The Girl Who Peed Herself

And other tales of hilarity from election night '00

10:14 p.m.: Security calls. An irate neighbor wants the folks at Righeimer's to keep it down. Righeimer can't get no respect. We grab another beer from the bathtub.

10:30-ish: Park walks us through the ground-floor presidential suites. Bush has a double suite, and McCain's is pathetically empty. A crazy Chinaman (that's really the only possible description) in national costume chants, "We want Bush" higher and higher. We get the hell out.

10:40 p.m.: We meet the elusive Mrs. Rohrabacher, Rhonda Carmony. She is a small, bright-eyed brunette with little makeup and a hell of a handshake. She's probably a terror in the arm-wrestling arena.

10:45 p.m.: A YAFer sexually harasses us. We begin yelling. It will be some time before we stop.

10:55 p.m.: A libertarian klatch, as The Orange County Register's Alan Bock holds court with some YAFers; the Times Orange County's Peter Warren, who won a coveted Orange County Press Club award for his exposť of hundreds of suspicious votes in the original Bob Dornan/Loretta Sanchez contest (large groups of people all registered at the same address; they of course turned out to be such deviants as nuns and Marines), looks dashing in a gray suit and bow tie.

11:20 p.m.: We save Weekly reporter R. Scott Moxley from the awful little man who has cornered him and is talking about how Senate candidate Tom Campbell is so Friedmanesque, at which point our incredibly cultured photographer, Jack Gould, inquires, "Milton Friedman? The father of supply-side economics?" "No, he wasn't!" the little man shouts. "Didn't the Reaganrevolutionaries credit him with being the father of supply-side economics?" Jack persists. "No!" screams the awful little man. We exclaim, "Boys! We have to go to that thing now. You know. That thing. That we have to go to." Once again, we have saved the day.

12:08 a.m.: We have begun stalking reporters. The Times' Warren won't let Kate Dornan, pretty daughter of Bob, hug him. He reluctantly lets her shake his hand. The Register's handsome Martin Wisckol is interviewing someone important named Dick. We sit right down and introduce ourself. May we call him Dick? We may.

12:12 a.m.: Although our mind feels clear, we are losing our motor skills.

12:35 a.m.: Our notes become indecipherable: "Will the elonageadly go down?" We are trying to sober up, but it's difficult because we are still drinking.

1:10 a.m.: A girl in white stretchy capri pants saunters into the lobby. The assorted YAFers, state senators and drunken reporters go simultaneously quiet. She has peed her britches. There is no mistaking the drench pattern, from crotch almost to knees, down the inner thighs. She has not sat in something; she has definitely peed herself, and she does not even tie a sweater around her waist or walk knock-kneed to try to minimize the visible wet area. No. She struts, hips like weapons. We are all impressed. We just want to be loved. Is that so wrong?
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