Don’t get me wrong: the Federalist is right to utter castigate our journalist-courtiers for going to the White House Correspondents Dinner and pretending that they’re some sort of outsider group*. But there’s this part:
Prom for nerds is a horrorshow of fixating upon a young lady whom one wishes one was taking to prom, and then never summoning the courage to ask her, because one has never actually spoken with her, ever. And those are the lucky ones: the truly unfortunate do blurt out a request, are shocked to receive an answer in the affirmative, and then endure a tortured evening of sundered togetherness. She wants to dance, he wants to talk about the X-Men: she gets her way with others, he gets his alone.
Actual nerd proms are sad and pitiable affairs, a million splinters of lonely, frustrated, and dejected young hearts who spend the best evening of their teen years screaming Kraftwerk lyrics through hot tears as they drive home, alone, tuxedos not even slightly mussed, virtue not even vaguely disturbed, consumed with loathing and regret at knowing they know not what they’ve missed.
Maybe freshman year at Hampshire will be better, they tell themselves. Maybe I’ll start an election projection website.