Breaking News: Incriminating Dan Rather Documents Unearthed
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t under the delusion that our humble “weblog” is home to all kinds of “breaking news.” Usually, by the time we have covered a story, it’s older than Cher. In fact, just last week we discussed William the Conqueror’s stunning victory in the Battle of Hastings.
We would like to think that “breaking news” is a sordid branch of journalism: Watching a couple of rival networks hasten to beat one another to the story is surely a lowly endeavor. We think it rather beneath us.
On an entirely unrelated note, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” have just received an exclusive scoop that will make all the other media outlets green with envy.
A source whom we would not like to identify has faxed some documents to the offices of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” These documents pertain to the journalistic integrity of CBS’ much maligned news anchor, Dan Rather
Our source—let’s just call them “ABC”—has selflessly sent us copies of extremely incriminating documents that were produced in 1982. We aren’t entirely sure why “ABC” would send these memos to us, but we can’t figure how they would gain from their media exposure. At least that’s what Joe Lockhart told us.
Anyway, the memos in question were penned by a former executive at CBS News named Rufus Leaking. Mr. Leaking wrote the memos in question to Joe King, who was then the CEO of CBS. The letters detail the disgraceful gullibility and low-quality muckraking of Mr. Rather.
The crack young staff may or may not have employed a dutiful team of experts to ensure the authenticity of the documents in question. This team of experts may or may not have poured over the memos, and may or may not have concluded that they are perfectly authentic. There’s nary an anachronism or peculiarity to be found.
So, dear reader, enough with the preamble. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are happy as knickers to present:
An Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Exclusive: Mr. Rufus Leaking’s 1982 Letter to CBS CEO Joe King Regarding the Journalistic Integrity of Dan Rather:
February 30, 1982
From: Rufus Leaking, Senior Vice President of Junior Vice Presidents
To: Joe King, CEO of CBS
Re: Dan “CYA” Rather
My wife and I had a wonderful time with you last night at the Cheesecake Factory. I am so glad that it has been in business for so long. My wife and I tend to go there before every Charlotte Hornets game.
But I digress. I am writing this memo to discuss the appalling gullibility of our anchorman, Dan Rather. By making the charges that you will read below, I am in no way attempting to give firepower to our rival networks, which could run with the story of our anchorman’s blatant incompetence. If that were to happen, I would be as upset as Ben Affleck when he broke up with J-Lo.
Dan Rather is a blithering idiot. The difference between him and a bucket of garbage is the bucket. He’s dumber than a coffee Coolatta from Dunkin’ Doughnuts.
In addition, Dan is miserably biased. Why, just last week, he totally tilted that story about the War in Kossovo. It was a disgrace.
If I were the average television viewer—which I am not—I would never tune in to Dan Rather’s newscasts. Rather, I would watch the wonderful coverage of ABC. That network is the greatest. Man, I love Monday Night Football.
Well, dear reader, there you have it: Breaking news from the crack young staff. Clearly, this story is going to serve as a stepping-stone to fame and fortune. Why, just a few minutes ago, ABC and NBC offered to interview one of our correspondents for their prime-time shows!
The Democrats vs. the Nazis
As we tread ever closer to the presidential election in November, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have noticed that some folks have become increasingly outlandish in their polemical rhetoric. In a last-ditch attempt to fire up those elusive undecided voters, die-hard Republicans and Democrats appear to have turned up the heat on their political grousing.
The plucky correspondents from our Chapel Hill (NC) office sent us a perfect example of the kind of overwrought carping that we are discussing. One Anthony Dimarzio of Raleigh (NC) wrote a letter
in the September 15 number of The Independent
, a Triangle-based rag that offers its readers movie reviews, ‘phone sex advertisements, and left-wing screeds.
Mr. Dimarzio’s missive beautifully captures the essence of contemporary political discourse in these here United States of America. We have provided his words below, along with our own running commentary. Feel free to hum “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” whilst you read his purple prose.
The Republican convention…showed the world what the Republican Party is all about: fear, lies and hate.
Come on, Mr. Dimarzio: The whole world did not catch a glimpse of the evil that is the Republican Party. Many nations—like Chad, for example—probably didn’t have television coverage of the event. As a result, only some of us were lucky enough to take in the fear, lies, and hate that is the contemporary Republican Party.
When not trying to scare us with terrorism, they lied about their opponents, questioned the patriotism of others, and preached openly about denying homosexuals equal rights.
Mr. Dimarzio has a few good points here: Terrorism isn’t scary on its own; it requires those dastardly Republicans to make it frightening. Reasonably enough, Mr. Dimarzio appears to be a member of the George-Bush-Is-More-Terrifying-than-Osama-Bin-Laden crowd.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t recall the Republicans ever questioning “the patriotism of others.” In fact, we are inclined to believe that this is something of a canard. Still, Mr. Dimarzio doesn’t make clear whom the Republicans have excoriated for their insufficient jingoism: Are they Americans? Or from Papua New Guinea? Alas, the enigmatic Mr. Dimarzio never tells us. Surely someone somewhere in the world is guilty of insufficient patriotic fervor?
Inequality, super-nationalism and misinformation should not be the hallmark of our ruling parties.
We must admit that we’re inclined to agree with Mr. Dimarzio here. In fact, we believe that these qualities shouldn’t even be a hallmark of our political
parties, let alone our ruling
parties. In fact, we have the suspicion that Mr. Dimarzio has an odd understanding of our country’s political system. But we wouldn’t want to be accused of “super-nationalism,” so we’ll stop our argument right there. (In any case, what is “super-nationalism”? Perhaps it’s just regular nationalism when practiced by superheroes. Like Captain America—that fascist.)
The Republican delegates themselves were a large body of wild-eyed emotional people. The delegates were crying, screaming, afraid and worshipful of the President as if he were the Golden Calf.
We are glad that Mr. Dimarzio, unlike those wild-eyed Republican delegates, is a paragon of self-restraint, as you can tell from his even-keeled letter.
Also, we were under the distinct impression that the President was
the Golden Calf. If this isn’t so, perhaps we’ll vote for that other guy. You know, the guy who has all of Jay Leno’s good looks, without any of that irritating charm.
When a few people in the crowd voiced dissent, they were attacked and dragged out of the building, in a fashion similar to 1933 Berlin. All the while, the Republican politicians smiled and the crowd chanted, “Four More Years!”
As an example of Mr. Dimarzio’s even-handed, dispassionate political analysis, he has made the obligatory comparison between the Republican Party and the Nazi Party. Well done, Mr. Dimarzio; thanks for showing us how cool, calm, and collected you are.
If these people are allowed to control this government for four more years, what we will be left with in 2009 would barely resemble what we had in 2000.
Oh, come on: Most of the buildings would still be the same. And the country would still be home to chuckleheads such as yourself.
We would be thrust into an Orwellian nightmare that would do a disservice to those who gave their lives for our freedom.
Don’t you think it would be better for Mr. Dimarzio to say that “we would be thrust
into a Freudian
nightmare”? Or, even better, that “he
would be thrust into a Freudian nightmare”? After all, we think that the thrusting is all his. And shoot us if we’re wrong, but we feel as if this last line about “freedom” is a pathetic attempt to call the political opposition insufficiently “super-nationalist.” To which lines of argument, we thought, Mr. Dimarzio was steadfastly opposed.
The founding fathers knew that if America were to be ruined, it would be so from internal sources. Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have found those internal sources.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: So, Mr. Dimarzio, for whom are you voting in the upcoming election? Your unemotional appeal was too level-headed for us, and we can’t figure it out.
Mark Morford, the Tattooed Love-Monkey
In a recent post
, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” expatiated on the irritating character of college students who pen op-eds for their school papers that are—literally and figuratively—sophomoric.
As a result of this mighty fine post, we received an e-mail from one of our dutiful regular readers. This gentleman inquired whether we had ever heard of Mark Morford, a “professional” op-ed writer for SFGate.com
, the World-Wide Web version of The San Francisco Chronicle
. According to this reader, Mr. Morford has composed some of the most ridiculous rants in the history of literacy.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had to admit that we had never heard of this fellow. We seem to recall a classics professor named Mark Morford, but obviously the op-ed writer was a different guy altogether.
But we were intrigued. And we were even more intrigued when we read Mr. Morford’s bio
Mark Morford is a columnist and editor for sfgate.com. He is also a yoga teacher and fiction writer and an outstanding parallel parker and fervent wine devotee and former smoker and former LA rock-god wannabe and careful insinuator and occasional unfair mudslinger and frequent skeptic and sporadic true believer and paradoxical contrarian and tattooed love-monkey and vehement non-conservative and casual coffee drinker and ardent dog lover and medium sleeper and comparison shopper and funky subtle prurient neo-pagan gleaner of screaming delicious naked nuances.
Wow. Is there anything that Mark Morford isn’t
? Well, other than frequent employer of commas: Mr. Morford may have mastered parallel parking, but he hasn’t quite demonstrated great proficiency in the realm of punctuation. In addition, we wondered what the heck a “subtle prurient [sic] neo-pagan gleaner of screaming delicious [sic] naked [sic] nuances” is. Perhaps that just means “idiot.”
And, if there were any lingering doubts about the stupidity of Mr. Morford, his column “Love Masochism? Vote BushCo!
” should surely remove them.
In short, the mentally-challenged Mr. Morford argues that America may need four more years of a Bush Presidency (which he astutely labels years of “painful and cheerless BushCo-branded tyranny and misprison [sic]”). Our country, according to Mr. Morford, could require sixteen more years of the greatly redundant evil that he has deemed “neoconservative right-wing hate.”
Why would the deliciously clothed un-conservative Morford wish such horrors upon America? Is he—dare we say it?—insufficiently patriotic?
As John Kerry might say, mais non
. Mr. Morford offers a different—if rather more obscure—rationale:
it will be necessary because the moral and spiritual and physical hemispheres of our existence will quickly become so dire and toxic and the nation’s socioeconomic situation will become so extreme and desperate that maybe, just maybe, we will finally learn something.
Oh, dear. Can’t you picture this scenario, dear reader? Sixteen years from now, myriad voters jump up from their Lay-Z-Boy chairs and declare to their wives: “The moral and spiritual and physical hemisphere of our existence has quickly become so dire that I just gotta’ vote Democrat.”
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Morford, yoga teacher par excellence, has somehow twisted his mind into a pretzel.
But wait, as they say in the infomercials, there’s more. Savor this learned sentence, dear reader:
If Kerry wins now, the nation won’t have suffered enough, won’t have traveled far enough down the road of right-wing egotism and misogyny and homophobia and religious self-righteousness and deficit mauling and sanctimonious ideology and mangled grammar to really learn anything….
“Mangled grammar to really learn anything”? Oh, come on, Mr. Morford: That’s a split infinitive. Anyone as vehemently non-conservative as you (tattooed love-monkey or not) should realize that. Or did the right-wing and conservative and traditionalist and reactionary and neo-conservative and paleo-conservative folk get to you again?
Some Insightful Political Commentary Regarding Actor Alec Baldwin
A few weeks ago, dear reader, the Official Staff Television of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” was tuned to “The Daily Show,” John Stewart’s half-hour infomercial for the Democratic Party. The particular episode of this program we saw featured an interview with Alec Baldwin, one of the 58 brothers (at last count) of the noble Baldwin line. (Baldwins, it seems, are the white Wayans. The great white Wayans, indeed.)
As our regular readers can surely attest, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are known for our deeply serious discussions of intricate political matters. And, we hasten to add, some cheap yuks. As a result, upon viewing Mr. Baldwin on our television screen, we decided to reflect on his ideological stances.
Some readers may be saying to themselves: Alec Baldwin is stupider than a sheet of balsa wood; his “thoughts” don’t warrant earnest and sensitive reflection. To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Stop talking to yourselves. You’re coming across as a bunch of freaks.
We can understand this stance, however. Alec Baldwin—who was rumored to announce that he would flee our country if George W. Bush won the 2000 election—has the kind of political views that Hollywood types consider “cosmopolitan,” but most part-time forklift operators deem “arrant persiflage.”
Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that if we don’t question the beliefs of Alec Baldwin, then the terrorists win. We’re not exactly sure how this works out logically, but we feel it’s as sensible as deflecting any and all criticism with claims that one’s opponents are unfairly charging you with being unpatriotic.
Without further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to offer our deadly serious reflections on the political thought of Alec Baldwin:
Boy, Alec Baldwin is fat. He may have been a sex symbol back in 1876, but nowadays he looks like a stunt double for Michael Moore.
In fact, we’d wager that the people most affected by Baldwin’s potential departure from America upon the reelection of George W. Bush would be the management of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. And The Cheescake Factory—he’d definitely ruin them.
Alec Baldwin looks like a 400-pound homeless version of Pat Riley. He resembles a haggard Dom DeLouise with some hair tonic. In short, he’s enormous. If everyone else were Alec Baldwin’s size, John Edwards would have to change his famous “Two Americas” speech to “Four Americas.”
Well, dear reader, those are our careful thoughts on Alec Baldwin. Perhaps next week we’ll tackle Billy Baldwin. Which, come to think of it, would be a lot easier than tackling Alec. Because he’s so fat.
Banish Him for His Verses
There has recently been some hullabaloo over the decision to deny one Yusuf Islam entry into these here United States of America.
Surely someone who touts the last name “Islam” is no threat to our country; after all, as we all well know, Islam is a religion of piece—a piece-by-piece conquest of the world of infidels.
Yet there is more to this humble story than meets the eye. As many of our readers will begrudgingly admit to knowing, Yusuf Islam is the “peaceful” new name of whilom folk impresario Cat Stevens
. As such, the United States government has banned Cat Stevens. (Gosh, that may be the most wonderful sentence that the crack young staff has ever typed!)
As has been reported in the mainstream press—the kind of outfits run by characters who don’t wear pajamas when they’re editing—the “peaceful” Mr. Islam has been denied entry in part because he gave thousands of dollars to the terrorist group Hamas.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Oh, come on! We’ve been attempting to keep Cat Stevens out of this country for decades—but not because his “peaceful” daily regimen requires that he send his funds to brutal terrorists. On the contrary: What professor at the University of South Florida hasn’t
given all sorts of cash to terrorists?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” demanded Cat Stevens’ banishment from the United States on the grounds that his “music” is a weapon of mass destruction.
We can already hear the din of some of our readers: Cat Stevens may have been a lackluster, gossamer singer-songwriter, but he surely hasn’t produced the musical equivalent of ricin. To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” reply: Have you ever heard “Peace Train”? That tune is so feculent that we figured he changed his name to Yusuf Islam merely to stop a barrage of “Peace Train” hate mail. Sure, we wouldn’t have picked “Yusuf Islam” as our new name. But, had we penned anything as mordantly atrocious as “Peace Train,” we’d change our names too—and right quickly.
And this gets us to the raison d’etre
of today’s humble post. The United States’ government has done much to aid its citizens’ well being by compelling Cat Stevens to head back to Syria, or whatever “peaceful” place he currently inhabits. Now no American will be exposed to horrid renditions of “Moon Shadow.”
But this is just a start. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly exhort bipartisan support of a new piece of legislation:
The Banishment of Rancid Singer-Songwriters Act:
Whereby the United States has been attacked by the abysmal tunes of Billy Joel; whereby it has been tortured by the putrid lyrics of Elton John; whereby it has been bombarded by the loathsome dross of Carly Simon; whereby it has been assailed by the evils of Phil Collins; the Congress of the United States of America hereby bans the presence of abominable singer-songwriters from our great country.
Look out, Peter Frampton: We’re coming for you next.
Where’s the Medicine?
Recently, one of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—felt as if he were coming down with a bad case of strep throat. (As opposed, we suppose, to a good case of strep throat.)
Accordingly, “Chip” took a sick day and headed to his local nurse-practitioner. Naturally, just like any other American, “Chip” would have preferred to see a doctor. But somehow, due to the vicissitudes of “Chip’s” HMO, his neighborhood medical establishment was doctorless. In fact, one couldn’t even buy Dr. Pepper
at its vending machines.
After a few minutes of being coaxed by the staff, “Chip” agreed to wait for a nurse. And wait he did. He sat in the waiting room for so long that he felt as if he were attempting to secure a private meeting with the Pope. Or Mickey Rourke.
For the first hour of “Chip’s” long stay in medical purgatory, the office staff continually called fellow patients who had arrived far later than he. It was as if “Chip,” like John Kerry, were somehow invisible.
Finally, however, “Chip’s” number was up, and he headed to the nurse with fevered anticipation.
Luckily, “Chip’s” nurse did not speak English, which greatly facilitated communication. After offering some incomprehensible commentary in pidgin Mandarin, the nurse appears to have informed “Chip” that all he needed was…packets of salt.
That’s right, dear reader, packets of salt. Not a strep test, but packets of salt. Naturally, this led “Chip” to believe that his local health center was in sync with all the latest medical breakthroughs—in Papua New Guinea. After all, one can get salt packets—along with sundry other life-saving condiments—at your local fast-food restaurant.
Does this mean that McDonald’s is actually on the cutting edge of medical techonology?
Op-Eds by College Kids
The regular reader of our humble “weblog” must know that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are often irked by the pertinacious character of many a college student. Whether it’s abysmal feminist poetry or lackluster classroom pontification, it never fails to rankle.
But there is one particular forum for college students that bothers us more than all the others: The op-ed in the student newspaper.
You know what we are talking about, dear reader: Each campus maintains its own student-run rag that offers shockingly poor quality articles on various local, national, and international events. Usually, the “reporters” for these outfits stick to sundry campus issues: The latest date rape drugs; the latest “Take Back the Mid-Afternoon” Rally; &c.
Yet the tyros who sign up to pose as op-eders never confine themselves to such quotidian fare. On the contrary: They enjoy waxing ignorant on a gamut of important issues of the day.
Naturally, these young tykes are delusional: They appear to believe that the entire world will change its mind on the liberation of Iraq if some 19-year-old offers a few incoherent ramblings on the subject.
Oh, sure: We are all
dying to know what a guy who spends half of his free time smoking pot and playing video games thinks about international affairs. Enlighten us, oh wise 20-year-old.
As if this weren’t bad enough, the op-eds in question are normally edited by a passel of pimply teenagers who haven’t even the slightest acquaintance with grammar. They’ve spent their entire youths immersed in “student-centered learning,” and thus have a working knowledge of the English language roughly equivalent to that of a snail.
As such, the collegiate op-eder amazes his readership with headlines such as: “The Killing in Iraq: Whose to Blame?”; “Israel and Other Anti-Semitics”; &c.
As far as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are concerned, college students shouldn’t be allowed to offer their opinions—on anything. Well, perhaps on keg stands.
Swift Votes for Kerry
Recently, dear reader, we here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” got a ‘phone call from John Kerry for President Headquarters. It seems as if our humble “weblog” has grown in popularity in such leaps and bounds that it caught the eye of the Democratic contender for the President of the United States of America. (Hard to believe, isn’t it? Well, that’s the premise of today’s post, so you might as well start “suspending disbelief” now, or you aren’t going to enjoy what follows. Spoilsport.)
A member of Kerry’s campaign staff informed us that we could help assure John Kerry’s victory in November. To be honest, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” weren’t that enthusiastic about this prospect. We have a tough time rallying behind a candidate who makes Al Gore seem like Jim Carey. As such, this Kerry staffer decided to sweeten the deal: He offered us a fairly sizeable sum in order to help strategize for the Democrats’ campaign.
Although we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are already pulling in the big bucks (without any “Whammies”) from our new “blogspot.com” advertisements, we figured that a little extra cash wouldn’t hurt. Accordingly, we informed this humble Kerry staff member—let’s just call him “George Soros”—that we would be pleased as punch to help out. We, the crack young staff, were reporting for duty.
Immediately after agreeing to hop on board the Kerry Broken Rickshaw to Victory, we got our first assignment: Come up with a new way to ensure that undecided voters go to the polls and plump for Mr. Kerry.
Frankly, it seemed a rather daunting task. We figured that by this time in the campaign Mr. Kerry’s team would have come up with his own campaign to woo undecideds. After all, Mr. Kerry has voted both for and against pretty much every important piece of legislation of the last 19 years; surely the Kerry Camp can find some way to spin this?
Apparently not. As such, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had to think long and hard about a strategy for Mr. Kerry.
After much frettin’ and a-fussin’, we think we landed on just the thing.
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Strategy for John Kerry: “With Your Help, I Can Be President of the United States—Just Tell Me What To Say!”
Our entreaty to the public takes the shape of a 60-second television spot featuring Mr. John Kerry himself. After offering a few photographs showing the candidate kissing hands and shaking babies, the ad gets down to brass tacks: Mr. Kerry, clad in a blue button-down shirt and a gray pair of slacks, sits atop John Edwards and delivers a direct appeal to the viewing audience:
My name is John Kerry, and I am running for the President of the United States of America. With your help, we can beat George W. Bush and his fellow draft-dodging chicken hawks—like Colin Powell.
This President has been reckless in his deployment of American troops. If I were Commander-in-Chief, I may or may not have liberated Iraq. I’m still ironing that out with a focus group. But I can promise to you that I would have second- and third-guessed myself at least fifty times by now.
Unlike George W. Bush, when I make a decision, I either stand behind it or I do not. Sometimes I do both.
And this gets me to the heart of my message: I really, really want to be President, but I have no idea how to get you to vote for me. So, just tell me what to say, and I’ll say it.
I don’t mean to sound desperate, but my campaign is starting to get that musty Michael Dukakis smell. And I’ve always wanted to be President. I swear. Honest to God. I figured I was pretty much bred and born for the job.
In fact, if it helps at all, the following people strongly support my candidacy: Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Yasir Arafat, and the Mad Mullahs of Iran. Jimmy Carter says those are some pretty nice folks. One of them even won the Nobel Piece of Israel Prize.
So, America, I urge you to tell me what to say. I’ll say it, I promise you.
We’re the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” and we approve of this message.
In This Business, You’re Only as Good as Your Last Post…and This One Sucks
Every once in a great while, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have a monthly staff meeting. Come to think, it occurs about once a month.
Anyway, at the latest employee assembly, we collectively reflected upon the wild, wonderful ride that “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has been these well nigh six months.
Since our first day of “weblogging,” we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have experienced some great joys. We witnessed the birth of “Chip,” the first child of one of our senior editor’s children. (If the government can ever track down “Chip’s” father, our senior editor is in for some hefty child support.)
And we have seen our humble “weblog” grow. In these past months, we have had such fancy readers as James Taranto of The Wall Street Journal
, Brit Hume of Fox News
, Stefan Beck of The New Criterion
, and Harry Siegel of New Partisan
. And, we hasten to add, the countless other less impressive characters who flock to our “website” like flies to feces. We love you all dearly.
Still, in the midst of our Little Riverband-esque reminiscing, we couldn’t help but ponder some of the patent disgraces in the life of a “weblog.”
Most importantly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” collectively realized that, in this business, you’re only as good as your last post. You might have knocked ‘em dead with a mordantly witty expatiation on Gillette
. You might have tickled them pink with an uproarious patriotism quiz
. And you might have briefly touched the heavens with your own horrible college student poetry contest
But all of these choice tidbits are tucked away in your musty e-archives, and are seldom visited by all but the most intrepid of fans.
As a result, each day’s post must simply be a zinger. If not, soon enough you’ll find that you are about as popular as Adrian Zmed.
And frankly, dear reader, sometimes we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t particularly inspired. Sometimes we are not, as they say in this line of work, feeling our Muse. Sometimes we aren’t, as they do not say in this line of work, in the Zone.
As a result, every once in a while, even the crack young staff comes across as slightly less than crack. We know, we know: It’s hard to believe. But it happens to the best of us.
And what, you may be asking yourself, do we do on such days? Well, we tend to pen a navel-gazing post in which few will find anything of note. In fact, we think we just did that.
A Victory in the War on Terrorism
As our regular readers no doubt realize, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t tend to spend much time on so-called “breaking news.” We prefer to leave such quotidian journalistic work to The New York Post
, The Daily Mirror
, and other reputable news sources.
Recently, however, a correspondent from our Dohar, Qatar office sent us a report that we simply couldn’t ignore. (On a totally unrelated note, remember when newscasters used to pronounce the word “Qatar” as if it rhymed with “guitar”? What wonderful times those were! These days, when a journalist says “Qatar,” one gets the sense that he just belched.)
Sure, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” fancy ourselves opinion journalists—journalists who have the integrity to disregard such trivial matters as “facts” when it suits our arguments. But this time, we figured that the following briefing was so integral to the War on Terrorism that we had to let our sundry readers in on it.
Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have simply copied our Dohar correspondent’s report and present it to you as today’s edition of our humble “weblog.” This way, you get the news directly from the source, and we can take a longer lunch break. We all can win.
Without further ado, then, we blithely present:
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Staff Report from Dohar, Qatar
DOHAR (Qatar) – In what American authorities are claiming as a major victory in the War on Terrorism, Muhammad al-Bulushi, a 28-year-old man from the sandy suburbs of Dohar, has just stubbed his toe, and blames himself.
This marks the first time in modern history that a man from a Muslim country has suffered some malady that he has not traced back to the machinations of either Israel or the United States.
Al-Bulushi, who spoke to reporters with a heavily bandaged left-foot, said “It was really my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and I bumped into that parked Mercedes. It was foolish of me.”
Although heavily pressed by Arab media outlets to blame this toe-stubbing on “evil Zionist forces,” al-Bulushi refused. “Sure,” he said, “I hate those covetous Jewish oppressors as much as the next guy, but this time it clearly wasn’t their fault. I should have been more careful.”
Michael Smith, the Under-under Secretary of Defense for the Bush Administration hailed this as a major breakthrough. “For once, a Muslim has taken accountability for his own actions,” he claimed. “This is a great day for America and a great day for those who want to put an end to terrorism.”
Al-Bulushi, however, didn’t appear to agree entirely with Smith’s assessment. “I still detest the evil United States of America,” he said. “In fact, I blame America for my tennis elbow. And I blame Jews for my rickets.”
We’d Rather Talk About Something Else
Trolling ‘round the World-Wide Web recently, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” couldn’t help but notice that all—we repeat all
--of our fellow “webloggers” are pontificating about the Dan Rather and the Phony Documents Story.
If you don’t believe us, dear reader, just type in the URL of your favorite “weblog.” Regardless of this “weblog’s” focus—be it politics, or cooking, or animal husbandry—it will offer its author’s take on what has recently been labeled Rathergate.
Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” the only people who don’t care about this story anymore?
After all, let’s recap what Rathergate has taught us: 1) “60 Minutes” is home to some shoddy reporting; 2) Dan Rather is a leftist who is out to get George W. Bush. Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” the only people who already knew both of these things
Don’t get us wrong, dear reader: The Rathergate tale is an entertaining one, full of journalistic mendacity and idiocy. But we have figured that enough is enough.
In fact, one of our investigative reporters—let’s just call him “Chip”—interviewed Cara Smith, a “weblogger” whose “website,” premiumfish.blogspot.com, is home to all kinds of aquatic advice. The following exchange, culled from this lengthy correspondence, demonstrates our point beautifully, if we must say so ourselves:
: So, you run a “website” that is devoted to the purchasing and enjoyment of pet fish?
: Dan Rather.
: Excuse me?
: Microsoft word.
: Do you or do you not run this kind of “website”?
The superscript “th” was the real giveaway.
: (frustrated) Okay. Okay. Let me try another line of attack. How much time should a fish owner spend with his fish each week?
: “60 Minutes.”
: Finally you answer one of my questions!
We Sing of Terrorists and “Dialogue”
Recently, a correspondent from our Durham (NC) office sent us word about a brouhaha that is erupting on the campus of Duke University. It appears as if Duke is the happy host of the Fourth Annual Palestine Solidarity Movement Conference
, which will occur in October.
The Palestine Solidarity Movement (PSM), for those of our readership who aren’t acquainted with this upstanding organization, is the student arm of the International Solidarity Movement (ISM), a pro-terrorist outfit that attempts to bring foreign students into Israel so that they can block Israeli measures to stop suicide bombers, in hopes that said students will die, and generate lots of publicity for the ISM and the Palestinian cause.
A rather savory bunch, n’est pas
? Well, one might think so, if one listened merely to the administration of Duke University. Although critics have reasonably claimed that the PSM conference will serve as a breeding ground for anti-Semitism and incitements to violence, the aptly named president of Duke University, Dick Brodhead, believes that the conference will bring “education through dialogue.”
Just what kind of “dialogue” can the kids at Duke expect from the conference? A student group called the Duke Conservative Union
has answered this question with an advertisement
in the Duke daily newspaper, The Chronicle
This advertisement reveals, among other alarming things, that former PSM lecturer Hatem Bazian stated that
in the Hadith, the Day of Judgment will never happen until you fight the Jews. They are on the west side of the river, which is the Jordan River, and you’re on the east side until the trees and the stones will say, oh Muslim, there is a Jew hiding behind me. Come and kill him!
A fine bit of “dialogue,” indeed! What a great educational opportunity this conference will offer! Kudos to the aptly named Dick Brodhead for his great powers of educational discrimination! If we were a bit more cynical, we’d suggest that the aptly named Dick Brodhead was more concerned with the Saudi funding given to his university than any prattle about “education through dialogue.”
But wait, dear reader: It gets even more ridiculous. The Chronicle
, in an article
on the brouhaha, offers the PSM defense of the conference. One Fayyad Sbaihat, who has the illustrious post of national spokesperson for the PSM, opines that the quotations found in the Duke Conservative Union advertisement are “taken out of context.”
This led us to wonder: In exactly what context could “oh Muslim, there is a Jew hiding behind me. Come and kill him” be placed and cease to seem, well, rather insidious? We can think of only one: “It would be really stupid to say: oh Muslim, there is a Jew hiding behind me. Come and kill him!”
If this is the level of “dialogue” that the PSM will bring to Duke’s campus (when it is not inciting terrorist violence), it seems to us as if the aptly named Dick Brodhead, like Lucy, has a lot of ‘splainin’ to do.
Issues with Women’s Studies
Recently, one of the (literally) hundreds of readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” sent us an e-mail that was chock-a-block with praise for our recent post
concerning the ridiculousness of academic paper titles.
This reader—let’s just call him Morton Fish of Topeka (KA)—informed us that our hilarious musings helped him recall a foolish syllabus he’d seen. In a spirit of great generosity, Morton sent us a link to the syllabus in question, which is from the Women’s Studies Department at Northern Arizona University
Immediately, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were intrigued. One of our junior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—was particularly captivated, since he had recently received his cooking certificate from Northern Arizona University, and thus fondly recalls the three weeks of educational bliss he enjoyed at that fine institution of higher learning.
In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are going to go out on a limb and declare that Northern Arizona University is far superior to Southern Arizona University. And don’t even mention Southwestern Arizona State: That place is a garbage dump.
But we digress. The syllabus
that our faithful reader sent to us comes from a class numbered Women’s Studies 394. The instructor of this dauntingly high-level class, Naomi J. Pinion, offers the interesting course title “Issues in Women’s Studies: Queer Studies.”
Very queer, isn’t it? But don’t worry, dear reader. The very first sentence of Ms. Pinion’s course description lets the student(s) in on the nature of the class:
This interdisciplinary course is designed to introduce students to the academic field of Lesbian and Gay Studies.
Aha! It is peculiar that Ms. Pinion had to inform us that the course concerned the “academic field of Lesbian and Gay Studies.” What other kind of field could she mean? Strawberry field? It seems as if Ms. Pinion fears that some might not perceive “Lesbian and Gay Studies” to be a subject of academic inquiry.
But have no fear, dear reader: Ms. Pinion’s course description makes crystal clear how serious this class is:
By examining the lives, contributions, and concerns of gay and lesbian people, students will gain a greater appreciation for the diverse world in which we all live, and move on to foster a more tolerant and accepting society.
serious, n’est pas
? It’s somewhere between a university course and an exercise in radical politics—just the sort of thing we have come to expect from our friends in Women’s Studies. We’re sure that Ms. Pinion’s course will present the views of fundamentalist Christians, orthodox Jews, and Muslims on homosexuality in a dispassionate light; after all, these are some of the groups that make our world so “diverse.”
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: What kinds of learned tomes must one read in WST 394?
Well, for starters there’s Anne Fausto-Sterling’s fair-minded Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality
. Those in Ms. Pinion’s class will be exposed to (if you’ll pardon the pun) such important chapters of this work as “Of Gender and Genitals.”
And then there’s Martin Duberman’s A Queer World: The Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies Reader
, one of whose chapters asks the fundamental question “Are Modern Western Lesbian Women and Gay Men a Third Gender?”
Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t claim to be experts on Women’s Studies, but we think we have the answer to that question: No.
Yet this is not the only awe-inspiring portion of the book. Ms. Pinion informs us that her students will read “Creating Good-Looking Genitals in the Service of Gender.” My, that does
Still, we think that Mr. Duberman could have chosen a more appropriately academic title for this chapter. After all, in the world of the radical professorate, a silly title is king. (Or, we suppose, queen.) How about “Creating Good-Looking Genitals in the Cervix of Gender”?
Now that’s more like it.
The Gray Lady’s Stray Lady
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think it is foolish for our friends on the political Right to maintain that Al Franken isn’t funny. Sure, his radio program seems to be about as popular as genital warts; still, the guy can tell a joke. Mr. Franken may not be the darling of the American Right, but he’s a clever, entertaining fellow.
The same can be said, we think, about John Stewart, the diminutive host of Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show,” a program that has recently morphed from a current events spoof to a daily infomercial for the Democratic Party. To be sure, Mr. Stewart knows about as much about politics as the average water ski. But, we hasten to add, he’s funny.
As far as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are concerned, humor is the savings grace of many of our left-wing friends.
And this led us to wonder: Is Maureen Dowd
, surely the most puzzling member of The New York Times
op-ed page, a humorist? Is she attempting to be funny, or do her columns simply read as if she has, like the Islamic Jihad, dropped some horrid bombs?
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: The crack young staff is oh-so-subtly criticizing Ms. Dowd, a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner. To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Not so, not so.
We just collectively don’t get it. Her columns are so jejune that they compel us to conclude that she is a struggling (and failing) humorist. After all, how feeble a columnist do you have to be in order to suggest that the current president of the United States is the “Manichaean candidate”? Is Ms. Dowd attempting to be tongue-in-cheek? Or just foot-in-rectum?
Alas, dear reader, Ms. Dowd’s articles are chock-a-block with such quasi-humorous rants. In a recent piece, she refers to Vice President Dick Cheney as the “king of hooey.” Um, Ms. Dowd, you write for the so-called Paper of Record: You’re going to have to do better than that. How about “his majesty of misinformation”? It may not be funny, but at least it has some alliteration going for it.
In fact, Ms. Dowd’s feeble calumniating has inspired us to undertake an Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Call for Gags for Maureen Dowd’s Columns. We hope that you, dear reader, will send us a few choice yuks, and then we can send them on to Ms. Dowd, so that she can spruce up her misguided rants with a couple of knee-slappers. That way, readers horrified by Ms. Dowd’s insinuation that the insidious neo-conservative cabal has taken our country to hell can at least delight in some clever jokes.
It’s all part of our “No Times Columnist Left Behind” effort. Tune in to our humble “weblog” for a future post devoted to an Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Fundraiser for Medication for Paul Krugman to Keep Him from Coming Unhinged.
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual Stupidest Lyric in Rock Music History Contest: And the Winner Is…
Well, dear reader, today’s the day. Your weeks of gut-wrenching anticipation are finally over. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are using today’s post to declare a winner of our First Annual Stupidest Lyric in Rock Music History Contest.
Before we begin the festivities, however, the Official Judges of the competition urged us to stress a few points. First, it became crystal clear to our Official Judges early on that our humble contest was not going to determine the actual worst lyric in rock music history. For, as we discovered from our numerous entries, there are as many horrid lines to rock songs as there are grains of sand in the Sahara. (Actually, that was kind of poetic.)
Accordingly, our humble contest was only going to determine the worst example of abominable verses we received. We know, we know: That isn’t exactly as exciting as finding the absolute worst lyric in rock music history. After receiving a barrage of entries, however, we’re not entirely sure that human beings can make such a determination. As a result, if you sent an entry to our contest and it wasn’t picked by our Official Judges, rest assured that your lyric was merely terrible, not inscrutably stupid.
And this leads us to another important portion of our Official Preamble. A “Stupidest Rock Lyric Contest” is much like a “Worst Nazi Contest”: Sure, you have to give the award to Hitler, but you feel mighty bad about letting Himmler slink away without any opprobrium. In a similar vein (or vain), we had to give the award to the most repellent lyric, but we feel wretched about letting some truly putrid verses go without heaps of scorn.
Also, we discovered that there are many varieties of awfulness. Sure, we could have learned this from attending different Andrew Lloyd-Webber musicals. But we figured it out by hosting this humble contest instead.
For instance, some song lyrics are atrocious essentially because they are cheesy. Take, for example, a few lines submitted to us by that masterfully cranky neocon
, Gordon. In addition to maintaining a “weblog” chock-a-block with insightful animadversions, Gordon has a keen eye for sub-par balladry. He sent us a few lines from “Feel Like Making Love
,” by the appropriately named Bad Company:
If I had the sun and the moon
I would give you both night and day
Feel like makin’
Feel like makin’ love
Feel like makin’ love to you
To be sure, in addition to being pure Velveeta, these lyrics are faintly ridiculous: The whole sun and the moon bit doesn’t even make sense. Still, our unflappable Official Judges figured that such atrocious lines could win a “First Annual Cheesiest Lyric Contest,” but aren’t truly abysmal enough to take the “Stupidest Lyric” cake.
Other entries struck our Official Judges as awful, but may make some semblance of sense to those of other cultures. Take, for example, Dallas Sipes’ entry: A verse from the Australian band Men at Work’s “Land Down Under
Traveling in a fried-out combie
On a hippie trail, head full of zombie
To our Yankee ears, that’s truly awful. What the heck does “head full of zombie” mean? But correspondents from our Sydney (Australia) office informed us that, in their home towns, these lines are paragons of clarity and refinement. Frankly, we didn’t buy it either. We suppose that anything is a paragon of refinement to a culture that esteems vegemite sandwiches.
With all of that (lengthy) contest throat-clearing out of the way, we can move on to the main event, the declaration of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual Stupidest Lyric in Rock Music History Contest winner. (Or is that loser?)
We received so many atrocious entries that we were compelled to offer a number of clunkers. Accordingly, we present you with the worst four:
Scott Pinkerton sent in a few lines from “Ventura Highway
,” performed by the rock group America:
’Cause the free wind is blowin’ through your hair
And the days surround your daylight there
Alligator lizards in the air, in the air
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: You lost us at “alligator.” Perhaps this
is what people mean when they say the whole world hates America. If they write a few more songs with lyrics this feculent, we’d move to Canada. But then, of course, we’d have to deal with Bryan Adams.
Brian Marrin sent a couplet from the Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me
Temptation, frustration, so bad it makes him cough.
Just like the old man in that book by Nabokov.
Oh, come on. That’s pathetic. For those of you playing the home game, neither temptation nor frustration can make you cough. Clearly, Sting wrote this solely in order to demonstrate to his dimwitted audience that he knows who Nabokov is (and knows how to pronounce his name incorrectly).
Lorenzo Anderraga sent us this putrid gem from “Close to the Edge
,” by Yes:
And rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace
Ah, yeah: That’s the stuff from which awful lyrics are made. Not only is this entirely nonsensical, it reeks of hippies. How many wine coolers do you have to imbibe to “rearrange your liver to the solid mental grace”? Or even the liquid
And now, dear reader, for the big winner.
The Official Winner of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual Stupidest Lyric in Rock Music History Contest:
, surely the greatest litterateur on the World Wide Web, sent us what must be one of the most catastrophically repellent verses in the history of rock music. It comes from the tune “Ugly
,” which was performed by the Stranglers:
I guess I shouldn’t have strangled her to death
But I had to go to work and she had laced my coffee with acid
Wow. Wow. Wow. That’s not just awful; it’s galactically wretched. That’s the kind of lyric that should ruin careers, if not lives. Even Charles Manson would find that to be in bad taste.
So, dear reader, kudos to Mr. Baldwin for his victory. If that isn’t the stupidest lyric in rock music history, we don’t want to know what is.
Blogger: You Get What You Pay For
The studious reader of our humble “weblog” may have noticed that yesterday’s post appeared very late in the afternoon. This should have come as a surprise to our rabid fans, as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are normally paragons of punctuality.
Accordingly, the “blogosphere’s” rumor mill was a-churnin’ yesterday: Correspondents from such classy gossip rags as People
and Vanity Fair
called our offices, wondering if there was some sort of staff shake-up. We spent most of the day fending off such questions as: Is there anyone on the staff who isn’t so crack? Is “Chip” going to get fired? If so, who will replace him?
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” replied: There has been no staff quarreling; there is no cause for alarm.
On the contrary: Our tardiness was entirely the fault of our lackluster sponsor, Blogger
. It appears as if the All Mighty Blogger decided to take a bit of a vacation yesterday, and, as a result, would not allow its “webloggers” to publish their posts. As such, the Official Technical Department of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” was pulling its collective hairs out attempting to remedy a problem that it had not caused.
After (literally) hours of in-house irritation, the lackluster slackers at Blogger got around to fixing their error, and our post appeared.
Still, this horrid performance on the part of our “web-sponsor” incited us to turn our attention to it in today’s post. A handful of readers have informed us that our humble “weblog,” hilarious as it is, hasn’t been as vituperative as usual in the past few weeks. In short, they wanted to know, “Where’s the Hate?”
Well, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to upset any of our readers, and we have nothing but scorn and contumely for our feculent “web-sponsor.”
Accordingly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are delighted to present:
The Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Lambasting of Blogger:
Have you ever, dear reader, desired to post your luminous animadversions on the World Wide Web, and want to make sure that absolutely no one
reads them? If so, try Blogger, the Internet’s answer to the Montreal Expos. Blogger is the World Wide Web’s version of the Titanic—except Blogger wasn’t even impressive to begin with. Blogger is the computer version of Walter Mondale’s ’84 presidential bid. It’s a disaster, from start to finish.
First, “webbloggers” who “own” their own “blogspot.com” address have the misfortune of wielding a “website” with an horrifically cumbersome title. Why doesn’t Blogger simply streamline things and come up with catchier URLs, such as http://www.crazy~fish/_essay_4639457490~1984Chevy
? That should really draw the readers in!
And we mustn’t forget the fact that Blogger is an Internet eyesore. It’s the computer equivalent of a Damien Hurst original; it’s the Internet’s Linda Tripp. We’d rather spend time staring at David Crosby naked than beholding Blogger’s aesthetic deficiencies.
In addition, we can’t forget Blogger’s commitment to service: After a few short years, its timely staff will solve whatever problem it caused.
To be sure, some might say to us: But Blogger is free. To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Sure, and forced sterilization is free in India—but we don’t recommend it.
An AK-47 or Baked Alaska—Which Is the Real Killer: The Associated Press Decides
Our friends on the political Right are always complaining about news organizations refusing to refer to certain groups as made up of “terrorists.” It seems as if many mainstream media outlets don’t want to alienate key portions of their readership and viewership by labeling, say, Al-Qaeda a “terrorist group.”
After all, who’s to say what a “terrorist” is, anyway? Just because you murder innocent civilians in cold blood doesn’t make you a bad person, does it? And isn’t that exactly what Halliburton is doing…or something?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” seem to have come upon the perfect illustration of the difficulties in labeling certain groups havens for “terrorists.” Our example? Two stories from that haven of respectability, the Associated Press
For those of our readers who don’t read much in the way of news, let us inform you that the Associated Press is just like Reuters
, only it isn’t written by Islamofascists.
According to the AP, it seems, the line between a “terrorist group” and an “activist group” is not very thin. On August 4, Gavin Rabinowtiz of the AP penned a story called “Palestinians Angered by Bombing,” in which various Palestinians were aghast that murderers of the Palestinian people might themselves be Palestinian. Who would conjure up such a crazy scenario?
In said story, Mr. Rabinowitz referred to the Al Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades as “a violent group.” Hmmm. A “violent group”? Well, we suppose that’s about as accurate as labeling Charlie Rose “a boring man.” Or Adolf Hitler “a demagogic politician.”
So, if the Al Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade is merely “a violent group,” what kinds of organizations are more insidious?
The answer to this question came from another AP story, this one composed by one David Crary. Discussing a passel of activists who are attempting to win acceptance for fat people, Mr. Crary refers to one Marilyn Wann as “a militant member of the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.”
Aha! So, let this be a lesson to those fine fellows in the Al Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades: If you really want to wreck havoc, you are going to have to lay down your machine guns and pick up a cruller.
Thither Went Our Dignity
For well nigh six months, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has been a labor of lust. Although we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have received generous financial remunerations from our sundry corporate backers, many of our staff members have yet to score six-figure incomes. To add insult to injury, some are indigent enough to drive to work in year-old Honda Civics. Without power windows.
No longer. As has been widely reported throughout the world of the “weblogs,” Blogger—the official care-provider for “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—has decided to inaugurate a new feature that will pay writers for their humble musings. “Websites” that feature a “blogspot.com” address can now host advertisements that will enrich the coffers of their authors.
Naturally, Blogger is offering this new bone to “webloggers” because a “blogspot.com” address—as we have remarked before—is the Internet equivalent of an apartment in downtown Detroit. To offer an analogy, “blogspot” is to “weblogs” what Mr. T is to acting.
In fact, some of our readers have no doubt wondered why “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” beacon of popularity that it is, would stay with the down-market pimp known as Blogger.
Well, dear readers, wonder no longer. In the inimitable—yet oft imitated—words of some B-List actor or other, “Show me the money!” Well, “Show us the money” is more like it, given the mammoth staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.”
We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: Now that the crack young staff is going to become rich and famous, will its “weblog” deteriorate in quality? Will it fail to present its readers with the intelligent exegesis they have come to love and respect? Will it become a receptacle of tired yuks?
That reminds us of a joke: What’s the difference between Michael Moore and a bucket of garbage? Answer: The bucket.
See, dear reader: You have nothing to fear. Not even, in the inimitable—yet oft imitated—words of some B-List president or other, fear itself. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” rabid bunch of sellouts that we are, would never allow our thirst for commercial gain to get in the way of our collective muse. (On a related note, Fig Newtons
aren’t just cookies; they’re fruit and cake.)
In the future, we shall continue to offer our precious animadversions. And occasionally dilate on the import of Cheerios to a well-balanced diet. Clearly, this is what those soulless fellows known as marketers call a “win-win situation.”
So sit back on your comfortable Lay-Z-Boy
chair, grab a handful of Slim Jims, and enjoy our luminous postings. And relax: “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is far too serious and forthright a publication to stoop to the level of tepid commercial jingles.
Thank you for your support.
Last Call for Submissions to “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual Stupidest Lyrics in Rock Music History Contest
Alright, dear reader, let’s get down to brass tacks. On September 9, 2004—a few short days away—we shall no longer be accepting entries to our highly touted First Annual Stupidest Lyrics in Rock Music History Contest (the announcement of which you can read here
Essentially, given the frequency of the contest, if you don’t get your submission to us in a few days, you will probably have to wait a year to enter. And that, as many a rock musician has said, would be a cryin’ shame.
As a result, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are again taking time out of our busy weekend schedule to drum up enthusiasm about our contest, and thus to exhort you to send in some abominably horrid lyrics.
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: It’s Labor Day weekend, and the crack young staff needs a break. Au contraire, friends: We need a break like Rob Reiner needs a piece of cheesecake.
Without further ado, then, we are content to serve up some wretched lyrics. Our Official Research Division worked around the clock (literally: The clock was on the floor) in order to come upon these gorgeous monstrosities.
First, here’s a lyric from a song by the king of cheesy elevator music, Paul Anka. This tune, which bears the off-putting title “(You’re) Having My Baby
,” has a lyric that goes a little something like this:
The need inside you, I see it showin’
Whoa, the seed inside ya, baby, do you feel it growin’?
Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t experts on sexual education, but we have a hunch that this line would do more to promote abstinence among children than naked pictures of Janet Reno.
In addition to that rebarbative lyric, our Official Research Division honed in on a tune called “Muscrat Love
,” which was performed both by a group ingeniously named America, as well as by Captain and Tenille. The words to this song are truly atrocious, and should be witnessed in full. The following, then, is merely a sample of its execrable content:
Nibbling on bacon, chewin’ on cheese
Sammy says to Susie, “Honey would you please be my missus?”
And she says yes
With her kisses
Oh, dear. That isn’t even catchy. And it’s really, really odd. We suppose you don’t name a song “Muscrat Love” if you aren’t a mite deranged. Somehow, J. S. Bach never got around to composing a piece of the same name.
Well, dear reader, there you have it: Our last exhortation to submit an entry to our humble contest. Simply drop us a line by clicking on the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen. Come join a contest that is even more popular than David Lee Roth.
World War VIII: This Time, It’s Personal
Some staff members here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” have been eagerly taking in the most recent number of Commentary
, which features a lengthy article by Norman Podhoretz. In said article, Mr. Podhoretz refers to the names that he and Eliot Cohen—another fancy-pants intellectual—use for the Cold War and the War on Terrorism. To these intellectual luminaries, the former is World War III, and the latter World War IV.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were very impressed by these appellations. In fact, we figured that this tactic of granting wars one’s original nomenclature was a key element of public-intellectual stardom. Even our friends on the Left, who probably refer to Messrs. Cohen and Podhoretz as a couple of “uppity Zionist oppressors,” must admit that World War III and World War IV are clever titles.
As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” didn’t want to get left out. As we reported some time ago
, we have had a hankering to become famous public intellectuals ourselves—the kinds of guys who wear more hair dye than Steve Emerson and write tomes with three words per page.
Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to devote today’s edition of our infinitely popular “weblog” to giving our own stamp to future wars. That way, when these wars occur, everyone in-the-know will have to refer to our fashionable nomenclature.
So, without further ado, dear reader, we are as happy as greengrocers with bananas
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Titles for Future Wars:
World War V: Debbie vs. Dallas
World War VI: Attack of the Killer Bunny Rabbits
World War VII: The Wrath of Neo-Khan
World War VIII: Reality vs. Michael Moore
World War IX: Revenge of the Kurds
World War X: Fiji vs. Greenland in a Cage Match
World War XI: William Saffire takes on Maureen Dowd
World War XII: Teen Wolf Too
These are just a few titles we are kicking around at the office. And we could go on… provided you don’t care that the names are funny.
The Gray Honda Civic
Every citizen of these here United States of America knows that people are always carping about Starbucks
. That horrid coffee shop is everywhere, folks say, clutching mocha lattes.
And, to be sure, if you want a $40 mug of what Robin Williams refers to as a Betty Ford speedball, you can find one at a Starbucks on virtually every corner in America. Soon they’ll start opening branches of the chain in people’s houses. They’re like post-industrial barnacle.
But we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to waste today’s edition of our humble “weblog” nattering on about Starbucks; that’s about as original as singing “Happy Birthday.” Or owning a copy of “The Da Vinci Code.”
Rather, dear reader, we hope to discuss another omnipresent phenomenon in contemporary America: The gray Honda Civic.
A few members of our crack young staff own this vehicle, as they weren’t suitably high up in the editorial chain of command here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” to land free Saturns (the cars, not the planet). As a result, these few staff members—let’s just call them “Chip”—endure days fraught with difficulty due to these plastic monstrosities.
What, you may be asking yourself, is wrong with the gray Honda Civic? Well, for starters, they’re pretty much the vehicular equivalent of Starbucks: Everybody owns one. Consequently, looking for your car in a largish parking lot can be a veritable hell on a veritable earth. Purchasing this stupid car is about as imaginative as, well, something really unimaginative.
In addition, the gray Honda Civic—much like its brethren in other colors, we’d wager—has an engine with about 20 pig power. You can go zero to 60 in an hour and a half.
Naturally, the owner of the gray Honda Civic will want to spruce up his car, to make sure that it isn’t the exact replica of everyone else’s on the block. But what can one do? Perhaps put a Howard Dean bumper sticker on it? Everyone is scraping their copies off by now.
Or how about, in an homage to our British friends, referring to it as a “grey” Honda Civic? That way, not only will your car suck, it’ll have a bad dental plan, too.
As careful observers of the intellectual culture wars are no doubt aware, fancy postmodern professors absolutely detest it when journalists advertise the names of academic papers and articles, in order to prove to readers that the groves of academe are home to some pretty strange characters. Readers may remember, for example, a paper delivered at the Modern Language Association called “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl.”
Well, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t enjoy anything as much as irking academic radicals. And we mean anything
. Even the joys of windsurfing pale in comparison to enraging lefter-than-thou professors.
Accordingly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” have decided to devote today’s edition of our humble “weblog” to a thorough trouncing of some titles culled from a periodical produced by tenured radicals. To make matters more trying for our friends on the academic Left, we have eschewed reading these articles, and are content to make fun of the titles alone.
(Well, to be honest, we tried to read one of the pieces, and found it so reader-proof that we gave up on it mighty quickly.)
So, you may be asking yourself, which venerable journal has the crack young staff chosen as its whipping boy? Why, we’re mighty glad you asked. All of the titles that we shall excoriate today come from Volume 14, Issue 3 of “Feminist Teacher
.” Yes, “Feminist Teacher”: It’s kind of like The New Republic
, only it’s boring and nobody reads it. Oh yeah: And it’s chock-a-block with radical feminist palaver.
Without further ado, then, we proudly present:
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Ridiculing of Dunderheaded Titles to Putrid Academic Articles:
1. “White Girl Watching: Reading Eye to Eye” by Gail B. Griffin
Hmmm. White Girl Watching? The male members of the crack young staff have been spending much of their time “white girl watching,” but they never figured it was a worthy topic of scholarly lucubrations. It is comforting to see, however, that Ms. Griffin realizes that reading is done “eye to eye,” as opposed to, say, “ear to ear,” or “fist to rectum.” Thanks for the info.
2. “Teaching about Interlocking Opressions: The Case of HIV and Women” by Donna A. Champeau and Susan M. Shaw
As if it isn’t oppressive enough to have HIV, one can also be additionally burdened by one’s status as a female. Life is
tough. Perhaps Ms. Champeau and Ms. Shaw could dilate on the oppression one must endure as a tenured female writing horrendous articles in sub-par journals. We bet they’d have a lot to say about that.
3. “Identities of Race, Class, and Gender Inside and Outside the Math Classroom: A Girls’ Math Club as Hybrid Possibility” by Stephanie Jones
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: “Hybrid possibility”? Come on, Ms. Jones. May we suggest an alternate title? How about “Girls Can also Be Math Nerds”? Or “Loser, Thy Name is Woman”?
4. “Marketing and Teaching a Woman’s Literature Course to Culturally Conservative Students” by Karen Dodwell
Is it just us, or is it crystal clear that this article pertains to the difficulty inherent in proselytizing to students who are less likely to enjoy radical feminist boilerplate? Perhaps Ms. Dodwell (a fitting name, if ever there was one) could simply teach the works of female authors without all the Judith Butler fireworks. But we wouldn’t want to stop her from misusing her academic post as a feminist bully pulpit.
5. “Feminist and Queer Values in the Southern Conservative Christian Classroom: The Case of Jane Austen’s
Emma” by Mark K. Fulk
We don’t mean to upset the editors at “Feminist Teacher,” but we have a hunch that Mr. Fulk has written the exact same article as Ms. Dodwell. In addition, how did this evil oppressor (read: male) get to write for the storied “Feminist Teacher”? We’ll have to write the editors and complain vociferously.
Well, dear reader, there you have it. Academia supplies the ridiculous titles and we supply the ridicule.