Andrew Breitbart at CPAC tells about his Bill Ayers dinner

“That’s how the left rolls”, Breitbart explains when describing the common hateful attacks levied against him from the side that claims to have “innate tolerance”. He demonstrated actual tolerance to Bill Ayers however. Listen to the story of how good the ribs, squash, fish and wine was at Bill Ayers’ dinner starting at 3 minutes in…

The dinner was the winning prize that Tucker Carlson won in a charity auction and Breitbart was invited as part of his allowed number of guests.

Matt Labash attended the dinner and describes it thusly:

Tucker had invited several guests— me, his brother, Daily Caller reporter Jamie Weinstein, a contest winner, and provocateur Andrew Breitbart, aka the most aggressive man on the Internet. (Breitbart once asked me to teach him to fish as a much-needed de-stresser, then thought better of it, “since every time I see a tree, I just want to kick its ass.”) Our Weatherpatrons greet us like old family, surrounded by their own smiling friends/decoys, who are there to “wait on” us and otherwise deflect uncomfortable lines of inquiry. Pointing to bottles of wine, one chirps, “What’s your poison?”

Ayers, in skullcap and earrings, shows us to an elaborate spread overlooking the city. We’ve entered a parody of a multimillion-dollar liberal lair. Unidentifiable abstract sculptures snake about the floor. Framed epigrams from Louise Bourgeois installations (“The Hour Is Devoted To Revenge”) line the wall. Cutouts representing the duality of the American spirit, from Thoreau and Rosa Parks (good), to Dick Cheney and Sarah Palin (evil), festoon our plates. Tofu and quinoa—pinko food—is among the seven savory courses served.

Apart from shuffling off to the kitchen or catching a few minutes of the game while avoiding awkward conversations about their past, the Weather-hosts couldn’t be nicer. They ask us about our backgrounds, which they already seem familiar with (thanks, Wikipedia!). They plump us with falling-off-the-bone hoisin ribs and fluff us with apple pie and Ameri-Cone Dream ice cream. “This is the bomb, Bill,” says Breitbart, after sampling the farmhouse cheeses. “It has explosive flavor,” I chime in.

They’re positively conciliatory—playing radical rope-a-dope. Dohrn has tired altogether of politics, she claims, now preferring to listen to sports radio. Bill facetiously admits that, as suspected, he wrote Obama’s Dreams from My Father—“The second book isn’t as good,” he apologizes. When reminded of his past, after saying unradical things to us like, “There’s no reason not to be nice to each other” (Ayers once distilled the Weathermen’s philosophy as “kill all the rich people”—though presumably not those serving the carrot ginger soup), Bill looks pained. “You’re thinking 40 years ago. Read something contemporary.” Asked about the “smash monogamy” ethos that led Weathernymphos to engage in orgies (in the belief that an army that ruts together, fights together), Bernardine demurs, “We have to know each other better first.”

We have harder questions, left mostly in our pockets. It’s difficult to rough people up when they’re trilling things at you like, “Enjoy the pecan raisin crisps!” Our pregame strategy is to take it gently at dinner, then go for broke in the second half. Except there isn’t one. We are shown the door before halftime, under the sudden and lame excuse that the apartment owner needs to pick up her kids. In a mad swirl of group photos, goodie bags (complete with Hershey’s Kisses), and curt invitations to scoot from a formerly smiling, now pinched-faced Ayers friend, we are deposited in the hallway after less than two hours.

“They took my ribs before I finished them. .  .  . I only had one beer. .  .  . I didn’t even get to see Madonna,” the contest winner complains.

“What happened?” I ask an equally gobsmacked Breitbart. “I think we just got rolled.”

“No,” he says, deflated. “We got community organized.”

Here is the trailer for an upcoming documentary titled “Hating Breitbart”:


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