April 30, 2007

The Root Cause of This Kind of Terrorism

Like everyone else on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” get some of our news from a dubious “website” called the Drudge Report. The information found on said “website” may not be true, but at least its quickly delivered, which matters a heck of a lot more these days.

A little while ago, dear reader, we spied a particularly interesting—albeit horrific—“link” on the ole’ Drudgster. The Houston Chronicle reports that an explosive device was discovered at an abortion clinic in Austin, TX. Thankfully, it was removed before anyone was harmed.

Now, from the outset, we must say that we consider ourselves pro-choice. If you ask us, abortion is murder, and we’re for it. Not, we must add, so-called partial birth abortion, which the devout Catholic Nancy Pelosi greatly esteems. But, in general, we think abortion ought to be legal—and rare. (Gosh: Don’t we sound like Hillary?)

We suppose, however, that this is neither here nor there in regard to what we’re about to discuss. Ever since Islamic terrorism has been on the mainstream media’s radar screens, we’ve been bombarded (if you will) with all sorts of apologias for this nefarious evildoing.

According to the likes of Michael Scheuer, former CIA incompetent and current anti-Semitic conspiracy-theorist and incompetent, the Islamist terrorists are merely acting defensively: If the West were smart enough to remove all non-Muslim troops from the Arabian peninsula and allow the Israelis to be massacred to a man, all would be well with the world.

To other—equally moronic—commentators, Islamic radicals kill because of the horrors of Third-World poverty. If it weren’t for the twin evils of capitalism and globalization, such impoverished folks as Osama bin Laden would finally be able to eat three square meals a day and finally put down their weapons.

If you ask us, all of this caterwauling in response to Muslim terrorism isn’t just insane—although it is that. It also mindlessly blames the West for all the sins of our Muslim brethren. To the Michael Scheuers and Barbara Ehrenreichs of the world, nothing in the world happens which is not ultimately the fault of the real Evil Empire: America.

And this brings us—admittedly long-windedly—to our question: Whose fault is it that an enraged pro-life maniac planted a bomb outside an abortion clinic? If the United States is to blame when it finds itself the victim of a terrorist attack, are our pro-life friends to blame for this work of evil? Why not?

Maybe we could take a page out of Michael Scheuer’s book and say: Hey, the pro-life folks are just angry about females’ access to abortion. If we could drastically curtail this access—or, better yet, cut it off altogether—we’d have nothing to worry about. Sound good?

Why do we doubt that the Barbara Ehrenreichs of the world will capitulate to the forces of the pro-life movement as readily as they bow down to al Qaeda?

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April 27, 2007

The Safest Subway in the World

As you might very well imagine, dear reader, the luminous headquarters of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is a very classy building. Located atop a fetching high-rise, the home base for the crack young staff positively reeks of stature, refinement, and success. If we must say so ourselves—and at the current time it appears as if we must—our digs demonstrate that our deep-pocketed financial backers have served us well.

Since we’re a very successful outfit on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, we are housed in a building with up-to-date security. After all, we wouldn’t want some lonely nutter, enraged about our savage hectoring of Gillette razors, to beat us to a pulp. As such, our headquarters comes equipped with a highly-trained team of security professionals.

Well, if by highly-trained team of security professionals, you mean “one fat guy who seldom seems to do his job.” Which, of course, we do.

You see, dear reader, the generous owners of “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” headquarters pay some portly slob to watch over the building, in a strangely lax attempt to ensure our safety. We’re not sure if this benighted fellow carries a gun, but we’re not terribly certain it matters. According to our—admittedly quick—estimate, he’s about 5’2” tall and weighs a good 275 pounds.

Under the circumstances, we have the feeling that this fellow couldn’t grab a gun off of his belt without enduring fits of wheezing for an hour-and-a-quarter. The only criminal he could stop is an 11-year-old hardcore asthmatic.

Ah, but our undoubtedly well-paid security guard hasn’t found this out yet. Not, we dare say, because our headquarters is located in a charmingly crime-free Valhalla. Heck no: Our neighborhood is a bit low-rent, which ensures that there is, as the college administrators call it, plenty of “diversity,” and also ensures that no college administrators will live anywhere near it. In short, it is not a stranger to crime.

Yet our morbidly obese rent-a-cop is. And we know why this is the case.

Right around the corner from “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” headquarters, dear reader, resides a charter member of the Subway sandwich franchise. Inveterate bachelors that we are, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” eat there more often than that Jared character. By now, we’ve dropped well over 1,000 pounds—apiece.

And every time we head to the local Subway for a foot-long made by a swarthy guy with a glove, the portly security guard is there. Every time we go. There hasn’t been one time when we haven’t seen him there.

To be sure, this fellow likely has a hearty appetite. So maybe there’s a reason he appears to frequent the Subway 24/7. Sunday afternoon; Wednesday morning; Arbor Day—these are just a few of the times one finds this fat pseudo-cop at the sub shop. Along with all the other times, of course.

How does this portly chap get money for this? Does our landlord pay his salary in Monterey cheddar bread? Do his weekly wages come with chips and a soda?

These are just a few of the questions our fellow tenants can ask themselves whilst criminals freely ransack our unprotected building.

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April 26, 2007

Self-Esteem for the Jihadi

If these here United States of America have anything to offer this world—other than Rob Schneider movies, that is—it is certainly self-esteem training. Thanks to the hard work of our nation’s prized educators, American high school students may be among the stupidest in the world, but they incorrectly believe that they are very, very smart. How’s that for good schooling?

Without a doubt, dear reader, our fair nation excels in boosting peoples’ self-esteem. It’s our great strength. Well, that and soft rock. (And they’re both equally delightful.)

But this leaves us with a few important questions: How can we use our impressive abilities in the realm of self-esteem promotion to ameliorate world problems? Can our effectiveness at unwarrantedly raising people’s self-image aid the greater cause of world peace? Can it help stave off Samuel Huntington’s dreaded Clash of Civilizations?

Good questions, those. (We’re glad we asked them.) And we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think we have some darn fine answers. If you ask us, American educators should travel to the Middle East and offer free crash-courses in boosting self-esteem amongst our Islamist friends. That way, our Islamofascist pals will recognize that the USA isn’t all “Sex and the City” and the Playboy Channel.

And, to be downright honest, our fervent Islamist buddies could use a little self-esteem, a little boost in confidence. These folks just never seem to stand up for themselves.

Violent riots over cartoons; staunch refusals to give cab rides to people with seeing-eye dogs; massive public displays of bigotry, misogyny, and intolerance—these are just a few examples of Islamist non-assertiveness. Why do these folks appear to be so sorely lacking in societal self-confidence? Why are they filled with self-doubt?

We mean, come on: When you come from a country as blissful as Saudi Arabia, you should be positively gloating. You’ve earned some cultural bragging rights, for crying out loud. Savage curtailment of women’s freedoms; officially sanctioned anti-Semitism; medieval intolerance—what’s not to love?

So, get with the program, jihadis. You’ve got plenty that should make you proud. Heck, if implementing your political goals will help make the world more like Syria, then we can certainly understand why you’re so hell-bent on altering society. Who wouldn’t want to live in that authoritarian police state?

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April 25, 2007

Sheryl Crow

As usual, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are striking whilst the iron is cold. By now, everyone this side of Rosie O’Donnell’s midriff has waxed intemperate about the recent antics of Sheryl Crow. Ms. Crow, a “musician” of no recognizable merit, has attempted to jumpstart her flagging career by taking on a political edge.

To wit, Ms. Crow, along with a middle-aged wife of a “Seinfeld” producer, has embarked on a much-ballyhooed “Rock Against Global Warming Tour,” or some such. You know: She’s trying to corner the whole global warming shtick as a counterpoise to Bono’s Only-I-Care-About-African-Poverty blitz. Pretty smart, we’d say.

Ah, but Ms. Crow hasn’t been smart in everything she’s done of late. In fact, Ms. Crow—as everyone knows—recently endured a heated (if you will) exchange with Karl Rove. This, naturally, sent the conservative press into paroxysms of rage: How dare you mess with St. Karl!

Frankly, dear reader, we’re not that worried about the guy whom dimwitted lefties call “Bush’s Brain.” We have a hunch that he can fend for himself.

Rather, we find sundry other things about Sheryl Crow irksome. In fact, picking a nonsensical tiff with Mr. Rove is amongst the only things Sheryl Crow has done that doesn’t bother us.

We mean, come on: Have you ever heard a Sheryl Crow song? The woman seems able to warble somewhere around three different notes. Her talent’s about as impressive as Verne Troyer’s package. If he were Asian.

And the songs themselves? Pure, unadulterated garbage. “Are You Strong Enough To Be My Man?” Well, yeah: As long as you’re strong enough to stop singing. You no-talent bimbo.

Further, we don’t much care for moral advice handed out by a singer best known for crooning the line “I like a good beer buzz early in the morning.” Horribly overrated non-talent, heal thyself.

Yeah, we don’t much care for a pathetic pop-singer famous for making some sort of a clothing deal with Tommy Hilfiger turning around and getting all preachy on us. For crying out loud, Sheryl (if we may call you by your Christian name): The best thing you ever did was bag Lance Armstrong for a while.

Now that was a real coup: A preternaturally untalented pop-star shacking up with an impressively dedicated athlete. How long was that going to last?

Still, despite our understandable loathing for Ms. Crow, we have a deal for her: If she immediately ends her music career, we’ll use as little toilet paper as she sees fit. Sure, it won’t be that comfortable, but we think it’s well worth the price.

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April 24, 2007

A Poetic Jewel

By now, dear reader, the entire world knows that this humble “website” is sponsoring its Fourth Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition (details of which you can read here). Thanks to the promotional efforts of numerous friendly “webloggers,” the news has zipped around Al Gore’s Internet with such speed that we have already received a goodly number of contest submissions.

And yet, dear reader, we think we can rake in a few more. After all, if you ask us, pretty much everyone has some bad pseudo-collegiate verse in them. We can all get in touch with our Inner Tyro.

Perhaps we need merely offer a bit of inspiration. In today’s humble “post,” then, we aim to exhort a submission out of you through highlighting some delightfully insipid verse.

About a decade ago, one of the most prominent pop stars was a woman simply called Jewel. Although we never fell for her charms—or even recognized them—we recall that on occasion we were in the distinct minority. For a short period of time, Jewel was commercial pseudo-folk music’s answer to the wheel.

Remember all the lore about Jewel? She was from Alaska. She spent 43 years in a trailer before hitting the big time. Her parents were made out of hemp.

Well, we’re not sure we got all of that right, but you get the point. Jewel was It.

Under the circumstances, someone or other graciously encouraged the Mighty Jewel to publish poetry. Yep, it wasn’t bad enough that she sullied the airwaves and department stores with saccharine love calls. Nope: She needed to take up the quill and play the role of Hart Crane.

To disastrous results, of course. As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that a snippet of Jewel’s verse will inspire the inner college sophomore in all of you, and compel you to enter a poem in our contest. Granted, Jewel was not attending a university when she wrote her poesy; still, we think her doggerel displays many of the charms one associates with bad collegiate verse.

Here, for example, is her entire poem “Las Vegas”:

Women who suck
their cigarettes
as though they were
giving their
hatred head

Wooo: That’s, like, so, like, deep. Boy, those gals must really like Marlboro Lights.

And, if you thought “Las Vegas” was great, just check out another Jewel magnum opus, entitled “Untitled”:

There is a pretty girl on the Face of the magazine And all I see is my dirty hands turning the page

Little breasts attached to
skinny ribs and hungry bellies
determined legs
persuasive swing
careful hands
she stands
a greater threat to herself
than the cigarette
she consumes

Man, talk about sticking up for the average gal! Jewel can’t stand those thin, pretty girls in magazines, and she’s not afraid to show it in verse.

Oddly, though, we seem to recall that Jewel herself became a popular phenomenon in large part because she was thin and pretty. We’re not arguing that she doesn’t possess “dirty hands,” but we’re not sure that an ode to female unattractiveness is best offered by the likes of fetching, blonde-haired Jewel.

Think, dear reader, that you can do better? If so—and even if not—we officially encourage you to enter our official Fourth Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition. After all, everyone’s a poet in college.

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April 23, 2007

Why Can’t People Use This Tragedy To Assent To All Of Our Political Beliefs?

By now, dear reader, you have been thoroughly inundated with press reports regarding the horrendous mass killing at Virginia Tech University. The murderer perpetrated, of course, a series of acts that were—if you’ll pardon our retardataire moralistic vocabulary—unspeakably evil.

Unfortunately, these horrific acts have compelled lots of folks in the mainstream media to engage in particularly noteworthy examples of their usual peccadilloes. Certainly we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” weren’t the only ones to cringe at the cloying coverage of the Virginia Tech massacre. In between bits of real compassion we noticed disgusting moments—reporters, for instance, attempting to drag the most tear-jerking phrases from the mouths of victims and eye-witnesses.

Perhaps equally irksome have been numerous reflections from the pens of self-important opinion journalists. They couldn’t even wait until the bodies were buried to have the same old fights about gun control. It’s almost as if these horrible events don’t take place in their minds; rather, they merely serve as catalysts for their preconceived political views.

Now, don’t get us wrong: We don’t feel particularly strongly one way or the other on the matter of gun control in America. Perhaps we’re somewhere in the squishy middle: We think outlawing weaponry will merely leave law-abiding citizens defenseless, but we shirk at the idea of people blithely purchasing assault weapons without child-proof locks.

Still, the panoply of “Can’t We Use This Tragedy To Destroy All Guns” articles and their corollary, the “Can’t We Arm Everybody To the Teeth To Stop All Future Tragedies” pieces, really bother us. These vapid essays appear so quickly that their authors don’t even have the time to reflect seriously on problems associated with their positions.

As much as our NRA-lovin’ folks hate to admit it, there are certainly problems with a completely libertarian stance on all gun ownership. And, as much as our anti-NRA types can’t stand it, banning all guns carries with it a number of problems. For once, we find ourselves in firm agreement with Harry Reid, who hoped that we could wait a bit to reflect seriously on making new laws regarding guns.

Ah, but our opinion journalists and “webloggers” will have none of it. To them, everything is simple: The world would be a Valhalla if we only had Sweden’s gun laws. Blah, blah, blah.

To make matters worse, these folks merely use horrid events like the Virginia Tech massacre to prop up views they have held long before they occurred. They haven’t learned a thing from these tragedies, merely seen them as political opportunities.

For some reason, this tactic seems especially to appeal to numerous leftists. To them, everything has a simple answer.

Why is there terrorism? Third-World poverty. Why did the US invade Iraq? To force the Third World to endure more poverty. Why does Wednesday follow after Tuesday? Third-World poverty.

Gee: What do you call an intellectual one-trick pony?

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April 20, 2007

Announcing the Fourth Annual “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition

Do you, dear reader, pine to create miserable poetry in the manner of a self-important, illiterate college student? Do you believe that you have some really wretched doggerel in you?

If you answered “yes” to the above queries, have we got a contest for you: The Fourth Annual “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition! Always one of the highlights of our humble “weblog’s” e-year, the Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition is sufficiently popular to draw in entries worldwide. (For the winners of previous contests, see here, here, and here.)

Of course our humble competition is popular. If you ask us, nothing—and we mean nothing—competes with execrable college-student verse in its ability to delight. Vapid clichés; tin-eared rhythms; noxious political bromides—wretched college poetry has it all.

Still, you may not, dear reader, get a good sense of the pathetic pseudo-poetic drivel that we hope to receive from our official contest entrants. As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have composed our own version of a lame college-student verse. We have delicately titled it “All the World Is Rape,” and it goes a little something like this:

All the World Is Rape by the Crack Young Staff

Afghanistan, Iraq, Iraq, Afghanistan
All the world is rape.

Lacrosse, Limbaugh, Limbaugh, lacrosse
All the world is rape.

There are no spaces, no places, no safe spaces
For the faces of Womyn.

There is no fairness, no careness, no real fairness
For the objects of oppression.

Sure, you can work your job for the Hitler business mob
You can watch children starve thanks to globalization’s hardships
But you can’t deny that
All the world is rape.

Economics, biology, biology, economics
All the world is rape.

Pretty special, was it not? Well, okay, it wasn’t that fantastic. But we’re merely attempting to give you a taste of what we’re hoping to receive from our inspired contest entrants.

Just to make things clear, we’re asking for disastrously terrible verse in the hectoring, juvenile style of the typical college goon. Misspellings are a plus, as is an irksome all-knowing tone. And grammatical errors? Those earn you double points. Any examples of good taste or style will disqualify your entry.

The winners, dear reader, will have the distinct honor of full publication in “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” with lots of lauds from the crack young staff. Your neighbors will be jealous. Men will want to be you, and women will want to be with you. Or the reverse, if you’re of the feminine persuasion.

So, you ask, what are the official contest rules? They are as follows. All entries must be submitted by 5:00pm EST on May 5, 2007. Contestants need not be college students. Contestants need not detest college students, but it will probably help. Meter, coherence, assonance, and displays of real talent are to be avoided.

All submissions will be read by our Official Contest Judge, Anonymous. In addition to being one of the most prolific poets of the ages, Anonymous has served as our arbiter of excellence since the very start of this humble competition.

So, dear reader, wait for the Inept College-Student Muse to inspire you, and send in your poem by clicking the “Contact Us” “link” at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen.

With a little luck, you may be the next William Carlos Williams. Or, failing that, a pathetic college sophomore who incorrectly believes that he knows everything about foreign policy and can best express his deep learning in verse.

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April 19, 2007

Basking in the E-Glow

As you might well imagine, dear reader, “weblogging” has its fair share of perquisites. The mainstream media insult you as a no-talent pseudo-hack; unhinged detractors send you vitriolic e-mail; clueless weirdoes find your “website” through searches for “naked midget porn”—these are just a few of the delights the average “weblogger” enjoys these days. Man, it feels good.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have sure enjoyed our fair share of e-perks. And no wonder: After three full storied years on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, we routinely feast on the intangibles to be enjoyed on the Internet.

Allow us to offer a charming example. Many of our reader(s) undoubtedly recognize that we serve as guest Sunday essayists for the heavy-hitter “weblog” Wizbang. In fact, we’ve offered a weekly lucubration there for some time—long enough, we’d have thought, to wear out our welcome.

Unlike our humble “weblog,” dear reader, Wizbang allows reader comments. That is to say, it publishes the moronic retorts that its Mongoloid readership offers in response to its sundry “posts.”

Why do they do this? Well, we’d guess, to reap the rewards that such intellectual giants as “jp2” routinely bestow upon us.

Now who, you may be asking yourself, is “jp2”? “Jp1”’s less successful clone? Hardly. In fact, we’d say, the smartest fellow since Einstein. Perhaps even Socrates.

And we know this because “jp2” has been sufficiently kind to offer many deeply serious ruminations on our humble Wizbang “posts.” Take, for example, part of his splendid response to our piece entitled “W(h)ither Democracy?”:

Now stop calling yourself "crack." You aren't "crack" and I certainly doubt you are "young" since your writing style is that of a bitter old woman who happens to have a thesaurus nearby and way too much time to waste on it.

Warms the cockles of the heart, does it not? And no wonder: We’ve long desired to come across like “an old woman who happens to have a thesaurus nearby and way too much time to waste on it.” Ah, it’s a dream come true! All our Internet prayers have been answered.

Still, “jp2”’s careful reflection on our superannuated sordidness made us wonder. If we, the crack young staff of the “Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are merely some old coot with too much time on her hands, what does one say about the fellow who regularly troubles himself to comment on the work of an old coot with too much time on her hands?

Could that guy have much of a life?

Well, at least we’re pretty sure that “jp2” is a young guy. After all, his writing style “is that of a retarded six-year-old.”

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April 18, 2007

Alexander Cockburn Dislikes Some Examples of Racism

Okay, okay, we admit it: We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were eagerly taking in “Ho Industry Whores: Imus and the HeeHaw Racists,” an article by Alexander Cockburn. Mr. Cockburn, for those of you blissfully unaware of his feculent ravings, is a Stalinoid anti-Semite who runs Counterpunch, the unhinged radical “website.”

Frankly, dear reader, we aren’t terribly proud to mention that we actually read Mr. Cockburn’s vile nonsense: It’s kind of like informing folks that you watch ultimate fighting on television, or, maybe, “The View.” Still, we found ourselves strangely curious as to Mr. Cockburn’s view on the Affair Imus.

We barely made it through the article. And no wonder: It contained little but unsubstantiated guilt-by-association. Everyone but Counterpunch lunatics, you see, is a knuckle-dragging racist.

Ah, but, in a few places, Mr. Cockburn’s putrid effusions were unintentionally revealing. First, in mentioning Mr. Imus’ history of dubious remarks, Mr. Cockburn asks rhetorically: “It was suddenly news that Imus shored up his ratings with racist cracks at blacks and Hispanics?”

As is well known, Mr. Imus’ offensive comments often referred not only to blacks and Hispanics, but also to Jews. How curious that Mr. Cockburn left that out of his list of Imus sins.

Or perhaps it’s not curious in the least: After all, Mr. Cockburn and his dubious Counterpunch comrades have publicly pondered the possibility that 9/11 was an Israeli hit job. And, of course, their “website” routinely offers slanted, vitriolic, and propagandistic takes on Israel, Zionists, and Jews.

It seems reasonable to suggest, then, that Mr. Imus’ anti-Semitism isn’t an example of the “HeeHaw racism” Mr. Cockburn so despises. Rather, to him it’s an entirely acceptable prejudice.

And this leads us to our other point regarding Mr Cockburn’s arrant nonsense. During the course of his ravings, he criticizes “blacks paid by whites to dump on other blacks like Cynthia McKinney.”

To which we respond: Uh, Mr. Cockburn, your “website” Counterpunch routinely pays Jews to dump on other Jews like Alan Dershowitz. Or, for that matter, any Jew who would like to see Israel continue to exist. Why doesn’t that little instance of venal ethnic self-hatred trouble you? Especially since support for the existence of Israel is far more mainstream than plumping for the radical nutter McKinney.

Overall, Mr. Cockburn offers a wonderful example of what opinion journalists should not do: If you—like Mr. Cockburn—are a racist, you ought not to excoriate others for their prejudices.

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April 17, 2007

Love Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry

Remember those heady days when you could ponder the words “Duke” and “lacrosse” and not immediately think of the word “rape”? Admittedly, reasonably sane people never think of the word “lacrosse”—and tend to ponder “Duke” only when thinking about college basketball or, perhaps, Frederic Jameson’s torturous prose. Still, those pre-Duke lacrosse non-rape days were wonderful days indeed.

But, like Johnny Cochran, they are with us no longer. Whether one likes it or not, Duke lacrosse teams past, present, and future will conjure up mental pictures of the recently dismissed non-rape case. In all likelihood, those three falsely accused boys will be remembered solely for their unfortunate roles in this fiasco.

Undoubtedly, as the result of this brouhaha, lives have been forever altered. That may sound a bit histrionic, but we think it’s true. (Frankly, when Oprah’s busy quoting Maya Angelou during her discussion with the Rutgers University women’s basketball team, one feels almost inured to histrionics.) So we’ll say it again: Thanks to the Duke non-rape case, lives have been forever altered.

We don’t know about you, dear reader, but we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” feel much, much better knowing that Mike Nifong, the thoroughly disgraced Durham District Attorney, feels bad about all of this. As the Associated (With Terrorists) Press reports, Mr. Nifong has formally apologized to his three long-term victims.

Sorry I took a year of your life away, he must have said. Or far less truthful words to that general effect.

Gosh, we can certainly rest easy now. Mike Nifong is sorry. He’s apologized. Well, gee: We suppose what you did was fine then. As long as you don’t do it again, okay? Ruining people’s lives can leave something of a mark, you know.

Forgive us if we come across as churlish, but we believe that Mr. Nifong’s heartfelt semi-mea culpa has materialized a tad late. You know: Kind of like Britain apologizing for slavery late. Or maybe the Catholic Church apologizing for complicity in anti-Semitism late. That is to say, a bit tardy.

Mr. Nifong’s groveling is a bit refreshing, however, since so many other folks involved in the Duke non-rape witch hunt (warlock hunt?) wouldn’t apologize if you directed a flamethrower at their genitals. The Duke administration that hung the boys out to dry? They’re quite pleased with themselves. The sordid group of race-baiting faculty members? You’ll hear nary a display of condign mortification, just more blather about the racist cauldron that is America. The disgraceful Nancy Grace? She probably won’t say the word “lacrosse” again in her entire life.

Wow: You’re really looking bad when Mike Nifong outclasses you.

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April 16, 2007

The Final Solution to Don Imus

By now, dear reader, you have undoubtedly heard every sentient being’s opinion regarding what the French call the Affair Imus. As all of God’s creatures big and small already know, ill-mannered shock-jock Don Imus has landed himself in oodles of trouble (and the unemployment line) by referring to the Rutgers University women’s basketball team as a passel of “nappy-headed ho’s.”

Never before has anyone cared so much about the Rutgers University women’s basketball team. In fact, never before has anyone cared about the Rutgers University women’s basketball team. Actually, never before has anyone cared about women’s basketball. But we collectively digress.

Perhaps we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are the only ones who don’t fully understand the whole Imus brouhaha. Naturally, like all reasonable people, we find Mr. Imus’ comments offensive.

But, as John Leo dutifully pointed out on the editorial page of The Wall Street Journal, Mr. Imus has a long history of uttering ethnically insensitive remarks. On previous programs, he’s discussed blacks, Jews, and assorted minorities in derogatory terms.

So why did it take so long for people to catch up to Don Imus’ shtick? Why this sudden horror at one of his racist remarks?

It doesn’t make too much in the way of sense to us. As far as John Leo is concerned, folks are jumping on the anti-Imus bandwagon because it’s finally safe to do so. In the past, it seems, Mr. Imus brutally excoriated those who crossed him. And now, we suppose, it’s payback time.

For some reason or other, dear reader, we’ve found the whole Imus kerfuffle vaguely unsatisfying. And, to be honest, we’re not sure why.

After all, we’ve always studiously avoided the feculent “Imus in the Morning.” It’s slow, boring, and stupid. Imus’ co-hosts were inane; they can’t even do passable impressions. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. We never knew much about Imus’ racial insensitivity, but that just adds another to the long list of reasons not to listen to his mindless prattling.

In addition, Imus seems like a real Grade-A jerk. From what little we know of the show, he appears to treat his colleagues with scorn and is an all-around grouch. If he is forced into early retirement, it’ll mean nothing to us. Serves the jerk right.

And yet this all doesn’t sit right with us. Naturally, we found it disturbing that Mr. Imus would take his case to the (Ir)Rev. Al Sharpton, America’s premiere racial huckster. Ah, yes: Genuflect to Rev. Al—that’ll really demonstrate your anti-racist bona fides. Does anyone else remember Freddy’s Fashion Mart and the so-called “white interlopers”? We sure do.

Maybe, dear reader, we’re unsatisfied because we find Mr. Imus’ punishment so lame. We mean, come on: Everyone seems to detest this fellow. The media (suddenly) can’t seem to stop talking about it.

If you ask us, it’s time to end this whole mess. As such, we propose two possible outcomes: Either let Imus go and stop talking about this brouhaha, or kill him. Either way, at least we’ll eventually drop the subject.

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April 13, 2007

The Week of Loathing (Day the Fifth): People Who Call Rock Musicians “Artists”

Today, dear reader, marks the final installment of our rabidly successful Fourth Annual Week of Loathing. If we must say so ourselves—and, as of the current printing, it appears as if we must—it was quite a literary fete. Folks young and old contemplatively headed to their computers, contemplatively logged on to Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, contemplatively dialed up “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” and contemplatively enjoyed themselves no end.

It’s always nice to realize that we expend so much energy bringing people closer together. Especially if they don’t acquire herpes as a result.

It is with a certain sadness, then, that we end our militantly popular Fourth Annual Week of Loathing. Ah, what a week it has been: We laughed, we cried, we saw Don Imus head to the unemployment line.

Before we take down the sundry Week of Loathing banners, however, we have some business to finish—the last humble installment in our humble series. It will be, if nothing else, humble.

And, boy oh boy, have we got a particularly choice topic for demolition. Be warned, however: If you dislike any sort of aesthetic snobbery, you needn’t read on. Given that you’re glancing at this humble “weblog,” dear reader, it’s highly unlikely that you are an inveterate devotee of, say, Led Zeppelin. But one never knows, and we’d rather not offend.

Okay: Bring on the hate-tinged snobbery.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long loathed people who refer to rock musicians as “artists.” Frankly, we have great difficulty calling them musicians. And so we shudder virtually every time some dimwit uses the same locution to refer to, say, Bono as to, say, Mark Rothko. If you ask us, Bono is to art what Mr. T is to acting.

Oh, we can already hear the angry retorts of so many lovers of demotic children’s music: How dare you, crack young staff! What a bunch of holier-than-thou prisses! Jimmy Page is the best! Blah, blah, blah.

To which we reply: Spare us. Rock music is crap, pure and simple. Sure, some of it may be fun; it may remind you of your ill-spent youth; it may remind you of Debbie Boon. (Good things, all.)

Still, it’s nothing but garbage. If you greatly enjoy it, there can only be two possible reasons: 1) You’re slumming, enjoying a taste of what the late Susan Sontage called camp; 2) Your aesthetic sense is sorely lacking, making you, in effect, a musical retard.

Yep, dear reader, you got that right: Those are the only two options. Write us letters of virulent hate mail all you want. It’s still true.

Accordingly, rock musicians deserve the honorific label “artist” about as much as Al Sharpton deserves the title “race healer.” Or perhaps about as much as Rosie O’Donnell deserves the sobriquet “thin.”

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April 12, 2007

The Week of Loathing (Day the Fourth): College Kids

It’s hard to believe it’s almost over. Sad, isn’t it? Although we began only a few short days ago, dear reader, today marks the penultimate installment of our Official Fourth Annual Week of Loathing. Oh, how much hate we have spread in these glorious—yet fleeting—hours!

And today is no different. For, as the literate amongst you can already tell, in this charming installment of the Week of Loathing, we take aim at a target well deserving of hardcore obloquy. We refer, of course, to college kids.

Perhaps, dear reader, an excoriation of the typical dimwitted collegiate brat is a little passé. After all, everyone on God’s green earth despises these self-important morons. Still, if anyone needs a good drubbing, it’s certainly an odious pack of undergraduates. And you needn’t look any farther for it; here it is.

Lots of folks complain no end about the life of leisure led by the average tenured faculty member. “Those lazy bastards,” they say. “Why, they teach one class every two days!”

Well, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think that some critics of academe paint with too broad a brush. For every sluggish English professor, you’re bound to find a hardworking economist or historian. In short, though some surely are taking advantage of the system (we’re looking at you, Cornel West), others are not.

But this is neither here nor there. Our point, dear reader, is simply this: In comparison with the typical college student, a tenured prof works harder than Atlas. No, not Charles Atlas, but the fellow who holds up the world. (Ah, so you were sleeping in mythology class too, dear reader?)

Although the general public tends to think of American college professors as nothing but lazy windbags, the real scandal is amongst the undergraduate body. Simply put, too many college students are interested in little else than, well, the undergraduate body. And, of course, we mean that quite literally.

You send your little tyke off to school, thinking he’ll learn a good deal about Shakespeare, Dickens, or, at least, Marx. But no: The wretch can’t be bothered to attend class, because it conflicts with his busy acquaintance rape schedule. And do his reading? Are you kidding? Most college students are well nigh illiterate.

Every time we hear some moronic politician blather on about the urgent need for every American to attend college, we think to ourselves: If only this boob would sit in on a Sociology 101 lecture. One-third of the class mysteriously missing; one-quarter sound asleep; the remaining students trying their hand at a crossword puzzle—these are the tell-tale signs of university students learning.

As everyone but Bill Clinton seems to recognize, most kids attend college for four (or five) years of intense dipsomania, feverish drug-taking, and incessant date rape. If you ask us, American children should be compelled to complete a year of military service before they head to university. That’ll learn the little pukes.

And what if the army doesn’t need them? Well, maybe they could serve as Ted Kennedy’s towel boy instead.

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April 11, 2007

The Week of Loathing (Day the Third): Incessant Chatter about Global Warming

The time is ripe, dear reader, for some primo excoriation. After all, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are currently celebrating our Fourth Annual Week of Loathing. We can’t think of a better time for contumely. And, boy oh boy, have we got a dandy subject for demolition today.

As we write this humble “post,” dear reader, the weather is a bit colder than average. This short cold streak has—inevitably—caused many to wonder: “Gosh, what about so-called Global Warming? It’s super-freezing outside.” Or words to that effect.

In a few weeks time, we’d wager, it will be a bit warmer than usual. And then many a fellow and lady will opine: “My gosh, Al Gore wasn’t sufficiently alarmist. Clearly, the end is nigh.” Or, once again, words to that effect.

Can we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” inform you how much this irritates us? Any weather swing prompts The Drudge Report to advertise the change as either a portent of doom or a clear sign that Global Warming is a laughable hoax.

For crying out loud, people: Stop blathering on about this, will you? It’s as if we’re stupid enough to believe that we’re heading for an apocalypse because it was a bit warm on May 3rd. Ah, yes: It’s only 45 degrees in Phoenix—that must mean that those distraught about Global Warming are akin to Flat Earthers.

Haven’t any of you people ever heard of anecdotal evidence? Just because Al Gore offers a fire and brimstone speech on a chilly day in March, it doesn’t mean that, ipso facto, he’s full of it. He may in fact be full of it, but that ain’t the reason.

Frankly, dear reader, we simply can’t take all this fussing about the weather. Remember when a string of warm days were merely designated a “heat wave”? What a glorious time! Nowadays, a “heat wave” means the Secular Second Coming.

Remember, folks: Some days on earth are cold (especially in Buffalo, NY). Others are warm. If it hits 85 degrees in February, you don’t necessarily have to rush and buy a life insurance policy.

Just grab a pair of shorts—or, if it’s cold, a wooly cap—and head outside. And shut up.

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April 10, 2007

The Week of Loathing (Day the Second): Alec Baldwin

Well, dear reader, we have come upon the second day in our Fourth Annual Week of Loathing. A fine day it is, too. Undoubtedly you are savoring a savage hectoring. And today’s target comes from a group often on our collective radar screen of irritants—professional actors. Ah, just typing the words “professional actors” makes the blood boil a bit, does it not? Such is certainly the case for today’s whipping boy: Alec Baldwin.

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have to admit that Alec Baldwin—unlike his myriad sleazy brothers—has a modicum of talent. He was pretty humorous in David Mamet’s film State and Main. And he’s something of a delight when he appears on “Saturday Night Live.”

Yet surely the orotund Mr. Baldwin’s greatest comedic role is the one he plays for The Huffington Post, Arianna Huffington’s Internet lodestone for all things unhinged. After all, with some frequency Mr. Baldwin offers a rather thin “post” on political matters—which always ably demonstrates his inability to think beyond a second-grade capacity.

Don’t believe us, dear reader? Why, then just take a lil’ looksie at a snippet from Mr. Baldwin’s latest magnum opus from the ole’ Huffy Po, “Passing the War Buck”:

Watching McCain support Bush's Iraq policy so doggedly makes me think that the Republicans seek not only to hand the war issue over to Bush's successor, they seek to keep the war going in order to create problems for Hillary Clinton. After all, whether or not Americans will elect a woman as Commander-in-Chief during wartime is a potential issue for Clinton's campaign.

It rather leaves you breathless, doesn’t it?

We mean, come on: Does this boob really believe that President Bush is purposefully stalling the Iraq War in an insidious attempt to render Hillary Clinton unelectable? If so, he really ought to look into wearing protective headgear.

Sure: Bush would willingly sacrifice American lives and destroy his presidential legacy—all to keep Hillary out of the White House. Boy, that sounds really, really logical.

But wait: We’re confused. We thought the Alec Baldwins of the world thought President Bush was knuckle-draggingly stupid. How, then, could that inarticulate oaf come up with such an ingeniously Machiavellian plot—a plot so ingenious that only a genius like Alec Baldwin could uncover it?

For God’s sake, Alec: Give it up. Arlen Specter and Carl Levin don’t try their hands at acting, and you shouldn’t play politics. It obviously hurts the tiny brain lodged somewhere in your oversized body.

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April 09, 2007

The Fourth Annual Week of Loathing (Day the First): Barack Obama

We’re sure you’ll agree with us that some times during the year are simply magical. The cozy night before Christmas; the delight of a birthday morning; the unmitigated joy of Arbor Day—these are just a few of the year’s heartwarming charms.

And we’re mighty certain that you’ll back us up when we say that one of those magical times is now upon us. You see, dear reader, today marks the start of our Fourth Annual Week of Loathing—a custom nearly as old as this superannuated, tired, dilapidated “weblog.”

Yep: Sundry fans of Al Gore’s World-Wide Web mark our Week of Loathing as a high point in their calendars. In that regard, it’s just like Internet porn. Only largely safe for the kids. (Emphasis on “largely.”)

And no wonder they so esteem our Week of Loathing so much. It’s a veritable festival of contumely. It’s half a fortnight of e-savagery. It’s “Rocky 6”—only in English.

Right about now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are busy setting up all sorts of Fourth Annual Week of Loathing accoutrements: Week of Loathing balloons; Week of Loathing billboards; the Week of Loathing blimp; Rosie O’Donnell; &c.

Now, this may sound to the uninitiated like an awful lot of preparation for a silly little Week of Loathing, but, if you think so, you simply don’t understand the storied history of the Week of Loathing. (Perhaps you’ll want to check here, here, and here for our resplendent announcements of previous WOLs, as we call them.)

Okay, okay, okay, you say: Enough with the fanfare. Bring on the orgy of negativity.

Your wish is our command. In today’s installment of the Week of Loathing, we take aim at a fellow who has only recently begun to irk us. And, to be honest, we’re not entirely sure it’s all his fault.

We speak, dear reader, of Barack Obama, the white yuppie’s most comforting black man. In essence, he’s the Bryant Gumbel of American politics. In case you live under a rock, allow us to inform you that Mr. Obama—a one-term Senator from Illinois—is running for the presidency of the United States.

What, you may reasonably wonder, so enrages us about Barack Obama? Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” a passel of racists who dislike seeing a black man with a Muslim middle name succeed?

No, sir. We’ll admit that Barack Obama is a charismatic fellow. And we’ll bet that he’s bright, too. Further, if you wonder if Senator Obama is “clean,” you can direct that query to the ever-articulate Joe Biden.

What really gets our dander up, however, is the enraging media-created hype surrounding Senator Obama. After all, the fellow’s merely spent a few years in the US Senate. As far as we can tell, he knows next to nothing about foreign policy.

And yet the 24-hour news networks can’t stop chattering about him. Never mind veterans such as Chris Dodd. Bring on the neophyte.

But, on its own, the hype is only so bothersome. We must admit that a certain amount of silliness accompanied the under-qualified George W. Bush during his first run for national office.

No, what really troubles us about Barack Obama is his incessant platitudes. This is a guy who speaks in sentences peppered with phrases such as “the audacity of hope.” You can listen to him talk for an hour or so and learn absolutely nothing.

We know, Barack: Cynicism is bad. Coming together is good. Partisanship is terrible. We need to focus on what’s good.

Geez, fellah: You’re not our life coach. You’re running for President, for crying out loud. Why not just admit that you’re an unreconstructed paleo-liberal and the country will turn around and not elect you?

Huh: It seems as if we answered our own question.

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April 06, 2007

The Veil of Multiculturalism

A few days ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” first saw a picture of Nancy Pelosi (D-Surrenderville) wearing a scarf over her head in Muslim fashion. The reason, of course, is that Congresswoman Pelosi was on her official Middle East Capitulation Tour, and thus was soon to chat cordially with the odious Syrian dictator who’s doing so much to kill American soldiers in Iraq. (What, we ask, is a better cause than that?)

Now, the picture of Congresswoman Pelosi immediately struck us as revealing. Not, thank merciful Allah, in the visual sense. Rather, we mean, strictly in the intellectual sense.

Naturally, Ms. Pelosi donned a hair-covering scarf as a bit of cultural genuflection. She was, after all, in a Muslim country, and it struck her as appropriate to follow local decorum, so as not to bother the natives, who are busy piously reflecting on the essential truth of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.

Fine, fine, we say. Ms. Pelosi presumably cares deeply about the delicate sensibilities of our fanatically murderous Syrian friends, and thus slaps a scarf on her face. When in Damascus, do as the genocidal nutters do, you might put it.

But wait: When radical Muslims come to the West, oftentimes they don’t seem interested in following suit. As Jack Straw—who, along with the bigwigs in the Labor Party, curiously found his backbone last year—mentioned, many Britons feel uncomfortable with women who wear full face veils. There is, it seems, something genuinely un-Western about such restrictive garb.

Yet some of our ever-sensitive radical Muslim pals, it appears, aren’t as interested in getting in good with the locals as is the charming Ms. Pelosi. Heck no: They’d sooner sue the pants off you than take off their burqas. And, in fact, sue you they will.

Here, we think, we find the sordid end result of Western fascination for so-called multiculturalism: The West shows unceasing regard for non-Western cultures, and non-Western cultures show essentially no regard in return. Toleration is strictly a one-way street.

We don’t mean to sound like a passel of doom-and-gloomers, but we think this doesn’t bode well for Western cultural health. Naturally, we should be respectful of other peoples; there’s no reason to offend folks gratuitously. (Except, of course, the Norwegians. Those tossers.)

But we ought to start treating others as we expect ourselves to be treated. Just as we take in countless criticisms of the West, it’s high time we allow earnest criticism of the Muslim world. We must stop treating Muslims with kid gloves. This merely leads to odious pandering of non-Westerners and, even worse, amounts to a cultural suicide pact.

If Nancy Pelosi—no radical Muslim, she—can put a veil on her head in deference to Syrian sensibilities, certainly we can ask our Islamist pals in the West to act with a modicum of deference to our ways. Is this really too much to ask?

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April 05, 2007

That’s Southern Women to You, Buster

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t exactly inveterate conference-goers. Whether it’s the latest meeting of the American Aviary Society or the bi-annual get-together of the Southwestern Origami Foundation, you can bet that we won’t be in attendance. Quite frankly, dear reader, these sorts of events bore us.

Every once in a great while, however, we get wind of a fantastic conference that we would have loved to attend. In fact, when hearing about them after-the-fact, we get all upset with ourselves: How could we have missed this little slice of heaven?

Such was the case in regard to 2002’s Southern Girl Convention, which we recently heard about from the Memphis branch of the Women’s Action Coalition. (It’s a little-known fact about us that we are longtime board members of the Memphis Woman’s Action Coalition, or MWAC, as we affectionately call it.)

Now, we know what you are thinking, dear reader: “Southern Girl Convention”? How retardataire! What horrid sexist named it that? The Neanderthal!

And, to be sure, we would feel much, much better if it were labeled the “Southern Womyn Convention.” Or, failing that, the “Southern Grrrl Convention.” Or, failing that, “Arthur.”

Still, from what little we found out about the 2002 omnium gatherum of the ole’ SWC, it seems as if it was quite a bash. In fact, the Memphis Women’s Coalition’s “website” mentioned that

The annual Southern Girls Convention was held July 7-9 in Louisville, KY. The schedule of workshops ranged from “Ethical Sluthood” to “Punk Parenting” to “Sexercizes.”

If you’re anything at all like us, dear reader, you want to go to all three of those workshops. A lot. A real lot. A real, real lot. We must admit, for instance, that we’re not much for ethics, but we’re darned sure that “ethical sluthood” is right up our alley. It sure beats unethical sluthood, as Courtney Love will surely attest.

And “punk parenting”? Oh, man: Nothing says hard-core authenticity to us like teething. We don’t know about you, but we feel like a regular Johnny Rotten each time we change some tyke’s diapers. Breastfeeding to the Ramones is really sweet.

Don’t, furthermore, even get us started with “sexercizes.” We only know two things about “sexercizes”: 1) We haven’t the vaguest idea what they are; 2) we very much like them.

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April 04, 2007

The “Rapid Rebuttal Force,” or Is Madeline Albright a Woman?

A few days ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” saw a vaguely humorous article in the good ole’ Daily Torygraph, London’s charming right-of-center broadsheet. “Linked” on the Drudge Report (so you know it’s true), the piece detailed the strong support Geraldine Ferraro has offered to Sen. Hillary Clinton’s presidential bid.

The article begins as follows:

The first woman to run on a US presidential ticket has promised her friend Hillary Clinton that she will help her fight Republican "dirty tricks" in the race for the White House.

"The only thing that can stop Hillary becoming the next president would be smears and dirty tricks," said Geraldine Ferraro, the Democrats' losing 1984 vice-presidential candidate. "I've told her I'll go anywhere and speak any time to make sure that doesn't happen."

She outlined her plans for a display of female solidarity with the Democratic presidential frontrunner last week in an interview in her office overlooking Ground Zero, where the World Trade Centre once stood in lower Manhattan.

Miss Ferraro, 71, now the managing director of a large corporate public relations and consultancy firm, has joined the former US secretary of state Madeleine Albright and Billie Jean King, the former tennis star, in a "rapid rebuttal force" of well-known women on standby to defend and promote Sen Clinton's candidacy.

Oh, dear. Geraldine Ferraro is already worried about “Republican dirty tricks”? Someone might want to inform her that Sen. Clinton has to win the Democratic primary before she can do battle with those odious Republicans. Perhaps our Democratic pals won’t take too kindly to the idea that Sen. Clinton’s camp believes it already has the primaries in the bag.

But, of course, Ms. Ferraro’s optimism wasn’t what struck us about this story. Rather, it was the supposed creation of an all-female “rapid rebuttal force”—a kind of superannuated female Super Friends.

Ah, yes: What would Sen. Clinton do without the deep political knowledge of Billy Jean King? Perhaps, with a little aid from Martina Navratilova, she could really rake in the aging lesbian tennis star vote.

But surely Ms. Ferraro’s boasting is almost as ridiculous. We mean, come on: Geraldine Ferraro is going to save Hillary Clinton from John Kerry’s fate?

Uh, someone ought to remind Ms. Ferraro of her high-powered performance in the 1984 presidential race. If we recall correctly—and we believe that we do—polls suggest that she offered absolutely no help to her boss, the hapless Walter Mondale. In fact, voters were just as likely to vote against the Mondale ticket due to Ferraro’s presence as they were to vote for it.

Again, if we recall correctly (and, again, we believe that we do), the Mondale-Ferraro ticket wasn’t too much of a success. Perhaps good ole’ Geraldine would like to exhort Pete Dupont to help with her “rebuttal force.”

Sure, Mr. Dupont is both male and a Republican. (Two strikes.) But, with his impressively futile run for the presidency of the United States under his belt, there’s no way he couldn’t help out.

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April 03, 2007

Bash of the Ages

As we—ever attuned to the horrors of self-puffery—have mentioned with mind-numbing consistency, this humble “weblog” has just turned three years old. Naturally, this e-coming-of-age, if you will, has been on the lips of sundry Internet devotees. For a few short days, perhaps, Americans have stopped talking about Anna Nicole Smith and started cheering on the crack young staff.

And, of course, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” fully support their efforts. Quite frankly, we enjoy very few things more than mindless lauds and plaudits directed our way. Actually, after careful review, we only enjoy one thing more--pudding.

Naturally, then, we did our part to encourage numerous e-eminences to join the umpteen people singing our praises. That is to say, dear reader, on Saturday night we hosted the Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Three-Year Anniversary Party. It was, as you might imagine, quite a fete.

Now, before you head over to all the gossip “weblogs” in search of photographs from the party showing a scantily clad, inebriated Karl Rove doing his Sammy Davis Jr. impression (which is, we should add, impressive), you might just want to hear our take on the soiree. If we must say so ourselves—and it currently appears as if we must—it was the bash of the millennium. Granted, the millennium isn’t that old yet, but let’s not get all technical, shall we?

As you can well imagine, dear reader, the guest list included a veritable cornucopia of “weblogging” greats. Both of the beloved llamas were present, offering gratuitous domestic “posts” to all and sundry. Mr. Misspent was in attendance, though curiously with a German translator, who merely repeated one’s sentences in a Col. Klink accent.

And we mustn’t forget Mr. and Mrs. P, who made the trip all the way from some God-forsaken Midwestern locale. They looked like the king and queen of the rustbelt.

Who, furthermore, can forget the Maximum Leader himself—a magnanimous lad who has played a large part in “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”’s survival? Ah, the bejeweled floppy cap looked mighty nice on the dance floor.

Let’s not forget, in addition, a dapper Basil Seal, a decidedly Cranky Neocon, gorgeous Sadie, delightful Dan Riehl, and some fellow who runs a “weblog” entirely devoted to monkeys.

Ah, we could go on all day. But you get the idea, dear reader. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are kind of like today’s version of Truman Capote.

Only not gay. And not really short. And without the funny voice or the talent for writing.

Other than that, spot on.

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April 02, 2007

Three Is a Magic Number, or Hooray for Us

Ah, the big, big day. It’s finally here. After waiting longer than a black guy at Denny’s, we have finally see our preternatural patience pay off.

If you don’t already know the news, dear reader, shame on you. Under what rock have you been living?

After all, today marks our resplendent three-year anniversary on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web. One serendipitous day in late March of 2004 (’04, we call it), we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” began this humble e-outfit. And the rest, as the women’s studies majors say, is herstory.

Oh, what a time it’s been. Just think of all the crazy high jinks we’ve pulled during our comparatively longish stint on the ole’ Internet. Just think of how many times we’ve used the words “high jinks.” It makes one positively misty-eyed, does it not?

Yeah, it’s been quite a run. We’ve unintelligently feuded with other unintelligent “webloggers.” We’ve strong-armed Glenn Reynolds into “linking” to our sordid musings. We’ve questioned the patriotism of tons and tons of our fellow Americans.

Heck, we’ve even done our part to change our Christian-centric calendar: Instead of the disgracefully un-ecumenical markers BC and AD, we’ve supported DBBNVSHL (The Days Before Bridget Newman’s Vagina Shaped Her Life) and DABNVSHL (The Days After Bridget Newman’s Vagina Shaped Her Life). A bit more longwinded, perhaps, but far less partisan.

And we’ve also stuck it to countless academic buffoons: Dana “Free Speech for Me But Not for Thee” Cloud and some weirdo called Medical Marijuana Barbie, to name but a few. Let’s not forget, furthermore, some of our less lasting ideas: A “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Advice Column, for instance. Perhaps we’ll have to restart that one.

Yes, sir: It’s been once gigantic slice of heaven with a dab of low-fat whipped cream. For good reason, then, our crack young interns are soon to set up the accoutrements for one killer office party. Our deep-pocketed financial backers must be proud.

And what can you, the humble reader of our glorious musings, expect in the upcoming fourth year of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”? First, more rhetorical questions. Second, more listings of things in order. Third, more listing of things in order. Fourth, more repetition.

Yet you should also expect a Fourth-Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition. And you’ll want to hang on tight for our Fourth-Annual Week of Loathing (which should begin any day now). In addition, you won’t want to miss out on the details of our bitchin’ Third Anniversary Party.

Further, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to stress that you’ll enjoy all these and sundry other delights for the same low price you’ve paid for years one through three. Sure, the cost of everything else might go up, but not our charming animadversions.

Yeah, we’re pretty good to you. And you’re pretty good to us too—reading our vapid effusions all these years. Oh, just think of all the mindless palaver to look forward to in the year to come. You lucky devil.

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