Something Wicked(ly Awesome) This Way Comes

Once every four years, a miraculous force marries the grimy oil of Washington politics with the murky water of the District’s underground social cistern, two otherwise immiscible entities, into one breathtaking emulsion known as the presidential inauguration.

Inauguration Day has changed greatly over time. For example, the quadrennial to-do was originally celebrated on the Fourth of March. Then, in an apparent nod to the lack of presidents dying of pneumonia contracted during their inaugural addresses, the Twentieth Amendment was ratified in 1933, which moved the inauguration into the heart of winter on the twentieth day of January (which moved Italian-American Appreciation Week to the last full week of April, until it was replaced two decades later by Administrative Professionals Week).

Contemporary inaugurations have also adopted a different tone from that of their predecessors. What was once a grave and cautionary ceremony, infused with the immutable eloquence of Washington and Lincoln, has morphed into a debauchery-filled weekend replete over 50 balls and galas that make the ending dance sequence of Footloose seem about as exciting as a Wes Anderson denouement. Beginning during the cocaine-fueled days of the Reagan Administration, the three days surrounding the actual inauguration have been officially confiscated by bow-tied, patent-leathered douche bags from every corner of the country, with good reason.

To a douche bag, very little in life is more satisfying and rewarding than an inaugural ball, as it fulfills up to 80 percent of his or her top five personal goals of any given calendar year, which include:

5. Being tangentially associated with a political figure or entity of minor importance.
4. Drinking 12 glasses of champagne during a weeknight event that isn’t New Year’s Eve or immediately preceded by a regularly scheduled kickball game.
3. Splitting a Panera Asiago Roast Beef sandwich with Jeremy Piven.
2. Watching Lindsey Graham do the robot to “Love Lockdown.”
1. Combining the words “tuxedo”, “K Street” and “balls” into the same Facebook and/or Gchat status message (without also using the words “homeless guy” or “feelings of self-doubt and remorse”).

But with opportunity comes the burden of choice: Which ball to attend? Wing tip or cap toe? Escort or ex? And what of pocket squares?

Fear not, douche bags, as you are not alone in the labyrinth of confusion and frustration. Take this actual conversation overheard at the most prestigious of douche bag haunts, the Liberty Tavern, re-printed in this medium with false names to protect the innocent:

Jordan: I can’t decide which ball to go to this year, dude. Last year I went to the Kentucky Colonels Society Gala at the Hay-Adams, but I lost my plantation tie at Foxfields, so I don’t think they’ll let me back in.

Chris G.: That’s too bad, that was a strong tie. I’m still trying to decide between the Arkansas State Society Ball at the National Press Club, or the Meineke Care Care Ball at Bank of America Stadium.

Jordan: I’m not sure that’s a ball—

Chris G.: —I was reading about it today and it sounds pretty money…they typically invite the #6 seed from the ACC and the #3 seed from the Big East…so…s’gonna be a lot of people there.

Jordan: [fist pounding bar tender] I just picked up my tux today.

Chris G.: Yeah, I need to do that. What did you go with?

Jordan: Pretty standard…I got a midnight blue tux, matching bowtie, wing collar shirt…I read in GQ that you want to aim for something between T-Pain and George Clooney. Nothing too fancy, but nothing boring either. I’m having trouble finding a leopard-print top hat though…

Chris G.: I think I’m going to go with the shawl lapel, but with a solid-colored silk tie rather than a bowtie. I want something that says, “I’m spontaneous and nonchalant about my attire, even though I clearly know what a shawl lapel is and made a conscious decision to buy a jacket that has one.”

Jordan: Yeah, girls definitely dig shawl collars. I read in GQ that Megan Fox refuses to have sex with anyone who wears Sketchers or peaked lapels.

Chris G.: I found Transformers unrealistic and overly saturated with special effects.

Jordan: [texting on Blackberry Storm] God, Becky just won’t leave me alone…

Chris G.: Have you tried opening up to her? You should tell her that you’re at a point in your life where you don’t really want a relationship. I’m not sure stringing her along is the healthiest situation for either of you.

Jordan: Well, I was going to tell her that, but then she gave me a smoker in the car ride home from salsa lessons…so…

Chris G.: Maybe it was Shia Lebeouf in a lead male role that turned me off to the whole concept of the movie before I could buy into it.