Introducing “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book

Introducing “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book Club

As everyone knows, Oprah runs a wildly successful Book Club. And this club is wildly successful despite the fact that—to misquote Pauline Kael—we don’t know anyone who’s ever read any of these books. (Well, with the exception of William Faulkner, Leo Tolstoy, and John Steinbeck, of course.) In addition, The New York Times recently reported that Oprah is lending her name and her pocketbook to a Broadway musical version of The Color Purple. If that doesn’t make you The Color Red with anger or The Color Green with nausea, we don’t know what will.

Naturally, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to do our part to revive American intellectual culture, and perforce to de-Oprahfy it, if we may coin a reasonable neologism. As such, we figured we’d use today’s humble “post” as a humble step in that direction.

Although, of course, we don’t have access to big-network television, and thus are at a distinct disadvantage vis-à-vis Oprah, we reasoned that our small readership makes us far, far more powerful than the folks at MSNBC. Accordingly, we aimed to do our part.

To this end, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as petulant, peevish pigs to present: The Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book Club—a cornucopia of books with no shot of making it to Oprah’s feculent—yet surprisingly more popular—Book Club.

No saccharine love stories will make it on our list. No preachy, sentimental palaver will make the cut. No: Our Book Club only features books we absolutely, thoroughly detest. They’ll be a tad more substantial than you would expect from Oprah’s And-Still-I-Rise tastes. (Well, with the exception of William Faulkner, Leo Tolstoy, and John Steinbeck, of course.) All the same, true to this humble “weblog’s” spirit, they’ll be horrid all the same.

Without further ado, then, allow us to present to you, dear reader, our humble first selection for our “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book Club. We have chosen Orientalism, by the deceased apologist for terrorism, Professor Edward Said.

When not cozying up to the likes of Yasir “She’s My Baby” Arafat, Mr. Said made quite a career out of bitching about his purported oppression. You see, as Orientalism argues, the West incessantly demonizes Easterners such as Said, principally by granting them tenure at Columbia University.

Penned by a man capable of this kind of penetrating argument, Orientalism is a must-read for any hopeful Islamofascist.

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The September Academic of the

The September Academic of the Month

In this, our September installment of our Academic of the Month, we aim to do something a bit special. Previously, we have expended a great deal of energy lambasting fairly obvious targets—a species of morons so offensive that darn near anyone outside of academe would head for the hills at the mere mention of their names. We’ve taken to task a rogue’s gallery of professorial chuckleheads: A Marxist communications expert; a paleo-feminist sociologist; a radical English teacher without any grasp of grammar.

This month’s Academic of the Month isn’t quite as irksome. In fact, you may want to think of him as something of a Stealth Moron—the kind of fellow who seems humdrum on the surface, and only seems offensive upon careful review.

Who, you may well be asking yourself, is this Stealth Moron? Who is our September Academic of the Month?

Well, we’re glad you asked. It’s one William E. Connolly, who holds the lofty title of Krieger-Eisenhower Professor in the Department of Political Science at Johns Hopkins University.

To the untrained eye, Mr. Connolly is a beacon of academic respectability. A whilom faculty member at the University of Massachusetts, Mr. Connolly headed to Baltimore in the 1980s, to experience that fine city’s exciting cultural life and omnipresent gunfire.

In his rise up the totem pole of American higher education, Mr. Connolly appears to have contributed an assortment of inoffensive, if mildly soporific, books and articles. Political Theory and Modernity, Legitimacy and the State, “Democracy and Territoriality”—these are the ho-hum products of Mr. Connolly’s scholarly lucubrations.

To be sure, Mr. Connolly is a leftist: He’s penned a few pieces here and there for such chi-chi outlets as Raritan and Dissent. All the same, he appears to be a fairly reasonable character, the kind of fellow who may be sufficiently retardataire to forgo political proselytizing in the classroom.

So, what precisely is so offensive about Mr. Connolly? Why does he merit our attention?

Well, one need look no further than a recent piece he penned for The Baltimore Sun, which is entitled “Why Do So Many Americans Remain Quiet About This Disaster in Iraq?” The essay was sufficiently down-to-earth and reasonable to warrant its republication on the Arab News “website”—a sure sign of moderation and carefulness.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found Mr. Connolly’s “thought piece” so rebarbative that its author most assuredly deserves this month’s Academic of the Month crown. If this is the kind of thing that passes for deep thought at Hopkins, you’d be better off sending your kids to Yale—they may have to dodge bullets there, but at least they won’t have to dodge William Connolly.

In essence, the piece asks the specious and rhetorical question “Why aren’t people really, really fuming about the Iraq War like I am?” Naturally, it offers all the typical clichés of this sordid sub-genre: The dubious Vietnam parallel; the willfully obtuse pass offered to Cindy Sheehan; the anti-Bush vitriol; &c.

Yet the article has something special. Take, for example, these wretched sentences:

I am not speaking about that percentage of the populace who defend the hubris of the Bush administration no matter its cost in lives, safety, money and noble American values. I am talking about people who now see that it was a horrible mistake, for which we and others will pay for generations.

Well, gee: It’s nice to know about whom Mr. Connolly is purportedly speaking. From our cursory stroll through these feculent sentences, we get the distinct impression that Mr. Connolly divides the world into two groups:

1) People who are mindless partisans of the Bush administration and will defend its evils
2) People like William Connolly

Notice, dear reader, the fact that the esteemed Mr. Connolly divides the population into two groups, and two groups only: Those who would defend Bush if he started eating babies, and those who feel the exact same way about the Iraq War that William Connolly does. Gee, can’t there be some kind of third group?

We’d love to report that this is a particularly low point—if not the very nadir—of the essay. But we’d be lying. The whole thing is a locus classicus of cant. For instance, Mr. Connolly prattles on and on about the ways in which those who disagree with him supposedly question his patriotism. And he offers the following mind-boggling solution to the “quagmire” of Iraq: “…the United States could admit its mistake, beg forgiveness from the world, ask the United Nations to create a peacekeeping force and pledge a few hundred billion dollars to help fund that effort.” Well, that ought to work! Call in the UN! What have they ever screwed up? We can’t think of a thing.

But surely the end of this pathetic piece offers the most upsetting line: “…we must initiate cross-country citizen dialogues with people of the Muslim faith who find both the state terrorism of the Bush administration and the nonstate terrorism of Al-Qaeda to be abhorrent.”

So, the Krieger-Eisenhower Professor of Political Science sees nary a difference between George W. Bush’s foreign policy and the machinations of Osama bin Laden, save the fact that the former is a “state actor” and the latter is not. May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that this is a tad morally obtuse, if not morally repugnant? And to think people question his patriotism!

As a result of this steaming heap of garbage, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” are pleased as punch to name William E. Connolly our official Academic of the Month.

If you know of a professor who deserves our plaudits, feel free to send us a tip by clicking on the “Contact Us” “link” at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen. There are so many tenured radicals, and so little time.

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A Sudden Realization Oftentimes, we,

A Sudden Realization

Still, we’re not exactly the Internet’s number one “website.” In fact, last we checked, we weren’t even number three.

All the same, dear reader, a trip to our local supermarket made us realize something that had never occurred to us. Actually, it made us feel quite grand about our humble “website’s” complete lack of fans.

As far as we can intuit, dear reader, most Americans are complete idiots. We know, we know: That appears to be a rather strong sentiment. But we actually think it’s true, even though it had never struck us before.

For instance, dear reader, whereas a quality journal such as The New Criterion or The Spectator isn’t a popular choice in our local supermarket, a complete piece of garbage such as People is actually a big favorite. In fact, shocking as it may sound, it appears as if The New Criterion isn’t even available at the local greengrocer’s.

Frankly, this sudden realization—sad as it is—makes us feel quite good about ourselves. Perhaps our “weblog” is as popular as fungus because of its high quality. Maybe we’re “webloggers” who are way before their time. It seems possible that no one reads “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” because they are busy perusing pornographic “websites” and following football.

If this all proves true, the quality of this “weblog” is going to have to decline precipitously in order to wrestle in the readers. In short, we’re pariahs because we’re brilliant.

We’re Van Gogh with ears. We’re Jackson Pollocks without horrid drinking problems and poor vehicular skills. We’re Lord Byron without the club feet. We’re Shakespeare with more hair. We’re…well, you get the idea.

As happy as this has all made us feel, we must admit we have a few pangs of doubt. After all, though darn near everything that Americans like is crap, lots of stuff Americans don’t like is also crap. Hmmm….

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A Fool’s Journey By now,

A Fool’s Journey

As usual, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not particularly interested in lending another voice to the post-Katrina, post-Rita juggernaut. Regular readers of this humble “weblog” undoubtedly recognize that we have a habit of bucking trends and focusing on less notable issues. How else would we have managed to leave our unpopularity so unsullied?

It is with a collective heavy heart, then, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” devote another humble “post”—today’s “post”—to the hurricane blitzkrieg. In our defense, we must say that we received such an interesting e-mail from a reader that we simply had to share her story with you.

A devoted fan from Galveston (TX)—who preferred to remain nameless although possessing a perfectly fine name—recently sent us a very entertaining e-epistle. It is lengthy, however, and thus we have decided to offer our paraphrase of her tale.

This woman was one of the sundry unfortunate characters to be stuck on the highway in her automobile in the ridiculous pre-hurricane traffic. To make matters worse, fearing the possibility of running out of gasoline, she was compelled to cut off her air conditioner—an unpleasant thing to do in the God-forsaken heat that is southern Texas.

Whilst stuck in countless hours of traffic, this lady tuned in to the radio, in order to determine whether the gridlock would ever subside. Most of the stations on the FM dial had converted to news-only formats, in order to offer help to the community. Apparently, only impending natural disasters are sufficient to ward away impending natural disasters such as Elton John and Peter Cetera. Can’t say Mother Nature has never helped us.

Anyway, the announcers on one particular radio station informed their listening audience that the mayor of Houston had just informed the public that he was worried that the traffic would be so bad as to turn the highways into a “death trap.” As you might well imagine, our female traveler was greatly distressed by this thought. Things were looking very grim indeed.

Soon afterward, the announcers took a call from an unidentified male. His question? Something to the effect of: “Hey, I know there’s a hurricane and all, but is the Journey concert scheduled for Friday cancelled?”

That’s right, dear reader, a category five hurricane was traipsing into town, and this chucklehead was chiefly concerned about missing out on the histrionic pseudo-hard rock of Steve Perry and his cronies. Naturally, he was deeply distressed to find out that, yes, indeed the concert was cancelled. “That sucks,” he said. When the DJs informed him that missing a Journey concert was not the biggest problem in the world under the circumstances, he only begrudgingly agreed. “Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered. “But it still sucks.”

As far as we’re concerned, only a natural disaster would compel us to attend a Journey concert. And, if Rick Astley or Hall & Oates were opening up, we still wouldn’t go.

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The Lack of Calm Before

The Lack of Calm Before the Storm

Soon before the storm actually hit, “Chip” dutifully sent in another report. This time, “Chip” focused on the hubbub directly before the big storm battered the coast. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found this report sufficiently interesting, and thus we have pasted it below.

A Report on the Essential Goodness of Humanity

CORPUS CHRISTI, TX—As Rita makes its way closer to land, citizens in this God-forsaken hellhole must already endure a good deal of hot wind. Well, citizens with a television, that is.

In fact, perhaps it would be great to gather up the editorial staff of The Nation, New Left Review, International Socialist Review, Social Text, and all the other socialist rags, and put them in the path of the hurricane right before it hits. That way, they’ll get a great sense of the uprightness that is humanity.

If that doesn’t make them realize that man is not in fact perfectible, nothing will.

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Blessed Are the Hatemongers It

Blessed Are the Hatemongers

As such, it must come as no shock to discover that many amongst us regularly attend our Official Staff Bible Study. Of course, there are a few Godless atheists and semi-Godless agnostics in our midst. A handful of them appear to think that Ayn Rand is God, and one other is betting on Elton John. But we do our best to wake these heathens up to the presence of the Divinity.

In addition, we must add that our Official Staff Bible Study not only ensures our near-saintliness, but also allows us to carry around an irksome heir of saintliness wherever we go. After all, half the fun of Bible study is making those who don’t do it feel bad. Or so we’ve been told.

Anyway, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were sitting down to another rousing Saturday morning of biblical exegesis when we came upon what must be our favorite passage from the Good Book.

As we made our way through our Old Scofield Study Bibles (no non-believing texts for us), our hearts collectively delighted in what must be one of the most beauteous passages in the history of world literature. For those of you sufficiently devout to follow along with us, we refer to II Kings 2:23-24.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy these elegant verses, which we have adapted only slightly from our Old Scofield translation:

And he [Elisha] went up from thence unto Beth-el; and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, Go up, thou baldy; go up, thou baldy.

And he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And there came forth two she bears out of the wood, and tare forty and two children of them.

Simply magical, isn’t it? This passage—which we have cleverly named “Andre Agassi’s Revenge”—brings great delight to the male members of the crack young staff. Informal polling around the office water-cooler suggests that every last one of the male staffers is either bald, balding, or deeply worried about balding. Or all three.

As you might imagine, then, this passage—given all the authority one associates with the Bible—is simply magnificent. The next time anyone makes a crack about our hairlines, we’ll call in the she-bears. We bet about 42 of them won’t be so happy when the tearing asunder is all over.

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A Report from Soon-to-Be Armageddon

A Report from Soon-to-Be Armageddon

Every once in a great while, however, a correspondent from one of our stately offices sends in a report that we simply must publish posthaste. And surely this was the case regarding our latest dispatch from our Corpus Christi (TX) branch.

Residents of planet earth realize that the gulf coast region of Texas may soon face the wrath of Rita, a hurricane far less lovely than the meter maid about whom the Beatles once crooned. Regarding the situation in Corpus Christi, one of our correspondents—let’s just call him “Chip”—wired us the following report, which we have placed below:

A Wire Report From Soon-to-Be Armageddon

CORPUS CHRISTI, TX—All is boisterous here in this wretchedly hot city in southern Texas, as manifold residents ready themselves for the approaching hurricane. In what experts are calling the “pre-looting phase,” locals are purchasing the necessities they will require if Rita makes its way this far south.

Others offered similar sentiments. “Exploiting the deaths and destruction of a natural storm in order to score political points is wonderful,” said Terry McNabb, a 56-year-old insurance salesman. “If Bob Herbert doesn’t rip into Bush for this one, I’ll be mighty upset. I mean, sure, Herbert hated Bush before this, and so he is just going to use the storm to further his preexisting political goals. And he’ll have to pretend that local officials are not to blame. But I say he should have at it.”

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Take Some of Our Genius

Take Some of Our Genius with You

As you might well imagine, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t tend to take such e-epistles seriously. Sure, we always love to “link” to our e-friends. And we’ve sent more stool samples than we can remember. But we’ve never been particularly keen on offering tips.

To be sure, dear reader, a long time ago we had an Official Advice Column, which allowed us help all of three people, if we recall correctly. All the same, we haven’t regularly dispensed with the nuggets of wisdom you naturally associate with the crack young staff.

That is to say, dear reader, until now. Whilst smugly basking in our mammoth e-profits one day, we felt a mite guilty. After all, we have successfully racked up the big bucks (without any Whammies) from our dynamite “website,” and we haven’t given much back to the community. Whilst we rake in the money from our Blogspot adverts, you haven’t got very much in return.

Frankly, dear reader, this made us feel rather ashamed. In fact, it compelled us to use today’s humble “post” as an opportunity to offer assorted words of advice and wisdom from the crack young staff. This way, you can never say you haven’t learned a thing or two from us. And it will allow us to share some of the impressive erudition that we’ve taken in over the course of our short, frivolous lives.

Without too much in the way of further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as punch to present:

The Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Desultory Bits of Advice:

1. If Comedy Central’s “Daily Show” wants to interview you, don’t accept the interview. They simply want to make fun of you.

2. Never see a movie that features a positive remark from Joel Siegel on its advertisements. This is a telltale sign that the film in question sucks.

3. Never name drop. Robin Williams once told us that it comes across as really arrogant.

4. Automobiles are manufactured with things called “turn signals.” If you learn how to use one, you may be the first person in America to do so.

5. Never trust anyone’s taste if they say they esteem any of the following people: Harry Connick Jr., Jimmy Carter, Kevin Costner, Tom Cruise, Billy Joel, Christian Slater, Andrew Lloyd Weber, any rapper.

6. Even if you think the greatest tragedy regarding hurricane Katrina is the fact that it left Aaron Neville alive, don’t say this in public.

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Imagine the World Without the

Imagine the World Without the Iraq War

To many liberal epistlers, hurricane Katrina would not have ravaged the gulf coast region if President Bush had not decided to attack Iraq. And the ever-docile Muslim community would not be so implacably hostile to the West were it not for the removal of Saddam Hussein. (Apparently, the Muslim community greatly esteems a dictator whose chief claim to fame is killing countless members of the Muslim community.)

Anyway, dear reader, we can’t take any more of this mindless griping. To be sure, not all has gone well in Iraq—though not all has gone badly, either. Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t think we can stomach another ridiculous letter blaming everything—the fecklessness of the UN, bad hair days, Peabo Bryson—on the liberation of Iraq. It’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, and it’s got to stop.

In order to do our part to put a halt to this rebarbative phenomenon, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to take an “If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em” tack. We collectively believe that offering a particularly moronic version of the typical leftist argument may win some It’s-All-the-Iraq-War’s-Fault folks over to our side. Or, at very least, it may allow them to see the errors of their ways.

To this end, dear reader, today’s humble “post” is dedicated to our take on the utopian world that we would supposedly be fortunate to enjoy had the United States and its allies not deposed Saddam Hussein. If we were left-wing dolts with no understanding of foreign policy, this is the world we’d envision without the Iraq War. Without further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” happily present:

The World Without the Iraq War—A Semi-Humorous Satirical Take on How Wonderful the World Would Be If We Had Not Decided To Depose Saddam Hussein by the Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”

Man, things sure are great here in 2005. It’s simply wonderful that President Bush decided not to attack Iraq. Although we guess it is even more fortunate for President Al Sharpton, who easily won a landslide victory over Bush, thanks to his rousing “Stay Out the Bushes” stump speech. Now, with Sharpton as president, no one in this country experiences racism, except Jews.

As if this all weren’t good enough, now that Iraq has not been liberated, Saddam Hussein can continue with his ruthless, tyrannical ways, which will surely mean the deaths of thousands and thousands more Iraqis. If that isn’t good, what is?

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Movies We Hate—A New Series

Movies We Hate—A New Series

In order to remedy this unfortunate situation, “Chip” proposed that we inaugurate a new series of “posts.” Like all our other series, this one will amount to nothing more than a few assorted installments, and then will be dropped down George Orwell’s famous Memory Hole.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: Sounds pretty good. And indeed it does. The only thing we needed now was an idea for our fledgling new series. What, we collectively pondered, would get our dander up to such an extent as to compel us to resume our torrents of abuse?

After literally seconds of cogitation, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” gave up. It had been close to a full minute of thought, and this, given the state of American higher education these days, was surely a College Try.

But then we were fortunate enough—if those are the right words—to rent a movie that was so irksome we simply had to complain about it. And hence our new series was born: “Movies We Hate.”

The motion picture in question may be a bit of a letdown, actually, since it was merely bad—not galactically horrid. All the same, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found Fever Pitch, starring Drew Barrymore and Jimmy Fallon well-nigh un-viewable.

For those of you blissfully unaware of the flick, allow us to inform you that Fever Pitch is a romantic comedy focused on a man’s obsession with the Red Sox. Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are most assuredly Red Sox fans, and thus the premise of the film didn’t trouble us.

In addition, we have to admit that the geniuses behind Fever Pitch got a couple of things right. For instance, among Drew Barrymore’s group of female friends in the flick is one fat chick. This, we thought, was spot-on: For some reasons, a collective of pretty girls always knows one fat broad. We’re not sure why this is, but it seems always to be true. And the pretty girls are always at a loss as to why the fat chick is the only one among them who isn’t dating. Gee: Who would have thunk it? Jenny’s got such a nice smile, why is she single? Could it be that she has Shamoo’s body?

Sadly, though, we must report that the husky chick could not save the flick. Although we can think of many reasons to detest this saccharine film, one line particularly sticks in our collective head.

At some point in the picture, Jimmy Fallon’s character is at Fenway Park, and the Sox aren’t faring terribly well. Whilst Fallon and his buddies are upset, one among them has the temerity to bark out a line in a Boston brogue that went something like:

“Hey, I wouldn’t go jumping off the Tobin Bridge.”

That, we feel, is surely one the most wretched lines in cinematic history. If that doesn’t prove the screenplay writer’s tin ear, nothing will.

We mean, come on: How forced is a line like “Hey, I wouldn’t go jumping off the [Insert Famous Boston Landmark Here]”? As far as we’re concerned, the answer is “Very, very forced.” A few among us have lived in the Boston area before, and we have never heard anyone utter such a ridiculous remark.

As the result of our violent reaction to this feculent line, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must inform you that we thoroughly disesteemed Fever Pitch. That movie was so bad that, had we been in Chicago, we would have jumped off the Sears Tower.

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Those Plucky Brits A quick

Those Plucky Brits

How, you may or may not be asking yourself, do we know that? Well, we’re darn glad you asked. A few days ago, one of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—took a gander at The Weekly Telegraph, the ex-pat version of London’s famed Daily Telegraph (a.k.a. The Torygraph, thanks to its fair and balanced coverage).

A couple of stories to be found in the September 7-13 number of that paper made it as clear as day to us that the average American congressman is a real lightweight in comparison with those orthodontically-challenged politicians across the pond.

For example, check out a delightful sentence from an article entitled “‘Respect’ advisor sang binge praises”:

Tony Blair last week placed control of his “respect agenda” in the hands of an advisor who praised binge drinking, threatened to “deck” Downing Street officials and boasted about how she likes to get “hammered.”

Now there’s some color for you. This woman, one Louise Casey, is the Prime Minister’s pick for a task force dedicated to eradicating “anti-social behavior.” Clearly, she is the right woman for the job. Perhaps Mr. Blair was particularly enamored of such wise sayings of Ms. Casey as “Doing things sober is no way to get things done.”

Well, we suppose that Ms. Casey doesn’t sound “anti-social” to us. She probably fancies club hopping quite a bit.

Okay, you say, so the Prime Minister has promoted a drunken lout to a government post seemingly dedicated to ridding the United Kingdom of drunken louts. Big deal. After all, our own country is home to such louche non-teetotalers as Ted Kennedy. And he could probably drink Ms. Casey under the table. And then drown her.

You want something more, in a word, inflammatory? You’ve got it. Check out this little tidbit, culled from a piece titled “Peer started hotel fire after drinking spree”:

The career of a Labour politician was in ruins after he admitted setting fire to a hotel when he was told he could not have more alcohol.

The court was told that he set fire to a curtain after he was refused a drink at the Prestonfield House Hotel in Edinburgh after last November’s Scottish Politician of the Year awards.

We don’t care who you are, dear reader: That is utterly fantastic. It should cause such American also-ran crazies as John Conyers, Patti Murray, and Howard Dean great consternation. Whilst our boring zanies are off blabbing about the goodness of al Qaeda and the evils of America, British nutters are off setting hotels ablaze.

Come on, Howard Dean: Get with the program! Stop frothing at the mouth and start urinating on fire hydrants. Our country needs you.

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Ruminations on the Imperfectability of

Ruminations on the Imperfectability of the Human Person, or Why We Want To Smack That Bitch

In the past fortnight or so, however, one particular theme has particularly concerned us (other than redundancy, or course). This is, in a nutshell, the imperfectability of human beings. As is well known, our Communist comrades believe that man is perfectible, provided he lives under the proper system. And, apparently, by “proper system” they mean “bloodthirsty totalitarianism.”

Although our country’s tenured radicals have yet to catch on, there seems to be some proof that this notion isn’t quite right. The proof appears to be something called “the 20th century.”

But, dear reader, imagine you are an American high school student, and thus you don’t know anything about the history of the 20th century. Now imagine you have never heard of Communism. And imagine Che is just a colorful T-shirt design. (Whilst you are at it, imagine there’s no heaven, no hell below us, above us only sky.)

Regardless of the horrible John Lennon gag we just made, we still think that no reasonable person can believe in the perfectibility of humankind. Or, as our women’s studies pals would put it, huwomynkind. If you ask us, there are simply too many instances of human cruelty for a non-nincompoop to believe that homo sapiens is anything but a rather devious creature.

Our evidence? Why, here’s just one of innumerable stories we could tell that would hammer home our collective point.

The other day, one of the senior editors at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—found himself in the 15 Items or Less line at the local grocery store. Now, never mind the fact that said line should really be called 15 Items or Fewer: Your neighborhood Harris Teeter is no place for grammatical niggling.

As you might imagine, “Chip” desperately pined to purchase his two items, and get the heck out of Dodge. This isn’t because he was holding delicate items—he didn’t need toilet paper, and it wasn’t that time of the month. Even so, he wanted to leave posthaste.

Perhaps this was the result of the rancid Muzak that the grocery store persists in playing. As if old Billy Ocean songs weren’t calamitous enough, the demons behind Muzak must add vibraphone.

Anyway, ahead of us in this long line were a woman and her young son. Whilst the young one happily put his mouth on every inanimate object in sight, mommy placed her items on the mini conveyer-belt. And, by “Chip’s” humble count, she had 25 items. O, what a bitch!

The checkout girl—God love her—informed this nasty lady that she was clearly in the wrong line. Undaunted, the woman retorted: “Well, I’ve only got about 14 items here. Perhaps 13.” And the checkout girl gave her a pass.

Horror of horrors! Great Zeus! For crying out loud! Can you believe the nerve of this chucklehead? Obviously, she realized that she was inconveniencing others by getting into the wrong line, but couldn’t care less. To make matters worse, although “Chip” earnestly believes that someone should have called the Feds and had this woman deported, he did absolutely nothing. Yeah, he grumbled a bit, but he kept his stupid trap shut.

So, dear reader, what is the moral of this story? We suppose it could be stated one of two ways. Either: “Man is Utterly Imperfect,” or “We Need a Police State To Shoot Bitches Who Bring 25 Items into the Express Lane.” Take your pick.

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Eleanor Clift, Please Be the

Eleanor Clift, Please Be the Father of Our Children

Here’s a perfect case in point. A little while ago, we composed a “post” in which we referred to the irksome talking head Eleanor Clift. It was a passing reference, to be sure, but a reference nonetheless.

Well, dear reader, much to our surprise, we soon discovered that some poor flaks at MSNBC are paid to “link” to “weblogs” that mention any NBC, MSNBC, or Newsweek personalities. Accordingly, a few days ago, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were prominently featured on a “webpage” whose title read “Conversations in the blogosphere about Eleanor Clift.” Isn’t that interesting?

Now, we don’t mean to be a bunch of snooty occupational elitists, but we think that “linking” to mentions of Howard Fineman is a pretty horrid job. After all, anyone reasonable will simply say that Mr. Fineman is a self-important twit.

And this got us to thinking: Why not make these poor sods at the MSNBC/NBC/Newsweek “website” do a bit of work? Why shouldn’t they earn their money? After all, it’s not every day that the World-Wide Web lights up with conversation pertaining to Jonathan Alter, is it? (Not if God is merciful, at least.)

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have endeavored to use this humble “post” as a surefire way to get “linked” on the illustrious “Conversations about Eleanor Clift” “webpage.” In order to accomplish this, of course, we needed to write about the fetching Ms. Clift at some length.

To this end, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have composed the following poem, which we have titled:

An Ode to Eleanor Clift by the Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”

O, Gorgeous Eleanor, How We Love Thee!
Somehow, you manage to make Pat Buchanan sound learned! (And that’s quite a feat.)
Your voice is every bit as lovely as Susan Estrich’s.
Your nasal, trap-door delivery is a hearty reminder to all single men that they made the right choice.
And your knee-jerk leftism is an inspiration to all of those who love politics but don’t like thinking.
O, Gorgeous Eleanor, Wilt Thou Be the Father of Our Children?

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Intolerance, Eh News junkies have

Intolerance, Eh

Penned by Clifford Kraus, the little snippet, culled from the “World Briefing” section of the Gray Lady, goes a little something like this:

CANADA: SHARIAH PROPOSAL PROTESTED Demonstrators in Toronto, other parts of Canada and a number of European cities marched to oppose a two-year-old proposal being considered by Ontario provincial leaders to allow the use of Shariah, or Islamic law, to settle family disputes. Traditional Muslims argue that they should have the same rights as Jews and Christians to settle issues like divorce and inheritence among themselves. The provincial Liberal government is split on the proposal, which would make Ontario the first jurisdiction in a Western democracy to make Shariah part of its legal system despite criticism that it discriminates against women.

Simply delicious, isn’t it? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long despised our faux friends to the north—those snooty Canucks who prattle on and on about the purported evils of America.

In addition, as many undoubtedly recognize, Canada is the epicenter of the multicultural movement. Accordingly, it’s perfectly apt that the grand old 51st state must deal with the niceties of Sharia. Where’s that warm embrace of other cultures about which Canada is so self-righteously proud?

Well, apparently it's nowhere to be found. As was reported in yesterday’s edition of the Times, Ontario officially refused to allow Muslims in the province to solve disputes through recourse to Sharia law. That makes our chilly friends in Canada a bunch of oppressive fascists, if you ask us.

Now, before we are deluged with hate mail from all three non-lupine residents of Northwest Territories, let us make it crystal clear that we don’t despise all Canadians. In our few days on this earth, we have been fortunate enough to meet literally dozens of Canadians, and they are mostly a pleasant bunch, regardless of their political persuasion.

All the same, darn near every American, we’d gather, has stumbled upon the Irksome Canadian (Canadianus incommodus). This peevish fellow harps and harpies on the horrors of the country directly to the south of beloved Canada. Americans, thinks the Irksome Canadian, are boorish barbarians. (This from a country that has given the world Bryan Adams and Loverboy, for crying out loud.)

Well, okay, Captain Canuck: Since you’re so darn cosmopolitan, and have such indefatigable love for all cultures, please explain to the Yanks why Sharia is not kosher in Canada (if we may mix our metaphors). Who are you, o beauteous examples of multiculturalism, to pass judgment on Islamic law? Why can’t Muslims commit honor killings in good ole’ Canada?

Come on, you hosers. How dare you “Other” the Muslims in this way! How chauvinistic! How retrograde! How—in a word—American!

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The Death of a Crush

The Death of a Crush

Or, we should say, the gorgeous creature who used to greet Yahoo Mail users as they “logged in” to their accounts. As many users of Al Gore’s World-Wide Web have undoubtedly recognized, the evil corporate fat cats at Yahoo have replaced this fetching vixen with a cavalcade of blasé faces.

As far as we’re concerned, this is a far greater blight on the American business community than Enron. Sure, those greedy bastards blithely ruined lives. But, by taking away the photo of this paragon of beauty, Yahoo has surely destroyed a little part of us all.

It is certainly bad enough that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will forever miss our Yahoo Femme Fatale. To make matters worse, the pictures in place of our favorite are insultingly poor.

At first, of course, the astute may suspect that the powers that be at Yahoo found the Yahoo Mail Girl unsuitably “diverse.” Although you couldn’t see her full face, what was visible was most assuredly white. Maybe she had a black elbow, or a Latina forearm. But we collectively doubt it.

Even so, the removal of this glorious creature does not appear to be the work of Yahoo’s “diversi-crats.” It appears as if the new pictures are of people pretty much equally lily white as our pretty Yahoo Mail Girl.

So, what gives? Frankly, dear reader, we haven’t a clue. And we’re mad as heck.

In fact, we’re suitably cross to get off our collective lazy posterior and do something about it. Taking a page out of Cindy Sheehan’s playbook, we’ve decided to camp out at the doorsteps of Yahoo executives, and demand that they talk to us.

Why, we’ll ask, was such a charming creature removed from our sight? How can the management at Yahoo be so unspeakably cruel? Perhaps we’ll even add a Cindy Sheehan query: Why doesn’t Israel leave those peaceable Palestinians alone?

To be honest, dear reader, we’ll vote for any presidential candidate who promises to bring the Yahoo Mail Girl back.

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Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the Second

Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the Second

We left off last time with “Chip” just beginning to start his yoga class in a room so hot that he started to turn golden brown. By the time the session ended, in fact, he was what those in the restaurant business call “medium rare.”

Class began with the instructor turning on the lights in the room and leading the warm-up exercises. As we mentioned in our last “post,” said instructor was a markedly more effeminate and markedly less British version of Elton John.

As this beacon of heterosexuality began the class, “Chip” nervously eyed his fellow yoga participants. Whereas most of the assembled cast was of the feminine persuasion, a few of those present were women. (If you get our drift.)

Throughout the session, our intrepid instructor calmed us with manifold references to Mr. Bikram Choudhury, the Indian guru who invented Bikram yoga. He informed us of sundry clever sayings attributed to this learned fellow, and told us a number of tips that originally came from the master’s mouth.

All of this made “Chip” think: This Bikram character probably drinks his own urine, for crying out loud. Let’s not get too enthralled by this chucklehead’s words of wisdom.

Naturally, dear reader, you are dying to know how “Chip” fared in his first attempt at Bikram yoga. We’d like to say that he did a wonderful job. But we’d be lying.

It appears as if “Chip” isn’t suitably flexible to touch his hands to his waist. Accordingly, he wasn’t exactly the world’s most precocious yoga novice.

In fact, the whole session was a bit disturbing for our editor. Whilst grossly obese women blithely followed all of the exercises with perfect form, “Chip” was feverishly attempting to bend his knees properly. Apparently, “Chip” isn’t in the kind of shape one associates with a morbidly fat sexagenarian female. Who would have thunk it?

As if the class weren’t bad enough, the brochures the Bikram staff threw at “Chip” were simply enraging. These little propaganda leaflets made it appear as if yoga was the answer to any human being’s prayers. Got AIDS? Try yoga. Got cancer? Yoga will fix you all up.

In addition, it was as clear as day that the Bikram staff would do darn near anything to ensure that you continued to spend your hard-earned money at its establishment. Regardless of the negative effects of your yoga experience, the cure for your woes was ineluctably more yoga. Feeling horribly sore and dizzy? Why, just do more yoga. Has your leg gone gangrene? Yoga’s the panacea. It was simply shameless.

At least, “Chip” thought as he departed from class, the naked hucksterism of the Bikramites demonstrated that the East has certainly learned a few things from the West. It may be dressed up with Enya songs and pseudo-spiritualistic garbage, but it’s still a manifestation of what our French pals call Anglo-Saxon capitalism.

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Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the First

Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the First

Just the other day, in fact, one of the female staffers—let’s just call her “Chip”—compelled one of the senior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—into trying so-called hot yoga. This, the wily feminine temptress opined, would be a wonderful way for “Chip” to relieve some stress.

Naturally, in order to head to an afternoon session of yoga, “Chip” was going to have to forget about numerous opinions he holds on the subject. For instance, “Chip” is generally skeptical of advances coming from India; as far as he can tell, the only reason that country isn’t a complete hellhole is the result of British imperialism (and a smidgen of French imperialism). So, if someone blathers on about the brilliance of Eastern exercise, it makes “Chip” blather on about the brilliance of indoor plumbing, modern medicine, and sundry other Western achievements.

Surprisingly, “Chip” ultimately decided to forget his criticisms and head to the local Bikram yoga establishment. This, he was told, was the epicenter of so-called hot yoga. For those of you blissfully unaware of hot yoga, allow us to inform you that it is pretty much like regular yoga, only performed in a room slightly more uncomfortable than Miami in July.

Having arrived at the yoga session, “Chip” was greeted by the instructor, who was—to put it mildly—gayer than a maypole. Not that there’s anything wrong with that at all. But, man, Richard Simmons looks straight by comparison.

After a bit of discussion over prices, “Chip” headed to the hot yoga room. There, a few fellow patrons were stretching, readying themselves for the horrible pain to come.

Luckily, “Chip” chose to sit next to a man who was clad only in small spandex shorts. This was going to be my kind of thing, “Chip” thought to himself.

Upon glancing at this fellow, “Chip” had a few doubts about the great benefits of yoga. After all, this semi-nudist was clearly a yoga regular: He had his fancy yoga mat, his fancy yoga water, and was involved in fancy yoga stretches.

And yet, he didn’t exactly come across as a beacon of physical fitness. He was wan, pasty, and disheveled. Frankly, he looked like he sat in his apartment all day eating hemp, waiting for the time in the year in which he can vote for the Green Party.

To be honest, thought “Chip,” if I want to sit in my apartment all day and vote for Ralph Nader, I’d go to grad school.

The fellow who sat to “Chip’s” other side was no more inspiring. A bald, middle-aged Indian fellow, this man was rather hirsute and fat. In fact, he was downright portly. Even so, “Chip” could determine that this character was also an experienced yogi. Which made him wonder: Why the heck am I here? Do I really want a body like this overweight guy? Do I really want to look like I wear more hemp than Woody Harrelson?

And then, dear reader, the class began…

To be continued

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Another Stupid Scheme As we

Another Stupid Scheme

Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are sick of our self-conscious e-kvetching. Okay, so we’re as popular as Arthur Miller at a John Birch Society meeting; so what?

Instead of our usual witless lamentations and ululations, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have come up with yet another brilliant way to attract manifold new readers. Our Official Hair-Brained Schemes Department, in fact, has been drumming up this strategy for well over an hour.

Perhaps, dear reader, you are familiar with CNN’s humdrum program “Inside Politics.” It’s hosted by Judy Woodruff, the mainstream media’s answer to Martha Stewart. And it also features Candy Crowley, who’s so fat that when she wears black it gains ten pounds. We mean, wow: That dame must be sending the Krispy Kreme family’s kids through college.

Anyway, this typically tepid CNN broadcast offers a pathetic feature called “Inside the Blogs,” or some such thing. In short, this moronic segment allows the viewer to take in the e-strolling of two dimwitted female correspondents, so that blue-haired grannies can become “hip” to Al Gore’s World-Wide Web.

As you can well imagine, dear reader, the “Inside the Blogs” bit is ferociously stupid. All the same, it does offer all kinds of exposure for the aspiring young “weblogger.” Why, these days a mention on CNN is almost half as good as a mention on Fox News—and almost twice as good as a mention on the Food Network.

Naturally, then, it was high time for “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” to appear on “Inside Politics.” Only one question remained: How would we draw in the two journalistic bimbos who shill for the program?

Well, after a few days of taking in “Inside Politics,” we happened upon a perfect solution. In a typically limp-wristed demonstration of objectivity, the chuckleheaded vixens on “Inside the Blogs” offer their viewers examples of both left-wing and right-wing “weblogs.” Unsurprisingly, however, they spend a good deal of their time mentioning conservative “websites” that buck the party line on a given issue. (Strangely, they don’t do the same with the liberal “weblogs.”)

For instance, our old friend Dr. Rusty Shackelford was featured on “Inside Politics” when he argued that Karl Rove should be compelled to leave the White House. (Anyone else remember that story?) Had our esteemed Pet Jawa proffered a vigorous defense of Mr. Rove, we have a hunch that he wouldn’t have made it to “Inside Politics.”

Clearly, then, the thing for a vaguely right-of-center “website” such as “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” to do is to offer an assortment of left-wing platitudes. This way, we are sure to get a mention on the semi-prestigious CNN network.

We can almost see Ted Turner from here. Or maybe that’s John Rocker. But we digress.

Accordingly, dear reader, below you will find our Official List of Left-Wing Platitudes. Although, to be completely honest, we don’t believe even one of them, we shall for the high-minded purpose of whoring ourselves out to basic cable.

“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Left-Wing Platitudes From the Heartfelt Crack Young Staff:

1. Eleanor Clift is a very attractive young lady.

2. Cindy Sheehan should be the next Secretary of State.

3. Hurricane Katrina is all George W. Bush’s fault.

4. Any literate person can tell that Al Franken is this country’s most intelligent public intellectual.

5. Maureen Dowd is very, very funny, and very, very insightful.

6. If only George W. Bush would listen to Green Day! Think of how much better the country would be!

7. It’s time conservatives admitted it: Michael Moore is sexy.

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A Foolproof Guide to Blaming

A Foolproof Guide to Blaming George W. Bush

Naturally, dear reader, it’s hard to argue with that logic. But, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will do our best to argue nonetheless.

It does seem a bit cheap—if not a bit sordid—to blame a natural disaster on our current Commander-in-Chief, doesn’t it? For starters, the US Senate wasn’t such a big Kyoto fan—it considered it draconian and therefore refused to back it.

Far more importantly, however, the whole “Blame George for Katrina” line strikes us as a bit ridiculous. If you ask us, even if George W. did nothing other than spray an aerosol can in the sky all day, it still is a bit farfetched to claim that he is the ghost behind Katrina.

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” hesitantly and reluctantly came to the conclusion that many of our pals of the Left would find a way to blame President Bush for anything. We know, we know—it isn’t a very kind conclusion. But it seems to fit the bill.

Helpful scamps that we are, we decided to aid our friends on the Left with their incessant tarring and feathering of our current war criminal-cum-president. Why not offer the lefties a foolproof guide to blaming Bush? That way, our lefty chums can have more time to sip expensive coffee, buy Saabs, and be hypocrites. What’s not to love?

As such, below you will find our humble contribution to the radical leftists—our guide to blaming W. It is sufficiently detailed to prove useful, and sufficiently terse to fit in a wallet made out of hemp. As a result, our lefty pals can take it wherever they’re going—a Dennis Kucinich fundraiser, an ACLU meeting, a gay orgy, &c.

Horrible Disaster the First: Rising Gas Prices

Of course, our Liar-in-Chief is responsible for the actions of the OPECers. Gas prices are high because our country’s naked imperialist aggression has alienated the decent, peace-loving Muslim world. Had the USA not invaded Iraq, gas would be less than 50 cents a gallon right now.

Horrible Disaster the Second: Falling Gas Prices

Of course, our Liar-in-Chief is responsible for the abundance of cheap oil in America, which gas-guzzling Neanderthals enjoy at the expense of our beautiful Mother Earth. The debacle in Iraq can adequately be explained as an exchange of blood for oil. So, that inexpensive petrol really came at the expense of our brave men and women in the military (may they sheepishly retreat!).

Horrible Disaster the Third: A Fire in Belgium

Had our current President spent less of his time on disgracefully long vacations, he could have personally aided fire crews in the Low Countries, which aimed at stopping this blaze. But he was too selfish, wasn’t he?

Horrible Disaster the Fourth: A Slump in Tom Cruise’s Career

Some may blame Mr. Cruise’s odd fascination with L. Ron Hubbard and Katie Holmes (in that order) for such a slump, but the real reason is George Bush, of course. Our proof? One simple word: Halliburton.

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Meet Our New Friend Perhaps

Meet Our New Friend

Naturally, “Chip” hunts the personals for professional reasons alone: He purchased a Russian mail-order bride months ago. Accordingly, he needs a date as much as Courtney Love requires a drug problem. (Come to think of it, that’s a rather apt analogy.)

Anyway, a few short days ago, “Chip” spotted a particularly interesting advertisement in one of the area’s feculent freebee rags. The man who took out this ad appears to be a rather lonely guy. His compelling personal ad reads as follows:

SHHH…
Married WM, mid-40s, 5’11”, 200lbs, crossdresser, getting no action at home, looking for someone to introduce me.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: This fellow wants an introduction; isn’t that sweet? What a darling! Clearly, as we mentioned above, this is one lonely critter.

Always willing to help a man (or, in this case, a semi-man) down on his luck, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to dedicate this humble “post” to introducing our new friend. Since our bosom buddy (pun intended) hasn’t informed us of his name, we’ll simply refer to him as Mr. Shhh.

So, dear reader, allow us to introduce our pal Mr. Shhh. He’s pretty much a regular guy: He is “getting no action at home”; he’s married; and he’s a cross-dresser. Oh, and did we mention that he’s seeking someone with whom he may have an adulterous affair?

Wouldn’t Mrs. Shhh be upset if she knew her perfidious husband was taking out ad space in the local paper to score with an anonymous pervert? Why don’t you, dear reader, welcome Mr. Shhh into the magical world of adultery? We’re sure this randy devil will make it worth your while, provided you dig 5’11”, 40-something 200-pounders. And we know that you do.

Well, Mr. Shhh, there’s your introduction. Free of charge, no less. We certainly hope that you are successful in finding a lactating she-male, with whom you can finally fulfill your deepest Freudian desires.

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Notes on Camp Casey Fanatical

Notes on Camp Casey

Until, that is to say, now. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” originally decided to keep quiet about this grieving radical, and let the likes of Maureen Dowd have their journalistic orgasms over her.

And yet, dear reader, we have simply had enough. A few days ago, we opened the latest number of The New Republic, and found a staff editorial on Ms. Sheehan so fatuous that we simply needed to respond. In the table of contents, the editors at TNR advertised their ruminations about the matter with the query “What do we owe Cindy Sheehan?”

Naturally, the staff of TNR is demonstrating some pronoun problems. By “we,” of course, this moderate left-wing rag means “President Bush.” Marty Peretz and Leon Wieseltier don’t owe Ms. Sheehan a darn thing, of course.

The president most assuredly does, however. As TNR puts it, Sheehan “deserves the opportunity to meet with our commander-in-chief (yes, it would be her second meeting, but a president who has time for a two-hour bike ride with Lance Armstrong during a five-week vacation has time to meet again with the mother of a man he sent to war and, ultimately, death).”

Let’s see if we get this straight: If your son dies in Iraq, you deserve two meetings with the president of the United States. In the first one, you are entitled to be gracious. And, in the second session, you are free to browbeat him with noxious radical palaver about “American imperialism” and “blood for oil.”

As far as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can determine, this is very much like the deal touted by your local Subway sandwich outfit. At participating stores, for 10 delicious Subway subs, you can get one free. Perhaps you can even berate the cashier about “Zionist aggression” whilst you pick up your freebee grinder.

We don’t mean to sound heartless, but we find this whole media-induced brouhaha rebarbative. Yes, Cindy Sheehan came to prominence during a slow news month. With JFK Jr. in the drink, there’s not much to cover these days.

Even so, we can’t stomach any more of this. Why in the good Lord’s name should President Bush be forced to endure the insane carping of an unhinged radical leftist? Cindy Sheehan claims that she wants to hear President Bush’s rationale for war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Does she really need to meet him in person for this? Why doesn’t she just get a copy of his speeches? Or how about picking up a newspaper, you stupid dolt!

Okay, okay, okay. We need to calm down a bit. After all, this woman—crazy as she is—has recently lost her son. We ought not to get intemperate.

Instead, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are happy to announce our latest stupid idea: Camp Shut the F Up. We plan on camping outside Ms. Sheehan’s house, until this woman has the guts to tell us why she won’t shut the f up.

It’ll be interesting to see whether The New York Times offers fawning profiles about us, as we wave our “Shut the F Up, Cindy” flags outside the Sheehan residence. We won’t hold our collective breath.

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