Three Seconds of Fame
As is well known among the culturally literate, Andy Warhol once mentioned that everyone got his “fifteen minutes of fame.” Unfortunately, as is also well known among the culturally literate, Mr. Warhol was personally allotted more than fifteen minutes. If you have seen the Warhol film appropriately titled Bad
, you know that this deranged shock-artist didn’t deserve more than ten minutes, tops.
Anyway, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” had reason to pause and reflect on Mr. Warhol’s bon mot
just the other day.
Naturally, you are wondering why we furrowed our collective brows and pondered the nature of fame. Have we somehow received an Instalaunch
? Has our humble “weblog” been discussed on CNN
? Did we just rob a bank?
The answer to these fine queries is a resounding No. Even still, dear reader, something peculiar occurred the other day that erroneously compelled us to believe that we, like Peter Gabriel, were making it big time.
Fans of Al Gore’s World-Wide Web may know of a curious “website” called the Truth Laid Bear
. Along with some other goodies on said “site,” there is a ranking of sundry “weblogs” in the order of their popularity.
For as long as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can remember, our humble “weblog” has been assigned to the “Marauding Marsupials” category of this ranking system. In essence, this means that this “weblog,” is vaguely popular. It’s read by more people than your Aunt Phyllis, but it ain’t exactly Andrew Sullivan’s Daily Dish.
Imagine our collective surprise, when just the other day a seeming miracle occurred. A small miracle, perhaps, but a miracle nonetheless. Although our “website” has remained dismally unpopular all summer, and although we haven’t had a big “link” in months, we suddenly were members of the far more illustrious “Large Mammals” category.
As far as we can tell, dear reader, this is the Internet’s version of the big time. “Webloggers” who are “Large Mammals” have officially arrived. They’re pretty much Gordo
cool. Women want to be with them, and men want to be them. Or perhaps the other way around.
Accordingly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” decided to throw a “Large Mammals” bash. We figured that we ought to celebrate our Internet arrival in style.
And we figured we’d invite all of our favorite “Large Mammals”: G.K. Chesterton, the Baldwin Brothers, et al. Perhaps we’d even invite Robbo and Steve-o
along. You know, do the thing classy.
Just as we were putting the finishing touches on the details of our soiree, we took a gander back at our ranking, and found that we had plummeted back to the unimpressive land of the “Marauding Marsupials.” Apparently, the old Truth Laid Bear had some sort of malfunction, and we were erroneously placed in the “We’re Worth More Than a Piece of Garbage” pile.
It’s a shame, isn’t it? Now we know how the Baltimore Orioles feel.
Spoiled Rotten Fat Chick
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are slightly embarrassed to admit it, dear reader, but we spent the better part of the weekend tuned to an Al Qaeda recruitment network called MTV. As much as we pined to get through a little more Proust, we simply couldn’t keep our eyes away from this unsavory television station.
To make matters worse, the program that particularly caught our collective attention was “My Super Sweet 16
,” which appears to be dedicated to broadcasting the lives of sundry noxious teenagers. Said show, for those of you blissfully unaware of it, tracks the planning and partying behind ultra-wealthy girls’ sweet 16 birthday soirees.
The female members of the crack young staff—who make up nearly 47 percent of us—informed us that not a one of them has had a sweet 16 party. Even more interestingly, informal polling around the office water-cooler suggested that approximately 47 percent of the staff was entirely unaware of the sweet 16 birthday concept until tuning in to the MTV. And they say you can’t learn anything from watching television.
Anyway, we collectively tuned in to one particular episode of “My Super Sweet 16,” which was devoted to a portly, bovine-esque black gal and her uproariously expensive fete. It was, dear reader, quite an experience.
First, we had no idea that poor sods known as “party planners” must spend their working hours placating rich teens by means of ridiculous ideas for entertainment. Who in his right mind would care to take such an odious job? We’d rather be garbage men. Oh, excuse us, feminist friends: Garbage people.
And then there was the birthday girl herself: A dowdy, spoiled (or, as our British friends would put it, spoilt), bitchy, overweight bitch who makes Omarosa seem like Mother Teresa. To be honest, we found this horrid creature—who consistently browbeat her mother and friends—to be the poster child for capital punishment.
As this supercilious Nell Carter bossed everyone around and kvetched over a party that cost $180,000, we collectively thought to ourselves: This
is why the world hates America. Well, that and “American imperialism,” “Zionist aggression,” and the other things about which the academics blather.
Frankly, dear reader, if we were Islamist nutters—and we’re not—we could excuse the USA for its purported “imperialism,” and we could live with so-called “Zionist aggression.”
But this miserable fat chick caterwauling like a clown over her fancy-pants party? That we could simply not countenance.
Authenticity and the Islamists
Many admirers of this humble “weblog” may also read a daily paper as an alternative source for news. Sure, in a perfect world readers would get all their information about what’s happening on planet earth from “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” But, without Al Gore in office, we are very, very far away from this perfect world.
We mention all this, dear reader, because some of you may have noticed a curious thing about your newspapers that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have also discovered. With our usual sass and frass, we like to refer to this as “The Anglicizing Osama Sweepstakes.”
What, you may be asking yourself, is that? Well, perhaps you have noted that sundry American newspapers, monthlies, fortnightlies, and quarterlies offer different spellings for the collective name for Osama bin Laden’s loveable cast of followers.
Some media types, that is to say, simply refer to “Al Qaeda.” As far as we can determine, this was the original way to put this Arabic group’s name into English.
Clearly, however, media types—ever interested in demonstrating their own multicultural bona fides—would not let one simple Anglicization for Al Qaeda stand. Just as “Mao Tse-Tung” became “Mao Zedong,” “Al Qaeda” would need to have a suitable number of variants.
That way, journalists’ reporting on the group could be typically fatuous, but readers would feel as if the authors of such hackwork were sensitive scholars in-tune with the Muslim world.
Accordingly, the average American taking in the news has seen more variations on Al Qaeda than on the rock-n-roll group Jefferson Airplane. And, just as is the case with Jefferson Airplane, they’ve al been ugly. And we mean “We Built This City” ugly.
As a result, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are dedicating today’s humble “post” to determining which of these variant spellings of Al Qaeda is the most dubiously authentic. Which one says authenticity in the way that Tariq Ali does? Or, for that matter, in the way Tariq Aziz does?
It’s a darn good question, if we must say so ourselves. Forthwith, therefore, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” present:“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Judging of Dubiously Authentic Anglicizings of “Al Qaeda”:Fourth Runner-Up: al Qaeda
(A few style points for the lower-case “a”)Third Runner-Up: Al Qaida
(Looks fairly authentic, does it not?)Second Runner-Up: Al-Qa’ida
(We’ve got no idea why the apostrophe is there, but it simply screams authenticity to us)First Runner-Up: Al Q’aïda
(That looks wonderfully foreign; it’s enough to make Salman Rushdie run in fear like a schoolgirl)Winner: Al Sharpton
Thanks, Catharine MacKinnon
Daily readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” ineluctably know that we are not particularly perfervid admirers of the feminist movement. Naturally, as the female members of our crack young staff remind us, we’re not so reactionary that we oppose women’s suffrage. And, even better, we fully support women’s suffering.
And yet, dear reader, there are certain elements of so-called Second Wave Feminism (or, as our academic pals call it, Second Wave Feminisms) that really get our dander up. Every once in a great while, we collectively yearn to smack Gloria Steinem.
In fact, perhaps we’ll have one of our female interns—let’s just call her “Chip”—wallop her. We could congratulate her for the pounding with an empowering “You Go, Girl” holler. How’s that for postmodern feminism?
Anyway, dear reader, given our capacious distrust of feminists, it will come as no surprise to you to hear that we particularly detest so-called sexual harassment legislation. As far as we’re concerned, it’s only slightly above Jim Crow in its horridness. And that, friends, is saying something.
Now, dear reader, the females among us—let’s just call them “Chip”—want you to know that the crack young staff is not a passel of budding sex offenders. In fact, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Headquarters is a strikingly anemic, antiseptic place. As far as we can tell—and that’s pretty far—many of the staffers reproduce via fission.
So what, you may or may not be collectively asking yourselves, makes sexual harassment legislation so, in a word, harassing? That’s a darn good question, and it deserves a darn good reply.
Among the sundry contentions attached to the land’s draconian sexual harassment laws is the stipulation that unwanted advances can create something called a “hostile work environment.”
So, let’s get this straight: If you’re a spry lil’ dame working at the local factory and Brad Pitt is your boss, his request for a date is unlikely to cause offense. If your boss happens to be John Madden, however, you are clearly the victim of sexual harassment. In short, Brad Pitt is incapable of sexual harassment; John Madden, on the other hand, is a walking dictionary of the stuff.
Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” the only people this side of Catharine MacKinnon to conclude that this is a mite unfair? Our feminist friends appear to have made “attempting to date when you’re an ugly man” a heinous crime. Isn’t that a prime example of the cardinal sin of “lookism”?
Why don’t we all agree on one thing, and get all this sexual harassment legislation behind us. No one—and we mean no one—will ever sexually harass Catharine MacKinnon, that wrinkly old prune. Now that she’s “protected” from the indignities of advances by ugly men, can we take those stupid laws off the books?
Or, how about this: To complement our current sexual harassment law, we should add a “No Fat Chicks” clause to the Constitution. That ought to even things out.
Maureen Dowd’s Mental Vacation
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long been bothered by New York Times
columnist Maureen Dowd. For years now, we have collectively wondered whether she is actually a humorist or not. Her bi-weekly contributions to the Gray Lady are so abysmally pathetic that we actually can’t tell if she is attempting to be funny. We’ve seen better writing from illiterates.
As far as we’re concerned, Ms. Dowd is The New York Times
’ gift to the American conservative movement. Her columns are so wretched that they make her opponents seem like budding Albert Einsteins. In short, if Maureen Dowd opposes it, it can’t be half bad.
And recently, dear reader, we’ve found Ms. Dowd particularly insipid. In her past couple of pieces, this Human Affirmative-Action Estrogen Project has lampooned President Bush for taking a vacation. Her latest piece, from yesterday’s number of the Times
, begins as follows:W. vacationed so hard in Texas he got bushed.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: You have got to be kidding us. This
rebarbative play on words is Pulitzer Prize material? Puh-lease.
In fact, Ms. Dowd’s argument—although admittedly rip-roaringly unfunny—doesn’t even make sense. As even the casual observer of All the News That Fits certainly knows, Ms. Dowd detests President Bush. To her, President Bush is like Osama bin Laden—save that he’s not as smart and not as altruistic.
You might think, given her opinion of our current Commander-in-Chief, that Ms. Dowd would simply treasure President Bush’s vacation. After all, she despises everything he does. So, when he’s on vacation, he’s liable to do far less. What’s not to like?
Indeed, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have reached the conclusion that Ms. Dowd is also on vacation. But, unlike President Bush, she isn’t jogging and fishing.
Rather, she’s on a mental vacation. As such, this Jayson Blair of females incessantly writes the same column over and over again.
We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: Bob Herbert and Paul Krugman are also on mental vacations. They must have the same mental travel agent.
Efficiency at the DMV
As we have noted numerous times of late, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have recently moved to our new Official Headquarters. Understandably, this journey to our current resplendent digs has necessitated a certain amount of to-and-fro. In short, we have spent the better part of the past few weeks running errand after errand. After errand.
Yet no task was as unbearably wretched as the one that we completed yesterday. For, on that most unpropitious of days, we collectively trekked over to the local Department of Motor Vehicles, in order to register our fleet of gray Honda Civics in the state we now call home.
Before we can begin to relay the horror that is our neighborhood DMV, we must make something of a digression. Oftentimes, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have made fun of libertarians. To be honest, we have always found their “If He Starves, He Starves” philosophy of government odious. As much as we disesteem the utopianism of the Left, we find the libertarian utopianism of the Right equally distasteful.
But not, we hasten to add, yesterday. The molasses-esque dunderheads who work at our local DMV made us into scorching libertarians. They gave us what doctors are unlikely to call the 24-hour Ayn Rand Flu. It’s as if the DMV is a secret advertising campaign of the Ludwig von Mises Institute.
After taking in the ridiculous ineptitude that is the DMV, we simply pined to privatize. Why, privatize the DMV, we collectively declared. Privatize the Post Office! And, while you’re at it, privatize the government!
Yes, yes, yes: And don’t forget Congress—privatize the heck out of that bugger! And privatize Senators Chuck Schumer, Trent Lott, and that corn-fed knucklehead from Nebraska, Chuck Hagel! Gee, we’d privatize G.W.F. Hegel if we thought it’d help.
To the faint of heart, this all may seem a bit quixotic. But, today at least, we think it’s a splendid idea. As far as we’re concerned, anything that in any way resembles the DMV in inefficiency requires privatization. And that includes the CIA, John Madden, and the cast of “Friends.”
Naturally, dear reader, you are currently thinking to yourself “The crack young staff has really gone overboard. Sure, they’ve been a fountain of bad ideas for a goodly amount of time. But now they are simply off their collective rocker.” Or words to that effect.
But have no fear, dear reader: We’re fairly certain we’ll drop our new-found libertarianism in the course of the day. We don’t aim on becoming Cato Institute devotees.
Right now, however, don’t bother us : We’re rapturously flipping our collective way through Atlas Shrugged
PETA: People for the Unethical Treatment of Minorities?
As pretty much any God-fearing American knows, few groups are more rumbustiously holier-than-thou than PETA, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Although we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” firmly believe that human beings, as moral animals, should treat animals ethically, we are constantly alarmed by the PETA crowd’s Peter Singer-esque nonsense.
And if this weren’t enough to rankle, our friends at PETA seem well-nigh dead-set on bothering us. After all, why else would PETA use Pamela Anderson to help with its promotional campaigns? That untalented bimbo makes us positively yearn to club a baby seal. Or, for those of us who hate noxious pseudo-R &B and pockmarked skin, a baby Seal.
Naturally, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were delighted to find that our politically correct pals at PETA turn out to be a passel of dunderheaded racists. As an August 15 report
noted, “PETA officials apologized earlier this year for a campaign that compared the suffering of Jews during the Holocaust with that of factory animals.”
How awful! How morally obtuse! How depraved!
And yet, after what must have been a heart-felt apology, the morons at PETA were up to their old racist tricks again. The report informs us that:In the wake of protests from civil rights groups and others, PETA must now rethink its new campaign that equates images of animal abuse with those of slavery.
The animal rights group’s “Animal Liberation” campaign featured 12 panels juxtaposing pictures of black people in chains with shackled elephants and other images to illustrate the horrors of animal cruelty….
One panel depicted a black civil rights protester being beaten at a lunch counter beside a photograph of a seal being bludgeoned….
[PETA spokesperson Dawn] Carr said the images were used by PETA to prove a point: Whether it’s humans harming animals or each other, all point to an oppressive mind-set. But, officials with the National Association of Colored People don’t see it that way.
“PETA operates by getting publicity in any way they can,” said John White, an NAACP spokesman. “They’re comparing chickens to black people?”
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Right on, the humorously named Mr. White. Our friends at PETA have taken their Animals Are People Too sloganeering more than a bit too far.
(Actually, the PETA crowd doesn’t necessarily believe that Animals Are People Too, but, rather, that Cute Animals Are People Too. When was the last time you saw a protest aimed at the protection of roaches?)
Whereas the PETA brigade sees its advertising campaign as a way to highlight “an oppressive mind-set,” we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that they have merely displayed their own oppressive mindset. As the good Mr. White correctly noted, black people should not be compared with chickens.
Why wouldn’t anyone with a moral compass realize this?
Dear Fiji: Come Join Our Fiasco
A little while ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” groused about the low quality missives that besmirch The New York Time’s
editorial page each day. Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an overstatement: Can you really besmirch a Paul Krugman column? We collectively think not.
Alas, dear reader, we must report that our violent reactions to the Gray Lady’s wretched epistles continue apace. We know, we know: Why must we read the Times
if it proves so rebarbative?
Frankly, we can’t help ourselves. Some people are child molesters. Others are kleptomaniacs. And we are inveterate Times
readers. Who’s to say which is the most destructive vice?
In the August 18 number of the All the News That Prints to Fit, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” happened upon a particularly pathetic letter to the editor, which we reprint below:To the Editor:
Bob Herbert is right (“No End in Sight in Iraq,” column, Aug. 11). We need a serious national conversation about exiting from Iraq.
First, we need to face reality: no good option exists. The American-led occupation is the main cause of the insurgency, not the cure. Yet an abrupt pullout could lead to even more chaos. The last best hope lies in “internationalizing” the peacekeeping forces until Iraq can take over on its own.
Those who object to this path as unrealistic need to explain how we can better extricate ourselves from the biggest American policy disaster since Vietnam.
Mr. Husinger, the Times
helpfully informs us, is “a professor of theology at Princeton.” Well, that’s nice to know.
Yet still, dear reader, we would like to offer our humble assessment of Mr. Husinger’s intelligence, as demonstrated by his letter. As far as we can determine—and we aren’t professionals, by any means—Mr. Husinger is a complete moron. In fact, we collectively wondered how this chucklehead managed to type his little missive in the first place. He’s that stupid.
And we thought Princeton was dumb for re-hiring Cornel West, the Buckwheat of American higher education! But Mr. Husinger makes Mr. West look like Albert Einstein—with even worse hair.
Just why do we believe that Mr. Husinger is, for lack of a better word, a drooling dunce? After all, he does admit that “an abrupt pullout could lead to even more chaos.” Sure: Had Mr. Husinger’s father agreed to “an abrupt pullout,” Princeton would be bereft of one sub-par theology professor. But, as far as the crazy Left goes, noting the disaster that leaving Iraq would bring is a step in the right direction.
Naturally, dear reader, it’s this lame-brain’s quixotic regard for “‘internationalizing’ the peacekeeping forces” that makes him a complete dullard. Never mind the fact that the USA is not the only country in Iraq right now. Just imagine Mr. Husinger’s clarion call to the cavalry:
“Hey there, Fiji. We’re in the midst of the biggest American policy disaster since Vietnam. Care to add a couple of soldiers to the mix?”
Sure, that’ll go over well. You complete nincompoop.
As Mr. Husinger and his fellow Neville Chamberlains seem not to notice, asking for the aid of a few Uruguayan foot soldiers will not fix anything. Sure, it may add a more multicultural flavor to the death toll. Although multiculturalism is all the rage at Princeton, Mr. Husinger, it ain’t worth that much here.
We think that Mr. Husinger’s letter should serve as a warning: Any epistle that begins with the phrase “Bob Herbert is right” will invariably be a piece of twaddle.
The August Academic of the Month
As darn near everyone who frequents Al Gore’s World-Wide Web recognizes, dear reader, our Academic of the Month
program has been a smashing success. If we must say so ourselves—and it appears as if we must—our humble attempt to laud the pedagogical and scholarly achievements of a professor each month has warmed the hearts of many a fusty pedant. Or at least two.
In the two months since we’ve founded the program, we’ve had the opportunity to praise two marvelous examples of tenured radicalism. Accordingly, in August, we aim to praise a fellow who has yet to earn tenure. And yet, if his “website” is any indication of his academic credentials, this fellow will become an associate professor faster than you can say Stanley Fish.
A friendly reader of this humble “weblog”—who preferred to remain anonymous although possessing a perfectly reasonable name—sent us word about a professor humorously called Chidsey Dickson. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are proud as peacocks to proclaim Chidsey Dickson, Ph.D., our official August Academic of the Month.
And what, you may or may not be asking yourself, makes Mr. Dickson a prime example of intellectual fortitude? We’re collectively glad you asked, dear reader.
Mr. Dickson teaches in the English Department at Lynchburg College. Frankly, dear reader, we’d never heard of Lynchburg, but it seems to be an expensive liberal arts school in Virginia. Kind of like a déclassé version of Wheaton College. Or Marlboro College, only menthol.
Anyway, as one should certainly expect from an Academic of the Month in an English department, Mr. Dickson seems utterly unacquainted with the basics of English grammar. As his personal “webpage” at Lynchburg
demonstrates, the man is congenitally incapable of composing a sentence that isn’t littered with solecisms.
Why, just try a few of these on for size:Ethics, for me, is the relational aspect of any social practice, so it’s different from morality, a private code of rules to live by.
Great to see that Mr. Dickson blithely ends sentences with prepositions, isn’t it? We certainly hope that he passes on his writing skills to his students.Technology—you know what that is—any artifact that shapes our experience of ourselves and the world: mall architecture, fashion, Xerox machines, computers, music, food, cars…basically everything!
Uh, Professor Dickson, this isn’t a sentence. There’s no main clause. Come on, buddy; you’re coasting.These are folks who, say, don’t just argue a point but ponder what it means to persuade through evidential reasoning (or base trickery), who consider what does it feel like to “argue” in different media, in different “voices”?
Oh, dear. This one’s just a sloppy mess.
But wait, dear reader, it gets more delicious. Guess what Mr. Dickson teaches. We’ll let him tell you himself, in his own inimitable prose, no less: “Basically, as a writing teacher, I’ve been trying to prepare people to handle themselves in situations in the real world that require more complexity and subtlety than, say, a Pro/Con debate….”
Just smashing, isn’t it? Mr. Dickson, who appears to be a functional illiterate, has been entrusted by the geniuses at Lynchburg College with teaching writing to its students. Sounds reasonable enough, eh? Perhaps the folks at Lynchburg have made Stevie Wonder the chair of the Optometry Department.
As you must expect by now, dear reader, Mr. Dickson doesn’t much care for teaching his students the fine points of grammar. As he delightfully puts it: “I really don’t think that, when it comes to literacy training, the ‘tried n’ true’ will suffice.”
So, what will suffice? Perhaps his dissertation topic offers some guidance. Mr. Dickson informs us that it “was about how college writing courses can and should include a focus on everyday texts (including fashion, tv and décor).” In addition, our loveable English professor writes that “Many of my writing classes have a service learning component.”
Well, that’s just peachy. The parents of Lynchburg College students have the privilege of shelling out thousands and thousands of dollars per annum to make sure that they are reading Jane
magazine and working in a soup kitchen, instead of learning how to write. What a bargain.
Still, we must admit that the Good Doctor’s “webpage” offered a hilarious bit of unintentional humor: “I am a bonified [sic] member of the MLA (Modern Language Association) and NCTE (National Council of Teachers of English).” “Bonified,” eh? How learned! We wonder who turned Mr. Dickson into a bone.
For all the reasons mentioned above, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are happy to call the humorously named Chidsey Dickson our Official August Academic of the Month.
Cool Rules for School
Okay, cats and kittens, the school year will soon be upon us. And, as we mentioned recently, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to make your transition back to the spotless halls of academe as painless as possible.
As such, dear reader, we shall be offering a clever assortment of university-related “posts” in the weeks to come. We’ll discuss everything the modern American college has to offer—neo-Marxist professors, feminist neo-Marxist professors, anti-capitalist feminist professors, radical lesbian neo-Marxist professors, et al.
In today’s humble installment of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” however, we are presenting our Official Cool Rules for School Quiz. These proffer the kinds of guidelines you need to fit in at your local establishment devoted to higher learning.
The first thing the college student must know, of course, is that the phrase “local establishment devoted to higher learning” is way, way uncool. Only total dorks would use such a lame locution. In fact, we wouldn’t listen to a word such uncool dorks say. Totally. To the max. For sure.
Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, we can move on to our Official Cool Rules for School Quiz. With your number two-and-a-half pencil in hand, take the following little examination, which will help you determine how hip you are. (Or, if you prefer it this way, how un-hip you are. Perhaps you are so un-hip that your butt’s about to fall off.)“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Cool Rules for School Quiz1. Are you Chinese?
2. Do you own a windbreaker? Do you wear it?
3. Do you like Herb Alpert, but find his music a bit too hard-edged?
4. Do you collect Marie-Kate and Ashley paraphernalia? How about Joey Stamos gear?
5. Do you never bathe?
6. Are you Korean?
7. Do you say things such as “My cleric is alignment neutral”?
8. Do you drive a Dodge Dart?
9. Are you Chinese?
Alrighty, dear reader, let’s see how you did. If you answered “Yes” to any of the above questions, you are officially cool for school. If you answered “No” to all of the above (which is, quite frankly, the only other possibility), then, alas, you are not.
Those of you who have failed this humble quiz are undoubtedly asking yourselves: How did I do so poorly? How can I become sufficiently cool for school?
The answer to that fine query is the following: Buy a windbreaker. Everyone is wearing one of them.
Back to School
It’s getting to be that time of year, dear reader. Nervous teenagers are set to amble down the hallways of their new dormitories, whilst their parents follow close behind. Virile upperclassmen hope to get their hands on the nubile first-year ladies. And everyone will soon oversleep his classes.
Yes, yes, it’s back to school time, as sundry low-grade JC Penny advertisements announce. Ivy covered professors are back from their tanning beds and interminable summer holidays to try their hand at bleating about the evils of capitalism.
They’ve just spent the last month in the Bahamas, and now they are prepared to pontificate on behalf of the economically disadvantaged—because it’s a great way to ensure tenure at Yale. No hypocrisy here, eh?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” though our school days are long since over, can’t help but get a little misty-eyed when the new school year starts.
Sure, things have changed a bit since we were impressionable young undergraduates (and before we were impressionable young “webloggers”). Back in our day (as the geriatric crowd brays), the female students didn’t dress for class as if they were on a job interview—at Hooters.
And, as we recall, gang rape wasn’t quite as popular. (Admittedly, though, we weren’t in a fraternity, so we may not be the best judges of that.) To make matters worse, you couldn’t study rap music yet.
O, the horror! How did we ever get by without a class on Jay-Z? How ever did we feel like educated people, without boning up on the subtleties of street slang? We’re collectively not sure. But we know it’s “whack.”
Yes, the contemporary college student has it made. Sure, he can’t add, subtract, or multiply. And divide? That’s always been the toughest one of the four.
Yet, thanks to the (literally) minutes of work put in by today’s professorate, little Johnny has an uncanny knack for identifying the “dyadic mirror phase,” and he can spy when someone is getting all “phallocratic.” With skills such as these, is it any wonder that India and China will soon outflank us?
Whilst we are in the midst of our academic animadversions, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to inform you that the nation’s return to college will mean our return to focusing on the inanities of college life. Fairly soon, dear reader, we shall announce our August Academic of the Month. The hallowed halls of Berkeley and Cambridge are aflutter with anticipation.
Wherever there’s a pedagogue carping on the bourgeoisie during his three-hour workweek, we, like the Jackson Five, will be there.
In Praise of the Paparazzi
Careful readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” may have recognized that we often use this space to criticize, condemn, and spite. Oftentimes, in fact, this humble “weblog” is downright intemperate, if not nasty.
Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to use today’s humble “post” as an opportunity to praise an oft-scorned group of people. Unlike so many of the others, this installment of our humble “website” will aim at making some bottom-dwellers feel good about themselves, rather than contemn those of ineluctably greater stature than the crack young staffers.
We’d like to think that our time on Al Gore’s Internet hasn’t been completely frittered away. We’d like to do a little good, to give a little back to the people.
Perhaps you are wondering about the focus of today’s laudation. If so, you clearly haven’t read the title of the “post.” Which is a tad odd, since the title is rather big and bold. Geez: What’s wrong with you?
Anyway, our subjects are the loveable creatures collectively known as the paparazzi. Turn to any high-quality publication—like People
, for instance—and you’re likely to encounter withering denunciations of these lowly photographers.
Apparently, media types have warm feelings about such odious thugs as Al Sharpton and Hugo Chavez, but have nothing but contempt for the paparazzi. In the eyes of millions, these people are worse than child molesters.
To be totally honest, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” haven’t the faintest idea why. As far as we’re concerned, the paparazzi are simply magnificent.
After all, these nosy photographers may be destroying people’s lives, but they’re destroying the lives of people such as Kid Rock. That deserves some sort of collective medal in its own right.
Yes, the paparazzi can be invasive and disgusting. But, heck, there ought to be some price for fame if you’re as preternaturally bereft of talent as Hugh Grant. Lindsey Lohan absolutely deserves a pack of money-grubbing nitwits chasing her all day: Someone needs to destroy her life.
Perhaps, dear reader, it seems lowly of us to esteem people who ruin Lindsey Lohan’s life. If you think so, you obviously haven’t seen that feculent “Herbie” picture she’s in. It single-handedly ruined our lives, and we think the paparazzi should return the favor.
Are You Getting Personal?
If anything, dear reader, our recent move to our comfy new digs has opened our collective minds to one important factotum: Pretty much every region in these here United States of America is home to a rancid freebee rag that offers numerous personal advertisements. Granted, our evidence for this assertion is a bit scant; still, we believe that sub-par local opinion journalism is one of the things that makes this country distinct.
In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will go so far as to suggest that pathetic free newspapers are precisely what distinguish us from the terrorists. Well, that and good grooming. But we digress.
We have mentioned this topic, dear reader, because one of our sheepish interns—let’s just call him “Chip”—has immediately set to work at the new Official Headquarters, and vigilantly scanned the personal ads of our new area’s feculent freebee rag. As is so oft the case, “Chip” happened upon a fairly interesting advert, and pined to share it with our colossal readership. The advertisement in question looks a heck of a lot like the following—albeit in a different font and with superior graphics:MWM ISO TS/TV/CD
I’m a MWM ISO a woman with that “something special”. I’m 34, 5’9”, HWP, and keep my haircut very short. Let’s meet for lunch. I cannot entertain, but if you know of a place we could meet, maybe we could work something out. 34 yo.
Somewhat peculiar, n’est pas
? Unfortunately, the venerable publication that is home to this pleasant advertisement does not contain a key for abbreviations, and thus we are left in the dark about this MWM’s truncated title.
Still, as far as we can gather, the ad is the work of a Married White Man, who is In Search Of both a Television and a Compact Disc. Although we can’t fully make out the “TS,” we have the feeling that this wedded chap is a big fan of that modernist poet of the ages, T.S. Eliot. Either that, or he fancies Transsexuals. Take your pick.
And this led us to an interesting set of questions: Why would someone search out a TV and a CD via a personal ad? Hasn’t this chap ever heard of Best Buy? And what CD does this guy want? If he is truly a fan of transsexuals, we would figure that a Ricky Martin album would suffice. But that’s just, as the British police would call it, a shot in the dark.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” also considered it mildly noteworthy that the advertiser “cannot entertain.” Perhaps this has something to do with his status as a MWM—that is to say, as a Married
White Man. Indeed, that ought to make hosting a transsexual at one’s abode a bit difficult.
Or perhaps his apartment is just really dirty.
Detroit Is Blue
Many of our lefty friends often prattle on about the comparatively cosmopolitan nature of the Blue States. As far as they’re concerned, states that lean Democrat are chic, and states that lean Republican are hellholes. Sure, argue our left-wing chums, you can call yourselves conservative, but you wouldn’t want to live in Iowa, now would you?
We don’t know about you, dear reader, but we don’t think we can argue with that impeccable logic. As we have long known, many locales in these here United States are well-nigh uninhabitable.
They’re not as wretched as, say, Cuba, or sundry other countries our pals on the Left champion. But they aren’t so peachy either, and we might as well be honest about it.
Yet fans of Red-State politics finally have something for which to cheer, if a report
from the seldom-read Washington Times
is correct. According to said article, some no-name polling outfit, employing state-of-the-art techniques, has determined beyond a shadow of a doubt what is the most liberal city in the country.
Our friends on the political Left may want to sit down for this one. It isn’t pleasant. The answer is Detroit, Michigan.
We know what you’re thinking: That’s
cosmopolitan? We wouldn’t move to Detroit if you paid us! That city is much like East Timor, with more rubble, and without all the high culture. And with more Muslims.
Alas, dear reader, it doesn’t get any better from there. Our pollsters report that the second-most lefty city is Gary, Indiana. You know: The rancid Nowheresville Ron Howard crooned about in The Music Man
, before he played Richie Cunningham.
Gosh, that’s grim. We didn’t even know Gary, Indiana was a city, for crying out loud. It sounds much more like a punch-line. Any place that makes Indianapolis look like San Francisco is miserable in our collective book.
So, dear reader, the next time one of your NPR (National Palestinian Radio) pals blathers on about the superiority of left-leaning America, we humbly suggest that you buy him a one-way ticket either to Detroit or Gary.
In Detroit, he’ll be welcomed with a warm beating and mugging. And in Gary, he’ll be bored to death. Either way, he’ll surely get his comeuppance.
The Rolling Stones Gather Some Moss
As has recently been reported throughout Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, a crusty antiquarian curiosity known as the Rolling Stones has recently garnered some publicity for a politically-tinged rock-n-roll number entitled “Sweet Neo Con.”
Apparently, the superannuated, wrinkly limeys who make up the Rolling Stones figured that they needed a media fracas to enliven their upcoming American tour, since so many of their fans have checked in to assisted living facilities, and hence won’t be able to “rock out” like they did in the old days.
As far as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are concerned, the Rolling Stones—like all rock-n-roll musicians—are somewhere below Al-Qaeda and above belly-button lint on the list of the world’s sundry irritations. Accordingly, we shall not be purchasing the band’s latest album in the hopes of taking in the learned musings of the human Slim Jim known as Mick Jagger.
To be honest, however, it is nice to see that the Rolling Stones aren’t too sodden with drink and drug to bone up on a little Leo Strauss reading. Does anyone else relish the thought of Keith Richards dropping his heroin needle and rushing over to a stack of Norman Podhoretz tomes? And is Mick enjoying that stack of Weekly Standard
issues that must sit at his bedside, next to his pictures of his homosexual love trysts with a dilapidated David Bowie?
Good questions, those. Frankly, though, the reports we have seen on the ditty called “Sweet Neo Con” lead us to believe that the Rolling Stones haven’t been knee-deep in Jeane Kirkpatrick articles of late.
In fact, as the pseudo-humorist Maureen Dowd reports from her perch atop The New York Times
, the song blasts President Bush as a “hypocrite” for calling himself a Christian. Apparently, the only foreign policy a Christian would support is allowing Saddam Hussein to murder and terrorize his people with impunity. As the bumper stickers say, that’s What Jesus Would Do.
Ms. Dowd, in a typical display of her comedic artistry, has even re-named the song “Unsweet Neo Cons.” Awfully funny, n’est pas
? No wonder she’s landed such a prestigious job. No affirmative action here.
If we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” recall correctly, the Rolling Stone named Keith Richards was featured in a number of public service announcements, in which he exhorted American children to stay away from drugs. If this
isn’t hypocrisy, we collectively don’t know what is.
All the Letters That Aren’t Fit To Print
Perhaps we’re simply naïve, dear reader, but we were under the impression that The New York Times
receives a goodly number of letters from its readers each day. With a circulation even larger than “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” the Times
must certainly get a colossal batch of epistles every morning.
And yet, dear reader, a recent perusal of the good ole’ letter section of the Gray Lady has left us wondering whether anyone bothers to scribble a message to this beacon of the mainstream media any longer. If the Times
actually takes in a sizeable batch of letters, why would it print such an inane assortment of them? If the paper receives, say, 10,000 missives per diem, can’t its staff find 20 of them that weren’t composed by inveterate nincompoops?
You would think so, wouldn’t you? But our recent check of the Gray Lady’s op-ed page suggested otherwise.
On July 22, the Times
published another soulless rant written by Thomas Friedman—the paper’s déclassé version of Tom Bosley. Said rant, entitled “Giving the Hatemongers No Place to Hide,” offered typically dull reflections on denouncing hate speech, which offered the misleading impression that the West is as soaked in this poison as are the Islamists.
You know the kind of bunk we’re talking about: Sure, several Arab countries advertise militant anti-American and anti-Semitic tracts via their state-run media, but a few Jewish settlers have said some intemperate things too. Even Steven, eh?
It was also notable that Mr. Friedman, in a column entitled “Giving the Hatemongers No Place to Hide,” never mentioned this humble “weblog.” Boy, is that guy behind the times or what? Talk about a flat-earther.
Anyway, in response to this tepid column, the Times
saw fit to publish the following inane response:To the Editor:
I agree “we need to shine a spotlight on hate speech,” but I don’t think Thomas L. Friedman takes his nondiscrimination far enough.
If the State Department or other branches of the United States government were to initiate a “War of Ideas Report,” to be taken seriously the report would have to include words spoken by our own citizens and government officials (think of the effect of the phrase “axis of evil”).
Otherwise, it would be only a condescending, patronizing or arrogant evaluation of how the rest of the world doesn’t live up to our standards. How will that help end the hate speech?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t like to be condescending, but we feel as if Ms. Ruberg’s letter did not live up to our standards. In fact, it’s a piece of complete twaddle penned by a chucklehead.
Apparently, the enlightened Ms. Ruberg believes that the chilling phrase “axis of evil” has done more worldly damage than, say, the Palestinian love-affair with The Protocols of the Elders of Zion
. What kind of a lame-brain is Ms. Ruberg? “Axis of evil” is downright pleasant in comparison with the nauseating rhetoric that flows from the mouths of terrorists and their supporters.
In addition, we must note that the “axis of evil” phrase was employed to describe the governments
of Iraq under Saddam Hussein, Iran under the Mullahs, and North Korea under Kim Jong-il—not the people of said countries. Does Ms. Ruberg honestly believe that the thugocracy that runs North Korea is all gumdrops and happiness?
But maybe President Bush, to live up to Ms. Ruberg’s concern for decorum, should have declared: “The government of North Korea is simply peachy. I love the way it starves its own citizens.” Wouldn’t that be a tad patronizing?
Yesterday, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” promised to discuss various happenstances pertaining to our unheralded move to our new Official Headquarters. As we can well imagine, our devoted reader(s) are/is waiting with bated breath (and baited breasts) for our clever travel yarns.
To be honest, dear reader, our journey wasn’t terribly interesting. Sure, we made our collective way through various portions of the country that we deemed well-nigh unlivable. If you ask us, nothing makes you appreciate America quite like motoring through its sundry uninhabitable regions.
All the same, we don’t have too much to offer about our travails. Naturally, a few yokels gave our fleet of gray Honda Civics the once-over as we filled up our tanks on the interstate. And, naturally, we had our share of unfortunate victuals: Could Roy Rogers survive if it weren’t
conveniently located on the highway? We collectively think not.
And yet, dear reader, we can share with you a pleasantry that two of our senior editors—let’s just call them “Chip”—experienced. We don’t think it will change your life, but who (David Bowie notwithstanding) wants to change all the time? Certainly not French women: They never change. And they never shave either. But we digress.
Having recently arrived at the new Official Headquarters, our senior editors—whom we have deemed “Chip”—headed off to the local Ikea. For those of you blissfully unaware of Ikea, allow us to inform you that it is essentially an uppity Euro-warehouse dedicated to hawking cheap furniture.
Our two senior editors—whom, for the purposes of euphony, we have deemed “Chip”—found themselves in a mammoth Ikea on a busy Saturday morning. Patrons, suspiciously akin to cattle, were packed in the place, ogling at couches and intermittently mooing.
And then, dear reader, our senior editors—whom, as we noted above, we have deemed “Chip”—beheld a particularly unbecoming visage. Right before their twinkling eyes, a small child—the kind that could easily fit in a knapsack—was biting the corner of a pillow, much to his parents’ delight.
Now, we don’t want to hear any garbage about this little kid as some sort of “pillow-biter”; we find such a lowbrow gay joke utterly unbecoming, and beneath the storied dignity that is “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.”
All the same, can you fathom the stupidity of this tyke’s parents? Their little Johnny had just placed a display pillow—which was probably touched more often than Lindsey Lohan—into his pie-hole, and all they could do was giggle with delight. Rather distressing, isn’t it?
Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” kindly offer this solemn advice: If you ever find yourself purchasing something at the déclassé Pier One Imports that is Ikea, check for drool first. Gosh, we hope that never comes in handy.
A Tip of the Cap
Well, well, well, dear reader. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have finally arrived at the stately redoubt that is our new Official Headquarters. After a week of productive perambulating and profuse packing, we may finally hang our collective hat on our collective peg on which you hang a hat.
Before we offer you a handful of details of our journey in the coming days, we must thank the ingenious fellow who has been “guest weblogging” for us this past week. Consummate readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” know that we mean the proprietor of Naked Villainy
, the Maximum Leader.
As a mere glance down this “webpage” will suggest, dear reader, the Maximum Leader is assuredly an aptly named character. His wit, whimsy, and wisdom demonstrate that he’s no Minimum Leader. And no Moderate Amount Leader, either. Not even a Lot of Stuff Leader. Heck no: This guy, in the words of some horrid A&R rock crooner, takes it to the limit, one more time.
In fact, dear reader, upon careful inspection of last week’s luminous “posts,” our Official Careful Inspection Department discovered a rather unnerving thing: The Maximum Leader is not merely a clever chap; rather, he possesses “weblogger” skills about which we can only dream.
For instance, dear reader, the Maximum Leader has fully mastered the art of what we call “indenting.” If you’ll take a gander at his epistle to Wal-Mart, you’ll note that he has the ability to indent entire paragraphs. We wish we could claim to be as precocious!
And is the Maximum Leader ever funny! We don’t know about you, dear reader, (and, quite frankly, from what we know, we don’t feel fully comfortable), but we found the Maximum Leader’s animated animadversions downright rib-tickling.
Accordingly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as peevish professors to pronounce the Maximum Leader an Official Honorary Member of the crack young staff. If you aren’t reading his enchanting “weblog,” then you are certainly missing out.
As for us, we’ll be plenty busy in the weeks to come. Soon we’ll announce the winner of our storied Official Worst Bumper Sticker Contest
. And then there’s always the loathsome Academic of the Month to attend to.
So, dear reader, from the comfy confines of our new complex, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to announce that, like John Kerry, we are reporting for duty.
You had me at Phallogocentrism...
Greetings, loyal readers of The Hatemonger's Quarterly. It is your Maximum Leader of Naked Villainy for day 5 of his stint as "guest weblogger" on HMQ.
Today your Maximum Leader will provide to you all a document of great worth. A document that will help you understand the language of, if not the mind of, your typical Feminist Theorist. The document is a dictionary. A dictionary of key terms and definitions in Feminist Theory
. The dictionary was ablely compiled by Mary Lynn W. Hopp, Program Director of the Women in Learning & Leadership Program and Adjunct Professor of Women's and Gender Studies at the College of New Jersey (Ewing, NJ).
And since your Maximum Leader indicated that the dictionary of key terms and definitions in Feminist Theory would help you understand the language of the feminist; let us see how Language is defined shall we?
Language: Feminist theory takes language to be an index of patriarchal attitudes, and the sexual distribution of social roles and status.
And here for all these years your Maximum Leader laboured under the false impression that language was defined as the "communication of thoughts and feelings through a system of arbitrary signals, such as voice sounds, gestures, or written symbols." Or possibly as "the whole body of words and of methods of combination of words used by a nation, people, or race."
Well, how could you Maximum Leader be expected to understand the true definition of the word "language" when he doesn't even understand the meaning of "knowledge?" Oh yes. Knowledge it seems is, "The traditional organization of ideas which is attacked by feminists in all disciplines."
So allow your Maximum Leader to restate what information he hoped he just acquired...
He must strive to utilize an index of patriarchal attitudes to attack traditonally organized ideas and overthrow traditional patriarchy in order to liberate the other who has been oppressed by imperialist colonial forces.
By Jove! Your Maximum Leader thinks he has it!
Once, gentle readers, you have absorbed the definitions of "language" and "knowledge" you can move on to more difficult terms. Like: "Heterosexism," "Muted Groups," and your Maximum Leader's personal favourite, "Phallogocentrism."
Well... That wraps up your Maximum Leader's time as "guest weblogger" here at The Hatemonger's Quarterly. Gentle readers should (anxiously) anticipate the return of the Crack Young Staff to this humble "weblog" on Monday. It has been your Maximum Leader's pleasure to fill in for The Crack Young Staff (and their intern, let's call him Chip). He hopes that the Llamabutcher
throw pillows are arranged and the personal computers attached to Al Gore's "internet."
Thank you all for reading. (Presuming there are any of you left.) And thanks to the Crack Young Staff for giving your Maximum Leader the proverbial keys to the kingdom.
Congratulations Paul Hackett
Greetings, loyal readers of The Hatemonger's Quarterly. It is your Maximum Leader of Naked Villainy
writing again on behalf of the Crack Young Staff as they move into their new corporate
Today your Maximum Leader would like to extend his hearty congratulations to newly minted United States Represenatative Paul Hackett of the Second Congressional District of Ohio. Congressman Hackett (aged 43) takes the seat of Rob Portman, who vacated the Cincinnati-area district seat to become President George W. Bush's Trade Representative.
Congressman Hackett, a Democrat, won the seat after a tough special election against Republican Jean Schmidt, a former State Assemblyman.
The election was seen by many pundits to be a referendum on President Bush's leadership as well as the overall Global Struggle Against Violent Extremism, or GSAVE (formerly known as the War on Terror).
President Bush won the Second District of Ohio easily in 2000 and 2004. And (former) Congressman Portman regularly won re-election in the district by upwards of 70%. The very "red" district was viewed as being a "safe" Republican seat.
So how did Hackett pull out a resounding victory which will surely be trumpeted by Democrats nationally as a sign that they can retake the House of Representatives in 2006? Congressman Hackett ran on the fact that he is a veteran of the war in Iraq, and a strong critic of that war. Additionally, he attempted to link Ms. Schmidt to the unpopular and embattled Republican Governor Bob Taft. The Hackett victory will certainly serve as a blueprint for other Democrats as they seek to unseat Republicans.
Noteworthy Democrats are quoted as saying, "Every Republican in Congress should consider himself put on notice..." and "Americans will no longer tolerate the Republicans' continued abuses of power and catering to corporate special interests..." Howard Dean, Chairperson of the Democratic National Committee is quoted as saying, "We have the power to win back Congress. Yesterday proved it. Yeaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhh!"
One can hope that the Republicans make the most of their brief time remaining as the majority party in Congress. The future looks bleak for the GOP as Democrats celebrate.
First the Internet! Now Television!
Greetings, loyal readers of The Hatemonger's Quarterly. It is your Maximum Leader of Naked Villainy
here for another installment of his term as "guest blogger" at HMQ. Remember, he's here all week. Be sure to tip your servers. And try the veal!
Your Maximum Leader is standing slackjawed.
His mouth is agape as he types these words.
Al Gore is a genius. A complete, creative-beyond-words, and total genius. First he goes and invents the internet. Then he goes and reinvents the office of Vice President of the United States. Then he popularized some Floridian fellow named Chad.
And now he is revolutionizing cable television.
Surely you've heard by now? Al Gore's new television station has debuted
. The Current Channel
Now your Maximum Leader has not yet had the pleasure of viewing Mr. Gore's television station. It does not appear to have been "picked up" yet by his various communications providers. But oh how he does anticipate the moment when he too can can watch a "pod" or two of programming on The Current Channel.
What is a "pod" of programming you ask? Well, leave it to Mr. Gore's creative talents to use the name of a group dolphins to define the 2-7 minute long pieces broadcast on The Current Channel. Get it? A pod of dolphins = a pod of programs. How could we have missed the connection?
What? You missed the connection? Well you see a pod of dolphins are a group of marine mammals of the same species. But don't be mistaken; while they are all of the same species they are each their own unique individuals as well. Just like pods of programs on The Current Channel. They are all short videotaped pieces to be broadcast over cable, but each one is on a different subject. Do you see now?
No? Well... Al Gore is such a visionary it must be quite original. The whole idea must be so avant garde
that we normal people find it hard to wrap our conventional minds around the concept.
Really now think of it. Who'd have thought of a whole television channel that would broadcast all of it's programming in 2-7 minute stretches? It is almost like Al Gore has reinvented... Oh... Your Maximum Leader doesn't know...
Aha! Al Gore has reinvented MTV.
Only without the music and the hot chicks.
Genius. Complete genius.
Greetings, loyal readers of The Hatemonger's Quarterly. Your Maximum Leader of Naked Villainy is here for day two of the best "guest weblogger" gig on the whole Albert Gore invented internet.
Today, your Maximum Leader chanced upon an interesting headline on the news wire. The headline was "'Myth' that forests improve water flow."
Your Maximum Leader was duly intrigued and clicked through and read the article.
It appears, although we are no expert in such things, as though a myth has been promulgated by various environmental groups around the world. The myth is (was?) that planting trees would improve water flow and prevent erosion.
According to a study recently released in Oslo, Norway (which your Maximum Leader is lead to believe is a heavily forested country) trees may actually impair water flow. Many trees, it seems, like water. While they may in fact prevent erosion, the trees drink lots of water.
If one lives in a nation that (presumably) has no shortage of potable water (like Norway) trees wouldn't be a problem for you. But if, on the other hand, you live in a dry country (like Mexico) planting trees would be a very bad move. In dry nations planting trees can actually make droughts worse and sap up drinkable water supplies.
Just two months ago you may remember that another study disputed the widely held view (myth if you will) that the Amazon jungle is the "lungs" of the Earth
What wonders are given to us by science? Now we know that trees drink too much water and don't produce enough oxygen for the world.
Where do these revelations leave us?
Should we ignore the Lorax
Is it no longer safe to hug a tree?
Your Maximum Leader is rapidly coming to the conclusion that trees are part of the problem. What precisely "the problem" IS can be a tricky question. But if oxygen and clean water are part of the solution; trees are the enemy. Perhaps as the US and other nations
urge revisions to the Kyoto Protocols we should urge the United Nations to set up a commission to study the problem of trees.
In the meanwhile if you are unsettled by the thought of killer trees drinking your water and slowly suffocating you, know that you can get away from it all. Take a wonderful vacation with your friends at the Sierra Club. They will allay your fears about trees and make you a better person through increasing your awareness and understanding of the planet around you. Check out their great Donner Pass vacation package
. (Cannibalism extra
An Open Letter...
Greetings, loyal readers of The Hatemonger's Quarterly. It is your Maximum Leader from Naked Villainy
here filling in as a "guest weblogger" at the kind invitation of the Crack Young Staff.
Whilst your Maximum Leader is queuing up other topics upon which to opine, he felt the need to share with all of you this open letter to the manager of the Wal-Mart "Supercenter" near the Villainschloss...
Wal-Mart Supercenter #1833
Fredericksburg VA 22401
Your Maximum Leader from time to time finds it necessary to shop at the Wal-Mart "Supercenter" on Carl D. Silver Parkway in Fredericksburg VA. He says necessary because, quite honestly, he prefers to do what little shopping he does do at other establishments. This is not to say that he does not appreciate the Wal-Mart Corporation. The ability to provide quality items at inexpensive prices to the teeming masses is a praiseworthy one. Indeed your Maximum Leader, unlike many "community activists" in less well-to-do areas, lauds the Wal-Mart Corporation for all it does for "the people."
It is "the people" whom your Corporation serves so well that are the subject of this epistle.
Last night your Maximum Leader had to go out rather late at night to get some vital supplies for his lovely wife, Mrs. Villain. These supplies could not wait until the morrow for their procurement; because Mrs. Villain and your Maximum Leader's Villainous Offspring were departing early the next day for a lengthy stay at "the beach." So, your Maximum Leader headed out to your Wal-Mart "Supercenter" as it was the one place at which he knew all the required supplies could be purchased.
He arrived near 11pm at the store and was shocked (shocked!) at the number of people who chose to do their "shopping" at such a late hour (and on the Sabbath no less). They were the very epitome of that which the ancient Greeks described with the word "demokratia." While we today may know this word as democracy, it was originally meant in a pejorative way. It roughly translated as "rule by the mob."
Yes these people where not the model citizens envisioned by Plato or Aristotle. And while your Maximum Leader is not trying to suggest that you should limit your clientele to just those who would fit an Aristotelian definition of belonging to the "demos," he does wish that you would at least see to it that they were suitably attired.
Now, your Maximum Leader has a number of fine tailors whom he has had thoroughly vetted and to whom he has given his warrant. When he is in need of clothing, he will visit one of these fine merchants and procure a suit or casual clothes. Upon obtaining these vestments he takes them to a delightful middle-aged Greek woman - Mrs. Moti - who tailors them to his exacting preferences. Indeed if you, dear sir, knew the pleasures of listening to Mr. Moti read Homer in Greek to you while Mrs. Moti chalks and pins your suit-jacket for alteration you would never buy off-the-rack again.
But your Maximum Leader digresses...
He was rather shocked at a female patron of your store and her family. Your Maximum Leader is sure that if you review the security camera tapes from last night you will notice her. She is the one who stood approximately 5 feet 5 inches tall, weighed approximately 210 pounds, had her hair (poorly) dyed a shade of red, and was orbited by 3 generously proportioned youths. (These children your Maximum Leader took to be hers.)
What was most shocking about her (aside from her atrocious butchering of the Queen's English when she spoke - but that is no fault of yours) was her attire. Again, if you review the security camera tapes you will see she was wearing some sort of pants made of a material with which your Maximum Leader is unfamiliar but he has heard called "lycra." Over her torso she appeared to be wearing a (several sizes too small) men’s "tank top" undershirt that could not contain her ample bosoms. Her bosoms did in fact slide out from either side of the undershirt as she perambulated down the aisles.
It is this sort of visual affront which your Maximum Leader would like to spare himself. While he would not go so far as to say that Wal-Mart should change their marketing strategy and become a more elite retailer; he would suggest that you institute some basic rules of decorum in your stores.
Indeed, should a patron enter your store without meeting your basic dress code you could surely usher them to the "clothing" department and suit them up quickly. Think of it as a self-improvement marketing plan for customers.
Your Maximum Leader