We Must Have Very Different Dreams
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t suppose that our readership is plebian enough to be regular viewers of the ESPN
cable network. After all, given its incessantly highbrow humor, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” must be treasured by those who consider sporting events appallingly vulgar. In fact, we may be losing some readers by deigning to discuss ESPN at all. We’ll chance it.
Anyway, those who do not endure a steady diet of television may be unaware that ESPN—the self-proclaimed world-wide leader in sports—is hawking a relatively new program titled “Dream Job.”
And what, you may be eagerly asking yourself, is the “Dream Job” to which the show refers? Why, television sports caster, of course.
Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to come across as a bunch of snooty elitists, but may we humbly suggest that a career reading a teleprompter with mawkish enthusiasm doesn’t exactly constitute a “dream”—at least for anyone with an IQ over 80?
Whatever happened to a fellow’s youthful enthusiasm? The young used to yearn to change the world; now they want to lather on make-up and expatiate on the New York Mets. Even juvenile flirtations with Communism are better than the New York Mets.
It seems to us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” as if the lone pleasure one can garner from such an occupation is the occasional coining of a new hip sports catch phrase. You know, like “Boo-Yah,” or “He…could…go…all…the…way,” or “Homerun.”
Well, we suppose that there are some other impressive perquisites. Copious amounts of free hair spray, for one. And a lifetime supply of free suits to be worn on air. (On a related note, has anyone else noticed that the ex-athletes who appear on ESPN all seem to be dressed like lottery winners? It’s as if they all shop at a store called “Expensive Suits for People without Anything Even Faintly Resembling Taste.”)
To those of you who consider hum-drum days of reading cue-cards with ersatz enthusiasm an occupational fantasy, we humbly suggest you consider some other 9-to-5s. How about a college professor? Sure, the clothing isn’t as good, and you have to spend at least an hour a week with those irritants people call “students.” But you get access to a free Xerox machine.
Welcome, Parents! Never Mind the Lacan!
If you have a son or daughter intellectually treading water at your local college, soon an annual festivity will be upon you: Parents weekend.
You know the drill, dear reader: Each university spends one weekend each year pretending it’s not the haven of radical craziness it is. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” assume that each college’s president hands down an executive order to his Womyn’s Studies, Black Studies, Comparative Literature, English, Sociology, Cultural Anthropology, Public Policy, and History departments: For two short days, don’t infest our university with all kinds of anti-capitalist pilfer. The folks who are paying for this stuff are on their way, and we want to pretend that we offer a solid education to their little darlings.
All across campuses, special postmodern clean-up squads scour the halls, ripping down posters that may offend the delicate sensibilities of the fifty-something characters who fork over those hefty tuitions checks. For one short weekend, nary a flyer with a title such as “Queering the Beach Boys: Toward a Hermeneutics of a Radical Gay Aesthetic” can be found.
In the place of such entertaining talks, universities during parents weekend normally book a speaker whose liberal credentials aren’t foreboding enough to make parents suspicious that they are paying hefty sums to make sure their children are being brainwashed into some noxious brand of grandiloquent Castroism. You know, like Al Franken.
For one short weekend, colleges work under the fiction that they are objective enclaves devoted to the pursuit of Truth.
Naturally, dear reader, college presidents aren’t the only ones involved in such duplicity. University students blithely greet their parents, and, in between sheepish requests for money, pretend to be deeply involved in their courses. Sure, they may be taking such intellectually grueling classes as “An Introduction to Coaching,” and “Marvel Comics,” but that doesn’t mean they normally waken from their drunken stupor early enough to attend at 1:50 every Tuesday and Thursday. For this one weekend, however, students hide their bongs, shove their Milwaukee’s Best under their beds, and cover their rooms with photocopied articles they’ve never read.
Nor, dear reader, are the students the only part of this massive two-day fake-fest. The parents play their own part. Usually clad in uproariously preppy clothing, college parents spend their parents weekend attempting vainly (in both senses of the word) to make it appear as if they could be college students themselves. “Look at me,” say their sweaters, “We’re wrapped around the shoulders of a man who happens to be 47, but he doesn’t look a day over 21.”
Yeah, sure: If you don’t count the bald head and beer gut.
In short, dear reader, parents weekend is the closest a college comes to a postmodernist’s dream: Everyone is pretending to be something he isn’t.
No Cruor for Petroleum
Many of our friends on the political Left have become tired of the cheap sloganeering to be found bandied about by some of their ideological comrades. Although they are die-hard Kerry supporters who are as unlikely to switch their political allegiances as the Massachusetts Senator is to move his forehead, they consider the various catchy mottos of the radical Left a bit bromidic.
Why, they collectively ask themselves, can’t left-wing activists offer T-shirts, bumper stickers, and hats with more nuanced messages?
This, dear reader, is where we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” come in. Our Official Nuanced Left-Wing Slogan Department has been working hard to make sure that our friends on the political Left can blithely brandish mottos that demonstrate a sufficient degree of complexity.
In order to craft these new slogans, our Official Nuanced Left-Wing Slogan Department has taken previously existing left-wing bromides, and fashioned more intellectual variants from them. If our Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Silk-Screening Department ever gets some funds together, we’re pretty sure we’ll make a killing from these slogans.
Below, then, dear reader, you shall find a typical left-wing slogan, and our subtler version of this sentiment.
First off is that old faithful: Attack Iraq? No!
As almost everyone with a pulse knows, this sentiment, found on many a back bumper, is far too simplistic. After all, John Kerry may or may not agree with it, depending on which day you ask him.
As a result, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” suggest replacing it with this catchy hook: Attack Iraq? Maybe! Let Me Get a Focus Group Together and I’ll Tell You Where I Stand.
Not only is that fetching, it’s faithful to the Democratic party line on this all-important issue.
With that out of the way, we can move on to another old faithful of the left-wing boilerplate department: No Blood for Oil
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have turned this phrase into the following winner: It Would Be Wrong to Fight a War Merely to Enrich American Oil Companies. Although Anyone with Even the Most Rudimentary Understanding of International Affairs Would Conclude that This was Not the Case with the American Liberation of Iraq, We Still Stand by it in Principle.
Frankly, as accurate as that is, we are beginning to have second thoughts about it: In order to fit that on a T-shirt, one would have to be use a rather small font. Or, we suppose, those clad in such shirts would have to be particularly heavy.
Anyway, let’s head to our next motto. The un-nuanced version reads: Some Village in Texas Has Lost Their [sic] Idiot
We altered this to read: I am Attempting to Make a Vulgar “Village Idiot” Joke, But Ironically Possess Such a Limited Understanding of Grammar that I Cannot Do So without Making My Own Errors
. Pretty catchy, n’est pas
And then, dear reader, there’s the old standby: Kerry Edwards 2004: Make America Stronger
We refashioned this to read: Kerry Edwards 2004: Make America Stronger by Downscaling the War on Terrorism to a Law-Enforcement Issue, and Listen More Intently to French Perspectives
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to toot our own collective horn, but we think that’s very fetching. In fact, we think we’ll send some of these slogan ideas to Yassir Arafat, Mahathir Mohammad, and other levelheaded Kerry supporters.
Salted Tears Indeed
If you’re anything like us, dear reader, you can’t get enough of Afrocentric poetry. Almost nothing soothes our collective soul like the delightful cadences of couplets devoted to harping on the horrid sins of whitey. Disarming alliteration, charming assonance, and violent screeds—what could prove more enlivening?
Afrocentric poetry is the realm in which the lyricism of the lower-case e.e. cummings meets the deranged lunacy of the lower-case bell hooks.
Naturally, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were delighted to happen upon a “website” entitled “Voices! The Intercultural Poetry E-Journal
To be honest, at first we were a bit hesitant about “Voices”; we had been burned by many an “intercultural poetry e-journal” in the past. Yet, when we stumbled upon poems with such illustrious titles as “De-Mockery of Democracy” and “I Have an Artificial Eye,” we knew we had found a locus classicus
of fine multicultural poetry. After all, how can poems titled “Identity—Identi-me” and “I, A Frog” be trite? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” couldn’t think of any reason. And believe us, we tried.
Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” quickly fastened on our favorite verse from the poetasters who contributed to “Voices”: A clever Afrocentric ditty composed by the humorously named Harry Hyman.
Mr. Hyman’s composition—magnum opus, really—entitled “Thru Salted Tears
,” is a poetic tour de force. If by “poetic tour de force” you mean “a clunky piece of pseudo-empowerment penned by a tin-eared dolt.”
Its first verse reads as follows:
Thru Salted Tears
by Harry Hyman
I was King, she was Queen in the land of Pearls
Science, Art and Reason were gifts we gave the world
Over 10,000 years, we ruled with tolerance
While the rest of the world was bathed in ignorance
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” hate to cast aspersions, but we doubt the degree to which “the rest of the world was bathed in ignorance” whilst Mr. Hyman and his Queen offered the world science, art, reason, and tolerance.
But let us try to get this straight: Mr. Hyman and his African Queen preach tolerance—to the ignorant, artless malcontents who live elsewhere on the globe. How come this doesn’t strike us as a particularly “tolerant” way of putting these matters?
Mr. Hyman’s verse continues:
One day, over the horizon, the Ocean Devils came
And our world and our lives would forever lose their Fame
Lies and deceit they used without care
And their weapon of submission was one called Fear
Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t professional poetry critics. Still, we have the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Hyman is discussing the horrors of slavery. We entirely agree that slavery—wherever it was or is practiced—is morally abominable. In fact, we don’t want to come across as a passel of “Ocean Devils,” but we feel it is so morally abominable that composing hackneyed poetry that recalls it strikes us as slightly sordid.
We hate to quibble with Mr. Hyman’s poetry further, but we think the “weapon of submission” employed by the “Ocean Devils” was Gunpowder, not Fear.
Another verse of Mr. Hyman’s poem reads:
No longer are they Christian
They’ve forgotten friend and brother
Now, Gold is God and rules the day
That enslaves one man to another
Hold up a second, Mr. Hyman! Are you—beacon of tolerance and reason that you are—asserting that only Christians involved themselves in the slave trade? If so, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must confess we find you “bathed in ignorance.”
What about the Egyptians enslaving the Jews? Didn’t that occur under non-Christian auspices?
Perhaps, dear reader, Mr. Hyman is taking what we might call poetic license. Sure, his view of slavery—and of Africa, and of history, and of science, and of reason, and of art—is distorted. But it’s all for the joys of verse. If so, may we humbly suggest that Mr. Hyman drop all his pseudo-historical pretenses and simply let ‘er rip?
Why, even we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think that we could compose some historically dubious Afrocentric poetry that would really get the blood burning.
For instance, the Official Afrocentric Poetry Department of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is content to present:
Kill That Whitey Bastard
by the Official Afrocentric Poetry Department of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”
Whilst we, the proud, kind, and tolerant People of the Sun,
Took in the light of enlightenment,
Those evil Ice People oppressors
Were busy trying to ruin the world.
Especially the Jews.
Somehow, these Pale Devils
Purloined our gifts of reason, civility, science, and art,
Transferring these gifts into evil.
Although, to be frank, we’re not quite sure how they did that.
We mean, if reason, civility, science, and art
Were formerly such gifts to the world,
How did they become such horrors?
Ah, never mind. We hate Whitey.
Man, if that doesn’t get us a sinecure at some collegiate creative writing program, we don’t know what will.
The Bitch is Back
Recently, a correspondent from our Chicago (IL) office sent us a flyer promoting a musician who appears to go by the genial name “Bitch.” It seems as if this Bitch has embarked on what she is calling her “RISE Tour 2004,” and is promoting her upcoming shows with some strikingly ugly advertisements.
The flyer, which offers the viewer a horrific picture of the Bitch in question with a quizzical Fred Flinstone-esque five o’clock shadow, drew us in with these words:
Hmmm. The Bitch lost us somewhere around “ukulele.” It’s like she’s the new Don Ho, although she appears to have taken Don’s last name the wrong way.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were intrigued by the Bitch. After all, we enjoy a good bout of “grueling love” as much as the next person who has no idea what that means.
The poster also informed us this Bitch is the female canine who was part of the group Bitch and Animal. It seems as if the Muppet character could not join her on her tour, and hence the Bitch decided to go solo. Perhaps he had a previous engagement with Dr. Teeth. Ain’t that a bitch.
Anyway, the flyer also promoted her “website
.” Naturally, we had to take a gander.
And what a treasure-trove of goodness it turned out to be! Take a look, for instance, at a snippet of the Bitch’s biography
, to which we have affixed our own humble commentary:
BITCH busts out twist yer [sic] guts love and hate songs with punchy rhymes, defiant girl electric violin, ukulele and bass.
What the heck is “defiant girl electric violin”? If this girl is so defiant, why doesn’t she just take up the ‘cello instead? In addition, if our feminist friends have taught us anything, it’s that one should never refer to a woman as a “girl”—no matter how defiant she may be. That’s “grrl” or “gyrl” to you, Bitch.
She’s a constantly touring entertainer and songwriter who has pulled [sic] audiences to their feet worldwide with her politically charged and personally wrenched lyrics, her atypical instrumentation, minimalist sound and wildly dramatic stage persona.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are glad to hear that the Bitch’s lyrics are “personally wrenched”; we simply detest impersonally
wrenched lyrics. They never seem to pull us to our feet.
Setting out on a new solo road, Bitch is finishing her first ever solo studio album Almost to the Water. The woman who once penned the mind-bending “Pussy Manifesto,” [sic] brings us to a deeper level of poetic rampage, political agony, and, of course, grueling love.
Oh, dear. There is so much to say, and so little time. First, we suppose we should mention that we are puzzled by the Bitch’s reference to “a new solo road.” Can’t anyone else drive on it? Quit hogging the highway, Bitch.
But let’s not beat around the bush (so to say). We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have never heard of the “Pussy Manifesto,” and cannot vouch for its ability to bend one’s mind, but we have a strong suspicion that it’s noxious. We know, we know: Don’t judge a book by its cover. (Or, in this case, don’t judge a manifesto by its reference to female genitalia.)
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t intend to bring the Bitch to a shallower level of poetic rampage, but may we humbly suggest that she give her manifestos less offensive titles? How about “The Pseudo-Radical Feminist Gyno-Rock Manifesto”? It has a certain, as the French say, “we don’t know what.”
With a posse packed with producer June Millington (Fanny), Roma Baron mixing, and her trusted studio mate Wayne “Dutchboy” Schrengohst, Bitch is following her vision of making music that is symphonic, beat-worthy, break your heart ballad-y, and raise the roof revolutionary.
Wow. She really has some heavy-hitters on her side. We didn’t realize that Mr. Schrengohst, better known to the greater American public as “Dutchboy,” was following the Bitch down her “new solo road.” We wonder if “Schrengohst” is a stage-name. If it is, it’s a darn good one.
Her former band, Bitch and Animal, toured all over the US, Canada and Europe for years and released three records. Their first, What’s that Smell? on their own label, Dive Deep xoxo.
“What’s that Smell”? That doesn’t sound particularly “symphonic” to us. It doesn’t even seem “raise the roof revolutionary.” More like “raise the roof to let that noisome stench out of the room un-revolutionary.”
Well, dear reader, we think you get the point. This is one angry Bitch. We just have one question: Given that the Bitch promotes her tunes as “politically charged,” what are the chances that she’s a Republican?
Social Justice—Now Only $9.99!
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” detest numerous terms and phrases. Like any God-fearing human beings, we are naturally repelled by such appellations as “intifada,” “internalizing the oppressor,” and “the New York Yankees.”
Yet there seems to be one particular phrase that gets us extraordinarily steamed. And that, dear reader, is the moronically meaningless term “social justice.” Sundry friends on the radical Left love to trumpet their deep-seated regard for social justice, and employ the term as if it were a badge of honor. Sure, you may have won a Purple Heart, think such chuckleheads, but I
fight for social justice. Touché. Touché.
It never seems to trouble our friends on the political Left that “social justice” is merely a platitude. Its ardent enthusiasts never even seem to define what it entails. If a Christian conservative helps build homes in rural areas, is this tantamount to social justice? Or can only self-declared socialists and Marxists practice this stuff?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” honestly had no idea. That is, dear reader, until we were fortunate enough to find a “website” that explains social justice to us all. Even the most dunderheaded ninny—such as, say, Mr. Sullywatch
—could fathom what social justice means after a short trip to this “website.”
And to what “website” do we refer? Why, EdChange’s Social Justice Store
, of course.
It appears as if one can actually purchase social justice. For Mr. EdChange (or is that Mr. Ed Change?) offers an impressive assortment of social justice gear for those who detest capitalism—and are willing to spend a buck in order to prove it.
And what kinds of social justice products can one purchase at the Ye Olde Sociale Justice Store? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” are glad you asked.
First, one can buy an array of paraphernalia that bears the moniker “Anti-Racism: A White-on-White Responsibility
.” For any of you unclear as to the subtle message conveyed on such products, Mr. EdChange explains: “Racism is not a people of color pathology. It is a white people pathology. It’s time we took the responsibility to call each other on it.”
Aha! So, according to the lily-white Mr. EdChange, “people of color” (a term that is somehow deeply PC, though its close friend “colored people” is somehow disgracefully offensive) are incapable of being racists. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are sure that such paragons of anti-racism as Louis Farrakhan are relieved to hear that.
In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are so impressed by Mr. EdChange’s flawless reasoning that we are going to purchase his “Anti-Racism: A White-on-White Responsibility” barbeque apron
. That way, we can prove to our friends that we are suitably politically correct, and can cook some scrumptious hotdogs and burgers.
And these handy barbeque aprons are far from the only useful products one can purchase at the anti-capitalist Social Justice Store. Our readers will probably particularly delight in Mr. EdChange’s clever “Whitey O. Pressor
” line of gear.
According to the Social Justice Store, “Whitey is an anti- [sic] anti-racism advocate. I know, that doesn’t make sense.” Well, as long as you’ve settled that, we are just itching to buy your products, Mr. EdChange.
More specifically, the Whitey O. Pressor line offers a few hackneyed reasons why “you might be a Whitey O. Pressor.” We know what you are thinking, dear reader: That’s a really strong statement against the racist, patriarchal, capitalist society in which we live. And, to make matters better, the Whitey O. Pressor gear ships within two to three business days. Wow! Social justice was never this speedy.
May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that our readership purchase the Whitey O. Pressor Infant Creeper
? It’s an “anti- [sic] anti-racism” T-shirt and diaper all in one! That way, your little Caucasian tyke won’t feel as if he is exonerated from the crimes of racism, just because he’s only two weeks old. That teething oppressor.
In Praise of the Ad Hominem Attack
As the presidential election looms, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have had time to reflect on the nature of intellectual and political debates in this country. In the course of our umpteen hours of somber contemplation, something collectively occurred to us: The ad hominem attack is, like Mumia, unfairly maligned.
In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will even go so far as to claim that the well delivered ad hominem attack is an art form. Those who carp about it simply fail to understand its awesome power. Those who carp about it simply fail to acknowledge its great utility. And those who carp about it are probably fat.
As far as we’re concerned, the ad hominem attack, like its colleague, the slanderous negative campaign advertisement, is a real treasure. Some may say that those who resort to it have lost their arguments; we think such people are a bunch of acne-faced morons.
Let us not, however, merely defend the ad hominem attack in a general sense. Rather, let us offer an example of the great force the ad hominem can offer.
Take, dear reader, the miserably inept “weblog” entitled Sullywatch
. The eighth-rate hack who scribbles for this “website,” whom we have conveniently labeled “Mr. Sullywatch,” took issue with the crack young staff about a fortnight ago.
For those of you who do not read “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” religiously, let us inform you that Sullywatch—a “weblog” entirely devoted to offering mindless hissy-fits directed at Andrew Sullivan
—was gravely irked that Mr. Sullivan had linked to “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” For a few short days, Mr. Sullywatch partly dropped his obsession with pathetically carping on the alleged sins of Mr. Sullivan, and took aim at us.
More specifically, Mr. Sullywatch insinuated that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were chauvinistic, because we consider Black Studies Departments to be exercises in political grievance-mongering masquerading as legitimate academic enterprises. In particular, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had the audacity to excoriate rap music, which Mr. Sullywatch must hold near and dear to his heart.
Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” could easily come up with manifold arguments that would ensure our readers that Mr. Sullywatch is an ignorant pinhead. For instance, we have the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Sullywatch has spent so much time quibbling with the work of Andrew Sullivan that he has failed to note that Black Studies Departments are hardly beacons of intellectual respectability. Has Mr. Sullywatch ever heard the name Leonard Jeffries? If he had, he would never sully himself with such ridiculous arguments.
But why go to all that bother, especially when dealing with someone as intellectually challenged as Mr. Sullywatch? Why not simply offer an ad hominem attack instead? We can think of plenty.
We at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” should be touched by the fact that Mr. Sullywatch deigned to harp on the fabricated sins of the crack young staff. After all, in order to write about our humble “weblog,” he had to take himself away from his hectic masturbation schedule.
We at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” should apologize for the nasty things we have said about Sullywatch. To be fair, it’s one of the best “weblogs” written by a moron who lives in the basement of his parents’ house.
The crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” finds Mr. Sullywatch’s pathetic jibes at our humble “weblog” disconcerting: We thought that fat losers were usually jolly.
You see, dear reader, the ad hominem attack is good for hours and hours of pure debate magic. Use it well and you can impress your friends. Except, of course, if you’re Mr. Sullywatch: You need to have friends in order to impress them.
Globalization and the Great Satan
When heading to our local bookseller, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are usually bombarded with sundry silly books on the topic of globalization. Many of these tomes, dear reader, attempt to blame these here United States of America for all the rancid pop culture that sullies the world.
To be sure, we the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” hate lowbrow fare as much as we hate some of the finer things in life—like NASCAR. So we certainly understand why the inhabitants of, say, Greenland, are irked that their native Greenlandish music is no longer broadcast on its radio stations, as Billy Joel has taken its place. That would really suck—especially if you inhabit a lifeless frozen tundra with a population of twelve. Talk about a downer.
But we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” feel as if America is almost always getting a bum rap. After all, the citizens of Greenland could have gloried in the orchestral magnificence of Aaron Copland; instead, they chose Michael Jackson. Their loss.
Americans, that is to say, didn’t force the world to dress in the prostitute-esque fashion favored by this country’s youth. No one pointed a gun to their heads and shouted “Put this thong on or I’ll blow your brains out.”
Yet there is another reason to exonerate the United States for its role in the mass production and export of feculent pop culture: America is not the only purveyor of such putrid trash.
We know what our European readers are thinking: We come from cosmopolitan cultures with a great respect for the arts. To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Yeah, we totally agree, if by “a great respect for the arts” you mean “horrendous hygiene.”
As far as we are concerned, Europe hardly seems better than America in the wretched pop drivel department. Don’t believe us? Let us attempt to sway you by way of an example.
When strolling through the World-Wide Web recently, one of our senior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—stumbled upon the “website” of Phil Collins
. You remember Phil Collins, dear reader: He’s the bald-headed twit who penned a cornucopia of inscrutably wretched “soft rock” tunes. We’d name a few of them, but just offering the titles may get the songs into your head, dear reader, and that would amount to what the Constitution considers cruel and unusual punishment.
What was “Chip” doing perusing Phil Collins’ “website” in the first place, you ask? Why, he was hoping to find Starship’s “website,” of course.
But we digress. On said “website,” “Chip” noticed that Phil Collins, the diminutive British chucklehead, has inspired six tribute bands
. Yes, that’s right dear reader: Some folks are so desperate to hear “Another Day in Paradise” that they’ll actually pay their hard-earned money to see a diminutive chucklehead who isn’t
Phil Collins perform the song.
How, you may be asking yourselves, does this prove our (admittedly meandering) point? Well, Mr. Collins’ “website” has blithely listed the countries of origin of these noxious tribute bands:
“Face Value” is based in the United Kingdom
“In the Air Tonight” is based in Canada
“Invisible Touch” is based in Germany
“Phil” (there’s a real clever name!) is based in Germany
“No Jacket Required” is based in the United Kingdom
“Still Collins” is based in Germany
So, dear reader, Phil Collins, the pathetic limey crooner, has spawned numerous feculent epigones—none of which hail from the United States. So, the next time some snooty Canadian (if you’ll pardon the redundancy) waxes indignant about the state of American pop culture, just tell him to check out his countrymen’s local Phil Collins cover band. That ought to shut him up faster than you can say “Sssudio.”
An Anti-Israeli “Hate-lib”
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are collectively fed up with anti-Israeli propagandists. Whether they are arguing that Israel is insufficiently democratic (unlike such paragons of freedom as Saudi Arabia and Syria), or claiming that the Palestinian Authority is bereft of corruption, they ineluctably offer such disgraceful lies that one wonders how anyone can believe them.
It seemed to us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” that these Palestinian propagandists offer pretty much the same dubious commentary in regard to any situation. If a suicide bomber kills Israeli children, it’s the fault of America and Israel. If Yasser Arafat sends millions of dollars to his wife in Paris, it’s somehow the fault of America and Israel. And if the Arab world is mired in authoritarian despotism, it’s the fault of America and Israel.
It seems to us as if these Palestinian propagandists are the intellectual equivalents of the one-trick pony. Virtually everything, from canker sores to poisonous mushrooms, is the fault of America, Israel, and the supposed evil legacy of supposed colonialism.
Given the monochromatic feel of arguments dribbling from the mouths of anti-Israeli activists, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” figured that we could help these propagandists out by offering a set speech they could announce to the media in response to any
This, as you can imagine, could be a valuable time-saver for our anti-Israeli friends, leaving them with copious free time in order to, say, hate Jews.
As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have provided our set speech below. All our Palestinian friends must do, then, is fill in the blanks with words that fit the given situation. For instance, in the sentence “Everyone knows this is the fault of the _______,” all one must do is plug in the word “Jews.” Or maybe “Americans.”
You see, dear reader? Being a duplicitous Palestinian propagandist has never been easier.
Yet this got us to thinking: Our set speech, which appears below, seems an awful lot like those fun-filled passages from our youth called “Madlibs
.” You remember Madlibs, dear reader: Without knowledge of the context of a passage, one offered certain parts of speech, and then plunked them in their places. And what did you get? Why, hours and hours of good-natured fun.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” thus feel as if we can spread mirth and joy through the world by offering our Palestinian propagandist set speech both as a device to excoriate those menacing Americans and Jews, and as a funny Madlib. This way, we all win.
Naturally, however, we were worried about the legal repercussions of stealing the name Madlib. After all, the folks who run Madlibs pretty much run all the major corporations: The Salvation Army, RC Cola, &c. In fact, we have a sneaking suspicion that the CEO of Madlibs is a Jew. So not only do Jews run the world’s banks, Hollywood, and the mainstream media, they also run Madlibs. A conspiracy? We think so.
But no matter. The Official Rip-Off an Idea but Change its Name in Order to Avoid Legal Hassles Department here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has come up with a clever solution: It has renamed our Madlib-esque set speech a “Hate-lib.” Pretty fetching, n’est pas
Without further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” proudly present:
An Official Anti-Israeli Set Speech for Use in Any Situation by Palestinian Propagandists that Doubles as a Mirthful “Hate-lib”:
This is all the fault of the _________ [insert noun, preferably Jews or Americans, and never Palestinians or Muslims
]. The Jews never stop ___________ [insert participle
]. They are ________ [insert pejorative adjective
] and ________ [insert pejorative adjective
Although _________ [insert person’s name
] blames the Arab world for this horror, he is obviously a _________ [insert either “Jew” or “infidel”
]. If it weren’t for ________ [ insert either “America,” “Israel,” or “capitalism”
], this never would have happened.
Taking Back Valentine’s Day
Many readers of this humble “weblog” will no doubt be aware of The Vagina Monologues
, a feculent piece of feminist agitprop that masquerades as a play. Written by the eerily untalented Eve Ensler, The Vagina Monologues
is something of a feminist marketing coup—kind of like Tampax, only less comfortable.
In recent years, this wretched piece of pseudo-empowering theater has become all the rage across college campuses. Nary a Valentine’s Day goes by without a performance of this self-celebration of the weaker sex’s erogenous zones. Never mind the fact that the play glorifies a sexual relationship between a woman and an underage child; statutory rape is fine and dandy, provided it’s in step with the political Left.
Outside the purlieus of academia, meanwhile, many a famous celebrity (or semi-famous celebrity) has jumped at the chance to play a part in The Vagina Monologues
. Such well-known women as Oprah Winfrey, Barbara Streisand, and Wayne Newton have taken on roles in Eve Ensler’s mawkish piece of propaganda.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” find The Vagina Monologues
sickeningly pandering. The approximately 47 percent of the crack young staff that is female is irked that Eve Ensler’s graceless piece of nonsense would somehow come off as deeply “empowering” to women. For The Vagina Monologues
seem like Hamlet
Previously, women just waxed their private parts; now they’re waxing poetic about them.
Yet, no matter how often nay-sayers take Eve Ensler to the carpet (so to say), her exercise in theatrical puerility just grows stronger and stronger. As H.L. Menken once said, no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public. Apparently, muster up a handful of slang synonyms for “vagina” and you’ve got yourself a runaway hit.
This has all led us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” to throw our collective hands in the air and offer the anti-Ralph Nader line of reasoning: If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
After all, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are certainly playwrights as tin-eared and inept as Ms. Ensler. Actually, given the fact that most of us are literate, our writing is markedly superior to hers. Why can’t we cash in on some faux empowerment? Why can’t we get our own piece of the pie (so to say)? Don’t men require their own version of Ms. Ensler’s sexual sermons?
We certainly think so. And thus we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to present the answer to The Vagina Monologues
The Penis Prologues
A New Play by The Crack Young Staff of "The Hatemonger’s Quarterly"
Hey, fellahs, are you sick and tired of being left out of feminist sexual pandering? Don’t you think that men should be proud of their, well, manhood? Don’t you love horribly constructed pseudo-theater with a moral message so obvious that it can be gleaned by the average squirrel?
If you answered yes to any of the aforementioned questions, you’ll just love our new play, “The Penis Prologues.” Take your sweetheart to this play and, if Freud was right, she’ll be pink with envy.
Featuring a semi-all-star cast:
U.S. Senator Dick Armey
NASCAR sensation Dick Trickle
and a bit part played by Pee-Wee Herman
Sponsored by Gold Bond Powder, Vlasic Pickles and Pork, “The Other White Meat.”
Look at what the critics are saying:
“The Penis Prologues offers a long, hard look into the world of the male sex drive.”
“Two John Thomases up—way up!—for The Penis Prologues!”
--Ebert & Roper
“We are not amused.”
And coming soon: "The Hermaphroditic Harangues."
Academics Against Remote Oppression that in No Way Affects Them—A Manifesto
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” couldn’t help but notice that our friends on the academic Left are always nattering about some sort of supposed injustice. When these hypocritical pseudo-gadflies are not grousing about their Axis of Evil (the United States and Israel), they are busy signing petitions that condemn purported injustices in strong language.
Naturally, our tenured radicals are not bothered by, say, China’s occupation of Tibet or Syria’s occupation of Lebanon; nor do they shed tears over the plight of women in countries such as Saudi Arabia.
Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have noted another trend amongst our friends on the academic Left: They are ineluctably unconcerned about any brand of injustice to which they contribute, or which affects them in any way. They have no problem nattering on about the evils of “Zionist imperialism,” but issues that hit closer to home don’t appear to be in their collective radar screens.
In order to help sort out the confused politics of such tenured radicals, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly offer an official manifesto, which any academic leftist can sign. We call it:
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Academics Against Remote Oppression that in No Way Affects Them Manifesto (THMQOAAROTINWATM):
We, the undersigned, are deeply troubled by manifold injustices: Capitalism, democracy, &c. Yet we wish to announce that we are untroubled by various issues that would normally trouble such beacons of “social justice” as ourselves.
We hereby declare that the following things do not in any way bother us:
1. The fact that numerous professors at our universities are offered starvation wages and no health-care. As long as they teach the classes we don’t want to bother with, that’s fine by us.
2. The fact that our graduate students live in abject poverty. As long as they teach the classes we don’t want to bother with, that’s fine by us.
3. The fact that our parking spots are far, far better than those held by lowly service employees. Sure, we’re Marxists and all, but we don’t want to take this “fairness” stuff too far.
4. The fact that some students want a balanced liberal arts education, instead of four years of left-wing agitprop.
If our friends on the academic Left would simply sign this humble manifesto, we could claim that they promote truth in advertising. We won’t hold our breath.
In Search of More Readers: A Dirty Scheme
At the latest crack young staff meeting, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were delighted to find that our humble “weblog,” unlike Wink Martindale, has an ever-growing fan base. Clearly, the crack young staff is as crack as ever.
Yet we still feel as if we can do better. After all, self-confidence is what America is all about. It’s kind of like the French version of capitulation.
As a result, at the aforementioned staff meeting, the Official Ideas Department of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” was frantically searching for ways to increase our already impressive readership. One fellow—let’s just call him “Chip”—suggested that we make the “weblog” funnier. Another fellow—let’s just call him “Chip”—suggested that we make the “weblog” more insightful.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” responded: Fat chance. We’re already using every ounce of God-given talent we’ve got; we’re actually putting in that elusive 110 percent.
Since it seemed unlikely that we would wake up one day with massive amounts of previously undiscovered talent, we honed in on a cheaper—and easier—way to lure the folks in.
It collectively occurred to us that well nigh everyone who peruses the World-Wide Web is lustily in search of pornography. In fact, you, dear reader, may be the only person currently using the Internet who is not logged on to www.hot-asian-teens.com. And we thank you for it.
As a result, the Official Ideas Department happened upon a brilliant strategy: Offer a post chock-a-block with pornographic vocabulary, and unknowing “web-browsers,” having headed to Google or some other search engine, will head to our “weblog,” unaware that it is pretty much the only “website” that doesn’t offer pornographic content. Pretty soon, we’ll get more hits than Gerry Cooney.
Naturally, this idea, as clever as it is, seriously irked our Official Decency Department. After all, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” enjoys offering a Family Circus-esque brand of Eisenhower-era humor. We’d like to think that you could read our “weblog” to your children at night—provided you mumble a lot.
After much a-fightin’ and a-fussin’, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” finally won over our Official Decency Department. We can’t tell you how we did it, but let’s just say that it takes bribes. As Alanis Morissette might say, how ironic.
So, dear reader, if you are not 18 years old (or 21 years old, depending on which state you inhabit), please exit our humble “weblog” in favor of more appropriately puerile fare—like Maureen Dowd’s columns. For we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are punch drunk to present:
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Listing of Pornographic Words in an Intrepid Attempt to Lure Unsuspecting Randy Internet-Strollers into Checking out Our Humble “Weblog”:
George C. Scott
Well, dear reader, that ought to do it. Soon we’ll be bigger than Ron Jeremy.
We Like His Tie Better
In every election season, it seems, the chattering classes are irked by the flimsy rationales average folk offer for plumping for the candidate of their choice. How, think such cosmopolitan characters, can these benighted rouges cast their ballots for someone on such ridiculous pretexts as “morals”? How can we, the enlightened few, help these slack-jawed derelicts if they refuse to support our candidates?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” approach the matter differently. It seems to us as if many of those in-the-know value rather odd reasons for supporting candidates—the endorsement of Gore Vidal, for example.
Yet nary a day goes by in which our elites aren’t harping on the foolish choices of Joe Public. He’s voting for Bush because he doesn’t like Kerry’s swimsuit? How gauche! He’s voting Republican because he prefers candidates who don’t have a skin tone remarkably similar to that of George Hamilton? How disgraceful!
It seems to us as if a combination of voting Republican and offering mesmerizingly stupid rationales for doing so may just do in the chattering classes: Not only would they lose the election, they’d suffer through the torturous persiflage that ordinary folk offer to support their choices.
As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” exhort all of our readers who intend on casting their votes for the Republican ticket to fix upon a ludicrous reason for their vote. When discussing politics with members of the smart set, these readers should be certain to exclaim their mind-bogglingly stupid rationale in the most proud and stentorian tones. If this doesn’t cause fits of liberal apoplexy, nothing will.
In fact, in order to help our readers vex the chattering classes, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to present a sample offering of ridiculous rationales for voting Republican. We hope that these inspire our friends on the Right to come up with their own viciously moronic justifications.
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Ludicrous Reasons To Vote Republican, and Force the Smart Set into Paroxysms of Rage:
1. John Edwards doesn’t look a thing like Mary Stuart Masterson.
2. Children is learning better under George W. Bush.
3. Fat-free Fig Newtons.
4. Sandy Berger’s pants have left me feeling disenfranchised.
5. North Korea may have nuclear weapons, but Italy has gelato.
6. I enjoy Dick Cheney’s Gorbachev-without-the-birth-mark good looks.
7. Who’ll make the world safe for Kirk Cameron?
8. What’s a steel tariff?
9. George W. Bush seems as if he will be more congenial to squirrels.
Well, dear reader, these should cause your left-leaning friends to sprout veins on their foreheads larger than John Kerry’s chin. If that isn’t a great reason to vote Republican, what is?
Quick Question: What do you call a talk show without any guests? Answer: “Hardball with Chris Matthews
Technically speaking, Mr. Matthews, MSNBC
’s pumpkin-headed panjandrum, offers his viewers a slew of interviewees. Throughout the course of a grueling edition of “Hardball,” however, Matthews’ staccato barks hog all the airtime, and one is left with the distinct impression that he didn’t have any guests at all.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long considered the stentorian Matthews well nigh unwatchable. And it doesn’t appear that we are alone in this view: If television ratings bear any resemblance to reality, more people are tuning in to Angela Davis defecating on C-Span than taking in the antics of this un-thinking man’s Charlie Rose.
But it seems to us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” as if Mr. Matthews has miraculously become more irksome of late. Sure, he now hosts a Sunday morning show on NBC, on which he appears more relaxed.
We have the sneaking suspicion that one of the production assistants' jobs on this program is to slip a sedative into Matthews’ whisky. How else can you explain the fact that he actually allows Tucker Carlson to talk?
Regardless of his comparatively mannered performances on NBC, Matthews is simply excruciating on “Hardball.” He sounds like Tom Arnold and John McLaughlin’s love child.
And then there’s the matter of “Hardball”’s guests. Democratic partisan-cum-professor (if that is not too redundant a label) Susan Estrich must possess the most cacophonous voice in the history of humankind. She makes Chris Matthews seem like Barry White. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have heard more dulcet tones from strangled dolphins. The only repeat guest we hope to see on “Hardball” is zany Zell Miller—provided he’s brandishing a Smith and Wesson and a hand steadier than his political affiliations.
And let us not forget that eminently forgettable Democratic strategist with that staple-gun hairdo and peppercorn off-kilter beard. Apparently, this lifeless chap is one of the few talking heads who can endure Matthews’ deafening rambles. As a result, the “Hardball” viewer is regularly treated to his appealing countenance. He’s the only guy who makes Alan Combs seem drop-dead gorgeous.
As of late, “Hardball” has become torturous. Plopped in front of a passel of irksome college kids waving political posters, Matthews regularly yelps questions to the likes of Ronald Reagan’s emaciated son and the squinty-eyed Joe Scarborough.
And just in case you didn’t think “Hardball” was sufficiently loathsome, the program is generally followed by Keith Olberman’s feculent “Countdown” program.
This all leads us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” to believe that, if hell has cable television, the only station one can get there is MSNBC.
Sullying Ourselves Again
In our last post
, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” excoriated the disgracefully inept “weblog” Sullywatch
. This “weblog,” which is devoted solely to criticizing the work of the journalist Andrew Sullivan, found fault with Mr. Sullivan because he deigned to link to our humble e-journal.
We pointed out, among other things, that the proprietor of Sullywatch, who appears strangely obsessed with the real and imagined errors of Mr. Sullivan, is himself a sloppy eighth-rate hack. Interestingly, whilst harping on the purported sins of Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Sullywatch offers his readers lines chock-a-block with malapropisms and grammatical blunders.
It seems as if our humble criticisms of Mr. Sullywatch hit home. In a more recent post on his blather-filled “weblog,” Mr. Sullywatch again takes aim at the crack young staff.
First, it is important to note that Mr. Sullywatch leaves our commentary on his ineptness unsullied by his ineptness. He lets our arguments stand, as he is incapable of mustering a defense. Instead, he responds by slinging some mud in our humble direction.
Below we provide his dunderheaded charges, to which we affix our own humble commentary:
If Sullivan wants to link to the Hatemonger’s Quarterly again in the future, he might want to consider that they [sic] seem to think that there is something inherently giggly about African-American history and culture
Hmmm. If he wants to link to us “again in the future”? Talk about the Department of Redundancy Department. It is humorous to note that Mr. Sullywatch, who clearly writes with all the acumen and skill of a third-grader, waxes intemperate about Andrew Sullivan’s supposed gaffes. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” officially find this “giggly.”
But let us get to the heart of Mr. Sullywatch’s unfounded assault. He ineptly blasts our humble post
on the supposed dissolution of Harvard’s African and African-American Studies Department by falsely claiming that we find the very subject of “African-American history and culture” silly.
We haven’t the vaguest idea what Mr. Sullywatch means. As even third-grade readers of our humble “weblog” could detect, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were finding fault with the academic study of rap music. Just in case Mr. Sullywatch has not taken his nose away from Andrew Sullivan’s Daily Dish
for some time, let us be the first to assure him that rap music is performed both
by white and
In addition, calling rap music “culture,” as Mr. Sullywatch does in his post, seems to us correct only in the sense that a sample of bacteria can be called a culture.
This need not imply—as does Mr. Sullywatch—that African-American culture is itself foolish. That would be absurd. Perhaps Mr. Sullywatch was too busy licking his bruises from our last discussion of his feeble “weblog” to note that our humble post obviously favored the studying of African languages.
It strikes us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” as insulting—dare we say racist?—to insinuate that rap music amounts to the apex of black culture. We feel it says something very sordid about Mr. Sullywatch indeed. Perhaps this is why the "weblog" An Age Like This
referred to Sullywatch as "simply homophobic, malicious, and disgusting."
At the conclusion of his blast at this humble “weblog,” Mr. Sullywatch pathetically attempts to get one of his “weblogger” friends to join in on his attack on the crack young staff. This is the height of feebleness: Incapable of offering his own sound arguments, Mr. Sullywatch calls for the cavalry.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” reply: Bring it on. If his pals prove half as inept as Mr. Sullywatch himself, demolishing them should prove as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.
Or, as easy as writing a muddleheaded “weblog” that offers nothing more than mindless carping on the work of a serious and respected journalist.
A few days ago, dear reader, Andrew Sullivan
, the master of the “weblog,” was kind enough to link to our humble post on “breastcasting
.” We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were delighted to discover that we started to get more hits than Robin Givens.
We had, if only for a day, made the “weblogging” big-time. But, naturally, it was not all fun and games. Having appeared in such a popular forum, our humble “weblog” was likely to take some lumps from jealous sorts.
And this leads us to the topic of today’s post. An hilariously myopic “website” known as “Sullywatch
” decided to take issue with the fact that Mr. Sullivan had deigned to link to our humble “weblog.” Sullywatch, for those of you who don’t like to read arrant piffle, is a “weblog” entirely devoted to criticizing Andrew Sullivan.
Talk about single-mindedness! Sullywatch makes a one-trick pony seem as if it can do at least two tricks. Maybe three.
The author of Sullywatch, in order to demonstrate what a classy fellow he is, has placed the following quotation at the top of his “weblog”:
You’re a funny man, Sully…that’s why I’m going to kill you last.
How clever! For those of our readership unacquainted with ghastly B-movies, this is a reference to an unheralded Arnold Schwarzenegger film. And it’s also a clear touting of violence. Wow. Not only must the author of Sullywatch be an ardent fan of high culture, he must also be a really delightful chap. It will come as a big surprise to our readership, then, to find that Mr. Sullivan has entirely ignored the lunatic ravings of Sullywatch.
Having stooped so low as to discuss the sordid world of Sullywatch, we may now come to its excoriation of our humble post on “breastcasting.” In italics you will find the illiterate ramblings of Sullywatch, to which our own humble commentary is affixed:
Just what was he [Mr. Sullivan] thinking when he shared that “Breastcasting” link? Of a pun we don’t quite get, and, even if we did, would rate at best a sarcastic “ha?”
Already the moron who writes Sullywatch has demonstrated his confusion. Did he or did he not get the “pun” that he thinks is involved in our humble post? We aren’t quite sure what the “pun” is, but we have a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Sullywatch is distinctly lacking in the humor department. If so, Mr. Sullywatch is not a funny man…and that’s why we should kill him first.
Notice also, dear reader, the fact that Mr. Sullywatch has already offered a grammatical error: The question mark in the second sentence should appear outside the quotation mark. May we humbly suggest that Andrew Sullivan would never make a third-grade error such as this? May we also humbly suggest that this is one of the reasons why he is a world-famous journalist, and Mr. Sullywatch is an angry nobody?
Even last year, he probably would have skipped that blog. Replete with sophomoric writing that barely meets even the minimal standards of 1980s college conservative newspapers (and boy do the writers seem terribly pleased with themselves!), its own item doesn’t even make any sense. If they think that this is a wasteful way to spend public monies, did they even notice (since they reprinted the whole thing) the part about two-figure donations? Why solicit donations for a publicly-funded event?
Well, well, well: Mr. Sullywatch, in his inimitable clunky prose, takes issue with our humble musings. We suppose that we shouldn’t be so pleased with ourselves: We’d be far more content if we composed a moronic “weblog” solely devoted to criticizing a journalist whose stature Mr. Sullywatch would never meet. That would make us really proud.
But never mind Sullywatch’s tin-eared critique of our writing. Let’s hone in on his idiotic argument. According to Mr. Sullywatch, an event that receives donations cannot also receive public funding. And the reason is…? Oh, that’s right: Mr. Sullywatch hasn’t offered one.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” learned from one of our correspondents at our Chapel Hill (NC) office that the “artist” who makes the “breastcasts” regularly charges far more than the requisite $10 to $25. Just where do you think the rest of the money comes from? Perhaps even a chucklehead like Mr. Sullywatch could figure out that brainteaser.
In addition, let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that the artistic genius behind “breastcasting” was offering her services at a far cheaper rate. Even if this were the case, the university sponsors would still have to flip the bill for the man hours (excuse us: Womyn hours) involved in organizing the affair, as well as pay for the advertising, &c.
May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that even this sum would be a waste of public funds, given the financial straits in which the University of North Carolina finds itself each year?
And this leads us to the author of Sullywatch’s pathetic peroration:
And why react to an event that really doesn’t strike us as all that bizarre, given all the other things conservatives have gone out of their way to highlight from campus women’s (OK, womyn’s) groups?
In a typical example of his artless prose, Mr. Sullywatch has come to the crux of the matter: He does not believe that making plaster of Paris casts of naked female torsos at taxpayer expense in order to “celebrate the diversity of the female form” and somehow boost awareness of breast health is stupid.
Well, gee. We suppose that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respectfully disagree. We think that it’s absurd.
Just imagine if the university offered its male corollary: Plaster of Paris casts of men’s scrotums to “celebrate the diversity of the male form” and somehow boost awareness of testicular cancer. Wouldn’t this seem uproariously inane?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think so, but we have the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Sullywatch would be first in line for the scrotal casting.
If only he had any balls.
Bobos Leave Paradise: Will the Liberal Arts Survive?
Recently, a correspondent from our Methuen (MA) office sent us a curious—and slightly irksome—article from that beacon of journalistic respectability, The Boston Globe
. Penned by the curiously named Marcella Bombarieri, the piece mentions that two scholars in Harvard’s African and African-American Studies Department, Marcyliena Morgan and her husband Lawrence Bobo (no relation to the clown, one presumes), have bid adieu to fair Harvard in favor of Stanford University
It seems as if these two professors departed from the ivy-covered walls of Harvard because Laurence Summers, the rare university president with something resembling a backbone, denied tenure to Ms. Morgan. As a result, Ms. Morgan and Mr. Bobo jumped ship to Stanford.
In typical Boston Globe
style, Ms. Bombardieri waxes calamitous over the departure of these two professors. After all, this must speak horridly of the African and African-American Studies Department of Harvard University, and, the reader is urged to believe, the future of liberal arts education in America. Oh the humanities!
Yet, before we join the Globe
in its choruses of woe, let us take stock of the issue at hand. President Summers denied tenure to Ms. Morgan, whom Ms. Bombardieri refers to (without even a touch of irony) as a “hip-hop scholar,” because Ms. Morgan, despite her obviously grueling work on a “Hiphop Archive,” “had written only one book and her classes received lukewarm reviews from students.”
So, to sum up for our friends unfamiliar with the scholarly world of “black studies,” Ms. Morgan produced one paltry book, no rap CDs, and nary a music video. Tenure material? We think not.
It is particularly interesting to note that Ms. Morgan received tepid reviews from her students, even though she was instructing them on the finer points of such heavyweights of the Western canon as the Beastie Boys and Run DMC. Perhaps she gave them too much reading—we mean, listening—to do for homework?
Instead of keeping such a tight focus on the crucial sub-field of “hip-hop,” the department, thanks to Mr. Summers’ guidance, appears more interested in the far more nugatory subject of African languages. (Apparently, Mr. Summers doesn’t count Ebonics, and its illustrious precursor, Jive, as languages.)
One wonders who is going to fill the gaping holes in the African and African-American Studies’ curriculum, now that the Bobos have packed up their red noses and clown shoes, and headed to the West coast. To make matters worse, Cornel West has already taken his Buckwheat-inspired hairdo and rap CD to Princeton
Who is going to save the department, the university, and Western culture, by endowing a new DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince Chair? It’s going to cost a lot more than 50 Cent.
To quote some rap “artist” or other: O tempora! O mores!
(We think LL Cool J said that, but we’d have to defer to the greater knowledge of Ms. Morgan on this subject.)
One might even venture to expound that Harvard is wack. And the department be illin’. If we weren’t so above the fray, we’d suggest that someone ought to bust a cap in Mr. Summer’s posterior. (Or is that booty?) Harvard has allowed two professors to hip and hop out of its comfy purlieus, and take up shop in the sordid, second-tier world of Stanford. Oh, dear.
How will Harvard students become informed on such key subjects as “human beat boxes”? How will they be able to tell a rap “artist” from a common street criminal? How will they learn to listen to soul-deadening anti-music that glorifies violence and kindred social pathologies?
In short, how will Harvard students become educated?
These are tough questions for Mr. Summers. Tough questions indeed. May we suggest that he answer them in rhymes?
Breastcasting? Yes, Breastcasting.
Recently, a correspondent from our Chapel Hill (NC) office relayed a quizzical message to us. This announcement (a version of which is available here
) is so bizarre that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” felt compelled to offer it to our readers in full.
It comes from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
, and reads as follows:
The Lesbian Resource Center, The Women's Center, and The Carolina Women's
Center proudly present:
Love Your Body: An Intimate Celebration
October 23, 12-5 P.M.
At The Women's Center
210 Henderson Street in Chapel Hill
"What is a 'breast casting'?" you ask.
A breast casting is a three-dimensional work of art made by skillfully
applying plaster of Paris to a woman's naked torso.
"Why would I want that done?" you wonder.
It's a woman-positive experience that celebrates the diversity of the
female form. It promotes awareness about breast health and it makes an
outstanding addition to your home decor!
Suggested donation $25, minimum donation $10.
All women are welcome and encouraged to join us.
Spaces are limited. For more information or to register, call  968-4610.
Oh, dear. There are so many points that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to make that we don’t know where to begin. First, we suppose we should mention that the University of North Carolina—like many state schools—is ineluctably strapped for cash. May we humbly suggest that “breastcasting” events are not worth tax-payers' money?
Second, we couldn’t help but notice that the rhetorical questions the advertisement offers—“What is 'breastcasting'?” and “Why would I want that done?”—were eminently reasonable queries. We found the answers a little less inspired.
We would love it if a representative from the Lesbian Resource Center, the Women’s Center, and the highly-redundant Carolina Women’s Center could explain exactly how “breastcasting” amounts to “a woman-positive experience that celebrates the diversity of the female form.” Need we be so gauche as to ask how pornography does not also “celebrate the diversity of the female form”?
In addition, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not experts in interior design. Still, we have a very difficult time believing that anyone with any aesthetic sense would conclude that a plaster of Paris cast of one’s breasts qualifies as “an outstanding addition” to one’s home décor. We feel as if it offers the same patina of cosmopolitanism as, say, a velvet Elvis painting, or a picture of dogs playing poker.
We also wondered how plaster of Paris casts of women’s breasts amount to the promotion of awareness of breast health. Couldn’t one argue that, say, Playboy
magazine, by virtue of offering its readers countless examples of naked female torsos, is a prime mover and shaker (if you will) in this regard?
If we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were a tad more skeptical, we’d conclude that this whole “breastcasting” nonsense is merely an excuse for some lesbian college students to check out one another’s upper halves.
Perhaps most importantly, the roughly 47 percent of the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” that is male was deeply dismayed to find that it has been left out of this empowering celebration of the female form. If we, the male members of the crack young staff, are known for anything, it’s surely the celebration of the “diversity of the female form.” Why keep a “diversity” of viewers from enjoying these women-friendly festivities?
If the various women’s juggernauts (pun intended) at the University of North Carolina believe that expending funds on such ridiculous programming is vital, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think they’re a bunch of boobs.
Still, if we could get tickets to the event…
Colleges Are Just So Darned…Conservative
A few days ago, dear reader, a correspondent from our Boston (MA) office sent us an op-ed from the September 12 number of that illustrious beacon of left-wing journalism, The Boston Globe
. The article, titled “Illiberal Education” and penned by two flaks for the "non-partisan" Center for American Progress
, is surely one of the most dunderheaded pieces in recent history.
First, we must note that Ben Hubbard and David Halperin, the two authors of this pathetic piece of agitprop, did not realize that Dinesh D’Souza already wrote a book with the title “Illiberal Education.” As that tome details the horrendous left-wing bias in academia, you might have thought that Messrs. Hubbard and Halperin would be aware of the work. It appears not.
The pull-quote from the op-ed says it all: “Increasingly, the agenda on campus is conservative.” To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Have these two chuckleheads ever set foot on a college campus?
Alas, Messrs. Hubbard and Halperin appear to follow the Eric Alterman school of journalism: Argue a point that is mind-numbingly counterfactual, and, if you caterwaul with sufficient fervor, some may believe you. Mr. Alterman, the Lucifer-look-a-like who put forward the brilliantly absurd notion that the mainstream media are biased in favor of conservatives, is surely the patron saint of Messrs. Hubbard and Halperin.
In their piece, the two idiots carp: “Undoubtedly, liberals occupy more professorships, but this says little about political discrimination. Robert Frost wrote, ‘A liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own side in a quarrel.’”
Well, if that’s the case, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are delighted to inform the American public that there are no liberals
on American campuses. After all, professors of women’s studies, black studies, peace studies, comparative literature, &c. are not exactly famous for their broadmindedness.
If Messrs. Hubbard and Halperin were not busy dreaming up utterly unconvincing arguments, they might take a look at the world of contemporary scholarship in the humanities and social sciences: We think they’ll find about as many broad minds as they find unicorns.
And this leads us to our point for the day: If left-wing hacks are going to attempt to sway the public with viciously counterintuitive arguments, why not go all out and proffer the most idiotic points possible?
May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest a few (free of charge, no less)?
“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official List of Ridiculously Counterfactual Arguments for Our Friends on the Political Left:
1. Al Gore is part of a disgraceful Jewish conspiracy to ensure that the Republicans stay in power for 83 more years.
2. Wolf Blitzer is Karl Rove.
3. Republicans are training rats to vote for the 2008 presidential election.
4. Conservatives eat babies. They particularly enjoy baby humans, but pretty much any infant creature will suffice.
5. The Beatniks’ well-known aversion to recreational druggery helped paved the way for the neo-Victorian sensibilities we in America are currently experiencing.
6. Ben Hubbard and David Halperin aren’t a couple of shameless hacks, and possess intricate knowledge of American higher education.
Man, What We Wouldn’t Give to Be Fourteen Again
Just last week, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” had the annual crack young staff picnic.
It was, as you can imagine, a great deal of fun. One of the junior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—managed to get a guy who was searching for food in a local dumpster named “David Lee Roth” to entertain for the evening. We gave him three doughnuts and he played for hours. In fact, we had to hand him a jelly-glazed in order to stop him.
Naturally, the crack young staff picnic was a fete to remember—a prandial delight, if we must say so ourselves. There were all kinds of fine foods on display. Interestingly, a large number of the staff brought chips, and thus we were left with all kinds of leftover snacks.
One of the senior editors of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—brought his son Vincent to this festive get-together. Vincent, or Vince, as he prefers not to be called, is a fourteen-year-old middle-school student. As the picnic proceeded apace, various members of the crack young staff watched Vince with affection—Platonic affection, of course.
Sure, Vince could easily be stuffed in a knapsack. But that wasn’t what we were thinking. Or at least most of us weren’t thinking about this.
Rather, spying the playful Vince as he dropped ketchup on his mother made us collectively pine for our younger days. Sure, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are young, but, next to fourteen-year-old Vince, we were a passel of superannuated fuddy-duddies. In fact, we were the kinds of guys who used passé phrases such as “a passel of superannuated fuddy-duddies.” And that was officially not groovy. Man.
This led us to offer a collective sigh of regret. How could we have let those years go by! It seems like just yesterday that the Muslim world was rife with terrorism and corruption! (Oh, wait: That was
yesterday.) As they say in folk music circles, whither have all the flowers gone?
For a brief moment, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” collectively wished that we could be fourteen again.
Just think, dear reader, of how great that would be: Math homework; dressing like everyone else; being bullied. And, thanks to our friends on the political Left, fourteen-year-olds can now blithely dress in thongs and get all the free condoms they want at school. Gee, being fourteen is an awful lot like being in college.
But then it struck us, dear reader: If we were fourteen again, there would be no way that we could run “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” After all, what fourteen-year-old knows what the word “feculent” means?
“Rock” the Vote? No Thanks.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have never been devotees of MTV
, the cable television station with the uproariously ill-suited name “Music Television.” Whether it plays “music videos” or Generation-Y “reality shows,” we find it a noxious eyesore (and earsore).
Every four years, however, MTV proves particularly irksome. And why, you ask, is this? Well, in addition to the network’s usual glorification of teen-age fornication, MTV offers its platitudinous “Rock the Vote” campaign.
This exercise in foolishness attempts to browbeat youngsters into voting in the upcoming presidential election. Although MTV is not so gauche as to mention this explicitly, the network would clearly prefer its viewers to vote Democrat.
Though MTV labels this ridiculous campaign “Rock the Vote,” perhaps “Stone the Vote” would be more appropriate, if you catch our oblique reference to recreational druggery.
In order to make sure the drooling, bong-clutching ne’er-do-wells who watch MTV actually head to the polls, the station presents numerous commercials starring manifold rock music stars who pretend to care if the viewing audience votes.
Those tuned in to MTV, we presume, believe that the rock stars in question are paragons of civic responsibility: Directly after they destroy their hotel room at the Hilton by burning a goat alive, they dutifully head to the polls, like any good American.
Some of our dear readers may be saying to themselves: What’s wrong if MTV tries to get a few more people involved in the political process? To which we respond: Anyone who needs to be prodded into voting by Sean “P. Diddily” Combs ought not vote in the first place.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” do not believe that we are going too far out on a limb by suggesting that many MTV viewers are chuckleheads. In fact, many of the entertainers who appear on the network are probably even dimmer.
It is, we think, highly unlikely that a youngster who headed to the polls thanks to the efforts of Kid Rock has a firm grasp on political affairs. We can imagine such a fellow saying to himself: “I am deeply concerned about America’s increasing reliance on President Musharraf in the War on Terrorism—especially since Musharraf has autocratic tendencies, and is unlikely to hand over his control of the Pakistani army to someone else. And Kid Rock says voting is cool. So I ought to do it.”
Sounds rather far-fetched, doesn’t it? We think so. As a result, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will go on record today as being staunchly opposed to “Rocking the Vote.” We are also against “Swinging the Vote.” And, just in case our friends on the Left want to pull another Florida fiasco, we’re against “Tampering with the Vote,” too.
Of all the e-mails that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” receive each day, surely the largest number of them pertain to one subject: Our humble “weblog’s” lack of a “comments” section. According to many “webloggers,” eschewing “comments” on one’s “website” is well nigh un-American. Or, according to our friends on the Left, un-Iranian.
Recently, as impressive an e-eminence as Gordon, the proprietor of the mordantly witty “website” Cranky Neocon
, has suggested that we open our “weblog” to reader comments. Obviously, with such impressive members of the e-community weighing in on the issue, we have had to ponder a “comments” section seriously.
Ever since we founded the Internet version (a.k.a. “Al Gore version”) of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” we have had a distinct aversion to reader comments. And this is not because the general reading public is a gaggle of slack-jawed yokels. (Or at least that isn’t entirely the case.) Nor are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” like professors in Black Studies departments, intent on merely “preaching to the converted.”
Rather, the Official “Weblog” Perusal Team of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” has examined manifold “weblogs,” and has discovered that many of them have become sullied by the odious rants of idiotic readers. The “weblogger” in question serves up an exquisite, thoughtful piece on, say, the novels of Peter Handke, and he receives the following “comment”:
Hay, fascist. you donnot know nothing bout handke. stop killing those babies. I hope you blead in hel.
Naturally, the commenter gives himself an elusive nom de guerre
, such as “Peacemonger,” “Trotsky69,” or “Howard Dean.” This way, he can feel free to present the most ridiculously ungrammatical, nonsensical rant without any fear of reprisal.
Just imagine if Marcel Proust presented the first volume of Remembrance of Things Past
on his “weblog.” (Yes, it would be an awfully long post.) He probably would have received diligent exegeses such as:
this writing suks. You are tottaly an idiot. And a fascist. Why are the sentences soo long, you dufus? You should get the heck out of your room some time and learn to write. You queer.
Or what if the Marquis de Sade wrote for the World-Wide Web? He’d be the recipient of such comments as:
You suck. You should eat poop, Frenchie. Wait: You’d probably like that.
Or how about if James Joyce offered Ulysses
on his “weblog”? (Naturally, Joyce’s URL would have been riverrun.blogspot.com.) He would have been the beneficiary of comments such as:
You are such a Jew-lover. You drunken potato-farmer.
Or how about if Virgil gave the world his masterful Aeneid
on his “website”? (Naturally, Virgil would get in some sort of legal tussle with The New Criterion
for the armavirumque tag.) He might have gotten such feedback as:
This whole thing sucks. No one writes in dactylic hexameter anymore. Homer pretty much wrote this whole story before—except he did it better. You fascist.
So, dear reader, we think you can get an idea as to why we are hesitant to allow “comments” on our humble “weblog.”
It’s not that we don’t love you dearly. And it’s not that we don’t use double negatives. Both of those things aren’t not untrue. On the contrary: We have the feeling that such a section might degenerate into a bunch of ungrammatical screeds. And, frankly, if anyone is going to write ungrammatical screeds, it’s going to be we.