An Unassailable Candidacy

In the past few years, our friends in the Democratic Party have happened upon a very effective technique. When faced with discussing a contentious issue, Democratic Party strategists have favored using spokesmen who, for one reason or another, are somehow beyond criticism.

For instance, our Democratic pals sent out a gaggle of 9/11 widows to criticize Donald Rumsfeld and the Iraq War. Naturally, human beings with anything resembling compassion (read: Not Ann Coulter) felt a bit churlish about ripping in to such women, given the horrors they’ve endured. Accordingly, when someone ventures a criticism of their position, the Dems can cry foul. “How dare you attack these poor, defenseless ladies,” they screech.

Our nation has just witnessed another example of this incipient Democratic Party tradition in the form of a diminutive Canadian with an unfortunate ailment. As is well known, Michael J. Fox, the genius who helped bring you Back to the Future 3 (because so much was left unsaid in part two), took to the airwaves to criticize Republican positions on embryonic stem-cell research.

Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We’re completely in favor of such research and wholeheartedly support Mr. Fox’s position. All the same, we believe the campaign ads featuring Mr. Fox were misleading and unfair.

Ah, but it was another prime example of this delightful new Democratic strategy: As a man suffering from Parkinson’s disease, Mr. Fox should not be criticized. Don’t take our word for it: Ask Rush Limbaugh, who begrudgingly apologized for ripping on Mr. Fox’s commercials.

As far as we’re concerned, the Democrats have come up with their most ingenious strategy since “triangulation.” If we were Howard Dean—and, full disclosure, we’re not—we’d make use of this killer Democratic weapon as much as possible.

There’s a little thing called the presidential election creeping up on us, and it’s high time the Dems stop prattling on about Hillary Clinton, Al Gore, and Barak Obama, and start thinking about ways to leave the Republicans in the dust. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think the Democrats should ditch all these high-profile candidates in favor of a far more effective team.

Here’s our idea for a resolutely unassailable administration:

President: A lesbian Eskimo with Alzheimer’s disease

Vice President: Emmanuel Lewis

Secretary of State: A wheelchair-bound former rape victim

Secretary of Defense: Smurfette

Secretary of Transportation: An Amish schoolgirl

And so on, and so forth. Quite frankly, we don’t care whom the Republicans nominate. Even John McCain would be wary of debating the guy who used to play Webster. Man, that little bugger is so cute.

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“Websites” that Irritate Us

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are officially fed up with politics. As every humanoid with a pulse (and at least a few without a pulse) must know, the midterm elections are approaching apace and the nation is all abuzz about them.

Racist television commercials; homosexual ephebophilic indiscretions; dubious financial transactions—these and kindred political flaps appear, like Martians in bad 1950s sci-fi flicks, to have invaded the country. If it gets any worse, the E! television network might very well eschew its 24-7 coverage of Madonna’s recent foray into celebrity imperialism and start discussing, say, George Allen. Not that that’d be a step up.

Maybe we’re the only ones, but this wall-to-wall political coverage has made us run for the sick bag. At some point soon, perhaps, our political interests will reemerge; for now, however, we’d prefer to talk about, say, testicle removal. Or, on a related note, Clay Aiken.

So, in today’s humble “post,” we have decided to do our level best to avoid political matters altogether. Frankly, given the introduction to this musing, we may have failed already. Regardless (or, as our boorish pals say, “irregardless”), from this point on, dear reader, today’s animadversion is strictly apolitical.

Instead of prattling on about the horrors of Democrats and Republicans, we’ve determined to harp on an entirely unrelated matter, but one that is irksome nonetheless. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, it may not make the list of the World’s Most Enraging Phenomena, like hunger, violence, and Billy Joel. But it’s troublesome all the same.

We refer, dear reader, to a particular kind of “website” that never ceases to bother us. Try as we might, we simply can’t get over how loathsome they are.

These detested “websites” belong to what genre, you ask? Well, the answer is simple: “Websites” that take an obnoxiously long time to load.

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are fully willing to admit that we’re partly to blame for this. Despite generous assistance from our deep-pocketed financial backers, the computer technology at our headquarters would make the average Zimbabwean laugh. In fact, it’d probably make the average Rhodesian smirk.

But just because getting on the Internet at our offices requires access to a butter churner doesn’t mean that we’re entirely at fault. For some reason, the proprietors of some “websites” have made it their life’s work to maximize the amount of a prospective reader’s wasted time. They love e-clutter.

Frankly, dear reader, we can take a gander at anything: Michael Moore’s innerds; a Barbara Boxer lingerie calendar; New Jersey. But for crying out loud, don’t make us wait so long.

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Taking a Page Out of Eric Alterman’s Book

Everyone’s seen the arguments: The New York Times is right-wing; NBC, ABC, and CBS are arch-conservative outlets; The Washington Post is crypto-fascist; &c. These are just a few of the countless examples of what we’ve taken to calling “The Eric Alterman Proposition.”

Mr. Alterman, for those of you blissfully unaware of him, is the incessantly enraged media critic of The Nation, a neo-Stalinoid rag that has offered conventional un-wisdom to members of the chattering class since 1865. If you pretend to love the downtrodden but don’t feel comfortable outside the comfy purlieus of the faculty lounge, chances are you’re a huge fan of The Nation.

As a columnist for this intellectual sinking ship, Mr. Alterman has made something of a name for himself by excoriating the mainstream media for its sickening conservative bias. If Mr. Alterman's palaver weren’t taken so seriously, it would actually serve as an interesting experiment: How unhinged from reality does an argument have to get before our “progressive” pals won’t believe it any longer?

Naturally, Mr. Alterman’s ravings that Democratic-leaning media outlets with overwhelmingly Democrat-leaning staffs are fountains of hardcore conservatism are just plain moronic. But this doesn’t stop his fellow lefty friends offering kindred examples of this feculent argument.

Why, just take a look at a particularly pathetic example from one Tony Hendra. In a savage, vitriolic essay for The Huffington Post, Mr. Hendra argues that National Public Radio is a bastion of evil Republicans. Oh, and that President Bush is a “cretinous coward” whom many Americans would savor to see “choke to death on his own blood.”

Ah, so NPR is a collection of Burkeans too, eh? Wow: One wonders where all the liberal journalists go. After all, polls demonstrate that left-wing hacks outnumber their right-wing brethren by wide margins, but somehow only the conservatives get employed? Very, very curious.

Frankly, dear reader, we’ve had enough. “The Eric Alterman Proposition” is entirely foolish. If you ask us, it’s not even an argument. On the contrary, it’s an attempt at damage control from those who dislike cries of liberal media bias. And we aim to put a stop to it.

But how do we aim to do that? Well, by coming up with our alternate absurd proposition. We call it “The Crack Young Staff Proposition,” and it’ll serve as a perfect foil for Mr. Alterman’s nonsense.

Put simply, our moronic contention is this: All so-called “conservative” media—right-wing talk radio; conservative “weblogs”; Fox News—are actually fountains of paleo-liberalism. Rush Limbaugh? He’s a Communist. Brit Hume? That sickening Trotskyite. Ann Coulter? Well, she’s a liberal and guilty of treason in our book. Q.E.D.

So, bring it on, Alterman. Let’s see whose proposition is stupider.

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Thoughts on the “Role Model” Model of “Affirmative Action”

As everyone well knows, the rationales offered in defense of “affirmative action” (a.k.a. preferential treatment) are legion. One can, of course, poke a hole through every last one of them, but this hasn’t stopped our liberal friends from presenting a veritable cornucopia of excuses aimed at prolonging this odious exercise in un-Constitutional social gerrymandering.

Of all the jejune defenses of “affirmative action,” however, perhaps the “role model” rationale strikes us as the most mealy-mouthed. You know how it goes, dear reader: The reason “underrepresented” minorities fail to achieve in school is a lack of adequate professorial role models. Thus American universities must hire as many “underrepresented” minorities as they can find, in order to ensure the future success of these students—almost all of whom were admitted due to preferential treatment anyway.

Thanks to this moronic justification, darn near all professorial job annoucements offer Orwellian rhetoric like: “The University of Southeastern Montana is an equal opportunity-affirmative action employer. Women and minorities are especially encouraged to apply.” Naturally, the question beckons: If you’re so darn concerned about “equal opportunity” why do you especially encourage any racial or gender group to apply?

Although we’re no experts on the matter, we’d wager that this “role model” rationale for “affirmative action” has also kept many non-“underrepresented” minorities out of high school teaching gigs. Ah, heck, our lefty pals say: It’s only the education of our children; why bother hiring the best person for the job when you can assuage liberal guilt instead?

All of this wouldn’t rankle so much if the “role model” model of social gerrymandering actually made sense. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” insist that it’s utterly specious. And we aim to prove this by means of a fitting comparison.

Many people complain that there are far too few high-level minority coaches in collegiate and professional athletics. According to plenty of folks, the lily-white faces taking charge in our nation’s locker rooms are a blight on our society. For this reason, one occasionally hears calls for more, say, black head coaches in, say, football or basketball.

Interestingly, however, the “role model” rationale is never offered in this context. And for good reason: It makes no sense. Although there’s apparently a manifest lack of black coaches in the NFL, this hasn’t served to alienate blacks from succeeding in football. Quite the contrary, in fact: Black players dominate the NFL—and many other professional sports leagues—even though there are few black head coaches to serve as role models.

So why, exactly, must we believe that a lack of professorial role models is to blame for comparative minority underachievement in school?

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Fat Man, Nice Hair

Okay, here’s something that bothers us no end. Have you ever walked down the street and spied a middle-aged morbidly obese person with a gorgeous head of hair? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” sure have, and, without fear of hyperbole, we must say it’s amongst the most irksome phenomena in the history of humanity.

We mean, come on: If you’re fatter than Rosie O’Donnell and Orson Wells combined, you’ve officially let yourself go. And, if you’ve officially let yourself go, you most assuredly don’t deserve a full head of hair. A full back of hair, perhaps, but surely not a full head of hair.

We don’t mean to offer an homage to eugenicists, but we simply must say it: Fat guys with perfect heads of hair are a complete waste of genetic material. This doesn’t imply that we favor any sort of pogrom, but we think they’re useless all the same.

After all, women, as a general rule, do not savor the horrendously out-of-shape. It’s sad, dear reader, but it’s true. So, if you weigh about as much as a Hummer—and waste about as much gas—there’s a good chance that you’re not exactly sex symbol material. Even if you have a clef chin.

As such, the outrageously plump require a full head of hair about as much as Paris Hilton needs slut lessons. Or, if you prefer, about as much as Tom Cruise needs homosexual intercourse.

For some reason, however, we see portly fellows with dashing coiffeurs with great regularity. In fact, we’re beginning to believe it has something to do with bad karma: Perhaps we were mean to a babysitter some time ago, and now we must pay by spotting oodles of fat guys with dashing haircuts.

Actually, the mere existence of frightfully overweight men with full heads of hair has made us rethink our position on Richard Dawkins. You know Richard Dawkins, dear reader: The neo-Darwinian maniac whose latest book, The God Delusion, attempts to proselytize in favor of atheism.

If you ask us, Mr. Dawkin’s personal history presents us with a bit of a Catch-22: We want to believe that he’s thoroughly wrong, but, if God truly presided over a just world, would Richard Dawkins have such a successful career? Not bloody likely, eh?

So, maybe Richard Dawkins is the public intellectuals’ answer to a morbidly obese guy with a nice hairdo?

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The Delights of Academic History

As the entire civilized world assuredly recognizes, this January Atlanta will be the home of the 121st Annual Meeting of the American Historical Association (AHA). This charming get-together will serve as a meeting of the minds for sundry academic historians and will offer aspiring professors the chance to interview for a diminishing number of posts.

Let us not forget, of course, that the upcoming AHA powwow will also be home to numerous scintillating academic papers—15-minute presentations that feel as if they were at least 45 minutes. (If you’re doctor informs you that you only have 15 minutes left to live, we suggest you head directly to the AHA conference: Sitting through a paper will make it seem as if you had at least a half-hour.)

In addition to traipsing around the city of Atlanta, then, our history professors will also have the distinct pleasure of taking in such wondrous panels as “Historicizing Lesbian Identities: Postwar U.S. Perspectives.” Boy, that ought to be awfully illuminating. But is anyone else itching for the crucial “prewar perspective”? Maybe it’s just us.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” mention the upcoming AHA meet-n-greet because a longtime correspondent of this “weblog” recently sent us an official program of events. Accordingly, we figured that we’d focus today’s “post” on the get-together. More specifically, we figured that we’d suggest a few of the panels to attend, in order to make sure that our devoted readership won’t miss a minute of the juiciest sessions. Yeah, we figured you’d thank us for it.

As far as we can intuit, the most essential presentations are both part of the official “poster session.” Our handy program informs us: “Offered for the second time at the 2007 Annual Meeting, this poster session provides a venue for the newest developing historical research.”

We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: Sounds pretty good. So what, you may be wondering, amounts to “the newest developing historical research”?

Well, how about this delight from Jeremy Boggs of George Mason University: “Material Cultures of Filth and Cleanliness: The American Bathroom at the Turn of the Last Century.” Wow: We can’t imagine skipping out on this learned scholar’s deeply important contribution to Western culture. We wonder where he came up with such an enlightened idea.

But maybe this is outdone by Alexia P. Long of Georgia State University. Her contribution to this distinguished poster session? “In Search of the American Pimp.” Presumably, a few of the historians at the conference will be conducting a similar quest during the meeting’s off-hours.

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The Last Straw

As has been much reported in the press, something of a row erupted recently in Britain regarding Muslim women’s fashion. Jack Straw, the leader of the House of Commons, earned UK Muslims’ wrath by asserting that Muslim females should not wear full-face veils. Such regalia, he argued, rendered communication more difficult.

Suddenly, the folks in the Labor Party, who previously preferred displays of “multiculturalism” to free sex with supermodels, have recognized that the creation of separatist cultural-religious enclaves may not be so peachy keen for a society’s health. Maybe there’s something to that “assimilation” thing after all. Gee, who would have seen that one coming?

Perhaps, dear reader, you find it surprising that our Islamic pals became enraged at Mr. Straw’s criticism. After all, if there’s anything Europe’s burgeoning Muslim population is known for, it’s heartwarming displays of tolerance. (That, and hatred of Jews, of course.) Naturally, the great majority of our Muslim friends simply savor public criticism. Just ask the Danish newspaper industry.

All the same, a number of Muslims took to the streets to protest Mr. Straw’s remarks. Although the London bombings didn’t seem to trouble them much, they’ve finally hit upon something that got their dander up.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” read about this recent brouhaha in the October 18 number of The New York Times. There one can find Alan Cowell’s piece “Blair Criticizes Full Islamic Veils as ‘Mark of Separation,’” which, as its name implies, details the Prime Minister’s half-hearted defense of Mr. Straw’s original criticisms.

It wasn’t the article that we found particularly interesting, however. Rather, the piece was accompanied by a photograph of a Muslim anti-Straw protest.

This picture contained a sign whose message particularly hit home. “Jack Straw: Enemy of Civilisation,” reads the placard.

Let that sink in a minute, dear reader: Jack Straw, an enemy of civilization. Man, the fellow holding that sign really has some nerve, doesn’t he?

We mean, come on: It’s a bit of an overstatement to liken criticism of a full-face veil to the denunciation of Islamic civilization, isn’t it? One would probably think so.

But this is not what so enrages. If Jack Straw is really an “enemy of civilisation,” it’s a civilization currently so troubled that it fosters a full panoply of deeply odious political regimes. And don’t just take our word for it: Sqillions of Muslim immigrants have agreed with us by voting with their feet. You don’t see scores of Brits heading to, say, Saudi Arabia or Pakistan in hopes of a better life under more satisfactory political authorities.

If this “civilization” is so wondrous, why did these thin-skinned protestors hightail it away from it at the first available opportunity?

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Adjunct Closet Space in the Ivory Tower

For young eggheads around the country, it’s that time again. Time, that is to say, to put on your best suit and interview for academic jobs.

Yes, for sundry unemployed and unemployable academics (is there any other kind?), the coming months mark many disciplines’ professional conferences—the settings at which desperate, overeducated sods attempt to land scarce work. From what we can muster from our academic pals, it’s a frustrating period. Hey, if you just spent the last four years of your life working on “Otherness” as a metaphor in the work of Michel Foucault, you’d probably get a bit nervous when job time came around.

Now, many of our readers are non-academics. Or, if you prefer, productive members of society. For their benefit, we suppose, we figured that we’d offer a little taste of the delights the academic job market brings.

After all, we’re told that scrambling around for a professorial gig can prove infuriating. With 158,684,899 applicants for each opening, you stand about as much chance of landing a tenure-track position as the Arditti String Quartet has of winning the World Series. And, with their ‘cellist on the DL again, that’s not bloody likely.

That is unless, of course, you possess rare skills and talents crucial to being a coruscating success in the academic universe. By which, of course, we mean that you are black.

So, as a way to demonstrate the charming perfection that is the academic employment hunt, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” decided to present a typical professorial job advertisement. We think it’ll do the trick quite nicely.

Without any further ado, then, here’s our sample ad for an academic opening:

University of North Western Wisconsin at Oshkosha

The UNWO maintains a firm commitment to equal opportunity employment. Accordingly, it particularly encourages applications from women and “underrepresented” minorities, so it can egregiously discriminate on the basis of gender and race.

Now, aren’t you glad you went to law school?

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Ending World Hunger—An Idea

On occasion, strollers around Al Gore’s World-Wide Web happen upon this humble “website” and criticize its contents. Some feel as if we’re too political. Others think that we’re insufficiently political. Still others believe that we don’t mention Peter Frampton enough. (That last group, however, is essentially confined to Peter Frampton’s mother.)

Yet perhaps the complaint we hear most often is the following: The crack young staff wastes too much time on nugatory subject matter. Gillette razors; Billy Joel; Sudafed—this isn’t the lifeblood of an important “weblog.”

Well, dear reader, having grown accustomed to this gripe, we’ve decided to dedicate today’s “post” to proving it dead wrong. Sure, we may pen a throwaway column on, say, the word “moist” now and again. But, when push comes to shove, we’re big time intellectuals. You know, like Pete Dupont.

You doubt it? Then, nonbeliever, savor the topic of today’s thoughtful musing: Ending world hunger. Not too shabby, eh? Whilst you’re off in search of copious Internet pornography, we’re busy single-handedly saving the world. How do you like ‘dem apples?

Okay, you say, lay your brilliant idea on us. Well, here goes.

As everyone knows, Third World babies are all the rage in Hollywood. Quite frankly, unless you’ve procured a sub-Saharan or Central Asian tyke for your collection, you just aren’t anybody anymore. Ever since Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt went hunting for “disadvantaged” kiddies to smother, adopting “underrepresented” babies has become a jet-set fetish.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think that we should harness this fad and make the best of it, rather than poke fun at it as a noxious example of paternalistic imperialism—designer tribalism, in Roger Sandall’s apt phrase. With a little bit of effort, we think that this fascination with malnourished children can be of great help to the world.

So here’s our grand scheme: A massive expansion of celebrity Third-World baby-knapping can lead to the utter abolition of world hunger. Sure, it’s going to cost a lot of stars some money, but, with a little elbow grease, we can wind up putting every less fortunate child on the planet in Rosie O’Donnell’s home. Or, failing that, Steve Gutenberg’s.

Here’s how it’ll work: The more disastrous a given country is, the fancier the star who’ll be compelled to adopt its children. For instance, the kids of Rwanda will wind up in Michael Jackson’s care (God help them), whereas Colombia’s tots will be forced to shack up with Adrian Zmed.

If everything works out as we’ve calculated it, by 2075 no child will live in poverty. Sure, they’ll be compelled to listen to endless stories from the likes of Ryan O’Neal, but even that’s a bit better than starving.

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The 200,000 "Hits" Club

Yeah, that’s right: We made it. In a little over two-and-a-half years on Al Gore’s Internet, this humble “weblog” has earned 200,000 “hits.” Not too shabby, eh? You never thought we could do it, did you? You unsupportive bastard.

Yup, that’s 200,000 “hits” in the bag, baby. If we recall our perusals of athletes’ poorly written memoirs correctly, we’ve just landed more e-visits than Wilt Chamberlain landed ladies.

And who had more fun? Whilst ole’ Wilt was off a-fornicating, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were busy penning devastatingly brilliant “posts” about all and sundry. Yes, that probably means Wilt had more fun. But, hey, we come in a not-too-distant second.

Frankly, dear reader, we never imagined we’d make it this far. Or this long: Writing tasteless yuks and pointless rants every weekday isn’t easy. Thankfully, our staff of well over 250 lads and lasses helps keep our operation in tip-top form. We like to think of ourselves as the World-Wide Web’s answer to Arnold Schwarzenegger: A well-oiled machine. Or, failing that, the Internet’s answer to Marv Albert: Well-oiled.

Now, before you get concerned about today’s festival of self-congratulations, we must say that our e-success won’t go to our heads. We fully realize that a real well-traveled “website”—say Glenn Reynold’s Instapundit or any pornographic “site” devoted to midgets—garners around 200,000 "hits" per diem.

As impressed as we think we may be, we must realize that our humble “weblog” probably doesn’t reach as many readers as the ravings of Lyndon LaRouche. And that doesn’t say too much for us: After all, unlike Mr. LaRouche, we’ve never run for president from prison.

Further, we suppose we ought to mention that many of our “hits”—perhaps a larger number than we’d care to admit—actually stem from the crack young staff itself. Unsurprisingly, we like to check up on our earth-shattering animadversions each day, and that on its own racks up a lot of e-visits.

Accordingly, instead of incessantly patting ourselves on our collective back, perhaps we ought to thank the three or four people who actually trouble themselves to read the horse manure we “post” every day. With your help, we’ve made this little corner of the Internet only slightly more popular than a “weblog” entirely devoted to the discussion of monkeys.

So, gee, thanks. We never could have done it without you.

Well, actually we could have, but it would have taken about three more months.

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In Praise of Sudafed

Bitch, bitch, bitch. Complain, complain, complain. In a nutshell, the two previous (pseudo-)sentences encapsulate the lifeblood of this humble “weblog.” Actually, they do so even outside of a nutshell.

If we aren’t kvetching about the useful idiots at The Huffington Post or hectoring the useless idiots at The Nation, you can bet we’re laying into some dimwitted column in the Gray Lady. At times, dear reader, our hectic excoriation schedule makes a garden-variety one trick pony seem as if it can actually do two tricks. We’re like the Jessica Simpsons of the Internet: We’re only good for one thing.

Yet not today. For in this humble installment of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” we endeavor to laud, not contemn. We aim to praise, not scorn. On this day, we play the role of hagiographers and encomiasts. To put it in more demotic phraseology, we want to say something nice.

Without much in the way of further ado, then, allow us to commence with the e-praise.

As often occurs round about this time of year, the Official Headquarters of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has morphed into a veritable Petrie dish of disease. Unfortunately, the crack young staff is currently carrying more illnesses than a veteran French whore with a nasty intravenous drug habit. Who’s dating Charlie Sheen.

In this time of need, dear reader, we often turn to a product that works wonders: Sudafed. If only other pharmaceuticals were half as effective!

Admittedly, this powerful nasal decongestant has its downsides. After popping a couple of these magic pills, one routinely experiences a minor case of vertigo—the legs begin to buckle and you feel as if you may very well pass out.

In addition, we would be remiss if we failed to mention that Sudafed can leave you feeling drier than the Mohave Desert in the summer. Not to mention the slight jitters it tends to bring.

Ah, but that’s nothing in comparison with its benefits. Simply put, the stuff works wonders, and they keep making more potent versions of this wonder drug each year. Four hours, six hours, 10 hours, 24 hours—pretty soon the folks behind Sudafed will patent a decongestant that you only have to take annually.

So, fine: Let all the huzzahs go to NyQuil, the PCP of cold medications. We’ll take our Sudafed, some Puffs Plus, and a box of herbal tea any day of the week. If Rogaine worked as well as Sudafed, we’d be much happier fellows. And ladies.

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A Perfect Rohe

As befits a strikingly popular destination on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, this humble “weblog” earns its share of fan mail. From Harrisburg to Helsinki (though, to be honest, more from the former than the latter), devotees of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” routinely send us all sorts of e-regards.

“You guys are the greatest.” “I’m going to name my kids ‘crack’ after you.” Such are the epistles that greet our Official E-Mail Intern each morning. Man, it’s nice to be loved.

Every once in what our Japanese friends call a brew moon, however, we find ourselves on the receiving end of a less generous e-missive. For some odd reason, our humble animadversions have the ability to stick in some peoples’ craws. Perhaps it’s unavoidable, but it’s true all the same.

Such was clearly the case in regard to a letter we received in our e-mail box a few days ago. It was penned by one David Perfect, an employee at Jacobs Engineering Group (David.Perfect@jacobs.com). As you’ll see, it was a short note, yet still displayed its author’s wrath. Since this is a family “website,” we’ll have to censor his message a bit (we think you’ll figure out where).

The delightful epistle reads as follows:

F*** you for your comments on miss [sic] Rohe.

That’s it. No further comments, no threats, no nothing.

Well, except, that is to say, the following curious disclaimer, which we’d imagine stems from the corporate office of Jacobs Engineering:

NOTICE – This communication may contain confidential and privileged information that is for the sole use of the intended recipient. Any viewing, copying or distribution of, or reliance on this message by unintended recipients is strictly prohibited. If you have received this message in error, please notify us immediately by replying to the message and deleting it from your computer.

Oh, for crying out loud: Mr. Perfect didn’t just send us a “F*** You” letter; he sent us a “F*** You” letter that “may contain confidential and privileged information.”

If you ask us, that’s pretty lame. Who has the balls to send us a “F*** You, and Don’t You Dare Tell Anyone About It” missive? And who would be dumb enough to think that we’d honor this request?

The answer, dear reader, is David Perfect, the perfect nincompoop who works at Jacobs Engineering.

Now, you may be wondering what exactly got Mr. Perfect’s dander up. Perhaps you remember Jean Sara Rohe, the dimwitted brat whose 15 minutes of fame revolved around her ill-mannered excoriation of Senator John McCain at the most recent New School graduation ceremony? Yeah, we didn’t either.

Anyway, when all our leftist pals were abuzz about the “daring” Ms. Rohe, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” took aim at her. In short, we called her a sophomoric dunce who has all the guts of a fruit fly. Wow: Ridiculing a Republican senator at a graduation in New York City—how reckless can you get? Who would have known that her New School audience would be entirely sympathetic?

Interestingly, we’ve had our share of irate e-mails as a result of our ripping on the addlebrained Jean Sara Rohe. And we find that funny: Although she earned her fleeting notoriety for publicly flogging a senator, her fans don’t like anyone criticizing her. Obviously, Ms. Rohe’s devotees must think she has a thinner skin than John McCain.

And this leads us back to Mr. Perfect. Naturally, we wanted to reply to his charming e-mail. But it was hard to come up with the perfect sentiment. After a few seconds of careful thought, we sent him the following:

Dear Mr. Perfect,

Thank you for your heartfelt defense of Jean Sara Rohe. Your argument in her favor—although a tad longwinded—completely convinced us. As a result of your compelling missive, we have finally recognized our errors. We now realize that Jean Sara Rohe, far from being an ill-bred, closed-minded hippie, is a national treasure.

In the future, we hope to receive further sagacious e-missives from your pen, which will correct our missteps.

Cordially,

The Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”

NOTICE – This communication may contain irony. Any viewing of this message by those stupid enough to send us a pathetic example of hate mail is strictly prohibited.

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

A Curveball for the Left

It’s going to be a vexing day for our leftist friends. A little thing we like to call evidence just smacked them in the face. It’s not, to be sure, a life-altering fact, but it’ll rankle nonetheless.

Allow us to set the scene. A few weeks ago, our “netroots” pals were up in arms about Chris Wallace’s supposed “conservative hit job” on ex-President Bill Clinton. To the Nation-reading, Kos-surfing, granola-eating, Volvo-driving, Jon Stewart-loving left-wing nitwits, Mr. Wallace’s Fox News interview with Bubba was proof positive that deranged wacko Eric Alterman has a point. That is to say, the media are horribly biased—in favor of the political Right.

Now, for anyone with even a passing familiarity with what is commonly called reality, this is beyond absurd. Alterman, an off-kilter Stalinoid kook, may think that The New York Times is a bastion of reactionaries, but that’s probably because he’s somewhere to the left of Pol Pot.

All the same, in the “netroots’” telling, the Chris Wallace Fox News Sunday fiasco was proof positive of the evils of the conservative American media. It was obvious, they thought, that the Rupert Murdoch puppet Mr. Wallace was merely a right-wing hack aiming to take down the former philanderer-in-chief.

Ah, but that was then. And this, as they say, is now.

Thanks to a stroll on Glenn Reynold’s famous “weblog”—which, we must add, has “linked” to this humble “site” in the past—we found an interesting tidbit in The Washington Post. As reporters Amy Argetsinger and Roxanne Roberts report, Chris Wallace—the doyen of arch-conservative hit-jobs—is himself a registered Democrat, and has been so for more than two full decades.

Surely this must send the leftist mind reeling. “Chris Wallace, a Democrat? It simply can’t be!”

To make matters worse, Chris Wallace also isn’t Jewish, so the Left won’t be able to blame him for that either. Man, they’re really running out of ammunition.

Just imagine all the difficult soul-searching that the Daily Cossacks will be compelled to engage in: Perhaps Mr. Wallace isn’t a part of the insidious and omnipresent “right-wing conspiracy.” Maybe he just—gulp!—asked Bill Clinton one tough question?

Luckily for them, our pals on the Left do have one way to avoid the painful and vertiginous process of self-criticism: They could just ignore the story altogether. Frankly, when you’re a Leftist, you’re pretty good at disregarding evidence. How else do you wind up rosy views about Jimmy Carter?

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Aporia Regarding Justin Timberlake

A few of the young ladies here at "The Hatemonger's Quarterly”--let's just call them "Chip"--were standing by the water cooler, deep in conversation. The topic of this powwow? Why the incredible sexiness attributable to one Justin Timberlake, former boy band star and current black version of Michael Jackson. He is, like, so, like, cute.

Frankly, dear reader, the schoolgirl giggles over the likes of Timberlake from this handful of female staffers drove the rest of us crazy. To be honest, the rest of us--men and women--haven't a clue as to why these ladies--or any human beings, for that matter--could find Justin Timberlake even mildly attractive. Not one bit. Not at all. Nada.

Now, allow us to demonstrate that our general incredulousness regarding the attractiveness of Mr. Timberlake isn't some lame macho garbage aimed at demonstrating how very heterosexual we are. We aren't advertising some sort of studied aloofness to the hunks.

We can, for instance, completely understand why the weaker sex may get even weaker upon spying Hugh Grant. Sure, that floppy-haired oaf can't act his way out of a moist paper bag, but we'll agree he's dashing.

Further, we're entirely willing to admit that Ashton Kutcher is an understandable heartthrob for the gals. For some reason, as his appearances on MTV's "Punk'd" demonstrates, he has a complete inability to control the volume of his voice. But he's fetching all the same. Heck, even Fabio has an appeal--if you're a lower-middle-class, romance-novel reading piece of trailer trash. Which, if you're reading this "weblog," you probably are.

But Justin Timberlake? This is the guy who's "bringing sexy back"? Come on: He doesn't even have a sexy back. Or ankles. We just don't understand why anyone--even Elton John--would have a crush on this fellow.

For starters, he looks like a kid pretty much everyone one of us knew in high school. That is to say, he has perhaps the most indistinct late-teen-age sensibility going, and that is about as attractive as a lunch lady on meatloaf day.

Second, we suppose we ought to mention that his music is horrid. Now, that won't stop the gals from screaming, but it warrants a comment nonetheless. His songs are embarrassingly bad, the kind of fodder that women will soon be embarrassed they own. You know, like that old Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch cassette you have in your closet. You loser.

Perhaps women dig Justin Timberlake because he used to date Britney Spears; that would make an understandable case of "hotness by association"? But no one seems to pine for K-Fed even though he, at least, slightly resembles an adult. (A disturbingly unintelligent and ill-adjusted adult, but an adult all the same.)

So, what gives, ladies? Next thing you know, the fairer sex will tell us that they all have a thing for Jimmy Durante and Rip Torn. Hey, that Rip Torn's kind of sexy.

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

A Telling Mistake

The folks at The New York Times like to correct themselves. Or, to put it more accurately: In order to offer the erroneous impression of objectivity, the folks at The New York Times like to acknowledge some of their errors.

Each day, the second page of the Gray Lady features its “Corrections: For the Record” section—the locus classicus of self-serving mea culpas. In a typical installment of the paper, it features a few drab items, which tend to read like this:

A front-page article last Tuesday about the rising burden of housing costs nationwide misspelled the name of a Virginia county where census figures showed a big increase in the percentage of people spending at least 30 percent of their incomes on housing. It is Loudoun, not Loudon.

Well, gee, thanks. Now we can finally sleep at night.

Every once in while, however, a more telling correction appears. For instance, take a gander at this one, culled from the October 10 number of the Paper of Record:

An article on Saturday about a protest at Columbia University over a speech by the head of the Minuteman Project, a civilian border patrol group, gave an imprecise description of the group’s stand on immigration. While it opposes illegal immigration, the group does support immigration in general.

That, we must say, is a meatier correction than the misspelling of some God-forsaken county in Virginia.

Ah, but a look at the article to which this item refers demonstrates that it’s a rather misleading correction. Here’s the sentence in question, taken from Karen W. Arenson and Damien Cave’s lousy piece, “Silencing of a Speech Causes a Furor”:

When protestors stormed a Columbia University stage on Wednesday evening, shutting down a speech by the head of a fiercely anti-immigration group, they not only stopped the program, but also hurtled the university back into the debate over free speech.

So, in the original article, the partisan hacks at the Times offered their sneering assessment of the Minuteman Project: It’s “fiercely anti-immigration.” Naturally, the staff got caught in a bit of demagoguery; they plainly mislabeled the group because, to them, anyone with the slightest concern over illegal immigration is a xenophobic lunatic.

If you ask us, the Times, even when coming clean about its error, doesn’t come clean. We mean, come on: Its reporters didn’t give “an imprecise description of the group’s stand on immigration”; rather, it offered a partisan shot at the Minutemen that was obviously based on ideological antipathy. Either have the balls to make the real correction, or don’t even bother.

After all, this is the Paper of Record: Plenty of editors get their hands on the articles before they appear. Do none of the staff at the Gray Lady realize that the Minuteman Project merely opposes illegal immigration, not immigration in general? Forgive us if we find that hard to believe.

This isn’t like misspelling “Loudoun,” for crying out loud; this is one of the political hot topics in contemporary America. They could have checked the Minuteman Project “website,” if they’re really that ignorant about this (in)famous group.

Yet the goons at the Times, after demonstrating their inability to present readers with fair-minded news, cover up their errors whilst reporting them. It’s enough to make you become “fiercely anti-Sulzberger.”

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

How To Make a Buck Off the Downfall of the West

As must be painfully obvious by now, dear reader, Western civilization is in for a rather nasty collapse. It should be crystal clear that many Westerners simply lack the nerve to defend their own way of life against the violent carping of Islamists and their myriad supporters.

We mean, come on: Muslim imams routinely say repugnant things about Jews, Christians, and the West and no one bothers to make much of a fuss. But if the Pope dares to quote a 14th century predecessor dilating on the downsides of Islam, all heck brakes loose. Bands of violent Muslim fanatics can’t even stomach cartoons; bands of Christians stomach everything.

As a result, Westerners find themselves in a constant state of cultural obsequiousness: We must incessantly apologize for our benighted past, for fear of offending thin-skinned Muslims. Britain, for instance, feels the need to make amends for its imperialist past; the Muslim world feels no need to atone for its own—and rather successful—history of imperialism.

Ours is a cartoon world in which the West is always wrong, the Islamists always right. For this reason, it seems, millions upon millions of Americans yearn to escape the oppression of America and Western Europe and live in Muslim countries: With such a long history of correctness, it’s not surprising that our Muslim friends govern such attractive and successful nations.

Boy, nothing reminds you of the horrors of the West like a trip to, say, Malaysia. Would that all countries were just like that one!

If you ask us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” Western civilization is doomed. We don’t mean to get all Spenglerian on you, but we feel as if this horrid lack of societal self-confidence does not bode well for us. Pretty soon, we’ll wind up apologizing our way into creating an America that’s a lot more like Yemen. And that, friends, won’t be a good day.

The only question that remains, then, is how to make a buck off of the impending collapse of Western civilization. If we’re all bound to wear burqas, we might as well enjoy our last few years in America before the caliphate. After that, we think it’ll be a lot tougher to enjoy yourself. As odious as the Republicans may be, we have the distinct impression that the Muslim Brotherhood will be even rougher when they’re in power here.

Capitalist stooges that we are, we figured that nothing would make us happier than lots and lots of cash. The Beatles may croon about money being incapable of purchasing love, but it never stopped them from getting loaded. Even Ringo—and he doesn’t have any talent.

So, after literally seconds of brainstorming, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” happened upon the perfect way to get rich off the coming cultural catastrophe. Our idea is simple: T-shirts that read “Dear Muslims, We’re Sorry For Everything.”

Think of how many uses there are for such shirts! They’re great for every situation, because the West must apologize for everything: Imperialism, Zionism, Huey Lewis, &c.

Yep, after firing up a batch of these T-shirts, we’ll be wealthier than Ted Turner. It’s a pity the new Muslim dictator of America will take it all away from us.

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

Keepin’ It Real: The “Hip-Hop” Professor

The Sunday, October 8 number of The New York Times presents a special section on its op-ed page. In this feature, the Gray Lady asks a handful of left- and right-leaning pundits to weigh in on how their party can win the upcoming midterm elections.

As even diehard Republicans recognize, the Democrats have an awfully good chance of making electoral gains this year. First, the incumbent president’s party seldom fares well in midterm elections, as Bill Clinton can attest. In addition, despite some positive news about the economy and gas prices, the Republicans have a number of sincere political problems: Increased anger over the liberation of Iraq; Mark Foley’s sexual dalliances; &c.

The only question that remains, then, is how the Democratic Party would manage—once again—to take a delightfully winning situation and render it a big loser. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t happen to think that the Dems will do poorly in the midterm elections—but they sure might if they took the advice of some of their party’s prestigious pundits.

And this leads us back to The New York Times feature. Amongst the Democrats who contributed to this section, Michael Eric Dyson offers perhaps the most disputable—and dangerous—advice.

Maybe you know of Michael Eric Dyson: A religion professor at the University of Pennsylvania and simultaneously the host of a syndicated radio program (nice work if you can get it), Mr. Dyson seems much like Cornel West with a better haircut. A stalwart defender of the brutality associated with “hip-hop culture,” Mr. Dyson incessantly casts blacks as the victims of racism, thereby exonerating them of any bad behavior, regardless of the situation in question.

To this end, Mr. Dyson became a figure of controversy upon sharply criticizing Bill Cosby’s plea for the black underclass to act more responsibly. To Mr. Dyson, blacks qua blacks are always victims, and thus Mr. Cosby’s concern about pathological behavior was merely an example of “blaming the victim.”

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” firmly believe that anti-black racism in this country remains a problem. But it is not, pace the very wealthy Mr. Dyson, such an incessant blight that blacks should feel free to blame all their problems on dastardly old whitey. Yet Mr. Dyson’s palaver shields American blacks from engaging in any much-needed soul-searching.

Accordingly, Mr. Dyson’s advice to Democrats is entirely predictable: Stop acting like ersatz liberals and veer toward the hard Left. Dyson says:

Senator Joe Lieberaman’s defeat in the Connecticut Democratic primary suggests that Democrats must stop hating who they are when they are at their best: politicians who help the vulnerable and the marginalized.

It is far from clear that this is what Ned Lamont’s primary victory suggests. After all, Connecticut is a very liberal state, and Senator Lieberman’s problems there may not reflect well on American politics nationwide. Let’s not forget, furthermore, that Senator Lieberman is currently ahead in the polls in Connecticut; whatever his primary woes, it appears that he may well end up victorious.

Even more obtuse is Mr. Dyson’s suggestion that Senator Lieberman does not care about “the vulnerable and the marginalized.” By this, Mr. Dyson surely means support for incessant taxpayer handouts to American blacks. Naturally, he doesn’t mean “the vulnerable and the marginalized” in Iraq: We’d wager that Mr. Dyson favors American withdrawal from Iraq—the very thing that will lead to further vulnerable and marginalized Iraqis living under a totalitarian Islamist government.

But surely Mr. Dyson’s peroration is the most absurd:

The Democrats should adopt the hip-hop mantra of authenticity: “Do you.”

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not major Democratic Party boosters, but we must say that we do not think the adoption of any “hip-hop mantra” is a good idea. Sure, “Do you”—whatever the heck that means—would sound awfully good coming from the tongue of Nancy Pelosi. (Can a more authentically “street” politician exist in America? We collectively think not.)

Even so, we think that Mr. Dyson’s proposition isn’t so much a call for Democratic Party authenticity as it is an attempt to demonstrate some authenticity of his own. One can note this penchant for out-of-place “hip-hop” phraseology in the work of Cornel West too. Both men—articulate pundits each—constantly feel the need to pepper their comments with bits of “hip-hoppery,” regardless of their appropriateness.

By this means, Messrs. Dyson and West seem to be saying: Offering articulate views on matters of national import is not authentically black; being an intellectual is not authentically black. As such, they must incessantly refer to aspects of black low culture to demonstrate their blackness to their audience.

Imagine if, say, a white politician constantly couched his political appeals with references to “The Jerry Springer Show.” What would this say about the self-conception of American whites?

Michael Eric Dyson’s demotic phraseology itself demonstrates some of the problems that plague the culture of many American blacks. But he doesn’t see it that way; it’s much easier to ask for taxpayer handouts.

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

A Crack Young Aesthete

As is widely known throughout Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� don’t write Saturday “posts.� Each Sunday, of course, we contribute a luminous essay for the fancy-pants “weblog� Wizbang, which offers our readers a chance to take in our coruscating genius on the weekends.

Accordingly, Saturday is the one day off for our hopping Internet outfit. You may be wondering, then, why in the Good Lord’s name we’ve broken our typical Saturday silence.

Well, dear reader, the answer is simple. A few days ago, James G. Poulos, the self-proclaimed Postmodern Conservative, sent a literary “meme� our way. Like all God-fearing creatures, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� didn’t have the foggiest notion what a “meme� was. Yet, thanks to numerous telephone calls and hours of reconnaissance work, we concluded that a “meme� is merely an Internet questionnaire of sorts.

As such, dear reader, we figured that we’d do the Po-Mo-Co a favor and answer the “meme� he tossed in our humble direction. And what better day to do this than Saturday? Other than any other day, we couldn’t think of a response either.

Rather than force the entire staff to fill in its responses, we decided to dish the “meme� off to one poor sap. So here it is: The answers to the e-questionnaire that one of our senior editors—let’s just call him “Chip�—proffered for this, his first excursion in “meme-land.�

A LITERARY “MEME� FROM THE POSTMODERN CONSERVATIVE by “Chip,� Senior Editor

1. One book that changed your life

Fifty Handy Ways to Get Off a Desert Island (forthcoming).

Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop. Sure, it may not be as politically relevant as Waugh’s Black Mischief but it’s as funny as heck.

Well, if I ever find myself on a deserted island, I’m pretty sure I’d wish that Fifty Handy Ways to Get Off a Desert Island made it to the shelf.

Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. We could do without that one, couldn’t we?

George Santayan’s The Last Puritan. Perhaps, after reading it, I’ll be condemned to repeat it?

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Foley-Gate: Is Anyone Else Bored?

Congressman Foley, Congressman Foley, Congressman Foley. Although there must be oodles of other things happening in the world—doesn’t Iran hope to produce a nuclear bomb or two?—everyone in these here United States can’t stop talking about the disgraced former congressman and his ephebophilic indiscretions.

Even a self-proclaimed serious news outfit like The New York Times is repeatedly splashing this sordid story on its first page, above the fold. Martians could attack the earth tomorrow and the media would still be yakking about Foley’s shenanigans. Sure, we’ll all have to spend the rest of our lives working in chain gangs on Venus as slaves to the evil Martians, but never mind that: Did you hear what ex-Congressman Foley did?

Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� the only ones fed up with this story? We mean, come on: It was interesting at first, but the obsessive coverage has made us well-nigh hope that some other calamity will strike us so that we don’t have to hear any more about this nonsense. Quick, someone blame the CIA for 9/11 again; anything but Foley 24/7!

Admittedly, Foley-gate (as it’s quickly been dubbed) has many of the telltale signs one associates with media frenzy: A closeted homosexual Republican, an elected official’s misuse of power, salacious e-mails. Still, these have only served to demonstrate how low most partisan commentators will stoop in order to use this sorry brouhaha to prop up their own ideological confreres.

For instance, as we pointed out a few days ago (and as David Brooks, curiously enough, pointed out yesterday in the Gray Lady), liberals’ shock at Foley’s actions stands in glaring contrast with their wholehearted championing of lesbian statutory rape in Eve Ensler’s clunker The Vagina Monologues.

We thought our lefty pals loved outré sex—especially homosexual outré sex. We guess they do, unless the fornicator is a Republican.

But the drive to denigrate Foley whilst championing homosexuality gets even lamer. Take this choice passage on the scandal from comedienne Margaret Cho, whom we like to think of as the husky Asian version of husky Janeane Garofalo:

What is infuriating about this issue is that the braindead homophobes out there will look at it as some kind of proof that homosexuality has something in common with pedophilia. It doesn't but some people are just that dumb, and the homophobic are very special kinds of a**holes.

Rep. Foley is obviously a deeply troubled individual, and this type of thing happens to people who want to live their lives in the closet. It's the karma of the closet. What comes around, goes around and eventually gets pushed out. Ah well, what do you expect from a Republican?

We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: That’s really pathetic. She begins her comments with a passionate defense of homosexuals from the barbs of homophobes. How dare the anti-gay zealots use this one instance of improper conduct to tar and feather all homosexuals?

After this rousing appeal, the husky Ms. Cho then decides to use this one instance of improper conduct to tar and feather all Republicans.

Boy, that was really well thought-out. No wonder our left-wing pals are always championing themselves for their tolerance.

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

Mortification at the Gym

One of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly�—let’s just call him “Chip�—headed into the gym the other day for his quotidian workout. Naturally, just like the rest of the crack young staff, “Chip� likes to keep fit as a fiddle. How else would he manage to date all of the no women who enjoy the pleasure of his company?

Unfortunately, on this particular occasion, “Chip� endured one of the most mortifying workout experiences he’d ever lived through. No, his pants didn’t fall down to the accompaniment of a slide whistle, and he didn’t slip on a banana peel. Nothing so obvious as that.

Yet it was mortifying nevertheless. Sufficiently ego-withering, in fact, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� figured that we’d discuss it in today’s humble installment of our delightful musings.

As befits any fellow trying to keep in shape, “Chip� found himself on an elliptical machine. However, he was not alone: A couple of lads were grunting away on the machines adjacent to his. Bedecked in heavy-metal T-shirts, if he recalls correctly.

Anyway, whilst they sweated away their water weight, these guys were enjoying a mordantly pathetic television program: A WWE wrestling extravaganza, to be precise. Thus, even when doing his best to better himself, “Chip� was compelled to endure a minor hardship—the horrific testosterone-filled morality play that is professional wrestling. Gosh, thought “Chip�: I really hope that WWE wrestling fans are either eight-years-old or retarded.

But it gets worse, dear reader. During the course of his workout, the two characters on adjacent machines finished with their labors and left the gym. And they did so before “Chip� had the opportunity to request that they change the television program to something watched by those who don’t drag their knuckles when they walk.

As a result, “Chip� was trapped alone—trapped like a rat—on an exercise machine, watching one of the most embarrassing programs imaginable. Of course, he wasn’t alone for long.

Soon a few comely lasses took the place of the departed gentlemen on the adjacent equipment. Before “Chip� could scream “Hey, I didn’t put this stupid garbage on the set; these Neanderthals before me chose this crap. Please, please, please change it,� these two fetching gals put on their headphones and began a-runnin’.

Ugh: Now these two females—along with any passersby in the gym—were going to think that “Chip� has a real big thing for pro wrestling. Yeah, “Chip� lived to see another day, but it wasn’t pleasant.

Oh, if only the Lifetime network were on instead! Or maybe a tasteful teenage lesbian dating show?

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The White Woman’s Burden

Poor Rudyard Kipling. How many great authors are more reviled for their politics than beloved for their writings? Not even Ezra Pound, we think: Although he was a disgraceful fascist, people still have a soft spot for him. And Jean-Paul Sartre? Sure, he was an unrepentant apologist for Communism, but he’s ever so chic.

Yet the unabashed imperialist Mr. Kipling, regardless of his great verse, will forever be remembered for his line about “the white man’s burden�—bringing Western civilization to the benighted barbarians. The same folks who think The Jungle Book was composed by Walt Disney detest the ethnocentric Mr. Kipling. He’s as unfashionable as a pair of spats.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� were reflecting on Mr. Kipling anew upon coming up with a name for what we consider a relatively new phenomenon. We call it by two titles: “The White Woman’s Burden� and “Dating as Social Work.�

What, you may or may not be asking yourself, are we talking about? We’re glad we made you ask, dear reader.

Darn near everyone knew a few white girls in college whose past and present boyfriends, if brought together for a photograph, would resemble the United Nations, minus the Western countries. Their dating past is like a Bennetton ad—without all that preachy anti-death-penalty stuff. Unlike most co-eds, who are content to shack up with some milquetoast frat boy with a white baseball cap surgically stapled to his head, these gals seem only to fancy young men whose backgrounds are suitably Third World.

It’s as if they have some sort of points system: Five for an Indian; eight for an Arab; 10 for a Latino; 14 for a Native American; and a full 20 for an African. The more the homeland of this fellow represents hell on earth, the more these gals savor them. In short, failed states make them horny.

Now, before we continue with our rant, allow us to inform you that, at heart, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� are integrationists. We think that anyone from any ethnic group should be able to date a partner from any other ethnic group—and opponents of this are bigots.

Still, we would be remiss if we failed to mention that this “Dating as Social Work� often rankles. For one, there seems to be something rather pandering about it—as if some upper-middle class WASP named Gwendolyn can lay claim to “understanding oppression� merely by going to a movie with a guy named Juan. Yeah: You know all about slavery now, Ms. I-Went-To-Choate.

Further, most of these gals wind up marrying some rich white lawyer and chalk up their time with Achmed and Tito to their delightfully anti-racist past. As such, the time they spend on dinner with the oppressed irks their parents, pleases their women’s studies professors, and allows them to feel even more high and mighty. These chicks are just the straight versions of what is known at women’s colleges as the LUG: Lesbian Until Graduation.

That’s why we call this phenomenon “Dating as Social Work� and “The White Woman’s Burden�: Though its perpetrators like to think their dating habits are helping society, they’re merely serving as an opportunity for self-congratulation. It’s the multicultural version of scalping.

But maybe what particularly troubles us, dear reader, is how unfair all this is to our white male brethren. We know, we know: They’re white and male—they’re responsible for all the world’s ills, and, accordingly, they deserve all the knocks they get. We went to college too. Still, we can’t help but feel a bit sorry for the inequity of it all.

After all, every minority this side of Timbuktu wants to date white women. From Bangkok to Bengal, Caucasian women are where it’s at.

But white men? Are you kidding? Who the heck wants to spend time with those infantile oppressors?

So step aside, Rudyard Kipling. Old-school imperialism is out and social imperialism is in. “Take up the white woman’s burden--/Send forth the best ye breed.�

Posted at 12:01 AM | TrackBack

The Huffington Post, Hypocrisy, and Pedophilia

Our pals at The Huffington Post are in a huff. A large number of the columns on display there call for the heads of anyone related to the Mark Foley page-gate brouhaha—no matter how tangentially.

Fire Tony Snow, shrieks the peculiarly named Erin Kotecki Vest. Remove Dennis Hastert, bellow others. Hang Matt Druge!

Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� happen to agree that former Congressman Foley’s actions were deplorable and people are right to probe into the conduct of those who may have known of his shenanigans and allowed them to pass unnoticed.

Yet we couldn’t help but conclude that, in getting in a lather about the Foley business, our pals at the Huffington Post are demonstrating—once again—their passionate attachment to hypocrisy.

We don’t mean to cast any aspersions, but it seems rather clear that erstwhile Congressman Foley is a gay man. This doesn’t mean that, qua homosexual, he’s entitled to the support of the Huffington Post; our radical pals have every right to dislike politicians regardless of their sexual orientation. But the perfervid denunciation of homosexual pedophilia (or, if you prefer, ephebophilia), rings a bit hollow, coming as it does from the Huffsters.

Allow us to explain what we mean. Surely one of the most successful and popular examples of left-wing agitprop in this country is Eve Ensler’s feculent radical feminist play The Vagina Monologues. This horridly written anti-male tract has become all the rage on college campuses—hardly any school fails to perform this dimwitted show on Valentines Day (or V-Day, as Ms. Ensler prefers).

And what, dear reader, does the much-heralded radical feminist play The Vagina Monolgues champion? Well, among other things an older lesbian’s sexual encounter with an underage girl. In the original version of the play, the gal was 13; her age was since changed to 16. Delightfully, the mature woman in the scene exclaims about the encounter: “If it was rape, it was good rape.�

Wow: How charming. And how suitable: The revised version of the much-lauded Vagina Monologues touts lesbian pedophilia with a 16-year-old gal—the very age of the boys whilom Congressman Foley harassed. Except, of course, Congressman Foley didn’t rape any boys.

So, our feminist pals are off celebrating V-Day and The Vagina Monologues in February and are calling for Congressman Foley’s (and any other Republican’s) head in October. But surely the folks at the Huffington Post are even more egregiously hypocritical: They boast Eve Ensler as one of their beloved columnists.

Could our buddies at the Huffington Post explain what’s going on here? Do they dislike Congressman Foley’s actions because he isn’t a lesbian or because he’s a Republican? Obviously, they have no problem with pedophilia per se.

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Feel the Power of the Crack Young Staff

Less than two days—fewer than 48 hours. Less than the amount of time it feels like when you sit through the movie Waterworld. This, dear reader, is how long it took the crack young staff to force Glenn Reynolds’ hand.

As e-strollers all round the Internet well know, yesterday afternoon Mr. Reynolds, under what we can only describe as feverish pressure, caved into our hunger strike’s demands and gave us our Instalanche. For the price of a Yom Kippur-and-a-half, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� got our much-sought-after “link.� And darn it if it doesn’t feel really good.

Naturally, our brazen display of Internet power will have other “weblogs� nervous. We don’t blame them: A successful hunger strike in less than two days?

How long did it take Gandhi’s hunger strike to compel the British to leave India? We’re not sure, but we bet it was longer than two days. Accordingly, we feel fully justified in asserting that we’re currently more powerful than Gandhi.

And just as magnanimous. Sure, we could have stooped to some World-Wide Web violence in order to secure our goals; we could have been the Internet version of the Tamil Tigers. But no: We took the morally laudable route, employing creative non-violence to get Mr. Reynolds to cave.

At this time of vindication, dear reader, we would feel remiss if we did not heartily thank Mr. Reynolds. It must have been a difficult decision for him: Does he let the crack young staff starve or does he send us a “pointless link�? The campaign from our boosters such as Dan Riehl, Dr. Rusty, the Llamas, and others couldn’t have made his work easy for him. But we think he made the right call.

In fact, in order to thank Mr. Reynolds for his kindness, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,� want to repay the favor. It’s the least that we can do.

So, Mr. Reynolds, here you go: A “link� from the crack young staff. Around the office, we like to call it a “Hate-lanche.�

Man, he’ll watch his “hits� just roll on in.

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