So I loaded a fresh microcassette into the tape recorder, shoplifted four rolls of FujiFilm from Rite-Aid, and climbed into back seat of fellow reporter Meghan Keane's Celica. Little did I know that thanks to Ehrbar's shrewd planning and dauntless leadership skills, the excursion was going to quickly degrade from a promising exploration of the American political climate into a shameful waste of a Sunday.

On the Jersey turnpike, just outside of Newark, I spilled boiling hot coffee all over myself, screaming and cursing like a pro-life prostitute in labor. Ehbar jut laughed at me from his cozy shotgun position. I've got first-degree burns all over my hands now. The rest of drive down was uneventful, except for that cocky bastard Ehrbar getting us lost twice in the Maryland suburbs. He then insisted that we park on the outskirts of town and take the Metro in. We had to wait like fifteen minutes for the train to come. Then we missed our stop because Ehrbar wasn't paying attention, and wound up a good six or seven stops into the suburbs on the other side of DC. We had to get out, cross to the other side of the platform, and wait another fifteen minutes for a train. The whole time I had to piss something awful. I almost soiled myself. No Joke.

When we finally caught up with the angry mob at Pennsylvania Avenue, we had just missed a dramatic altercation. I wanted to stick around and get pictures of the A.P. photographer who had been clubbed on the head by the cops, interview the witnesses, and get recordings of the kids at the front line mocking the riot guard, but Ehrbar insisted that we go straight to the Independent Media Center to register and pick up our press passes. "It's a short walk," he said. "I've got a map right here." He proceeded to lead us 14 blocks in 80 degree weather. (These aren't wussy Manhattan blocks, either. DC blocks are malformed strips of concrete that stretch for up to half a mile.) The Media Center turned out to be located in a dodgy little alley somewhere. Those "press passes" didn't get us behind the police barricades. They didn't even get us any decent food. We picked up some pretzels there and a single cup of orange juice that we had to share among the four members of our team. Then we walked all the way back.

At the Ellipse in front of the White House there was a colorful demonstration of solidarity. Supporters of a number of different liberal movements assembled together to distribute information and voice their concern over the harmful policies of one of the most powerful regulatory agencies in the global economy. There were speakers, music, and giant paper machŽ puppets designed to draw attention to the cause. But let me talk about that rat bastard Ehrbar some more. All he could talk about while we were there was superficial crap like how much the gathering of white middle class college kids resembled a folk festival, and which activists he thought were stupid looking. When I would try to interview the protesters, Ehrbar kept butting in with the most asinine, shallow questions. "Do you think protests are good places to pick up girls?" "What the hell does your cause have to do with the World Bank?" "Are you enjoying that pretzel?" I wanted to kill the rotten sonofabitch, right then and there in the capital of the free world. I could have done it too. I've got a knife.

Well, I made the mistake of letting the pompous asshole live. After about an hour, he decided he had had enough reporting, and it was time to take a nap. So he went to sleep in the shade in front of the Red Cross Headquarters. Right in the middle of a goddamn rally we were supposed to be covering. Jesus H. Christ! How am I supposed to deal with such irresponsible bullshit from jack-offs like Ehrbar? And that condescending attitude of his pisses me off even more. He's so goddamn arrogant all the time, like everyone is just supposed to magically like him and do what he says. I mean, I'm the Editor-at-Large for the whole entire paper. Ehrbar's just some prick who started writing for us this semester. I should be calling the shots, not that incompetent dickhead.