The info we got on the whole Palin e-mail thing is just the tip of the iceberg.
I think so anyway. Last night I met my Palin contact at the Black Cat, a rock-dump too far out of the Beltway for anyone to notice. I hate places like that, but I’m pretty sure this story is HUGE, and my source couldn’t be seen talking to me.
So I went in and paid the cover for some band I had never heard of. I figured that $13 was a small price for the Story of the Election, and anyway I would be reimbursed, except that the guy at the door wouldn’t give me a receipt, the prick. I did finally get him to scribble $13 on a napkin before going in to look for my Deep Throat.
Hold on. I need some water.
Okay, back. So the place is packed and I have no idea what my contact looks like. As a good journalist, I didn’t want to stand out, so I wore an old REM shirt from college in order to blend in. My contact had some extremely scandalous Palin e-mails, ones that never made it to the web, ones that threatened to sink the whole damn ship. I wish I could fucking remember what they were about.
So I was trying to locate my source, but I wanted to keep a low profile, so I ordered a shot and a beer. I was blending in. I was going deep cover. And there was no way I was going to look comfortable without a drink in me.
And FUCK, I wish the fucking neghbors’ kids would stop screaming out there.
Anyways, after three more trips to the bar, I finally spotted my contact by the stage. I went up and asked him about the e-mails, but he just shushed me. Turns out, he wanted to see the end of the song. I had two more shots and so did he.
Not he, I mean. She. My contact. It could have been a woman. Oh, Jesus, my head. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, why do I do this to myself?
By the time my contact was ready to talk, we were both pretty sloppy. We…hold on. Hold on. I’m okay. I’m okay. Hold on.
Oh god. Jesus. No I’m not.
Okay, back. My contact told me all sorts of things about the e-mail, but I lost my notebook, so I had to write them on my hand and a napkin.
I remember that whatever he or she said to me absolutely blew my mind, and I told my contact this was the biggest scandal of the last 100 years, and that I really loved my contact. I think I tried to make out with my contact. I think I was successful. Next thing I know, it’s dawn and I can’t open my front door. I think it was a huge scoop though. Fucking Jameson.
I tried calling my contact this morning, but it kept going straight to voicemail. All the writing was wiped off my hand, and the only thing legible on the napkin was “October surprise?!” Fuck. My head. I need some aspirin. Maybe I’ll remember everything with some aspirin.
I just puked again.
