UN Your Big Mouth
In a few short years, dear reader, the United States Senate may well have the opportunity to vote on prospective United Nations ambassador John Bolton.
Why so quickly, you ask? Well, apparently Mr. Bolton has ruffled a few feathers in Washington, thanks to his purportedly heavy-handed management style.
Senators such as the esteemed John Kerry, whose own impressive management style helped him rack up a devastating loss in his recent presidential campaign, are deeply troubled that Mr. Bolton’s imperiousness may cause troubles at the UN. Senators such as Carl Levin, the most prominent elected official from the elfin community, appear concerned that the all-important UN ambassador from Cameroon may get a bit miffed by Mr. Bolton’s straight talking.
Incidentally, the senators who are angst ridden over putting a “bad manager” in charge at the UN also entirely disagree with Mr. Bolton’s take on foreign affairs. As you can imagine, dear reader, this hasn’t affected their decisions regarding Mr. Bolton’s confirmation. They simply have a fetish for good management.
And why not? As far as we can tell, the UN is chalk-a-block with masterful managers. Just take Secretary General Kofi Annan, a man so capable of great management that he has personally overseen some of the greatest calamities in the history of the United Nations. Mr. Annan’s laid back management style has led to great things for UN. Why, just ask his son Kojo!
But we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that the Democrats’ passion for good management predates the nomination of Mr. Bolton as America’s potential ambassador to the UN. As far as we can tell, pretty much every Democratic president has been a dynamite overseer.
For example, dear reader, we offer William Jefferson Clinton, whose attention to detail with White House interns is a locus classicus
of great management. Perhaps if Mr. Bolton hadn’t irked the North Koreans by telling the truth and had merely been fellated by their Elvis-impersonator-cum-tyrant, Senate Democrats would simply love him.
Quite frankly, dear reader, we can fully understand why Democrats want a gentle pushover at the UN, instead of the opinionated Mr. Bolton. When the Arab bloc offers another of its sundry “Israel is a racist country and the cause of all the world’s problems” resolution, we want someone who’ll gently disagree. After all, what’s the point of taking such a strong stand on the issue? It’s not like it’s a moral matter, or something.
That’s why we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” in order to placate our friends in the Democratic Party, personally endorse Tony Danza for our country’s ambassador to the UN.
Sure, Mr. Danza may not understand anything about politics. And, sure, he wasn’t that great on “Who’s the Boss.” But we’re certain he’ll be sufficiently cuddly to the apologists for tyrants and terrorists who make up such a large portion of the UN ambassadors.
In short, why have a Mr. Bolton when you can have a Mr. Rogers?
If you have watched fifteen minutes of television in the last couple of years, dear reader, you are undoubtedly aware of the fact that pretty much every cable news network has hosted umpteen sessions on the way in which “weblogs” may forever alter the so-called mainstream media.
Is it just us, dear reader, or does everyone find these exercises in chat-show puffery mindless? As far as we’re concerned, if “webloggers” are going to revolutionize the way Americans take in the news, Wolf Blitzer will be among the last to know. And Lou Dobbs will be far, far behind him.
Well-nigh every night on the 24-hour news circuit there’s another vapid conversation dedicated to those inscrutable little “webloggers.” In order to gain an understanding of the world of journalism as practiced by non-journalists, these programs ineluctably feature the few “webloggers” who actually are professional journalists.
This allows twits such as Anderson Cooper to ask an array of sanctimonious questions about journalistic ethics and partisanship. Ah, yes: CNN is entirely non-partisan. Just ask Eason Jordan and Ted Turner.
As if this all weren’t bad enough, the news programs’ discussion of the “weblogosphere” always includes a woman who goes by the sobriquet Wonkette
Perhaps you’d recognize Wonkette if you saw her, dear reader: She’s a thin, wan 30-something gal who looks as if she’s been genetically engineered to live in a bog. She makes an albino look like Isaac Hayes.
But never mind the fact that Wonkette clearly resembles that girl from your kindergarten class who used to pick her nose and eat it. That’s hardly why she ruffles our collective feathers.
Why, you are no doubt asking yourself, is the crack young staff so oft perturbed by the on-screen antics of Ms. Wonkette?
In short, it’s because she’s egregiously self-impressed, as if making snippy remarks about Jeff Gannon is really so difficult. As she offers her inevitably snarky remarks about the World According to Wonkette, she resembles nothing so much as the Internet’s Marie Antoinette.
“Let me tell you how the world works,” she intones, clad in vertiginous pastels that violently clash with her Conan O’Brien color palette.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” reply: Look, Wonkette. We’re sorry you didn’t make the cheerleading squad in high school because your ribs are iridescent. But could you please can the smugness? You’re like David Spade and Dennis Miller’s love child, for crying out loud.
And then there’s the matter of Wonkette’s “weblog,” which we hear is called Wonkette. Frankly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have never read said “weblog.” We just aren’t that interested in her brand of yuppie DC gossip-mongering.
We wonder why: Have you heard whom Tony Blankley is dating? Wonkette has recently learned that he and Eleanor Clift are having a torrid love affair. Pat Buchanan caught them in a three-way with John McLaughlin. He was in the throes of passion, screaming “Issue Four!”
How come that hasn’t gotten our collective juices flowing? To each his own, we suppose.
Life Is a Labyrinth on a Roller Coaster, or So We’re Told
As has been widely reported throughout the “weblogosphere,” we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been accepting submissions for our Second Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition, the details of which you can find here
Unsurprisingly, dear reader, our e-mailbox has been chalk-a-block with submissions. In fact, we’ve received so many entries that our official contest judge, Anonymous, has required the help of his long-time associate, Unknown. The two grand old men of the poetry world have been poring over more feculent balladry than you can shake a troche at. Or something.
Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” long for even more entries. As such, we want to warn you that the May 1st deadline will soon be upon us. Time, like your first wife, is running out.
And thus we have decided to use this humble installment of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” to drum up some more submissions. Accordingly, dearest of dear readers, we have happened upon the work
of the cleverly named erstwhile high-schooler Anne Tick.
Anne Tick, for those you unaware of her oeuvre, was a 2000 graduate of Glenwood High School, which is somewhere in God-forsaken Illinois. A correspondent from our God-forsaken (IL) office sent us a copy of her delightful poem, which is titled “Untitled.” It’s not exactly a locus classicus
of sub-par versification. But it’s a start.Untitled
by Anne Tick, Glenwood High School (2000)Children
What did I expect
Trying to find
Through this world
So why should you stop
To care about me?
What’s in it for you?
It isn’t fair
How can I know
Why you change
You think you’ve
Got them figured out
One step forward
Then two backward
Life is a labyrinth
On a roller coaster
I’m not responsible for you
I can always leave
But I won’t
I can’t because I care
I can’t help it
I just wish you knew
It’s a ridiculous concept
And everyone’s laughing
Well, Anne Tick, we can’t speak for anyone else, but we know that we’re laughing. In fact, we’re laughing hard enough for a few other people. We haven’t chortled so much since Yassir Arafat won the Nobel Piece (of Israel) Prize.
And frankly, dear reader, Anne Glick’s “Untitled,” although far from a masterpiece of poetic juvenilia, has a few of the correct ingredients. It’s replete with vapid clichés, and Anne Tick seems to be under the unfortunate impression that life just doesn’t get more difficult than 10th grade.
Ah, yes: Homeroom’s a bitch, isn’t it, Ms. Tick? Too bad you aren’t lucky enough to be a coal miner.
Still, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that the poem could be a bit more dreadful. After all, where’s the mindless political shibboleths? Perhaps Anne Tick added them in college.
So, dear reader, think that you can do better? We humbly invite you to send in a poem for our competition. Simply click the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen.
And let us take a gander at your clever Anne-Ticks.
Don’t Know Much about Herstory
Many readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” may be unaware of the National Black Herstory Task Force, Inc
. In fact, until a correspondent from our Hoboken (NJ) office sent us a brochure from said Herstory Task Force, Inc., we had never heard of it ourselves.
Perhaps some of our loyal readers are wondering to themselves: What the heck is “herstory,” anyway? To put it pithily, as far as we can tell, “herstory” is to history what Mr. T is to acting. Or what Kenny G is to music. Or what Kenny G is to acting, for that matter.
In short, “herstory” is the brand of politicized claptrap favored by radical dolts too dim to realize that the word “history” has no linguistic relation to the pronoun “his.”
But you needn’t take our word for it. The practitioners of herstoriography over at the National Black Herstory Task Force, Inc. offer their own description of their mission on their “website”:Respectfully, we note that in order to accurately tell our stories, we must include the relationships shared with our brothers and allies.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Well, at least they’re respectful about all of this. Still, we aren’t terribly impressed by the fact that our dedicated herstorians offer up a whopper of a split infinitive in this sentence. Perhaps grammar is patriarchal? We’ll have to ask our brothers and allies.
Now, let us make it crystal clear that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” haven’t any qualms with the studying of African and African-American history. And, naturally enough, such history should include the discussion of both men and women. Even stocky women named Gwen.
But those dedicated to “chronicling and celebrating herstory,” such as our friends at the National Black Herstory Task Force, Inc., make us wonder. As far as we can tell, such “herstory” is often bent on establishing orthodox views on topics, and serves as a pseudo-intellectual exercise in political grievance mongering.
Don’t buy our contention that “herstory” is often a bit fluffier than its shopworn, patriarchal cousin history? Can’t imagine that contemporary professors would create academic fiefdoms dedicated to promoting student self-esteem instead of intellectual rigor? Don’t believe that the sky is blue?
You don’t have to. Just take a gander at the “recommended reading
” over at the National Black Herstory Task Force, Inc.’s “website.”
Among the three tomes warmly endorsed is one Lee Hart Merrick’s White Bird: The Private Papers of a Reverse Oreo
The folks at the National Black Herstory Task Force, Inc. inform us that this hefty volume is a “page-turner” that “is offered as a nonprofit, nonfiction story of a small-town upstate New York WASP (White, Anglo-Saxon Protestant)….”
Well, gee: We’re glad that our allies at the Task Force, Inc. have explained to us what a WASP is. Now if they could only get around to informing us about the mysteries behind other nettlesome abbreviations, such as UN and USA. And what the heck is EU?
We’re also glad to see that Ms. Merrick considers her memoir “nonprofit.” At least she isn’t sufficiently unhinged to think her “Reverse Oreo” tale is going to show up on the New York Times
’s best-seller list.
Frankly, though, we think that Ms. Merrick is something of a one trick pony. The book she wrote right before she began the painstaking work behind The Private Papers of a Reverse Oreo
is White Cream: The Public Papers of an Oreo with Double-Stuff
Don’t Flatter Us
As you might imagine, dear reader, we here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” receive an awful lot of mail each day. In fact, we have assigned one of our least intelligent interns to mail duty alone.
Unfortunately, he seems to be more concerned with female duties. If you catch our drift. And we’re pretty sure you do.
Anyway, nary a day goes by in which we don’t get all kinds of irksome items from our postman. Fan mail, various awards, death threats—you know, the usual stuff. Recently, it’s gotten so bad that we wish that the postman only rang twice.
In yesterday’s batch of snail mail, however, we got a curiously ugly catalogue. Normally, we receive all kinds of catalogs: Mail-order brides; Phil Collins record clubs; toaster strudel; &c. Yet this catalog was so aesthetically challenged that it made us pine for a Thomas Kincaid painting.
We refer to the Travel Smith
Summer 2005 catalogue.
The reader of said catalogue is immediately struck by a strikingly unattractive cover, which features a vomit-inducing color palette. More importantly, the Travel Smith rag offers the following hook: “Swimwear to Flatter Every Body.”
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Have the folks at Travel Smith every seen every body? If they had, they would certainly recognize that almost all of humanity looks rather ridiculous in swimwear.
Sure, not Jason Alexander. But pretty darn close to everyone else. Even Delta Burke looks a bit chubby in a two-piece.
And then there’s the horrid advertising-ese attached to each piece of merchandise. For instance, dear reader, take a gander at some of the overblown rhetoric that accompanies the manifestly unimpressive “Cotton Separates”:For sultry climates where the last breeze blew through town long before you arrived, packing our Crinkle Cotton separates is as good as packing a zephyr in your overnight bag.
Uh, “a zephyr” in our “overnight bag”? Come on! We once knew a gal named Zephyr, and believe us when we tell you that she did not enjoy being packed in an overnight bag. Even if it saved us some money on a flight.
Or check out this ghastly bit of prose, which accompanies the “Soft Tees” collection (and to which we have affixed our own humble commentary):Don’t be fooled by their deliciously soft texture.
Don’t worry: We were not fooled by their “deliciously soft texture.” In fact, given that we can’t touch them in the catalogue, it’s highly unlikely that we’d be tricked.These tees are heavyweight champs when it comes to easy care and high performance….Oh, and did we mention that they’re also stylish? Both tees have a jewel-style neck.
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: A jewel style neck. That is
awful stylish. We wonder if the folks at Travel Smith have bothered to inform the eight-year-old Indian children who make their clothing just how sexy it is.
Recently, dear reader, one of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—was trolling around on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, in search of environmental groups to join.
“Chip,” we hasten to add, isn’t particularly interested in the environment. He’s not sufficiently dedicated to the environment’s destruction to spray aerosol cans in the air all day. But he’s not exactly a hemp-clad tree-hugger, either.
Why, you may be asking yourself, would “Chip” spend his copious leisure hours hunting for an environmental cabal? The reason, dear reader, is simple: Just like any other fellow, “Chip” was doing it for the ladies.
For “Chip” had heard from another junior editor at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—that chicks dig tree-huggers. And some of the female members of the crack young staff—let’s just call them “Chip”—thought this was true, too.
Anyway, dear reader, “Chip,” on his quest for a suitably hippie-esque enclave, was struck by the “website” of Earth First!
, a group that demonstrates its enthusiasm for the environment through its use of an exclamation mark. These aren’t people who care about the earth second, the organization’s moniker shouts.
But it was not only Earth First!’s use of punctuation that intrigued “Chip.” Rather, he was interested in the group’s self-description
Below you’ll find portions of this description, to which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have affixed our own humble commentary.About Earth First!Are you tired of namby-pamby environmental groups?
Yes! Yes, we are. Most assuredly we are.Are you tired of overpaid corporate environmentalists who suck up to bureaucrats and industry?
Well, we wouldn’t put it quite that way, but we guess we are. Yes, we suppose we are.Have you become disempowered by the reductionist approach of environmental professionals and scientists?
Ummm. You seem to have lost us with this last question. We can’t say that this has ever really troubled us. That’s too bad, because we were totally with you on the first two. If you answered yes to any of these questions, then Earth First! is for you.
Okay, then! Earth First! it is! Where do we get the chicks?Earth First! takes a decidedly different tack toward environmental issues. We believe in using all the tools in the tool box, ranging from grassroots organizing and involvement in the legal process to civil disobedience and monkeywrenching.
Wow, that’s an awfully large toolbox. How do you fit both “grassroots organizing” and “involvement in the legal process” in there? The crack young staff’s toolbox only fits monkeywrenches. There are no “members” of Earth First!, only Earth First!ers. It is a belief in biocentrism, that life on Earth comes first, and a practice of putting our beliefs into action.
Aw, man! You mean you guys are a pack of discriminators? How dare you privilege the Earth over, say, Mercury! If you ask us, that’s totally despicable.
In fact, this has all proved so troubling to us that we have decided to start our own environmental group. We call it Earth Third!
What’s second and first, you ask? Well, second is Antonio Banderas, of course. And first? Uranus.
Marxism—Now New and Improved!
A lot of residents of these here United States of America are tired with politics as usual. They can’t stand the constant carping of sundry Democrats and Republicans. This one wants a tax cut. That one wants euthanasia. This one’s Hillary Clinton. Blah, blah, blah.
May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” recommend you take a gander at one of America’s blossoming third parties? The Christian Falangist Party, the Prelapsarian Jungists of America—there’s so much to choose from.
Or, as our grammatical sticklers would put it, there’s so much from which to choose.
Anyway, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had reason to reflect upon this anew when a longtime confidant sent us word of something called the New Marxist Revolutionary Party
. And what, you may be asking yourself, is the New Marxist Revolutionary Party?
Clearly, you are saying to yourself, it’s far more than a memorable and pronounceable acronym (NMRP).
Well, dear reader, we’ll let one Kevin Freeman, the guru of NMRP, explain it himself. His “website” offers a unique look into a political party that is sure to take this country by storm.
Below you’ll find part of Mr. Freeman’s description of his pet party, to which we have affixed our own humble commentary: The purpose of The New Marxist Revolutionary Party is more to educate and organize than to actually function as a political party in America’s tainted democracy.
Thanks for your input, Mr. Freeman. Where, exactly, does splitting an infinitive in the introductory sentence explaining your new revolutionary party fit in? If it’s an important goal, then you have done just fine. Although American democracy seems pretty healthy, your grammar is sure tainted.The goal of the New Marxists is to incite revolution and social change across the globe.
Interesting. But this all makes us wonder: What was the goal of the Old Marxists? If we recall correctly, it was roughly the same as Mr. Freeman’s goals. And—though we can’t remember our school days too well—we seem to recall that the Old Marxism didn’t go very well. Something about the murder of millions upon millions of people. Anyway, Mr. Freeman might want to look into it.This page contains links on how to join or contact the party, what you can do to make a difference, flyers and pictures, meaningful quotes, and current news stories on the communist struggle. Please…CHOOSE PEOPLE OVER PROFIT!
Oh, drat. If only Mr. Freeman had told us this last week. Just a few days ago, we chose profit.
Let’s Get Secular
As pretty much everyone on God’s green earth must know by now, a new Pope has been chosen. The Vatican is awash in all kinds of good cheer, as the faithful bask in the luminous glow of Benedict XVI.
Naturally, not everyone is pleased as punch at the selection. Our friends in the good old mainstream media seem deeply disappointed, in fact. Benedict XVI is, after all, Catholic. And, quite frankly, to our friends in the good old mainstream media, that isn’t suitably progressive.
And so, on the nightly rant called “The Chris Matthews Show,” the eponymous host can be heard blathering on about the horrors of Benedict XVI’s shockingly Catholic worldview. Mr. Matthews has drudged up an assortment of Lesbian Satanists and animistic witch doctors to carp about the disgracefully religious outlook of the new pontiff.
This all strikes us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” as similar to a bunch of American Conservative Union members agonizing over the fact that the editor of Ms.
magazine is a feminist. We mean, come on, what the heck do they expect?
Perhaps in the warped little minds of Mr. Matthews and Co., the cardinals were choosing between Benedict and Robert Reich. Alas, the Church chose the fellow who isn’t a same-sex-marriage-loving Jew. How unpropitious!
For our friends in the mainstream media, this is all very hard to take. The Pope isn’t a progressive; the President isn’t a progressive. Heck, even the car insurance company called “Progressive” isn’t progressive. What a bummer.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to offer our condolences to our friends in the mainstream media. It must be very troubling for them that new Pope is so, in a word, religious.
In fact, for all of those who were hoping (yet not praying, of course) that Robert Reich would be the next Pope, we want to offer you the following list, which mentions a few other important facts about the contemporary world. If you think Robert Reich was robbed, just take a gander at this:“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official List of Unfortunate Facts Regarding the Job Placement of Various High-Profile Figures
1. Louis Farrakhan is not the president of the Philo-Semitic Committee of America.
2. Ann Coulter is not a staff writer at The Nation
3. Cher is not a talented singer.
4. Paul Gigot is not the editor of The New Left Review
5. Ralph Nader is not a fellow at the Cato Institute.
6. Cher is not a talented actress.
7. Chris Matthews is not unemployed.
Planet Superannuated Hippie
Many readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” are undoubtedly unaware of Planet Patriot
, a “website” created by one Harold Wood. Although Planet Patriot—being a “website,” and not a planet—is rather poorly named, it is a beacon of all kinds of important information.
If, by “important information” you mean “links to feculent folk songs purportedly aimed at making the world one giant New-Age wet dream.” For Mr. Wood has prominently featured what he calls “Songs for World Peace” on Planet Patriot. The delightful Mr. Wood explains:The global environment can survive only if we learn to live in peace and harmony with our fellow human beings.
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Fine by us. Would Mr. Wood mind telling that to the upstanding folks in such peaceable, earth-friendly clubs as Al-Qaeda? Last we checked, North Korea was about as harmonious as a Karlheinz Stockhausen piece.
But we have the sneaking suspicion that this snag doesn’t bother Mr. Wood one bit. His “website” continues:This page is in two parts. The first provides inspirational, pro-Peace songs, meant to inspire.
Thank God! We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” often find inspirational songs so, in a word, un-inspirational. Finally someone has come to the rescue. Inspire us, o Department of Redundancy Department!The second part [of the “webpage”] is Anti-War songs, meant to get you mad, and take action. We need two sides of this coin.
Which coin? We didn’t realize that there was going to be any money involved. And, frankly, it’s Mr. Wood’s poor grammar—and not his Spirited Anti-War Songs—that have gotten our knickers in a twist.
Just in case you thought Mr. Wood’s “Songs for World Peace” “website” wouldn’t get you suitably riled up, he lists a number of tunes under the “Peace Songs” and “Anti-War Songs” rubrics.
Frankly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” haven’t heard many of these ditties. Perhaps that’s why we're a passel of incorrigible warmongers. And hatemongers, come to think of it.
But the inclusion of Bette Midler’s tune “From a Distance” doesn’t give us the collective impression that Mr. Wood shares with us a similar understanding of the word “peace.” As far as we’re concerned, the video for “From a Distance” could be used as a dynamite Al-Qaeda recruitment tape.
If Osama bin Laden is still angry about the Crusades, just imagine how upset he’ll get at “From a Distance”!
As any educated member of society must know, the modern world is fraught with all kinds of problems: Terrorism; the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction; Kid Rock. Yet, of all the globe’s sundry problems, surely the most vexing—nay, the most oppressive—is the hegemony of the same-sex bathroom.
What’s that you say, dear reader? You don’t agree? Surely, then, you have not taken a gander at “Toilet Training
,” a film by Tara Mateik and the Sylvia Rivera Law Project.
Thankfully, dear reader, there is an easy way to remedy this serious lapse. For a piddling $195, your university or institution can get its hands on a pristine VHS copy of “Toilet Training.” (Apparently, the movie’s not yet out on Beta.)
Sounds good, you say, but can you offer me a summary of the movie’s contents? Naturally, we could, but we think that we can scarcely do a better job than our friends at the Sylvia Rivera Law Project. Below you’ll find portions of their description of “Toilet Training” (which for some reason is momentarily unavailable on the World-Wide Web), to which we have affixed our own humble commentary. Toilet TrainingToilet Training is a documentary video and collaboration between transgender videomaker Tara Mateik and the Sylvia Rivera Law Project, an organization dedicated to ending poverty and gender identity discrimination.
Very interesting. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” simply love Mr./Ms. Mateik’s videos. Especially the early work: As far as we’re concerned, nothing beats “Dances with Hermaphrodites.”The video addresses the persistent discrimination, harassment, and violence that people who transgress gender norms face in gender segregated bathrooms.
Ah, the evil specter of segregation is again rearing its ugly head in American life. In American bathrooms, in fact. Perhaps the video will also address the damage gender integrated bathrooms pose to psyche of young males. As far as the male members of the crack young staff are concerned, there’s nothing quite as disturbing as witnessing the fact that young women are equally mephitic. In fact, that seems to trouble the female crack young staffers, too.Includes discussion of legal questions of equal access; the health effects associated with “holding it”; and the social consequences of experiencing pervasive discrimination in bathrooms and other gendered spaces.
We hope that our friends at the Sylvia Rivera Law Project intend readers to interpret “holding it” metaphorically. We can imagine that there are many risks associated with holding a handful of urine. But we don’t think we want to hear about it.This race, age, ability and gender diverse video is a great activist tool for those who want to struggle for self-determination and bathroom liberation for all people starting with local communities and institutions.
Let us overlook this last sentence’s clunky prose. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are delighted that the video is “ability diverse.” It seems as if the Sylvia Rivera project doesn’t discriminate against dullards. Actually, it might discriminate against those who aren’t certifiably insane.
But that’s neither here nor there. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long been eager to join the “struggle for gender self-determination and bathroom liberation.”
Defecators of the world, unite!
A “Coherent and Substantive Publication”
As pretty much the entire World-Wide Web knows by now, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have announced our Second Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition. And, as you might imagine, we’ve been flooded with deliciously execrable poesy from our entrants.
We hope, dear reader, to receive as many submissions as possible. Call us dreamers, but we think that pretty much every one of us has a terrible collegiate poem inside of them. Or at least right next to them.
In today’s humble post, then, we plan to do our best to exhort you to send us some pseudo-poetic drivel. And we figured that an example of the real thing just might get your creative juices flowing.
The venerable Duke University, like pretty much every college in these here United States of America, is home to a “Women’s Center.” It’s a safe-haven for women to contemplate their oppression, before they drive their Range Rovers out for a hearty meal at the local four-star restaurant.
Yet the Duke University Women’s Center does not only function as a place for mildly anorexic upper-middle class females to wax vulvic about the patriarchy. It also publishes Voices
magazine, which allows mildly anorexic upper-middle class females to wax vulvic about the patriarchy. No one trick pony here!
Recently, a correspondent from our Durham (NC) office sent us the Spring 2005 number of Voices
. And, believe us, dear reader, it’s the real deal: Its pages are teeming with inscrutably wretched poetry and prose.
The editrix of Voices
, one Holly Anne Manning, informs her reader(s) that she “received over 160 submissions of prose, poetry, art, and photography, reviewed them anonymously, and selected what we believe to be the very best.” She tells us that “Gender is the common thread binding all the issues into a coherent and substantive publication.”
160 submissions? A “coherent and substantive publication”? Someone ought to introduce Ms. Manning—a rather male last name, that—to the contents of her magazine.
For instance, there’s the first sentence of “Oof,” an essay by one Alicia Manning. (We’re glad the reviews were done anonymously. Clearly, talent runs in the Manning family.) It reads: “The first time I farted in front of Nick was Thursday, January 17, 2002, at 7:28 a.m.”
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Well, gee, thanks for sharing. How very substantive.
But nothing beats the contribution of one Greg Richard Bernard. He has composed a poem entitled “her,” which appears to be a disquisition on his status as a “gender vampire.” The last lines of said poem are so delightfully horrid that we simply had to share them with you:queer. yet not gay.
penis. yet not male.
Woman. yet no vagina (lost with my breasts
in the cosmic comedy that engulfs
airport luggage and dryer socks).
left behind to tumble, alone.
screaming. trapped in genetic silence.
Woman? yes, I am
a vampire. but do not fear me.
this succubus feeds on Herself alone.
We hate to ruin the “genetic silence,” but we can’t stop laughing. And this fellow calls airport luggage a “cosmic comedy”? He should try reading one of his own poems aloud.
In fact, that first line simply begs for parody: “queer. yet not gay.” How about: “poetry. yet not good”?
We hope, dear reader, that a sample of Mr. Bernard’s oeuvre has inspired you to create your own example of miserable doggerel.
Don’t be a succubus that feeds on yourself alone; send us your poem today by clicking the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen.
Announcing the Second Annual “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition
If we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” love anything, it’s horrid poems penned by moronic college students. To the connoisseur of cant, collegiate balladry offers a smorgasbord of delights: Tin-eared ineptness; mindless self-puffery; ghastly political clichés; &c.
As a result, dear reader, it is with great anticipation that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” announce our Official Second Annual “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition. We are officially calling upon you to offer up the most gut-wrenching imitation of disastrous college doggerel.
Devotees of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” will undoubtedly recall that last year’s contest winner
was the esteemed Michael E. Lopez, Esq.
, whose feculent ditty, “believing the me i’m told,” was a minor masterpiece of satire. Given how competitive last year’s contest proved, we are certain that the second installment of the competition, like Kirstie Allie, will be hot and heavy.
Perhaps, dear reader, you don’t know what kind of obnoxious pseudo-poetic drivel we are hoping to receive from our Official Contest Entrants. Maybe we should offer a couple of tips.
Naturally, dear reader, fundamental grammatical flaws are a must. Today’s college students may claim they know everything, but they think a semi-colon is a fancier quotation mark. In addition, the poem should convey an irksome all-knowing tone. After all, these kids are 19 years old, and they understand the ways of the world far better than their elders.
Perhaps a humble example is in order? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not poetasters ourselves, but we’ll give it a shot. In our announcement of last year’s contest, we contributed a ditty called “We Are All Saddam.”
Continuing with this Middle-East theme, we decided to offer the following verse:Its [sic] Really Halliburton
by the Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”They say its [sic] “democracy”
They say its [sic] “freedom”
When its [sic] really Halliburton.
If you, Evil Bush, care so much about “democracy,”
Why don’t you feed the poor?
If you, Evil Chaney [sic], care so much about “freedom,”
Why don’t you offer socialized health care?
Because it’s really Halliburton.
Orange-stained fingers don’t fool me.
They don’t mean “democracy.”
They dont [sic] mean “freedom.”
They mean Cheetos.
Because it’s really Halliburton.
It’s not so wonderful, but we think you can get a sense of the brand of piffle we hope to receive.
As such, we can now offer up the Official Contest Rules: Entries must be submitted by 5:00 pm EST May 1st, 2005. Contestants need not be college students. Contestants need not detest college students, but it will probably help. Meter, coherence, assonance, and displays of real talent are to be avoided.
All submissions will be read by our Official Contest Judge, Anonymous. He’s one of the few poets who has a more impressive resume than Randall Jarrell, and whose poetry is more popular than Jewel’s. In addition to being one of the world’s most prolific and long-lived poets, he was a dynamite judge for last year’s competition.
So, dear reader, wait for the Wretched College-Student Muses to inspire you, and send in your poem by clicking the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen.
Allow your inner W.H. Auden to let loose and create. Or at least let him out: It probably isn’t comfortable for your inner W.H. Auden to sit trapped inside your body like that.
Luce Irigaray, You’ve Changed Our Lives
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” recently received a special invitation from our friends at the University of Nottingham. You know, where Robin Hood got his MA from the Department of Thievery.
Anyway, apparently the old U of N is offering a special seminar, to which the Official Gender Studies Department here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has been cordially invited. As any postmodern devotee must know, academic feminist-cum-abstruse theorist Luce Irigary will soon wax hegemonic at a special seminar
devoted to her genius.
About the pretentious, jargon-laden palaver Ms. Irigaray produces, Alan Sokal and Jean Bricmont have written: “With friends like these, the feminist cause hardly needs enemies,” and “Simone de Beauvoir must be turning in her grave.”
She sounds pretty good, doesn’t she? We thought so too. As a result, dear reader, the Official We Got Invited and You Didn’t Department at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has decided to offer a copy of our invitation below (in italics), to which we have affixed our own humble commentary.Invitation to the Seminar of Luce IrigarayLuce Irigaray is Special Professor at the School of Modern Languages of the University of Nottingham for three years.
Hmmm. Is she a “Special Professor” in the way that the mildly retarded are deemed “Special Students”?During the week of 16-21 May, she will hold a seminar, in English, with people who are doing PhD research on her work. Such an event took place in May 2004. It was really appreciated by the participants, and was highly successful both for their work and in their life.
Ah, yes, Ms. Irigaray: You’ve changed our lives. Before we attended your seminar, we enjoyed surfing, long walks on the beach, and convertibles. Since we’ve basked in your luminous genius, however, we can only think about Judith Butler, “cosmic rhythms,” and “the universal quantifier.”The students came from various Universities: Nottingham, Sheffield, Manchester, University of British Columbia in Canada, Macqarie University of Sydney in Australia. They belonged to different Schools and Departments: Cultural Studies, Art History, Philosophy, French, Spanish and Portuguese, Asian Studies, and Built Environment.
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: Built Environment? What the heck is that? To be honest, we don’t know. In all our days, we’ve only met three Built Environment majors, and they’ve all been trees. And we couldn’t get a word out of them.The programme of the week was established according to the wishes of the students themselves. Generally, in the morning, Luce Irigaray explained some key words or key thoughts of her thinking, form a list drawn up by students: sexual difference; becoming, and especially feminine becoming; femininity – feminine – woman – female; sensible transcendental; feminine imaginary in relation to the symbolic order; maternal order; invisibility; desire; placental economy; exchange; the breath; energy; elements; angel; the East, etc.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were delighted to find out that Ms. Irigaray aimed to discuss some of the “key thoughts of her thinking.” If you ask her to enlighten you on the “key thoughts of her drinking,” you don’t get as much out of it.
But we can’t believe we missed her glorious lucubrations on the “placental economy.” That’s a real hot topic these days. In fact, if we recall correctly, Honduras now operates entirely on a placental economy. And it’s been great for its GDP.
A Police State of Mind
A few days ago, dear reader, a correspondent from our Greensboro (NC) office sent us the Fall 2004 number of the incendiary broadsheet Cop Watch
. Like pretty much every citizen in these here United States of America, we hadn’t heard of Cop Watch
. Yet, unlike pretty much every citizen in these here United States of America, we desperately pined to peruse its contents.
And what a delightful rag it is! The editor of said publication, who goes by the nom de guerre
Shorty Six String, mistakenly refers to the publication as the “Spring 2004 edition” in the very first sentence of his introduction to the reader.
As far as we’re concerned, any publication under the aegis of a fellow named “Shorty Six String” who doesn’t know the time of year is bound to be a dynamite read.
And Cop Watch
is most assuredly a delightful publication. It appears to be dedicated to destroying the evil pigs who purportedly protect average citizens, but merely work for the corrupt capitalist cronies.
You know, the police.
Accordingly, dear reader, the magazine is simply chalk-a-block with all kinds of information on the baneful folks who claim to “protect and serve.” As far as the writers for Cop Watch
are concerned, they spend most of their time killing babies.
An advertisement on the back page of this particular installment of the journal informed us that we had missed what was surely one of the most pleasant holidays of the year. It reads:The 9th annual National Day of Protest to Stop Police Brutality, Repression, and the Criminalizationn [sic] of a Generation—Friday, October 22nd, 2004
Why should YOU act on October 22nd? “Silence is the voice of complicity.” The nationwide epidemic of police brutality and repression is hidden from many people who would be outraged if they knew what was happening. Many people have become apprehensive about reprisals for protesting in today’s political climate.
The advertisement goes on in this vein at some length. It ends with a mention of the protest “website
,” and the following rousing peroration:We must say loudly and clearly, “We don’t want your kind of safety—there ain’t no safety in a police state!” No More Stolen Lives! Fight Back! On October 22nd, Wear Black!!
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: Wow. That must have been an inspiring event.
But, to be honest, we were left a bit perplexed by the advertisement. For example, what if you are desperately opposed to Police Brutality and Repression, but find the Criminalizationn [sic] of a Generation hunky dory? Should you go to the protests but wear charcoal gray?
In addition, we didn’t quite understand why a police state was termed our “kind of safety.” What the heck do the organizers know about us? Granted, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are big fans of Francisco Franco’s penal techniques. But how in the good Lord’s name did Shorty Six String discover this? Who is this brilliant clairvoyant, Shorty Six String?
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were also pleased to read that our friends at Cop Watch
are sufficiently thoughtful to regard the USA as one giant police state.
With such impressive acumen, we are certain that the staff of Cop Watch
will soon realize the correct month and year.
Readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” who are unfortunate enough to have lived through the decade-long fashion disaster known as the 1970s (or, as we prefer, the Jimmy Carter Experience) may recall that the title of today’s humble post is also the name of a monstrously wretched soft-rock tune by the Little River Band.
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” assure you that this is purely coincidental. On a totally unrelated note, last night we went dancing in the dark and walking through the park.
Anyway, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have entitled today’s momentous lucubration “Reminiscing” because we have been in a rather contemplative mood of late.
And why, you may be asking yourself, have we had such a penchant for cogitation? To be honest, we’re not entirely sure. Maybe we’ve been coming to terms with our own mortality. Maybe our constant exposure to Bruce Springsteen’s monstrously wretched rock tune “Glory Days” has got us thinking. Maybe we couldn’t come up with a better idea for a post.
Whatever the reason, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have spent the last few days at the office pondering some of life’s most vexatious and important questions. Such as:
“What is the true purpose of life?”
“How can God allow us to inhabit a world filled with so much pain?”
“Are those real breasts?”
You know, the big questions. After well nigh three days of brainstorming, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have come up with the following desultory list of thoughts. Some of them will impress acquaintances at cocktail parties. Others will make you a hit with the ladies. And McGuyver can combine them with a wrapper from a piece of chewing gum and turn them into a bomb.
So, without any further ado, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” would like to share our random musings with you. It’s our way of saying “Here, read these things until we come up with a better idea for a post.”“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official List of Tepid Reflections:
1. We will never fly an airline called Air Lingus for the same reason that we won’t fly an airline called Air Llatio.
2. We wonder whether King Hussein’s airline is called Air Jordan. Would that be some kind of copyright infringement?
3. Tito Jackson’s career is really in the crapper.
4. Whereas Charles Ives became a more beloved composer after his death, this is unlikely to be the case with Yanni.
5. Our “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” automatic spell-checker does not recognize the word “Yanni,” and this, we feel, is one of the prime reasons to believe in the existence of God.
6. Paul Krugman is the un-thinking man’s Joe Pesci.
The Second Annual Week of Loathing: Faux Multiculturalism
As large swaths of Internet devotees surely know, today is the last day of our Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005). And, like most weeks, it’s been a heck of a three-day period.
Anyway, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” wanted to excoriate something particularly worthy of obloquy in our Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005) parting shot. Our topic? Faux multiculturalism (if that’s not too redundant).
We feel slightly self-conscious about mentioning the way we came upon the idea to take a collective swipe at faux multiculturalism. But, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are nothing if not truth-tellers.
So, truth be told, one of the senior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—was watching the boob tube. We know, we know: How very demotic of him. But, we hasten to add, he was tuned in to comparatively upscale fare: “When Animals Attack,” “Full House,” “The Top 100 Least Memorable Things About VH-1.” You know, the classy stuff.
Anyway, dear reader, in the midst of his brain-deadening otiosity, he caught a peculiar commercial. It was an advertisement for some brand of pickup truck, and it featured a group of young fellows in said truck, one of whom was cheerfully singing along to ersatz country diva Shanaia Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” number. The other lads in the pickup were looking mighty uncomfortable.
But that wasn’t what interested “Chip.” On the contrary, like any good multiculturalist (or any good racist, we might add), he was taken aback by the ethnic mix in said pickup truck. A couple of whites, a couple of blacks, one Chinese—this automobile was a moving Benneton poster.
And then it hit “Chip”: Sometime back in 1996, the last photograph of a group of white people was taken. With the exception of the WB television network, sometime back in 1996, the last photograph of a group of black people was taken. As far as advertisers were concerned, ethnic homogenization was so Brand-X.
Now don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We’re not some passel of racists. In fact, we have always wondered why those so chirpy about the “superiority” of the white race are the worst examples of it. In addition, approximately 47 percent of the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” are Swedes and kindred swarthy minorities.
But, gee: This whole faux multiculturalism stuff has gone too far. How many people—regardless of their race—say to themselves, “I’d like to take a drive in a pickup truck with assorted buddies and listen to some Shanaia Twain CDs. Heck, I’ll have to go find my Albanian, Scottish, Mexican, Laotian, Haitian, Japanese, Finnish, and Rwandan pals.”
We mean, come on: It all seems so forced. Don’t any Asians know other Asians anymore? Are there no longer two Danish guys who are friends?
Naturally, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not pining for the bad old days of segregation. Yet, interestingly, the same virtuecrats who are forcing assorted Moroccans, Irish, Fijians, and Argentines into pickup trucks are also stalwart supporters of such un-“diverse” phenomena as all-black graduation ceremonies and all-Mexican dormitories.
In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” find this so puzzling that we’ll have to discuss it with our chums Dieter, Nirad, Jorge, Yossi, Tyrone, and Ali.
On second thought, perhaps we’ll just mention it to Tim and Bill.
The Second Annual Week of Loathing: Geico
In the overlong preamble to yesterday’s humble post, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” discussed the fact that our Official Calendar Department well nigh ruined our Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005).
As a result, the rest of the crack young staff told the Official Calendar Department to find a cliff and go take a leap. (Leap year. You get it? Admittedly, it’s not very good, but how many calendar gags are both humorous and august, may we ask?)
Anyway, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to let bygones be bygones. In addition, we’ve decided to let fish be fish. And to let stones be stones. It’s part of our whole “Let Things Be What They Are” attitude.
Without further ado, then, we are pleased to present another installment in our Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005). Our topic for today, you ask? Geico.
As any humanoid unfortunate enough to have viewed three minutes of television in the past few years knows, Geico is some sort of automobile insurance company that spends more on television advertising than France spends on hair tonic. In fact, Geico spends more on television advertising than Ted Danson spends on hairpieces. In fact, Geico spends more on television advertising than Robert Downey Jr. spends on drugs.
You get the idea.
Nary a minute goes by on the old boob tube without a Geico commercial. It’s as if Geico is attempting some sort of “A Clockwork Orange” means of gaining customers.
Naturally, dear reader, most of these Geico television spots are atrocious. Watching a gecko dance “the robot” doesn’t exactly scream “effective,” now does it? As far as we’re concerned, merely making a gecko the symbol of Geico’s advertising campaign is moronic enough to warrant a boycott of the insurance giant.
All right, dear reader, we’ll admit it: That “tiny house” Geico ad was fairly clever—the first 38 times we saw it. But, heck, pretty much anything but the music of Philip Glass and John Adams get vexatious after the first 38 times you experience it.
So, if any of the geniuses behind the Geico commercials are among our readers—and, given our massive readership, that’s bloody likely—we have the following announcement.
We know that, with Geico, we can save 15 percent or more on our car insurance. But we’re still not going to switch to your rancid company.
If you’re also irked by Geico’s incessant advertising, join us in our ostracism of this advertising behemoth. Principled people brought down Apartheid in South Africa, and they can bring down another moral monster.
The Second Annual Week of Loathing: “Dialogue”
Anal readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—and let’s face it, that’s all of us—no doubt realize that April 4-10, 2004 marked the First Annual Week of Loathing
. In these younger days of our humble “weblog,” we spent a solid seven days excoriating the most noxious, pernicious things we could think of (Gillette
, the word “moist,”
Unfortunately, the Official Calendar Department here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” was (figuratively and literally) out to lunch at the last staff meeting, and thus we have inadvertently missed the start of the Second Week of Loathing.
To make matters worse, our malefic middle-management won’t pay overtime anymore, thanks to our inscrutably poor fourth-quarter blogspot advertisement revenue. Accordingly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” like bankers, don’t do weekends.
What, you may ask yourself, has this left us? Well, for those of you keeping track—and let’s face it, that’s all of us—we can embark on the Second Annual Three Days of Loathing That, Before Budget Cuts, Used To Be Called the Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005).
Our Official Longwinded, Overstuffed, Protracted, Tedious Title Department, however, considered this prospective title for this three-day event overlong. (Yes, we know what you are thinking: Our Official Longwinded, Overstuffed, Protracted Tedious Title Department did name itself.)
As a result, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are content to offer you our Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005). Sure, it’s only three days. But that’s a heck of a lot longer than a PhD program at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas.
Given the shortness of this demi-week’s Week of Loathing, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” decided that we would really go all out with our obloquy. We’re going to pull out all the stops.
We mean it. Cue the Peter Cetera music; it’s time to rip something apart mercilessly, and we need some inspirational tunes to get us going.
We know what you are asking yourself, dear reader: What is so loathsome that it deserves Honorary First Excoriation in the Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005)? We think we have just the thing: The word “dialogue.”
For those of you blissfully unacquainted with the modern university system, allow us to inform you that “dialogue” is the new “diversity.” It’s the new term that gets college administrators all atwitter. It’s this year’s latest meaningless buzzword.
“Diversity,” in American university parlance, means “an array of upper-income people of a variety of skin tones, all of whom parrot the same moronic left-wing shibboleths.” Similarly, our friends in the ivory tower translate “dialogue” as “an opportunity for college students to discuss any topic of political or cultural import, provided they cling to mindless far-left platitudes.”
Naturally, college administrators and like-minded (i.e., neo-Marxist) faculty members never admit what “diversity” and “dialogue” really mean. They prefer the sunny nebulousness of the terms, and allow them to mask the deviousness implicit in them.
No longer. As part of the Second Annual Week of Loathing (April 6-8, 2005), we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to destroy the word “dialogue.”
We aim to make it about as popular as “thither,” “higgledy-piggledy,” and “hugger-mugger.” We aim to make it as much a part of the contemporary academic argot as the word “tergiversation” is with 50 Cent.
How are we going to accomplish this, you ask? Why, by sending free “Dialogue” T-shirts to Pat Buchanan, of course. Once he wears one on “Meet the Press,” college administrators will be compelled to switch to a new insipid word of the year.
The Bash Rehash
In our last post, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” offered a truncated description of our First Annual Celebrate Our Anniversary in Style Party. Given our generally wretched post-soiree condition, however, we could only muster up the gumption to discuss the fete in brief.
Today’s post, then, aims to offer you, the poor sods who could not attend this bash, a more detailed glimpse at the gathering Joan Rivers has called “the most important cultural event since the invention of the remote control.”
First, dear reader, a bit more of an explication of the surroundings. The entire ballroom floor was covered with gorgeous saffron plush carpeting—except for the dance floor, of course. In an homage to Gloria Steinem, the middle of the room housed an enormous salt-water tank filled with fish on bicycles.
The entire ballroom, in addition, was wrapped by Christo, and rapped by MC Hammer. It was, as Liberace would have called it, simply sublime.
But enough about the scenery, you say. Get on to the guests!
As you can imagine, dear reader, in addition to various swank celebrities—Carrot Top, the Dell guy, the 230 pounds Jared from Subway lost—numerous members of the “weblogging” community were present.
For instance, the Llamabutchers
were among the first to arrive. Well, to be more accurate, Rob showed up with his beautiful wife, but Steve-O (who hasn’t posted in about a decade) was replaced by guest-llama Kathy
. Having crawled high up the greasy totem pole that is the world of the “weblog,” Rob and Kathy were naturally turning some heads.
In fact, we heard that Paul Newman, giddy as a schoolgirl, approached Rob in the men’s bathroom, and accosted him for an autograph. Rob reportedly responded that he wouldn’t do a favor for a man who was associated with “Stakeout 2.”
Nor were the Llamabutchers the only attractions. Rather, Dr. Rusty Shakelford
came to the bash, flanked by a bodyguard that would put Prince to shame. Apparently, Google has launched a fatwa
on Dr. Rusty, who’s become the Salman Rushdie of the Internet (only with talent, of course).
And let’s not forget everyone’s favorite Cranky Neocon
. Good old Gordo made quite a splash in his the-one-suit-Richard-Perle-owns outfit.
About halfway through the party, Sister Sadie
arrived, clad in a divine fistful-of-fortnights gown. By her side strolled the Maximum Leader
himself. He wore an all-red suit, and passed out cards that read “Naked Villany: It’ll Make You Go Partially Blind.”
We realize, dear reader, that you want to know if some of the Internet bigwigs were in attendance: Glenn Reynolds, Andrew Sullivan, the guy who writes a “weblog” about monkeys
, et al.
No. Apparently they couldn’t make it.
The Morning After
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly entreat your apology if we aren’t as luminously hilarious today as we are on every other Monday through Friday.
For you see, dear reader, we have had quite a weekend. As diligent readers of this humble “weblog” no doubt recognize, Friday night was the First Annual Celebrate Our Anniversary in Style Party. This year’s theme, as the smart set knows by now, was the intriguing “Self-Inflicted Tatoos of Destiny and Desire.”
We know what you are thinking: Who invited chicks named Destiny and Desire? We’ll discuss that topic anon. Or, now that we think about it, probably not.
But now, back to the excuses. As you can no doubt imagine, dear reader, it was quite the bash. And, as you can also no doubt imagine, dear reader, we drank about as responsibly as a fraternity pledge on “elephant walk” night. In fact, right around 3am, David Crosby left the party; he told us that it was just too wild for him. The wus.
Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have spent the better part of the weekend recovering from our monstrous fete. To make matters worse, numerous members of the crack young staff—mostly the effete ones—have called in sick today.
They’re claiming that their revelry has gotten them ill, and that a major symptom of their condition is a shortness of pants. Frankly, dear reader, we don’t believe them for three seconds. Not in a row, at least.
All of this Monday-morning throat clearing is simply a long-winded excuse for the fact that today’s edition of our humble “weblog” is about as humorous as “My Two Dads” (Season Four). As they say in the diamond business, they can’t all be gems.
Even so, dear reader, we consider it nothing less than a moral imperative to fill you in on the bacchanal that was Friday night’s festivities. In fact, we have decided to devote today’s and tomorrow’s posts to a discussion of the ins and outs of the parties. The nooks and crannies, if we may Thomas’ English Muffins you for a minute.
Without any further ado, then, allow us to set up the mise-en-scène.
The ballroom looked simply magnificent. Our Official Vaguely Unvirile Men (OVUM, for short) outfitted the place with all sorts of back issues of The American Prospect magazine. It was a nice touch, if we must say so ourselves.
And let’s not forget the centerpieces: Fruit roll-ups with real fruit; Harry Belafonte albums; and miniature Henry Kissenger dolls. You know, for the kids who are realists in their foreign policy outlook.
We know what you are thinking to yourselves, dear reader: What about the famous people?
Naturally, the hall was full with them. It was like a walking edition of People
magazine. Or at least The International Socialist Review
First, around 10pm, one of the crack young interns swore she saw Jason Robards. When she found out he was dead, she changed her story real fast, however. It turns out that one of the caterers is the spitting image of Jason Robards. And his name’s Tito. Who would have thunk it?
In addition, around 11pm, a miniature Henry Kissenger showed up. Apparently, though, he came merely because he was perturbed about our centerpieces. Something about copyright infringement.
But around 12am, a senior editor at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—spotted Rick Springfield. Believe it or not, he was sitting with Jesse’s girl. Which prompted “Chip” to wonder: “How can I find a woman like that?”
So, who else turned up for the fun and/or frolic?
Tune in to the next installment of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” and you’ll be the first to know.
If you’re the first person to check out the next installment, of course. If not, you’ll at least be second.
Celebratin’ the Hatin’
Tonight, dear reader, is the big night. The ‘phones here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” headquarters have been ringing off the hook. We’ve heard from everyone from George Pataki to that delightful little scamp who played Alex Keaton on “Family Ties.”
And what, you may be asking yourself, is compelling such B-List political figures and celebrities to contact the crack young staff? Why, the First Annual Official Celebrate Our Anniversary in Style Party, of course.
As anyone with Internet access and a pulse knows, dear reader, the soiree in honor of our first year of “weblogging” is taking place tonight. For those who live on John Hughes’ proverbial other side of the tracks, tonight is the night, as Kool & the Gang put it, to celebrate good times. Come on.
This evening, the crack young staff’s elite team of clipboard Nazis will ensure that only those fortunate few on the guest list make it into the ballroom for the festivities. They’ll make sure, for instance, that Alec Baldwin gets into the party, but that his portly, half-wit, no-name brothers do not. They’ll make sure that Brett Butler can sip champagne with the crack young staff, but that Judith Butler cannot. They’ll make sure that Max Boot gets to enjoy all the entertainment, but that Katrina vandel Heuvel gets the boot.
In short, dear reader, this evening’s celebration marks the most important point in Internet history since Matt Drudge leaked the story about President Clinton’s affair with that intern. You know, What’s-Her-Face. The heavy girl.
Naturally, the Official Events Planning Department here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has had to make a lot of tough decisions. Do we go with the 5,000 pounds of sushi in the shape of the Appalachian Mountains? Or do we go with the walk-in humidor? Do we have Sonny Rollins play the gig? Or do we get Horace Silver instead?
And what about the party decorations? Are earth tones passé?
But surely the most nettlesome decision revolved around our Official Party Theme. About a week ago, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” exhorted our loyal readership to send in a good idea for a party theme.
Little did we know, dear reader, that we are as popular as…well, something really popular. As such, we received a veritable deluge of suggestions. Frankly, we haven’t felt this good since we saw an auto mechanic whack a hippie with a wrench. (As Mr. Burns would say, he didn’t think that was so “groovy.”)
Yet this rendered the choosing of a theme difficult. To make matters worse, we got our fair share of awfully good ideas.
For instance, our old pal aelfheld
suggested we pull off a Wodehousian revel. Right ho, Jeeves. In fact, we took such a shining for the idea that we were about to do a number of interviews on German radio about it.
If that weren’t clever enough, our old pal Gordo
came up with the notion of a ridiculously elaborate party à la Oprah’s 50th birthday bash. Sounds great, doesn’t it? But we’ve always been more Montel kind of people.
In addition, the inimitable Mrs. Peperium
proposed an Evil Garden Party, at which we would poison some of the guests. Doesn’t that sound like a cruise we took a few months back?
A number of our readers were particularly enamored by a toga party. We would be too, had we not recently attended Ed Koch’s toga party. And, man, Mayor Koch has got to learn to wear a tunic under that thing.
Our pal the Rabbi-Philosopher
offered up a couple of brilliant themes: A “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” roast, and a beach-blanket bingo party. Unfortunately, the roast idea was nixed once we found out that Henny Youngman was dead. And the beach-blanket bingo idea was nixed once we found out that Annette Funicello was alive.
This left us with one other theme of note. A reader named Walt sent us an e-missive with the following suggestion: “Self-Inflicted Tatoos of Destiny and Desire.”
We know what you are thinking, dear reader: That’s totally up our collective alley.
Accordingly, tonight we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” and our emcee, Tommy Lee, will warmly welcome the smart set. Just in case you don’t get your fix of “E!” Entertainment (?) Television, we plan on discussing the goings-on at our fete next week.
Until then, dear reader, we’ll be busy calling Harrison Ford back. Man, that guy will do anything to get into a party.