak-willed, limp-dicked, homosexual, baby-raping, fetus sucking vampires.”

“What? I tink You have me confused. I’m Michelle Bernard. I just cut my hair.”

Keyes smacks Condi in the forehead with his palm like an evangelical minister.


Condi steadies herself, careful not to spill the martini.

“I’m Condi. You’re right, Alan. I’m Condoleeza Rice. How can I help you?”

“I’m starting to think there are traitors in our midst, Conderleezer.”

“It’s Condoleeza, but I don’t under ….”

“Some of deez niggas voted for that satanous, evil, illegal, fornicating, monster I REFUSE to call MY president.”

“Oh, Is this about President Obama’s citizenship? Because the RNC isn’t challenging that?”

Keyes starts to smack Condi in the forehead again, but she grabs his arm this time.

Condi laughs nervously, “IT’S A MIRACLE!”

“How could they do it, Condeleezer? How could they vote for that baby rapist?”

“I don’t tink he physically rapes babies.”

“He does.”

“But … I mean, you’re speaking metaphorically as a moral conservative.”

“No. I got an email about it.”

“Of course.”

“I can forward it to you if you give me your …”

“Why don’t you send anything you need to send to my assistant.”

Alan quickly pulls out a pen and piece of paper.

“All right.”

“That would be Michelle with two “L”s Bernard. B-E-R-N-A-R-D. Email”

“Thanks,” Alan said. “I knew you weren’t one of these niggas taking stem cells and injecting them in their skin to stay young.”

“Now, now Alan. We must remember. That’s just a rumor. You and I both know …,” said Condi trying to usher him away from her. “Black don’t crack.”

Alan leaves to go yell at JC Watts and Lynn Swann for a moment.

With him gone, Michelle Bernard returned. She smiled at Condi and both breathing a sigh of relief. They went back to their jokes and putdowns, which lasted for about an hour until RNC chairman Michael Steele approached.

With him being the least of the evening’s evils, Michelle didn’t attempt escape.

“Condi, what is up, shorty!” shouted Steele.

Condi and Michelle stared without a response.

“What is hanging? Hippin? Hoppin”? Trippin? Troppin’? I need to rap with you, girl. You got mass appeal. You got what it takes to reach the kids. Both of you do, because ya’ll some fine bust-it-babies, you know? Fine as hell and thta’s what’s hot in the streets. Black Republican women! What! Booty short shorts. Dancing in the background while I give my speeches? I asked Amy about it and you know that ho was straight TRIPPIN.’ She said she liked something called Sheryl Crow and Radiohead. That ho is BUGGIN’. But yall … well, Michelle got ass, so what you think? Word?”

Condi and Michelle continued to stare, drinking their martinis.

“I’m not a Republican but I vote no confidence,” said Michelle.

“Agreed,” Condi said. “I second and the motion passes.”

It was then, just when Condi thought the worst of the night’s indignities were over she saw that Keyes was back and making a beeline for her. JC Watts and Lynn Swann were not far behind trying to pull Keyes away, but he proved more spry than he looked.

He looked at Condi suspiciously.

“Did you vote for him?”



“Alan, MAN! NO ONE INVITED YOU,” said Watts.

“I just need to know if Condi is one of them. Them Obaminations. Them Obamicans!”

Condi began to stutter and get nervous, “I really don’t know what? I mean, is this an inquisition because the vote is meant to be private!”

“Yeah!” shouted a desert wine sipping Shelby Steele from across the room. “Nigga, what is YOUR PROBLEM! It’s none of your business how we voted!”

“Damn straight!” hollered Amy Holmes as she sucked down a tray of peel and eat shirmp. “Secret ballot!”

“So stop bullying people! You weren’t even invited and we’re not afraid of you and the Israelis taught me Krav Maga and I will FUCK YOU UP!” shouted Condi.

Alan, defeated, sighs and looks at them all.

“Did one of you fools vote for McCain or me or anyone NOT Obama?”

Keyes could only shake his head at the deafening silence that said all there needed to be said. He walked out shouting the last retort the normally more eloquent man could think of to summarize what he’d seen as the ultimate betrayal

“Fuck all y’all!”

Condi returned to her martini while people muttered about whether or not she new “Krav Maga” (she did) and if Keyes was certifiable or just nuts. A humbled Michelle approached and smiled at her frenimemy.

“You know? You’re pretty awesome complete fuck up?” Michelle said.

“And you’re great for a complete follower,” said Condi.



And so they sat with their drinks and their cheese and they complained this way for a long, long, delicious time.

9 thoughts on “Condi and the Dinner Party of Doom (Reprint!)

  1. Oh. My. GOD. This is freaking hilarious. I saw some nasty white dude on Facebook making fun of this site and decided to check it out, because if youre getting to them, youre doing something right, or at least something relevant. I really love your blog, and have recently begun my own. I will be biting (but not enough for actual copyright infringement), as this is totally awesome. Keep it up!!!!!

  2. Phew, you picked two people I most don’t want to read about: Bernard and Holmes. If I were on a deserted island with them, I would try to build a raft out of coconuts to make my escape.

  3. I’m so glad the link to this story finally worked. I’d been trying to read this for about a week. HILARIOUS!!! I love it! I kept visualizing it as a cartoon…it’ll make a great cartoon, or at least graphic comic. Keep up the good work

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