Seymour Goes to Washington: A Night of Nods, Snores, and Psychic Confusion at the Correspondents’ Dinner

Darlings, I need to confess something: I went to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner expecting absolutely nothing, and somehow still came away disappointed. Well, not entirely true — I went because someone whispered there would be cheesecake, which in Washington is basically the same thing as a blood oath. That was my first mistake. My second was assuming the cheesecake would arrive before the President transformed into a human audiobook.

It did not.

Instead, I found myself marooned in a ballroom that screamed “aspirational event space” — all crystal chandeliers and carefully placed florals that probably cost more than my rent. The tuxedos were so tight on some of these gentlemen that I genuinely feared we’d witness a wardrobe malfunction of catastrophic proportions. These men looked vacuum-sealed, like human sous vide experiments gone wrong. The cameras flashed with manic enthusiasm. The guests smiled with dead eyes. And somewhere, a string quartet played on, blissfully unaware that half their audience had already transcended to another plane of existence.

Let me paint you the scene.

The President’s Speech: A Test of Human Endurance

I’m not saying the President’s speech was long. I’m saying I aged. I’m saying I saw a man at table 14, enter the dinner as a young intern and leave as a middle-manager with a mortgage.

The speech itself well ……. *length* — darling, the length. At one point I checked my watch and realized time had become a flat circle. I looked around to see if anyone else was experiencing this temporal anomaly and locked eyes with a woman two tables over who had face-planted directly into her mashed potatoes. Her forehead made a sound like a defeated soufflé. No one moved to help her. We all understood, instinctively, that she had made the right choice.

Another guest — I believe he was a journalist — stared at the stage with the hollow expression of someone trying to remember if they’d locked their car. Or their house. Or possibly their entire former life. I timed it: eleven minutes without blinking. That’s not journalism, that’s dissociation.

The Mentalist vs. Todd Blanche: A Battle of Wills

Then — and I genuinely don’t know who greenlit this — came the mentalist.

Now, I have nothing against mentalists as a concept. They read minds, bend spoons, probably solve cold cases during commercial breaks. Very *Psych*, very fun. But this particular mentalist seemed laser-focused on one mission: cracking open the psychic vault of Todd Blanche’s brain.

Todd Blanche, for those who don’t obsessively follow legal fashion (just me?), is a lawyer who always looks like he’s mentally reviewing a contract. Excellent suits, by the way — clearly bespoke, impeccably tailored. The man understands the power of a good shoulder line. But back to the mentalist situation.

The mentalist approached with the confidence of someone about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “I know what you’re thinking!” he announced, arms spread wide like a discount Copperfield.

Todd Blanche blinked. Twice. Which I’m fairly certain is lawyer morse code for: “Please. Stop. I beg you.”

The mentalist tried again. Todd’s face remained a perfect mask of professional neutrality — the kind of expression you develop after years of high-stakes litigation and probably several meditation apps. It was a battle of wills, except one person was fighting and the other was simply trying to remember if he’d muted himself on that Zoom call earlier.

The audience, mercifully, perked up for approximately fourteen seconds — the longest sustained period of alertness all evening — before collectively deciding that unconsciousness was the more dignified option.

The Guests: A Symphony of Sleepiness

By the time dessert rolled around (NOT cheesecake, by the way — it was some kind of mousse situation that felt like a personal attack), the ballroom resembled a before-and-after sleep study.

Scene survey:
– One gentleman, fully comatose, chin resting peacefully on chest, snoring a gentle melody into his bowtie
– A woman scrolling her phone under the tablecloth like a teenager trying to text during AP History
– A reporter doodling elaborate sketches on his program — I snuck a peek; it was definitely a horse wearing aviator sunglasses
– Multiple people treating their dinner plates as impromptu pillows (I saw you, table 7, and I respect your choices)
– One brave soul attempting to maintain eye contact with the stage while clearly astral projecting

I don’t blame any of them. The White House Correspondents’ Dinner is a bizarre cultural artifact: one part comedy roast, one part political theater, one part marathon test of human endurance. Yes, that’s three parts. The math doesn’t work because time doesn’t work at this event.

It’s also the only place where journalists — people who built careers on asking uncomfortable questions — sit politely through speeches longer than most international flights, applauding at designated intervals like well-dressed seals.

The Fashion (Because Someone Has To Talk About It)

And can we discuss the gowns? Darling, the *gowns*. I saw approximately forty-seven different interpretations of “Washington formal,” ranging from “senator’s wife at the opera” to “I’m secretly hoping to get photographed next to a celebrity.” The menswear was safer than a bank vault — classic black, classic boring, with the occasional adventurous soul attempting a velvet jacket.

One woman wore a dress covered in sequins that caught the light every time she moved, which would have been stunning if she hadn’t spent the entire evening motionless, possibly catatonic.

My Takeaway

I came for cheesecake. I left with newfound respect for anyone who can sleep sitting upright in formal wear. I also left with questions: Why was the mentalist there? What happened to the cheesecake? Did that woman ever wake up from her mashed potato nap?

The White House Correspondents’ Dinner is theoretically about celebrating journalism, but really it’s about seeing how long powerful people can pretend to enjoy themselves in public. And honestly? That’s more revealing than any speech.

Next year, if they’re foolish enough to invite me back, I’m bringing a pillow, low expectations, and possibly my own dessert.

Seymour – Covers what’s important

Ai and I worked on this together – P.S Seymour just wished he was invited, watching it was enough