The so-called judges, so-called reporters, and so-called refugees!

The meeting of the D.C. chapter of Sense of Entitlement Anonymous was underway at the upper Georgetown home of Judge Sowell Ame (who had just gotten his house de-ratted again by a rat terrier brought over by Sebastian L'Arche).  He had paid good money for the de-ratting, and the catering, and he was damned sure determined to get his fair share of the time allotted.

"I go to the annual Kuwaiti Embassy party every year," he began.  "It used to be a nice affair at the Four Seasons.  I could walk there, have nice food, champagne, walk home.  This year Trump pressured the Kuwaitis to move it to Trump International, and it was a nightmare!  First you have to take a taxi, then you have to get through the gauntlet of protesters, then you have to be searched by the Secret Service, then they take your cellphone away for the whole party, then you have to mingle with white trash wearing Ivanka Trump gowns they bought on sale at Tyson's Corner, and as soon as you are introduced as a judge, they roll their eyes at you!"

"So-called judges!" laughed Prince and Prowling junior attorney Bridezilla.

"'Judge' is a title that deserves respect!" cried Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts, turning red.

"They didn't respect Merrick Garland, either," said Federal Reserve Board economist Luciano Talaverdi.  "And the GOP is threatening to shut down the Fed.  It's bad all over."

"Oh, please!  Nobody ever respected economists," replied Judge Ame.

"That's true," said realtor Calico Johnson.  "The economists all said Trump would be a disaster for the economy and the federal budget, but he won the Election, anyway.  I get a lot of hate as a realtor, these days!  People just assume you're a slumlord and that you got rich snapping up properties in foreclosure, even if it's only partially true.  And that's the general public!  A lot of realtors think now you need to have your name on stuff or it doesn't count!"

"Well, I'd like to say that the Trump Administration respects some judges very much!" exclaimed a former member of the FISA Court.  "My colleagues are so busy fielding surveillance requests that they hired me as an outside consultant to get through all the filings!"

"Well, that's a waste of taxpayer money!" barked Dick Cheney.  "Why can't they just rubber-stamp 'em all?  In my day--"

"When dinosaurs roamed the Earth!" whispered a member of N.U.T.T.Y.

"I'm not deaf, missy, and I still have a drone pilot on speed dial!"

"Oh, Dick, you are the funniest!" squealed Bridezilla.  "I have bigger problems than all of you!  I'm supposed to build up the firm's new Russia practice!  How am I supposed to do that?  They don't have any exports except figure skaters and vodka, and the Russian mob doesn't leave any room for anybody else to make a profit."

"Putin should have been taken out fifteen years ago!" growled Cheney.

"Well, we all know you were too busy invading Iraq," said Talaverdi, rolling his eyes.

"You watch it, pal!  You think they're not thinking about putting Italians on the terrorist watch list?  If they're interrogating U.S. citizens returning from Peru, they're halfway there!"

"I'm a legal resident, and I'm married to an American citizen!" replied Talaverdi.  "Your little Mussolini's not laying a finger on me!"

"I would advise you to keep your political opinions to yourself," said Chief Justice Roberts, looking up at the ceiling.

"Don't you worry, Luciano!" said Bridezilla.  "I have a great place to hide you!"

Meanwhile, Washington Post "Metro" reporter Perry Winkle, who was still on anti-hallucination medication but still seeing monsters here and there around town, was desperately trying to become a political reporter.  For weeks he had been spending hours a day sitting in Lafayette Park, where various White House insiders would pop out on their coffee breaks to sit on his park bench, surreptitiously take the burner phone he was holding for them, and send out Tweets and emails to the Resistance.  Sometimes he would try to interrupt them with questions of his own, but usually they would wave him off and keep tapping on the burner phone.  At this rate, he was never even going to be able to write a single WaPo story, let alone convince the senior editors he had excellent sources and should be moved to the political division (which was, of course, the most coveted at the newspaper).  So today he decided to try a different tactic with the National Security Council employee sitting next to him.

"So, um, can you confirm the rumors about ghosts in the White House?"

"Ghosts?" squeaked the staffer in a suddenly high-pitched voice.  "You mean I'm not the only one?"

Over on Capitol Hill, Congressman Herrmark's Chief of Staff, Ann Bishis, was having dinner with her identical twin cousins.

"Why were you delayed in Greece?!  It was supposed to be a two-week vacation!  Was there an immigration problem?!  The Congressman did all that paperwork to explain why you need the work permit to be his personal bodyguards!"

"No, that wasn't the problem," said Nick, pushing his food around the plate.

"Well?"

Nick looked at Costas, and Costas finally started speaking.  "Well, we got married."

"What?!  How?!  What?!  Nobody told me anything!  Why didn't you tell me?  I would have flown over there for the wedding!  But you've had so many girlfriends over here!"

"When you meet the right one, you just know it," said Nick.

"And they were the right one," said Costas.

Ann started laughing.  "How can they be the right one? Your English is so rusty after a month away!"

"So beautiful, double perfection," said Nick.

"Wait, what?  Not identical twins!"  Her cousins smiled sheepishly, and she punched both their arms.  "You two are mental!"

"That is an insult, no?" protested Costas.

"Are they here?  Did you get them visas?  That was the delay?'

"Well, the thing is, they're a little bit Syrian," said Nick.

"What do you mean a 'little bit Syrian?'"

"Kurdish, which is like Greek Syrian," said Costas.

"No, it's not!" retorted Ann.

"Well, it's complicated," said Nick.

"Are you actually telling me you married Syrian refugees?"

"That is such an ugly word, Ann, please!" cried Costas.

"They're not terrorists!" exclaimed Nick.

"I didn't say that!" protested Ann.  "But you can't just up and marry Syrian refugees!"

"Well, we did!" they retorted in unison.

Back at the White House, a somewhat inebriated and very lecherous Steve Bannon tried to follow Special Science Adviser Bibi Von Braun into the East Wing, but she pepper-sprayed him and pulled the door shut behind her.

"Did you see that?" he sputtered, turning around to the nearby Secret Service agent before falling down, half-blind and fully in pain.

"Sir, that's the residence.  We need you to stay in the West Wing."

"Get me help, you asshole, and arrest her!"

"She has access, sir.  She's his doctor."

"What kind of doctor pepper-sprays a Chief Strategist?  GOD, THIS HURTS LIKE HELL!"

"I thought you were a fan of Satan, sir."  The agent pressed his comm.  "Can somebody fetch the alt-doctor?  We've got Alt-Right One down.  Please bring the alt-stretcher because he's drunk off his alt-ass."

"You're fired!"

"Doesn't work like that, sir."

Bannon pulled out his gun to shoot the agent, but only blanks came out.

"Doesn't work like that, sir," the agent repeated.

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COMING UP:  
The enemy of your enemy....