The Hatemonger's Quarterly

2005-12-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

We've Moved!

This humble “weblog” has moved to our spankin’ new “web” address--you will be redirected to our new "crib" in 15 seconds. Glory in today’s brilliant “post” or sift through our delicious archive at the new digs. And those of you who “link” to our humble “weblog,” don’t forget to switch your “links” to our new “site” on your “weblogroll.”

http://hatemongersquarterly.mu.nu

2005-12-16T00:01:00.000-05:00

Our Gracious Concession Speech

Well, dear reader, it’s official. Our humble “weblog” must now endure the unfortunate humility of placing in dead last in the Best Humor/Comics Blog of the 2005 Weblog Awards. As such, it turns out that we most assuredly do not compose the most humorous or comical “weblog” on Al Gore’s Internet. There are at least 12 that are far superior.

As we noted yesterday, this realization has ushered in a period of malaise and ennui here at “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Headquarters. We suck more than Madonna in the Chicago Bulls’ dressing room. And it hurts, dear reader; it hurts a lot.

Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are nothing if not gracious. We aren’t the types of fellows and lasses who let a little thing like being totally humiliated get in the way of presenting shopworn pleasantries we don’t mean.

Accordingly, we have been working on our amiable concession speech for the better part of an hour. We may have been ignored like rice cakes in Roseanne Barr’s dressing room, but this won’t stop us from a cheerful concession.

Affixed below, then, you will find our Official Gracious Concession Speech for our dismal failure in the 2005 Weblog Awards. We hope that our vaunting of its resplendent magnificence fully lives up to our storied reputation for humility.

An Official Gracious Concession Speech by The Crack Young Staff of THMQ, Official Major-League Losers of the 2005 Weblog Awards

The great Don Ho once said, in some context or other, that “It’s not the size of the guitar that matters; it’s how many strings it has.” Frankly, that’s easy for him to say: He’s Hawaiian.

How, you may be asking yourself, does this relate to our predicament as the galactically mortified ultra-losers of the 2005 Weblog Awards? To be honest, we’re not entirely sure. Perhaps this is a typical example of our scatterbrained incompetence, which led us to such lows in the first place.

But let’s not blame ourselves for our miserable performance. As any “underrepresented” minority or woman knows, it’s a heck of a lot easier to foist the blame on white men. Trust us: It really cuts down on all the heart-rending introspection you must accomplish.

As much as we’d like—and as much as the world’s Affirmative Action Officers would esteem—we simply can’t blame whitey entirely for our dismal failures. There are many others who deserve a good drubbing.

First, why not take aim at the slack-jawed yokels who failed to recognize our genius? It’s amazing that you semi-retarded automatons manage to tie your shoes in the morning. Our humble musings must certainly have alienated you. Especially with their grandiloquent vocabulary—words like “and” and “the.” That must have sent you running for the Webster’s.

But we would be remiss if we did not also take a page out of the Official Arab and Muslim Playbook and blame Israel as well. Whilst Ariel Sharon and his evil minions likely didn’t have a direct impact on the 2005 Weblog Awards, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pretty certain they schemed against us behind the scenes.

Well, dear reader, that’s about as much cheerfulness and grace as we can take for one day. So we must simply bid adieu to the 2005 Weblog Awards, and hope that we can somehow drink a sufficient number of Zimas to forget our miserable failure.

In more upbeat news, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will soon announce our move to a brand-spankin’-new “web” address. We’ll still be presenting the non-award-winning humor you haven’t come to love. But it’ll be in nicer surroundings than you’d expect from “Blogspot.”

2005-12-15T00:01:00.001-05:00

Polishing Up Our Concession Speech

Well, dear reader, today is the last day on which you can vote for us in the finals of the much-esteemed Best Humor/Comics Blog category in the 2005 Weblog Awards. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” would beg you to plump for us, but, quite frankly, a quick glance at the ole’ vote totals reveals that it’s all pretty hopeless. As of this “post’s” writing, our humble “weblog” is in absolute last place.

That’s right, dear reader: You can count all the “weblogs” we are beating on no fingers. Despite the best efforts of our seemingly paltry fan base, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are soon to be remembered as the Jamaican bobsled team of the 2005 Weblog Awards. If our “website” were a movie, it’d clearly be Howard the Duck. We’re like the Polish team in the Mental Olympics.

Once we slipped into the caboose, so to say, we began thinking long and hard about our torrentially bad placement in the finals. Frankly, we handled this thing all wrong: Instead of groveling for votes like a two-bit Marion Barry, we should have played down the whole nomination. You know, the whole This-Idea-of-Complimenting-“Weblogs”-for-Supposedly-Being-the-Best-Is-a-Bunch-of-Garbage routine. That way, when we ineluctably came in dead last, we wouldn’t look like Nick Nolte in those DUI arrest photos.

Or maybe, like Phil Collins’ father, we should have pulled out. We could have earned all kinds of e-kudos for magnanimously stepping aside and backing, say, Six Meat Buffet.

But, no, we collectively weren’t bright enough to think things through, and thus we find ourselves in the un-lovely predicament of the It’s-Simply-an-Honor-To-Be-Here position. Ah, the agony, the agony.

So what, you may be asking yourself, exactly happened? How did we become the Internet equivalent of leprosy? Why did our “weblog” have a similar shelf-life of popularity as that of the whilom pop band Living in a Box? Is it because we refer to such things as “the whilom pop band Living in a Box”? That certainly must be part of it.

Perhaps we have far more fans than we think, but these diehard devotees are too darned lazy to vote for us. It’s certainly possible that, like the Grateful Dead, we have oodles of supporters who are essentially shifty ne’er-do-wells. And dirty hippies, now that we think of it.

It also occurred to us that the topics of our resplendent musings aren’t exactly standing-room-only material. Whilst our competition was busy drawing yuks from the Tookie Williams execution, we were busy excoriating Cornel West. We don’t think that’s going to play well in Dubuque.

But let’s face it, dear reader: Our Official Luddite Technical Department has yet to master the frightening world of putting “pictures” up on our “website,” and maybe our complete lack of visual aids has rendered us about as attractive as Drew Carey naked smothered in egg yolks.

Okay, okay—enough of this miserable self-flagellating. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must stop beating ourselves up. Sure, our performance in the 2005 Weblog Awards was about as impressive as a Dolph Lundgren film festival. But so what? We were in a tough category. Perhaps next year we’ll find ourselves with an easier field to beat—maybe in the Best Hat Design category.

For now, dear reader, we’re busy polishing up our concession speech. We’re not entirely sure what we’re going to say, but we’re certain of one thing: It won’t be funny.

2005-12-15T00:01:00.000-05:00

This Garbage Is the Best? Or, Vote for Us, We Beg of You!

Note: This humble “post” will stay atop our humble “weblog” for the duration of the 2005 Weblog Awards voting. For newer material, see below.

Well, dear reader, we’re in deep trouble now. Apparently one of our readers nominated us for a 2005 Weblog Award—Best Humor/Comics Weblog (for which you can vote here). This means, quite naturally, that we are up against some stiff competition—and no, that isn’t a pornographic reference.

And so we need your help. To be downright honest, we stand about as much chance of winning as those Marxist goons who ran Grenada during Reagan’s invasion. Jackie Mason has a better shot of getting an award from CAIR.

Accordingly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly exhort you to plump for us, so that we don’t prove as unpopular as a Pete Dupont for President campaign. We know we’re likely to lose, but we don’t want to get beaten like a red-headed step-child.

So, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” suggest that you, our (un)devoted fan, cast your ballot in Mayor Daley fashion: Vote early, often, and even when deceased.

Just in case you aren’t entirely certain of our storied e-magnificence, we humbly offer the following blasts from the past, which, we feel, shall more than demonstrate our coruscating genius:

Bridget Newman Is More Than Her Vagina
The World's Greatest Norwegian
We Fear Bad Poetry
Gangsta' Haiku
Waxing Vulvic
Wonkette
Social Justice Camp?
Dana Cloud: Occupation: Academic Buffoon
A Special Twofer: Kenny Rogers & Kenny Rogers
Chidsey Dickson: Occupation: Academic Buffoon
Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the First
On Ode to Eleanor Clift
The Irritating Jim Cramer
The Art of the Undergraduate Essay

And how about some e-greatness from 2004?:

The Complaints Department
Becoming a Famous Public Intellectual
Summer Interns Wanted
B. Dalton Books, The Moron's Bookstore
The Best a Man Can Get?
Should You Drink Yellow Snow?
Take the Patriotism Quiz
Edward Said: The Musical
Maoist Film Reviews?
Bush-Bashing with the Best of 'Em
Breastcasting

If this e-brilliance isn’t worth you’re vote, we collectively don’t know what is.

****UPDATE:****

Here are links to the rest of the nominees:

Day By Day by Chris Muir
Cox & Forkum
Jesus’ General
Iowahawk
Beautiful Atrocities
Scrappleface
Hog On Ice
The Dilbert Blog
Six Meat Buffet
Fafblog
IMAO
Protein Wisdom
The Comics Curmudgeon
Achewood

2005-12-14T00:01:00.000-05:00

A Night on the Town with Wonkette

As befits a viciously unpopular “weblogging” outfit, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” possesses its own Washington office, which is home to a bevy of Washington correspondents. Naturally, we refer to the District of Columbia, not the state of Washington: We’d set up shop in the latter if we thought reports from Walla Walla would charm anyone, but, quite frankly, they won’t.

Most of the time, dear reader, our humble Washington correspondents offer no news. Apparently, not much is happening in the nation’s capital, with the exception of the fact that the Bush administration is turning our country into a police state. Or so we’re told.

Imagine our collective surprise, then, upon receiving a poorly wrought facsimile from our Official Washington Desk. One of our humble correspondents—let’s just call him “Chip”—had some gossip to share about an interesting night on the town he spent with numerous journalistic types. Among those hacks in attendance, dear reader, was none other than Wonkette, one of the great gifts Al Gore bestowed upon us when he invented the Internet. (The other, of course, is Internet pornography, and even Jerry Falwell prefers Internet porn to Wonkette.)

For those of you blissfully unaware of this woman, allow us to inform you that Wonkette is a famed DC-based gossip “weblogger,” who writes juicy tidbits about such fetching vixens as Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein. No wonder her “weblog” is really popular!

When we first learned that “Chip” had spent an evening with Wonkette, we felt a mite guilty. After all, we previously harped and harpied about her inane television appearances in this space. If we remember correctly—and we believe that we do—we referred to her as: “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.”

As if that weren’t sufficiently nasty, we also opined that Wonkette “clearly resembles that girl from your kindergarten class who used to pick her nose and eat it.” Now that “Chip” had come (almost literally) face to face with this creature, we must admit that we were mildly embarrassed by our vituperations.

“Chip’s” report makes clear, however, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had no reason to feel bad. Wonkette fully deserves all our contumely—and then some. In fact, since Wonkette enjoys offering up all kinds of dirt on Washington types, we figured that we should return the favor.

Accordingly, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly present “Chip’s” missive from DC, which has been slightly edited for the purposes of euphony:

A Night Out With Wonkette

This past weekend I was out and about (as our Canadian friends say) with a few fellow journalists, enjoying some beers in an unbecoming tavern here in Washington. Whereas the other journos in attendance slaved away for such outfits as The Daily Telegraph, NPR, and The Independent, I wowed them all with my status as an official junior Washington correspondent for “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” Apparently, our “weblog” is well-respected by the fourth estate.

Anyway, a few draughts into the evening none other than Wonkette arrives, joined by another female. To be perfectly honest, at first I only vaguely recognized her: She looked like some horrid gal or other who went out with me on a lousy date. On second glance, however, I realized that I was wrong: This was Wonkette, the Internet equivalent of a lousy date.

I immediately attempted to make some small talk with her. Whilst her friend was very pleasant, Wonkette was an obnoxious, self-important twit. She routinely ignored pleasantries the other guests offered, preferring to spend her entire night glued to her Blackberry.

On occasion, Wonkette peered up from her little gizmo, in order to wax ostentatious about her luminous career as an e-scribbler. “My father,” she declared, “wants me to sign copies of my forthcoming book for his friends. And I’m like: I don’t even know who these people are.”

As you can imagine, this did not go over well with her audience, which was slightly less interested in her execrable rantings than she. If by “slightly less interested” you mean “not interested at all.”

To make matters worse, in the middle of the evening, whilst others were fully enjoying a convivial atmosphere, Wonkette bellowed to us that she must leave, in order to meet up with her husband. Everyone in attendance must have thought: God bless that wretched man who’s married to this odious chucklehead.

About a half hour later, our party wended its way to another bar. And in this tavern was—lo and behold!—Wonkette, without her hubby. Just to make things more painful for her, we sat at the very next table, whilst she studiously ignored us.

For this reason, I am forced to agree with Cathy the Cakeeater, whose anti-Wonkette stance is as firm as anyone’s. Wonkette is truly a self-obsessed moron. In a just world, she’d be treated like a racehorse that outlived its usefulness.

Needless to say, then, this was a rather unpleasant experience. And it got worse. Anytime I told an acquaintance that I’d spent some time with Wonkette, my interlocutor either didn’t know who she is or found this entirely unremarkable. “I saw her a few weeks ago at a party to which she was not invited,” said one such pal.

It appears as if Wonkette attends every soiree in DC—even though she wasn’t invited to any of them. There’s some gossip for you.

Oh, and by the way, Wonkette does resemble that girl from my kindergarten class who used to pick her nose and eat it.

2005-12-13T00:01:00.000-05:00

Anti-Fascist Fascism, or The World Appears To Be Waiting

Whilst perusing The New York Times yesterday, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” came upon a rather curious full-page advertisement. Sponsored by the urgent sounding group “The World Can’t Wait,” this strange ad exhorted readers to “Drive Out the Bush Regime.”

Affixed to this incendiary anti-Bush agitprop was a series of reasons why right-thinking (i.e., Left-thinking) chaps should hunger to send the evil Bush junta packing. For example:

YOUR GOVERNMENT is moving each day closer to a theocracy, where a narrow and hateful brand of Christian fundamentalism will rule.

Frankly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found this particular point puzzling, given that the radicals behind The World Can’t Wait appear to have no problems with Muslim fundamentalists who aim to turn the entire world into a theocracy. After all, as the group’s “website” makes clear, it is an avowedly Communist group, and many of its members were opposed to uprooting the Taliban. As far as we can determine, then, to our pals at The World Can’t Wait, Osama bin Laden is a fine fellow, but Pat Robertson is awfully dangerous.

Think that point was rebarbative? Here’s another example of coruscating brilliance:

YOUR GOVERNMENT enforces a culture of greed, bigotry, intolerance and ignorance.

On this point, actually, we may be inclined to agree. One of the signers of this Communist drivel is Prof. Cornel West, ersatz “rap” star and ersatz scholar. Brother West, for those of you blissfully unaware of him, is a card-carrying Marxist. And he’s a card-carrying Marxist who makes bundles of money Mau-Mauing universities into offering him a large salary and embarking on extremely lucrative speaking tours. Is this the “culture of greed” that The World Can’t Wait contemns?

Or maybe, in regard to bigotry, they mean Prof. West’s despicable denunciation of Harvard President Lawrence Summers as the “Ariel Sharon of higher education.” President Summers is Jewish, and Brother West, mortified that Mr. Summers had the temerity to question the scholarly import of his “rap” CD, blasted back with a typical example of his charming anti-Semitism. If the Bush junta is enforcing this kind of bigotry, we’re opposed to it too.

As if the ad’s pernicious rhetoric weren’t already sufficiently malign, the folks at The World Can’t Wait simply can’t wait to up the ante:

People look at all this [the Bush Administration has done] and think of Hitler—and they are right to do so. The Bush regime is setting out to radically remake society very quickly, in a fascist way, and for generations to come.

Ah, no crazy lefty rant is complete without the obligatory reference to Hitler, now is it? What impressive political acumen the signers of this nonsense must possess! Couldn’t they lowball their estimations a bit, and merely claim that Bush is akin to Mussolini? Or how about Pinochet? If memory serves, when he was in power he wasn’t that great a guy either.

Clearly, though, the loveable scamps at The World Can’t Wait found the Nazis to be the closest and most illuminating parallel to the Bush administration. Bravo. Hey, if Lawrence Summers is Ariel Sharon, why can’t Bush be Hitler? And maybe Demi Moore could be Tony Blair, and Gary Coleman could be Yao Ming?

Surely the most delicious part of the advert is the following:

There is not going to be a savior from the Democratic Party. This whole idea of putting our hopes and energies into “leaders” who tell us to seek common ground with fascists and religious fanatics is proving every day to be a disaster, and actually serves to demobilize people.

Do the dolts at The World Can’t Wait realize that they are speaking about themselves? In regard to worldwide terrorism, they are the “‘leaders’ who tell us to seek common ground with fascists and religious fanatics”—al Qaeda, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, &c. To be sure, their ideas are dangerous and disastrous, but it appears as if they don’t know it.

So, you ask, what is the point of this dimwitted advertisement? Well, the eminences at The World Can’t Wait aim to “Bring the Noise.” No, that doesn’t mean they hope you can join them in a faux-Broadway tap routine. They appear to have no interest in you “Bringing the Funk.” Or even “Brining da’ Funk.”

Rather, the ad explains: “At 9:00 PM EST, just as Bush starts to speak, everywhere we will bring the noise. In a cacophony of sound we will drown out his address with music….”

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to seem like a bunch of spoilsports, but this all strikes us as distinctly fascistic. Not Hitler-esque, mind you, but troublesome all the same. If you oppose President Bush, wouldn’t it be better to listen to him, and then explain why you disagree?

One might expect such childish buffoonery from signers such as Ed Begley Jr. He was really great in Amazon Women on the Moon, but that doesn’t mean that we are inclined to trust his political acumen. And it is nice to see that Mumia Abu-Jamal also signed on with the campaign; clearly, when he’s not busy killing police officers, he is deeply worried about the health of our great nation. How very sweet.

But Brother West? This fellow’s a professor at Princeton, for crying out loud. One might have thought that likening Bush to Hitler would seem a bit obtuse for his tastes. After all, that’s kind of like likening Brother West to Buckwheat.

And, as anyone knows, that comparison’s inapt: Buckwheat was intentionally funny, whereas Brother West is only unintentionally funny.

We must admit a certain similarity in hairstyles, though.

2005-12-12T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Office Gossip

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t tend to dilate on the work environment here at our Official Headquarters. And, quite frankly, there’s a reason for this: What’s so darned interesting about an office full of well over 250 editors and interns, each neatly tucked in his own velour cubicle? We couldn’t think of anything, either.

In today’s humble “post,” however, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” decided finally to discuss an aspect of the lifestyle here at the ole’ Headquarters that we firmly believe warrants mention. For those of you strangely incapable of reading the title of today’s humble “post,” we mean our resident office gossip.

It seems as if every workplace is home to such a chatterbox, and she ineluctably has a body shaped like the Liberty Bell. This, of course, ensures that she isn’t going to be the subject of much tittle-tattle herself—unless you count getting into your pants with a crane tittle-tattle. And we collectively don’t.

A few weeks ago, dear reader, the deep-pocketed financial backers here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” gave us the official green light to hire yet another secretary. (Apparently, our deep-pocketed financial backers have extra-deep pockets of late; perhaps it has something to do with a transaction of blood for oil. That really enriched their coffers.)

Anyway, after a scorching series of oral interviews (if you do or do not catch our drift), we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” picked a woman named Winnie as the woman for the job. To be honest, we had to go against our collective better judgment on this one: We’ve always thought that a proper secretary should be named Flo. But, as no one fitting that nomenclature applied, we were stuck with the equine-sounding Winnie instead.

At first, Winnie proved to be a marvelous hire. She did everything one could reasonably expect of an office manager. There was a sufficient stock of erasers and push-pins at the Headquarters, which ensured that the staff could make all the “push-pin pigs” it desired. It was, in short, a little slice of heaven.

And yet, and yet, and yet. Apparently, this Winnie woman—who seemed so delightful at first—turns out to be quite a pill. Although seemingly congenitally genial, our pal Winnie has a penchant for office gossip.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must inform you that our Official Headquarters isn’t exactly a prime locale to get a little dirt. After all, what kind of buzz do you expect to hear about an office whose employees all appear to be named “Chip”? Not much, we hope.

Still, Winnie kept prying. She gleefully spread the rumor that one of the senior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—has a little thing for a youngish intern—let’s just call her “Chip.” To our intrepid secretary, this was a real scandal. It’s kind of like Tom Cruise being a diminutive homosexual.

We mean, come on: What reasonable fellow actually thinks to himself “I don’t want to date women when they are young and attractive, I want ugly, dilapidated ladies instead. That way, we can chat about all kinds of scintillating things, such as the first time she got genital warts”?

Frankly, dear reader, if you ask us—and we know that, technically speaking, you didn’t—good ole’ Winnie’s going to have to come up with a better scoop than that. As it is, Winnie’s gossip is less impressive than an elocution lesson from Magic Johnson. It’s less impressive than Pauly Shore’s career. And that, friends, is saying something.

2005-12-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

Just Look at What We’ve Become

As we have mentioned umpteen times, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are up for the glorious title of Best Humor/Comics Weblog in the 2005 Weblog Awards. And, as we have also mentioned umpteen times, it ain’t exactly a dogfight. Currently, we’re less popular than the guy who opposed Saddam Hussein the election before Ted Kennedy’s Coalition of the Bribed deposed the Butcher of Baghdad.

What’s even worse, dear reader, is the sorry fact that this minor e-notoreity—fleeting as it ineluctably is—has brought out the worst in us. Our humble “posts”—humble as they ineluctably are—have become mired in obsessive navel-gazing, as if “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” were the most important thing on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web.

Naturally, dear reader, this is quite unfortunate. The Weblog Awards have allowed us, like Cyndi Lauper, to show our true colors, and, like Cyndi Lauper’s, they aren’t that good. Pretty soon we’ll be compelled to call in Captain Lou Albano to save our sinking moral ship.

And, to add fuel to our pathetic egotism, we have discovered that we’ve recently received our 100,000th “hit.” As if we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” required another reason for a pitiful exercise in self-celebration.

Sad, isn’t it? It’s even sadder, given that our nomination in the Weblog Awards has led us to be trounced in a way with which only Lyndon LaRouche can properly empathize. Or perhaps Ashlee Simpson. Moreover, 100,000 “hits” isn’t that impressive an e-mark. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pretty certain that Tina Turner has had more than 100,000 hits (in more ways than one). And she, like a big wheel, keeps on turnin’.

So, dear reader, we have decided that we yearn to ditch our pitiable e-narcissism. Eschewing our recent access of self-puffery, we have determined to get down to proverbial brass tacks. We pine to use our considerable e-powers for good, not evil. In short, we aim to help people.

But how could we do it? As William Shakespeare and Mickey Rourke would say (albeit in different contexts): Ay, there’s the rub.

How about selflessly endorsing a few other wonderful “weblogs” for the 2005 Weblog Awards? Granted, that isn’t exactly going to feed the starving children in fat camp. But, on the plus side, it won’t do any harm either, which is more than you can say for Kofi Annan.

Delighted by our idea, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had a special, clandestine meeting, at which staffers offered their own suggestions for our official endorsements.

To be honest, it proved to be a more difficult endeavor than we had planned. A few staffers felt sufficiently attached to “weblogs” in the No One Reads Them or Even Gets This Far Down the Page To Vote for Them category to get a bit violent with dissenters. In fact, there were very few categories that didn’t inspire fisticuffs. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” take the Internet seriously, and the Best Australia or New Zealand Blog category brings out the wup-ass in many of us. (What, no Fiji this year?)

And so, dear reader, we were left with a few tepid endorsements. They are as follows:

Best New Blog: Wuzzadem. Hands down! Come on, that guy’s a genius.

Best Conservative Blog: The Jawa Report. Just because Dr. Rusty won’t vote for himself doesn’t mean that we can’t vote for him.

Best Culture/Gossip Blog: The Llamabutchers. Frankly, we didn’t know a thing about culture or gossip until we started reading Steve and Robbo’s musings. Now we are experts in German expressionism, and we’re well aware that Britney Spears' marriage, like a James Bond double bourbon, is on the rocks.

Best Military Blog: Froggy Ruminations. We can’t get enough of froggy.

Best Canadian Blog: The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns. So good, we didn’t even realize she’s Canadian. Now that’s an endorsement.

Best of the Top 501-1000 Blogs: Vince aut Morire. Excellent use of the passive imperative.

Best of the Top 1751-2500 Blogs: 21st Century Paladin. Because the 20th Century Paladin is so last century.

2005-12-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Dade County Weblog Awards

Dutiful devotees of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” who are keeping up to speed with our spot in the 2005 Weblog Awards race for Best Humor/Comics Blog undoubtedly recognize that we, like Marv Albert’s girlfriends, are getting spanked. In all honesty, dear reader, it’s pretty brutal.

In fact, it’s sufficiently brutal that you should vote for us daily in order to reduce the hurtin’. Our beat-down is so fierce that a few “weblogs” that haven’t even been nominated are beating us.

It turns out that many of our competitors for this prestigious award have readerships that are a little bit bigger than ours. Like on a one million-to-one scale. To be downright honest, we didn’t see this coming. Accordingly, we shall soon have to rehash the old Leonardo DiCaprio falsehoods: You know, the tired “It’s an honor simply to be nominated” retreads. In short, we’ve been polishing up our “We suck” speech.

Yet an astute reader of this humble “weblog” has recently made us aware of a surprising error on the part of the 2005 Weblog Awards staff. A close inspection of the official ballots—and, quite frankly, even an un-close inspection of the official ballots—demonstrates that the folks at Wizbang have wretchedly screwed up our nomenclature. They erroneously refer to us as “Hate Mongers Quarterly,” and not by our true name, “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.”

What the heck is “Hate Mongers Quarterly”? We don’t know either. We’ve collectively never heard of it.

As you can imagine, dear reader, this is rather confusing to those millions (we presume) who aim to plump for us. In fact, if you ask us, this is all disturbingly similar to the brouhaha over those nettlesome butterfly ballots down in Florida a few years back. Only this time, given the stakes involved in the voting, people actually care.

Sundry readers have informed us that they mistakenly cast their ballots in the Best Humor/Comics Blog category for Pat Buchanan. And this is very strange, since Pat Buchanan is only unintentionally humorous. Frankly, if you’re going to vote for television personalities, you might as well support Susan Estrich, who’s even funnier than Buchanan. (Have you ever heard her voice?)

Right now, dear reader, the Official Legal Team of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is pondering its options. We have even hired a wheel-chair-bound advocate to act as the spokesperson for our grievances, in order to win the most sympathy from CNN.

We don’t know where all of this is going to take us, and we are reluctant to drag the country through some sort of fiasco. But we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” feel as if the very heart of American democracy is at stake. If we don’t fix this contest, then the terrorists have won.

2005-12-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

You Fortune Is Bright

Right around the corner from “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Headquarters is a delightful Chinese food establishment called “Panda Food,” “Eat the Panda,” “Devouring Panda,” or some such. Every once in a great while—well, every once in a week, if you must know—a few members of our staff grab their lunches at this eatery, and shovel it in before the afternoon deadlines.

Unfortunately, we must report that the food at this local restaurant is well nigh inedible. The cuisine is about as authentically Chinese as Denzel Washington. No matter what you order, it ends up feeling as if you ate a heaping helping of “Disagreeing with Your Stomach” instead. If General Tsao would find out what they have done to his chicken, he’d be deeply upset.

You may be wondering, dear reader, why any staffers would take themselves to such a miserable establishment. Well, the best rationale we can come up with is: We forget on occasion. Although we ineluctably regret every meal we consume from this horrid place, it appears as if the recollection of this regret only lasts about a week. So, when, say, next Thursday rolls around, you can bet that a couple of junior and senior staffers will head to “Panda Snacks”—and spend an unfortunate afternoon on the toilet.

Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to spend today’s “post” complaining about the un-comestible victuals at this dive. Rather, we aim to spend today’s “post” complaining about the ridiculous fortunes we have received in recent fortune cookies. That, we figure, is a much classier topic of conversation.

After all, even an execrable Chinese food outfit such as “The Edible Panda” has the typical fortune cookies. They’re the one part of the meal even they can’t screw up.

And yet, as one of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—discovered, the folks at “Kill the Panda” can even ruin a perfectly good fortune cookie.

Don’t believe us, dear reader? Well, then take a gander at this odd fortune found in “Chip’s” latest cookie: “Opportunity always ahead if you look and think.”

Uh, that’s not even a sentence. And it’s not a fortune, either. Frankly, it doesn’t even make that much sense. If you ask us, the people at the fortune cookie factory are coasting. When we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” break open a fortune cookie, we want to see something like “You will murder your second cousin on your father’s side,” or “You won’t be the next Billy Joel.”

You know: Real fortunes. None of this preachy “You should appreciate life/A man with a friend is a happy man” garbage. If we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” wanted hackneyed, ungrammatical bromides about the essential goodness of life, we’d watch Dr. Phil.

2005-12-06T00:01:00.000-05:00

“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” Internet Equivalent of the Orrin Hatch for President Campaign

As we have already mentioned at length, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been sufficiently fortunate to be an official finalist in the Best Humor/Comics Blog category in the 2005 Weblog Awards. Naturally, then, we’ve exhorted our colossal readership to vote once per diem for our humble “website,” as the contest rules allow.

Dutiful devotees of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” may have noted that it took exactly three seconds for this whole nomination business to go to our collective head. A few of our colossal readers may recall that, last year, upon being nominated for jack-bone nothing, we made light of the whole awards business. It’s a moronic, subjective waste of time, we sniffed.

Now, however, we’ve become a bunch of self-promoting lamebrains. We’re like the Internet’s Omorosa. (Except we have better bone structure, and aren’t as mannish.) What a difference a year makes!

All the same, there are certainly limits to our pathetic Weblog Awards egotism. After all, a quick perusal of the current vote tally demonstrates that we’re about as popular as the Orrin Hatch for President campaign—you know, that ill-starred stab at the limelight that yielded about one percent in Iowa. And, unlike Hatch, we can’t complain that our popularity is hampered by any spirit of renegade Mormonism.

To be honest, we look a little bit like a Pop Warner football team taking on the Indianapolis Colts. Or, come to think, a bit like the Houston Texans taking on the Indianapolis Colts.

As such, dear reader, we must again humbly exhort you to plump for us each day. Not, we daresay, so that we shall wind up in the e-victor’s circle, drinking e-milk. Rather, so that we aren’t smacked down like Richard Simmons taking on Attila the Hun. Currently, our vote total is so low it appears as if our own mothers have cast their ballots for Six Meat Buffet.

In the coming days, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” shall offer our official endorsements of other Weblog Award finalists. Given our impressive vote total, we’re certain that manifold “webloggers” are waiting with bated breath for our prestigious endorsement. It’s much like David Duke backing your political campaign: Alert the local media!

Many of our longtime readers are undoubtedly wondering “Will coming in dead last in such a contest affect the rapier wit of the crack young staff?” Or words to that effect.

The answer, we are pleased to pronounce, is a definite No. We were unfunny before the Weblog Awards, and we’ve got plenty of time to be unfunny afterward.

In the meantime, we’ll be crafting our magnanimous acceptance speech. Just because we’re about as popular as the Christian Falangist Party doesn’t mean we can’t start polishing up our rhetorical fireworks.

2005-12-05T00:01:00.000-05:00

When Is a Mistake Not a Mistake?

Dutiful devotees of this humble “weblog” undoubtedly recognize that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” enjoy ridiculing The New York Times on many an occasion. It seems, in fact, that any time the Paper of Record makes the slightest mistake, or displays the slightest inkling of partisan hackery, we greatly esteem heaping scorn upon it.

Nor, we have noted, are we the only ones who have taken to criticizing the Gray Lady. Perhaps you didn’t realize this, but there’s a veritable cottage industry of anti-Times criticism. Who would have thunk it?

And it is not confined to our friends on the political Right. The loveably deranged scamps over at radical Left outfits such as The Nation take great pride in disparaging the Gray Lady for inadvertently championing capitalism, or some such grave offense against all things “progressive.”

Frankly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are close to fed up with all this anti-Times nattering and criticizing. Sure, the Paper of Record has committed its share of sins in the past. But who—other than Jim Bakker—hasn’t?

In addition, it’s not as if running America’s most storied daily is an easy task. Believe us: We tried it for a few weeks. It was a real bitch. That Frank Rich never meets his deadlines.

In order to counter this ferocious spirit of attack against the Times, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to dedicate today’s humble “post” to demonstrating this wonderful rag’s essential goodness. In fact, we shall demonstrate that sometimes, even when the Gray Lady admits its own errors, it has not actually committed an error in the first place.

Allow us to offer a modicum of proof. In the December 1st number of this storied paper, the following appeared in the oddly titled “Corrections: For the Record” section:

Because of an editing error, a sports article on Sunday about the stability of the Seattle Seahawks organization misstated the last time a pro team from that city won a title. It was 2004, when the Storm won the Women’s National Basketball Association championship, not 1979, when the SuperSonics won the N.B.A. title.

To us, dear reader, if that’s a mistake, it’s the most forgivable mistake we’ve heard of in a long, long time. We mean, come on: What self-respecting non-lesbian has ever heard of the Seattle Storm? Actually, what self-respecting lesbian has ever heard of the Seattle Storm? Until we took a gander at this tepid nostra culpa, we would have thought that the Seattle Storm was some defunct XFL outfit.

Perhaps the editorial department at the Gray Lady also forgot some other unforgettable highlights in Seattle professional athletics:

(1) The Seattle Mist’s stunning victory in the national 1994 three-legged dogsled race.

(2) The first-place award won by local Seattle native Noel Tooky in the 1980 installment of the “Get Away From Mt. St. Helens Race.”

(3) The Seattle Grunge’s surprise upset of the Arizona Turkeys in the 1985 beach volleyball and tailoring tournament.

We fully expect to see the Gray Lady apologize for these lapses in a future version of its peculiarly titled “Corrections: For the Record” section.

So, allow us to say something for the record: No reasonable human being would be upset by the suggestion that the 1979 SuperSonics were the last professional team from Seattle to win a title, Seattle Storm accomplishments notwithstanding. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” simply want to know who informed the staff of the Times of its supposed gaffe. We bet she’s a real piece of work.

2005-12-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Indignities of Keeping Fit

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have dedicated a few of our humble “posts” to expatiating on the various irritants one encounters when attempting to do one’s body a little good. If we recall correctly, dear reader, we made a particular fuss about a phenomenon we labeled “posterior penmanship,” which is often displayed at the local gymnasium.

Yet we feel as if we have not exhausted the full list of vexations associated with the world of “working out.” In fact, this became crystal clear to one of our senior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—who spends many moons getting fitter than a fiddle.

A few days ago, “Chip” headed to his small local gym, at an hour that was far from popular with those who are not toothless derelicts. Having arrived at said facility, he was immediately greeted by the typical bothers: The staff at said gym—even at this ungodly hour in the morning—was playing the typical work-out fare, rock that is ironically labeled “classic.”

As if this were not enough (and believe us, it was), “Chip” became even more enraged upon taking a gander at the only other current patron in the gymnasium. This was a woman on a treadmill, who was huffing and puffing away on a brisk stroll of sorts. Dripping with sweat, this gal was certainly no less than 200 pounds, and was clad—horror of horrors!—in spandex leggings and a tube top.

Okay, so it wasn’t the most delightful scene to take in early in the morning, but it was nice to see an overweight woman bettering herself by getting off the couch and working off those extra calories. In fact, “Chip” was much happier that the wearer of this inappropriate outfit was a heavy lady, rather than the fit, buxom show-offs who regularly enjoy prancing around in such things. At least she wasn’t trying to make “Chip” jealous. (Or, if she was, it wasn’t working—much.)

So, you may be asking yourself, what’s so darned troublesome about this woman? Why did we find her such a horrid complement to the Loverboy “music” playing in the background?

Well, the answer to that query can be found in the television program to which she was tuned whilst hopping away on her treadmill. This heavy gal—who deserved a prize for making an effort to be fit—was tuned in to the Food Network. To make matters worse, said network was airing a program about fattening desserts, which appears to have captivated this particular female treadmiller.

Admittedly, this isn’t exactly a grave sin; rather, it’s a mere peccadillo. But it irked “Chip” nonetheless. Never mind the fact that this was a ridiculously silly thing to watch on any occasion. There appeared to be something mildly ironic about a fat broad chugging away on a treadmill whilst salivating over a recipe for fried ice cream.

We mean, come on: What kind of dedication does that demonstrate? As far as we could tell, this lady was going to complete her workout and then gorge herself on angel food cake.

Naturally, “Chip” changed the channel: He wanted to inspire her to do better. We hope she liked that episode of “Ally McBeal” instead.

2005-12-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

Spelunking through Oppression

As even casual observers of American academia well know, freedom of thought is a cardinal virtue in the hallowed halls of the ivory tower. In order to ensure that its faculty members and students devote themselves to the disinterested pursuit of knowledge, a given university does its best to ensure that it fosters an intellectual climate welcoming to a rich array of perspectives.

And what better way to welcome a rich array of perspectives than force-feed incoming students with rebarbative “orientation sessions” designed to compel them to adopt a radical worldview? If you are a college administrator, your answer to that question should be “There is no better way.” Or words to that effect.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had reason to reflect on this anew when we received a kindly e-missive from one of our readers, which pointed us in the direction of the “Tunnel of Oppression.” Although said Tunnel was briefly featured on Charles Johnson’s luminous Little Green Footballs “weblog,” we found it so delightfully offensive that we deigned to discuss it at greater length.

What, you may or may not be asking yourself, is a “Tunnel of Oppression”? And what the heck does it have to do with American academia? Those are darned good queries. Why don’t we let the progenitors of this Tunnel tell us in their own inimitable prose?

Since its original debut in the mid-1990s, the Tunnel of Oppression has become a nationally recognized program offered at a number of college campuses including The Ohio State University, the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire, and The University of Nevada at Las Vegas.

Well, gee: If it’s good enough for an academic powerhouse like UNLV, it should be good enough for us, eh? Not only can UNLV students get a degree in casino management, they can experience a Tunnel of Oppression as well. What dedication to the liberal arts!

Some campuses use it as an element of diversity training within the residence halls while others have fully incorporated the idea into their campus programming efforts. Campuses have implemented the program in various ways, incorporated various themes, and have realized varying levels of success. Following the interactive portion of the Tunnel, many campuses offer students an outlet for processing the activity including panel discussions with faculty and staff members.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: If the genius prose stylists who wrote this palaver are in charge of the Tunnel of Oppression program, you desperately hope your child is compelled to undergo their hazing at his school. After all, what says good times quite like a Tunnel of Oppression? We couldn’t think of anything either.

But what does the program entail? What is this Tunnel of Fun? Our e-brochure continues:

As part of the program, participants are led through museum style series of connected rooms which each ask the participants to experience various forms of oppression. Participants are challenged to consider how oppression and advantages have an effect on them, as well as the individuals and groups around them.

This year’s themes include:
(1) Tools of Oppression
(2) Women’s Issues
(3) Racial Oppression
(4) LGBT Issues
(5) Religious Oppression ***this room is pending***.

Sounds like a blast, doesn’t it? Personally, we can’t wait to learn what Tools of Oppression are. Can they be purchased at the local Home Depot? Or, given its shady treatment of employees, does Wal-Mart alone stock them?

We found it particularly delicious that the “Religious Oppression” train-car is still “pending.” Do the eminences behind the Tunnel of Oppression disagree about the nature of religious oppression? Do some of them believe that such an issue doesn’t deserve their ham-fisted treatment—even if the Religious Oppression room is merely the caboose?

Naturally, we are quite certain that said Religious Oppression train-car won’t feature the anti-Christian bigotry espoused by countless “diversity” training commissars. That’s not the kind of oppression they have in mind.

And this leads us to a question for the brilliant boosters of the Tunnel of Oppression. Why not have a “Radical Indoctrinators Oppression” train-car? Surely the students, after passing through the moronic Tunnel of Oppression, are going to realize that the only real oppression they’ve experienced is that of the intolerant chuckleheads who sponsored this program in the first place.

2005-11-30T00:01:00.000-05:00

The November Academic of the Month

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” know what you are thinking, dear reader: The month of November has almost come and gone, and we have yet to elect an Official Academic of the Month. Yet fear not such a horrid oversight. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as peaches to use today’s humble “post” to put yet another glorious example of the professoriate up to the usual slings and arrows of outrageous calumny.

That is to say (albeit in a less highfalutin manner), we have picked our November Academic of the Month. Frankly, dear reader, it took a bit of time to do so. For the past few months, we have lauded our share of professorial dimwits and moronic pedants. Yet we still haven’t taken on someone really spine-tinglingly offensive—someone who’s more pernicious than the typical “Gendering the Other”-type boobs we usually excoriate.

Until now. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” blithely champion one Mona Baker as our Official November Academic of the Month.

And who, you are undoubtedly asking yourself, is Mona Baker? Well, she’s the Director of the Centre for Translation and Intercultural Studies at a university in England called Umist. (As in, “You-Missed” hiring a reasonable professor when you picked this chucklehead.)

Okay, so Ms. Baker is an academic in jolly old England. What—besides the bad dental work—is so bad about that? Well, unfortunately Ms. Baker is a rather reprehensible figure.

Allow us to explain. A few years ago, a gaggle of dimwitted British professors gathered steam for an official boycott of Israeli academics. As David Tell discussed a while back in The Weekly Standard,

Sometime around late April [2002], a petition began circulating in British universities calling for a full-scale academic boycott of Israel—specifically, for a European Union moratorium on funding of Israeli scholarship until the Sharon government proves willing to abandon the use of force in response to Palestinian terrorist attacks.

In essence, then, the ignoramuses who signed such a petition were untroubled by the anti-Israeli violence of those peaceable Palestinians, but Israel’s attempts at self-defense are simply beyond the pale. As such, these doyens (and doyennes) of academic freedom saw fit to support an official boycott of one country’s academics—even though that country is in a region chock-a-block with prime offenders against human rights.

Ms. Baker, our Official Academic of the Month, took this whole blatantly anti-Semitic hullabaloo one step further. The Egyptian Ms. Baker signed the petition and then decided to take her own personal steps to ensure that the academic world was Judenrein. She forcibly removed two Israeli academics from editorial and advisory boards of two journals she edits.

On her “website,” the repugnant Ms. Baker informs us: “There followed a barrage of hate mail (now a common tactic of the Zionist lobby)—some of it explicitly condoned by supposedly reputable institutions such as the University of Pennsylvania.” To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” add: Way to go, University of Pennsylvania! Who would have thought you had it in you?

In the pages of Britain’s left-wing Guardian, columnist Rod Liddle wrote:

Professor Mona Baker “unappointed” two Israeli academics from the journal for which she worked. She hopes that, nonetheless, she can still be friends with them. I hope they punch her in the nose. Her husband, Ken, whined that they had received 15,000 emails in 24 hours, many “abusive and obscene.” Just 15,000, huh? Better keep them coming.

That, we feel, is exactly right. Mona Baker is a racist and so disgusting that she is actually a disgrace to academia. And that, in the world of such tomfoolery as Judith Butler’s obnoxiously opaque prose and Cornel West’s obnoxiously ugly hair, is saying something.

Do you, dear reader, have an idea for a future Academic of the Month? If so, please send us an e-line by pressing the “Contact Us” “link” at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen. There are so many academics to detest, and so little time.

2005-11-29T00:01:00.000-05:00

Aiding an Oppressor?

A few “posts” ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” informed you that we were officially sick and tired of carping and caterwauling about the many things we detest. In fact, upon careless reflection, we decided that we pine to use our considerable e-powers for good.

To this end, we asked our sizeable readership how we could be of some service. Like your mother, we aim to please.

Naturally, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” received an outpouring of e-missives from concerned fans figuratively dying to get our advice. Car mortgages; shotgun weddings; grout work—no cause was too dire to stop our colossal readership from seeking our counsel.

Accordingly, our Official Advice Team (a.k.a. the Official Department of Customer Cervix) has recently gone into overdrive, if we may hit you with a bit of an automotive metaphor. We’ve offered more help than Courtney Love’s shrink—and we’d like to think that our advice has been markedly superior.

Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” didn’t expect to receive an intriguing query from one of the Internet’s true e-eminences, the proprietor of the delicious “weblog” The Misspent Life. Mr. Misspent, who is working away in graduate school to become Dr. Misspent, sent us the following jaw-dropping note:

To: “Chip” and the Rest of the Crack Young Staff
From: Misspent

I need your help. While “toiling” away in graduate school, it has come to my attention that my life-world is a very oppressive one; that my normative constructions of gender and race and progress are both structurally determined and structurally constitutive and that it all benefits me.

I had never thought about how my very existence was perpetuating oppression and how the words that I used purposely killed children, women, lesbians, and poor people. What should I do? Should I reject my life-world and strive to become a poor ten-year-old female lesbian (in a wheelchair, just to be safe)? Or should I embrace my role of oppressor and use the system as an excuse to be a jerk, since that is the “real me” inside?

I am really in a bind here. I was going to ask some of the women on campus what to do since they must have wisdom beyond my phallonormative capacities (except for the transgendered ones) but I can't tell which ones are female. Of course I could always ask an undergraduate one. They are very wise, empowered, and brave. Plus, I could probably get laid in the process if I bring them beer and a Chingy CD. Oh, and I'd ask the Larouchies but I forgot my nose-plug at home.

Yours, etc.

Misspent

An interesting letter, is it not? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been racking our brains for the better part of a fortnight, attempting to solve the Misspent One’s vexing problem.

Although Mr. Misspent only refers to it obliquely, we take it that he is both a male and white. Which, as anyone with a college degree can tell you, are two cardinal sins in the open-minded world of American academia. Further, it appears as if our lily-white pal doesn’t have any other face cards in the oppression deck—no transgenderism, no homosexuality, no nothing.

At first thought, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” firmly believed that the Misspent One’s best shot to gain some campus respect was becoming “a poor ten-year-old female lesbian (in a wheelchair, just to be safe).” After all, if the Misspent One could honestly pull this off, all his problems would be solved, and he could undoubtedly land a job in some mindless Department of Noxious Political Grievance-Mongering.

Still, we aren’t entirely sure that the Misspent One could actually do this. For starters, it’s really bad karma to use a wheelchair when you don’t need one. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t leave too many taboos unsullied, but the handicapped are certainly one of them. Nothing says “You’re Asking for it, Dipstick” quite like messing with the disabled.

Also, we couldn’t quite figure the value of transforming into a ten-year-old female lesbian. We mean, come on: How would such a young thing wind up in graduate school in the first place? Is he supposed to become some amalgam of K.D. Lang and Doogie Howser? We just don’t think it’ll work.

Unfortunately, this left us with only one reasonable option. Although we certainly dislike the fact that the Misspent One’s “very existence was perpetuating oppression,” and that “the words that [he] used purposely killed children, women, lesbians, and poor people,” such is undoubtedly the case.

As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” officially advise our pal Misspent to change his language. Although he certainly can’t alter his oppressive existence, he could employ a few different turns of phrase. Perhaps this would halt some of his congenital offensiveness.

Allow us to offer an example. We officially recommend that our pal cease using phrases such as “Boy, I’d like purposely to kill children, women, lesbians, and poor people.” It’s a rather polarizing sentiment, to say the least. Instead, how about “Hey, I know I’m a white guy and all, but I’m pretending to believe in your pandering, simplistic, and childlike worldview regarding women and minorities in an attempt to get in some chicks’ pants”?

If that doesn’t work, we collectively don’t know what will.

2005-11-28T00:01:00.000-05:00

The “Glories” of Graffiti, or Artaud and Arrest

Well, The New York Times is at it again. It seems as if the solidly upper-middle class Arts section editors simply can’t get their fill of encouraging antisocial behavior among the disadvantaged. As they toil away in their bourgeois offices, they pine to foment troubles for underprivileged youth.

The latest case in point: “Be Sure to Read the Handwriting on the Wall: Graffiti Artists Move Off the Street and to the Front of a Classroom,” an article in the November 24th number of the Gray Lady, penned by one Randy Kennedy. It’s not the first paean to illegal graffiti artists in the Paper of Record, but it’s deeply offensive nonetheless.

In the piece, the enraptured Mr. Kennedy describes the latest “educational effort” of Urban Academy, a “specialized high school” in Manhattan. Thanks to the selfless largess of art dealer Hugo Martinez, the Urban Academy has seen fit to bring graffiti specialists into its classrooms, allowing the students to get some primo lessons in defacing property. To this end, the kiddies were treated to the aesthetic musings of one Tracy 168, whose own career at this selfsame high school is described as “a brief pit stop on the road to full-time delinquency.”

So, thought Mr. Martinez, what would be better for the “sometimes troubled students” at Urban Academy than some tips on defacing public property? Clearly, Mr. Martinez believes that the answer to this query is: Tips on defacing public property and fatuous cliché-ridden art school justifications of such activity as glorious artistic expression.

In fact, Mr. Martinez’s take on this nonsense is perfectly predictable. The goal, this chi-chi dimwit opines, is to “challenge even further the seemingly sacred character ascribed to art and to education.”

Oh, well, we get it now: It’s another tired retread of the “What Is Art” question. That would be really interesting, if artists hadn’t begun asking that since Marcel Duchamp did so in 1911. When is this query going to become tiresome? We get it, we get it: Anything can be art. But that doesn’t mean anything is good art.

Mr. Martinez continues: “[M]uch of the great art of the 20th century has flirted with illegality, with attacking authority.” Now, let’s assume that Mr. Martinez’s rather sweeping claim holds true. Can’t it also be said that much of the lousy art of the 20th century has flirted with illegality, with attacking authority?

And this leads us to a more substantive point. Isn’t it a bit foolish to champion assaults on authority figures among “sometimes troubled students”? Aren’t such pupils more than likely to have exacerbated their difficulties by means of their own less-than-reverential response to authority? Why don’t we force Mr. Martinez to teach a class full of these delightful “troubled students”? Perhaps he’ll enjoy being pistol-whipped whilst he tries to call the roll. After all, isn’t that the kind of behavior befitting great artists?

Naturally, dear reader, the Times offers a glowing review of such “daring” educational activities. As Herb Mack, Urban Academy’s moronic principal, bellowed regarding the program: “It’s enriching for the kids to be able to see legitimate artists at work and to critique it.”

Ah, yes: Inspiring artists such as CoCo 144, another member of this wondrous class project. Perhaps Mr. Mack has seen CoCo’s oeuvre on buildings around the neighborhood. Perhaps CoCo could do Mr. Mack a favor and spray-paint his house for him. This would allow Mr. Mack to “critique” this “legitimate artist’s” work everyday. And this would also allow Mr. Mack to boast that he has used his post to encourage dastardly behavior both at home and at school.

Way to keep the disadvantaged down, Messrs. Martinez and Mack! Perhaps these students will soon repay you with their lifelong membership in the underclass.

2005-11-24T00:01:00.000-05:00

Happy Turkey Day, Folks

Well, dear reader, today’s Thanksgiving, an important holiday in the American calendar. If we remember our left-wing history correctly, Thanksgiving celebrates the feast shortly before the hegemonic, oppressive, fundamentalist fascists obliterated the kindly, benevolent, but benighted savages who used to run wild in North America. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can’t think of a better holiday than that—and, yes, we’re including Purim.

Anyway, on this day to share with your family—or at least a drunk aunt—we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to give some thanks of our own. Frankly, dear reader, there is much for which to be thankful. For instance, Billy Joel’s career is in a bit of a nosedive. (And yet some people continue to believe that there’s no higher power!)

Also, we are sincerely thankful that tomorrow—the busiest shopping day in these here United States—is an Official Staff Holiday. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will be out and about (as our Canuck friends say—oddly), searching for the perfect gift for our alcoholic aunts.

Accordingly, dear reader, you’ll have to wait till Monday to delight in our hilarious animadversions again. We know, we know: That’s an awful long time without us. But somehow you’ll deal.

To make matters a little bit better, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are announcing that we shall soon announce some exciting things that are going to happen around here. Which, we suppose, makes today’s announcement a meta-announcement. Indeed, in a short while, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will have some interesting news, which will help solidify our place in the Internet firmament.

In addition, we aim finally to get that e-monkey of a contest off our backs. A while ago, dear reader, we asked for submissions to our Official World’s Worst Bumper Sticker Contest. After an e-deluge of entries deluged us, we summarily lost them. Well, one of the junior editors here—let’s just call him “Chip”—recently happened upon this stack of submissions, and soon we shall announce the winner. Sure, this scintillating proclamation will be months old. For all we know, the winner of the contest may well be deceased. Still, we aim to laud the victor, whether he is still of this world or not.

We would be remiss if today’s “post” didn’t also offer a word of congratulations. Everyone’s favorite Llamabutchers have celebrated another “weblog” anniversary. We think we speak for darn near everyone when we say that their “website” is a great delight—more fun than riding Dominique de Villepin like a horse.

So, on that vaguely disturbing note, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to wish all our reader(s) a very happy Thanksgiving. And we mean all our reader(s) throughout the world; we’re not such heartless jingoists that we wouldn’t wish our Syrian fan(s) a merry Turkey Day too. Enjoy some stuffing—before we invade your country.

2005-11-23T00:01:00.000-05:00

A Love Connection

A few days ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” announced that we hoped to use our humble “weblog” for the purposes of bettering the world. This, we figured, would prove an intriguing counterpoise to the incessant badness that is our more typical routine. You know: We like to keep them guessing.

Little did we realize, when we first announced our intention to help our fellow man and woman, we would receive such an outpouring of opportunities to ameliorate. It appears as if our humble readership is, as the young people say, very high maintenance. Who would have known that fans of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” would be so darned needy? Not, we hasten to inform you, us.

To make matters even more interesting, we received a particularly fetching e-missive from a veritable star in the Internet firmament—the kind of man who slaves away at a “weblog” read by far more than the three people per week we have ensnared. We refer to none other than Dr. Rusty Shackleford, proprietor of the wonderful “weblog” The Jawa Report. (Which we old-timers still call My Pet Jawa.)

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” upon reading the Good Doctor’s e-epistle, were instantly nervous. How could we aid such an e-eminence? His query, moreover, wasn’t exactly our forte. We have reproduced this e-mail below, and have decided to add our own humble words of advice.

Dear Crack Young Staff,

Can you get me a date with Jennifer Anniston? I hear she's available again.

Dr. Rusty Shackleford

We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: That’s a darn good question. Accordingly, we took a look through the old Rolodex, to see if we could happen upon Ms. Anniston’s telephone number.

Alas, although we found Mickey Rourke’s digits—and Eric Roberts’ digit from The Pope of Greenwich Village—we had no luck with Ms. Anniston’s number. Apparently, in a fit of pique, one of the interns threw it into the trash. What can we say? He’s into Jodie Foster now. (We wonder how that’ll work out.)

All the same, we still hoped that we could be of some service. After all, our cursory perusal of learned journals found at the supermarket suggests that Ms. Anniston is currently desperate for some affection from the opposite sex. And, if the tabloids are right, she’s had some kind of tryst with Vince Vaughan, which means she doesn’t mind dating a bald guy.

Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” would be remiss if we didn’t try to warn Dr. Shackleford away from dating this feminine temptress. For, after spending a few short months with Ms. Anniston, the Good Doctor will ineluctably wind up with Jon Voight’s daughter instead. Who would have guessed that? And who the heck wants Jon Voight for a father-in-law? We hear that guy’s got a few screws loose.

In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” officially desire to dissuade Dr. Shackleford from getting entwined with Ms. Anniston. She’s just too flighty and capricious for a grown man to date.

How about Courtney Love instead? We hear she’s free.

2005-11-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

Some Quick Fits

If you’re anything like us, dear reader, you go through your day gritting your teeth at all the disgraceful indignities and moronic irritations that you must endure. Nary an hour goes by, it seems, in which you aren’t bothered by some galactically irksome phenomenon or other. This, we feel, is what Tony Orlando once referred to as “The Good Life.” Or was that Plato?

Anyway, as a result of all the nugatory vexations that we face, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” decided to spend today’s humble “post” proffering potted complaints about a whole host of annoyances. That way, as the saying goes, we can kill a number of birds with one rock. In addition, like a candidate for breast reduction surgery, we can get a little off of our chest.

Without too much in the way of further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” proudly take you through our humble tour of irksomeness. We call it:

Quick Fits from the Crack Young Staff

1. People Who Fling Rubber Bands: Is there anything more distressing than someone who cocks a rubber band in your face? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that this is a prime example of Busch League sadism. Frankly, most folks consider rubber bands the most dangerous weapons in the world. If you try to rob a bank with a gun, the teller may not believe that the thing is loaded. But if you put a rubber band in his face, he’ll give you the money faster than you can say “Wayne Newton went bankrupt.”

2. Schadenfreude and the French: Boy, the French really don’t make it easy on us, do they? Surely schadenfreude, which, for those of you unschooled in the ways of the Kraut, means “the enjoyment of an other’s troubles,” is one of the most disgraceful of emotions. What’s more, the recent upheavals and hooliganism in the suburbs of Paris are deeply serious troubles. And yet, and yet, and yet. Who can’t enjoy a situation in which the snooty, We-Know-Everything-about-World-Affairs-You-Stupid-Yanks French are up to their (hirsute) armpits in a Muslim riot? Clearly, in putting such a calamity in the hands of Chirac and Villepin, the Good Lord is testing our resolve.

3. Paper Cuts: We know that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” spend far too much time on rather demotic subject matter: Phil Collins; Richard Rorty; Gillette razors; &c. As such, once in a while, we like to change things up a bit. It’s our way of keeping you guessing. And what better highbrow subject is there than paper cuts? We couldn’t think of anything either. These things are surely the most unbearable of life’s cruelties. Short of getting your elbows shot off by a submachine gun, nothing hurts worse than the garden-variety paper cut. Still, nothing quite makes you look like an ultra-pansy like kvetching about a paper cut. At least when someone saws off your kneecaps you can get a good cry in without seeming like a wussy to your pals.

4. Terrell Owens: Admittedly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t discuss sporting events with great regularity. Frankly, we enjoy taking in a good game as much as the next truculent homicidal subversive, and we seldom find much to gripe about in professional sports—save the Los Angeles Clippers, of course. Yet Terrell Owens, the whilom receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles and full-time ostentatious jerk, is an exception to the rule. Has anyone else noticed that this guy has thus far done the most impressive Juwanna Mann impression you’re likely to see in this lifetime? And now this self-important twit has the (ir)Rev. Jesse Jackson on his side? Gee, and just when we were starting to like him, too.

2005-11-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Papir of Recard

If we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are known for anything—and, last we checked, we aren’t—perhaps it’s our occasional grammatical and orthographical lapses. Sure, we have a staff of over 250 editors and interns, but even we can’t catch everything.

As a result, sometimes we offer “posts” with unfortunate mistakes. In fact, the mistakes are particularly unfortunate, since oftentimes we ridicule others for their sub-par grammar. Such, we suppose, are the wages of hypocrisy.

Thankfully, we have the help of a few outside grammarians. Renegade grammarians, you might call them. Our old pal aelfheld, for example, enjoys lending a hand when we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” offer one of our typical solecisms. And, we might add, our good buddy does this for free. (Yet they say that people don’t care about others anymore.)

All the same, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” would like to think that we’ve never made a whopper of an error—the kind of screw-up that should ruin careers, if not lives. Naturally, we’ve spelled “weblog” “welbog” before. But who hasn’t? Still—knock on wood—we don’t recall a misstep so bad that we contemplated taking up careers as yak farmers.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” wonder if our stately friends at the stately New York Times can say the same thing. Although the Paper of Record must possess an editorial team that dwarfs the crack young staff—aelfheld or not—it appears to have offered a prime example of the disastrously horrid grammatical blunder. To make matters worse, it’s on the front page.

In the Saturday, November 19 edition of the Gray Lady (or, as our British friends would call it, the Grey Ledy), one Eric Schmitt presented a column entitled “Uproar in House as Parties Clash on Iraq Pullout.” It contains the following mind-blowing sentence (all of the errors are the Times’, not ours):

They House came to a standstill shouted Ms. Schmidt down, causing the House to come to a abrupt standstill, and moments later, Representative Harold Ford, Democrat of Tennessee, charged across the chamber’s center aisle to the Republican side screaming that the attack had been unwarranted.

We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: Wow, that’s bad. If it were the product of a college freshman—and it very much seems like it is—it would demonstrate said student’s lack of editorial acumen. All the Solecisms and Blunders That Are Fit to Print, eh?

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found the next sentence of the piece interesting too:

“You guys are pathetic.” yelled Representative Martin Meehan, Democrat of Massachusetts.

Whom is he calling pathetic? The Republicans or the inept staff at the Times? After all, the Gray Lady’s minions made an error in that sentence too.

It’s a sad day when the Paper of Record doesn’t live up to the storied editorial acumen of the crack young staff. Perhaps Maureen Dowd will defect to our outfit—if she’ll fit in it.

2005-11-18T00:01:00.000-05:00

College Administrators

Over the course of this humble “weblog’s” humble existence, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have admittedly taken many a potshot at American academics. Although we have found many other suitable targets of obloquy—Tony Danza, for example—Roger Kimball’s tenured radicals have come in for more than their share of unfair hectoring.

In today’s humble “post,” then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to make it up to our ivory tower pals by excoriating a target loathed even by professors. And no, we don’t mean Ronald Reagan or George W. Bush. Rather, we are talking about those who are surely the most vexatious of humanoid creatures, college administrators.

As irksome as hypocritical pseudo-radical professors may be (and believe us, they’re pretty bad), college administrators are far, far worse. They’re the Hitler to the academic’s Mussolini. They’re the Phil Collins to the academic’s Pointer Sisters. They’re the XFL to the academic’s WNBA. They’re the…well, you get the picture.

In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” despise college administrators with such gusto that we’d never name our sons Dean. (Our daughters? Well, maybe.) If you ask us, the only good Dean in this world was Dean Martin. And that’s just because he was a mildly entertaining lush.

So what, you may be asking yourself, makes the average college administrator so repellent? Well, let us pass over administrators with such roles as “Affirmative Action Officer”—the closest the multiculti Left comes to the Gestapo. Such social gerrymandering experts are surely supremely troublesome, but we don’t feel like spending today’s humble “post” on such noxious twits.

Instead, we’ll focus on the garden-variety college administrator. What makes this chucklehead so unbearable?

Well, for starters, college administrators are the prime spouters of obnoxious politically correct buzzwords such as “dialogue” and “diversity.” Naturally, they employ these terms in a strictly Orwellian fashion. To misquote a Nazi bigwig, every time you hear the word “dialogue” on a college campus, you ought to reach for your gun.

If this weren’t suitably offensive, there’s the whole matter of these smarmy administrator’s entire livelihoods. They must placate various Left-of-Stalin faculty members, whilst raking in bucks for their sickeningly wealthy universities. That is to say, they must pretend to placate the anti-capitalist crowd, whilst serving their corporate bitches. They can natter on about “diversity” all they want, but all they really care about is the bottom line.

Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t want to run afoul of our sundry free-market-loving readers, but, in a contest between anti-capitalist faculty and horrifyingly hypocritical administrators, we’ll sit in solidarity with the womyn’s studies whiners any day of the week.

Strangely, though, for all the tenured radicals’ bleating about the impending revolution, they never seem to get on the bad side of their college’s administrations. Funny, that.

2005-11-17T00:01:00.000-05:00

Help Us To Help You Help Yourself With Us

If there is anything that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” particularly savor, it’s aiding our fellow man. Or, we should add for our feminist friends, fellow wimmin. And grrrls. Sure, there are many other pleasures in life: Cock fighting; Mormonism; cracking wise; Donna Shalala. But nothing touches our collective heart quite like doing a solid for a humanoid in distress.

In fact, upon ruminating on this very topic, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” realized that our humble “weblog” is a bit of a sham. Not, we dare say, in the obvious sense that darn near nobody reads it. Rather, we mean that it doesn’t exactly do a great deal of worldly good. Or otherworldly good, as far as we can intuit (though admittedly this isn’t our forte).

Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We have done our almost-best to make countless people smile through their day, content in the knowledge that this humble “website” has yet again excoriated a no-talent boob like Phil Collins.

For lesser men (and womyn), this may be enough to sleep soundly at night. But not for us: We have insomnia.

As such, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to dedicate at least a few of our daily “posts” to helping others. Like Florence Nightengale and Forrest Whittaker, we pine to give comfort to the rest of humanity. We’re pretty much a staff full of Bonos—except we’re not superannuated, louche, self-impressed charlatans who desperately require a shower and some deodorant

So our hearts are in the right place. Only one question remains, dear reader: How exactly could we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” actually help anyone? For a group known for its Tom Hanks demolitions, succoring isn’t exactly our strong suit.

And then it collectively struck us like the miserable ending of Back to the Future II. Why not ask our reader(s) how we can be of service? Instead of wasting everyone’s time lending unwanted hands, why not ensure that the future objects of our aid get the aid they deserve? It made a heck of a lot of sense to us. At least at the time.

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly exhort you to send us an e-missive by clicking on the “Contact Us” “link” at the top right-hand corner of your computer screens. Tell us how we can help you—even if “how we can help you” is ceasing to write our interminable, foolish “weblog.”

Naturally, there are a few things that we, like Meatloaf, won’t do (even for love). First, like Meatloaf, we won’t do “that.” Second, we won’t “whack” your mother-in-law, no matter how much you despise her. After all, what kind of spirit of brotherly and sisterly love would that demonstrate?

Also, we won’t cease writing our interminable, foolish “weblog.” Hey: You can’t win ‘em all. So write in today: Let us help you help yourself with us.

2005-11-16T00:01:00.000-05:00

A Moment of Pure Atheism

Like all good theists, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” sometimes find ourselves mired in doubt about God. Sure, our staff is chock-a-block with honest-to-goodness Catholics, Protestants, and Jews, but every once in a while we experience pangs of uncertainty about a higher being.

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must say that we haven’t let such rare doubts get too far. None of us has done anything crazy like quit his job or become a Unitarian. Still, the one or two mild agnostics on staff like to smirk about our occasional restlessness regarding such questions.

And, whilst we’re being deadly honest, we may as well admit that many phenomena associated with modern life are sufficiently unpleasant that they would make the most orthodox of the orthodox worry a bit. The list of unspeakable things on God’s earth is long: Famine; pestilence; Paris Hilton; racism; Geraldo Rivera; &c.

Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that, for darn near everything horrid you can name, you can find some sort of silver lining. For example, the staff computers here at Hatemonger’s Quarterly Headquarters do not recognize Geraldo in their spell-checkers. This, we feel, is a sign that Mr. Rivera has not become such an important cultural beacon to warrant the spell-checker treatment. (If only we could say the same about Oprah.)

All in all, then, the world is also replete with little pleasures and little treasures—the kinds of things that make us glad to be card-carrying deists. Who could meet Barbara Boxer and conclude that there’s no God—and that this God doesn’t have an arch sense of humor? Not us.

So far, so good. Yet, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must confess that some phenomena are so atrociously irksome, so galactically wretched, that they should make the Pope troubled. They probably don’t, but they should.

Okay, you say, give us an example. Well, dear reader, we’re glad you’ve asked for one. Frankly, we have a perfect one right beside us, and we’d love to share.

A perusal of The New York Times Arts & Entertainment section recently gave us a shock—a shock that was reasonably followed by pangs of doubt about Him. What kind of a God could allow something so abysmal? What kind of a God could warrant such large-scale suffering?

We refer, of course, to the news that Broadway will soon be home to a musical version of “Tarzan.” What’s worse—if there is anything worse—is the fact that the music and lyrics have been written by one Phil Collins.

Yes, you read that correctly: “Tarzan” the musical, with music and lyrics by Phil Collins. Hasn’t the world experienced enough suffering? Has the Good Lord not troubled us enough with feculent tunes such as “Sssudio” and “Another Day in Paradise”?

Evidently, the answer is no. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” like to think of Phil Collins as a kind of walking Book of Job. As some noxious A&R rock crooner warbled, he incessantly “takes it, to the limit, one more time.” Each song he sings, each video he makes is a new test of our faith.

And let’s not even talk about Genesis.

2005-11-15T00:01:00.000-05:00

The Art of the Undergraduate Essay

Well, dear reader, it’s getting to be that time of year: For those of you in college, you know that the end of semester crunch is drawing apace. Soon sophomore dipsomaniacs will be compelled to take a break from their hectic fornication schedules, and spend two or three minutes at the library, plagiarizing a paper.

Students sufficiently dedicated to the life of the mind may even decide to craft an essay themselves. And this brings us lovingly to the subject of today’s humble “post”—the typical undergraduate paper.

Some of you are likely unacquainted with the moronic hijinks associated with the typical collegian. After destroying numerous sorely-needed brain cells through all means of chemically-induced euphoria, the average college student is capable of writing an essay roughly as competently as a garden-variety chipmunk. Which is to say, very badly indeed.

But let us not offer a beleaguered list of the horrors associated with the college essay: The ridiculous solecisms; the curiously inappropriate use of the semi-colon; the dunderheaded use of disreputable “websites” as evidence; &c. Instead, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim on offering you a more vivid picture of these products of the nearly functionally illiterate.

That is to say, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have crafted our own humble example of this wretched genre—our own feculent undergraduate essay. Naturally, this paper was composed very late the night before it was due—there’s no reason to spend much time on papers when there’s beer to be drunk. And, of course, the margins on the page are fatter than Delta Burke.

It goes without saying that all of the misspellings, grammatical missteps, and general idiocies are fully intended. So, without further ado, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are mildly anorexic to present:

Shakespeare’s “Julius Ceaser” by A. Typical Freshman

Being the fact that he isn’t still alive today or in modern time, the plays of W. Shakespeare are some of the most imperfect creations which America has ever seen. Ever since Kenneth Branaw played Hamlet in the movie Hamlet, people from all across America have known this. I

Being so, it isn’t terribly difficult to understand the fierce popularity of one particular play of William Shakespere that of, the great Greek, Julius Ceasr.

However, many do not know this play. However, if you don’t, this essay will offer a short discussion of it. Moreover, the problems of the Characters will be thoroughly announced.

Some people have a flare for the dramatic. Although we don’t know for sure, we can be sure that W. Shakespeare is one of those people. Like other people, he wrote many plays; “Julius Cesar”, “Midnight Summer’s Sex Comedy”, “Waiting of Godot”.

However, that said, many Americans consider Will Shakespeare the best. There was literally not one person like him; not better.

For this, three reasons exist, being the fact that there are not 4. One; total immersion; Two; staging; Three; good language; Four; imperminence. For this reason, as this paper has shown, Julius Ceaser will always be remembered.

It kind of makes you wonder why we’re sending so many tykes to school in the first place. Doesn’t the world need ditch-diggers too?

2005-11-14T00:01:00.000-05:00

A Little Help from the Audience

As you may very well imagine, a great deal of blood, sweat, and tears goes into the production of this miserable little “weblog.” We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” take our jobs very seriously, and this often entails a little elbow grease on our part.

To this end, dear reader, a small part of the crack young staff spends its time eagerly hunting through various other “websites,” in search of interesting material for our sagacious lucubrations. Just the other day, in fact, this small part of the crack young staff found itself taking in James Taranto’s heralded Best of the Web column, found on The Wall Street Journal’s “website.”

We simply can’t get enough of this column. Ageless ad hominem attacks at John Kerry, copious use of the word “kerfuffle”—what’s not to love?

Anyway, upon inspecting one particular installment of the Best of the Web, something collectively struck our fearless e-searchers. Mr. Taranto offers a kind of Internet tip-line. If you have an interesting story, a humorous note, or an important fact under your belt, you are encouraged to send it in to Mr. Taranto, who will presumably make great use of it.

Frankly, dear reader, this left us aghast. The Wall Street Journal is cheating! Rather than wasting precious time hunting for clever tidbits for readers, the folks at the Best of the Web are letting their readers do the work for them.

Oh, for crying out loud! Does this mean that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been troubling ourselves with oodles of extra work for no reason? Does this mean that our days of drudging up uninspired, hackneyed ideas will soon be a distant memory? Does this mean that we can lay off large parts of the staff?

Well, we’re not sure. In the past, we have been sufficiently fortunate to receive a number of tips from savvy readers. “Links” to humorous articles, academic conferences, and dimwitted professors have abounded. Naturally, we fully appreciate such efforts.

But we’ve yet to pander to our readership shamelessly, asking that it do our work for us, whilst we play a few holes of golf. If personal-responsibility-loving conservatives like Mr. Taranto can do it, why can’t we?

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want you to know that we are in desperate straits. As you can tell from today’s humble “post,” we’re running out of ideas faster than you can say “‘Twin Peaks’ season three.”

And that’s where you come in. We humbly exhort you to send us anything you think that we may be able to use for our usual shlocky comedy. We’ll mine your genius, figuratively sucking you in and spitting you out. Like Phyllis Diller, we may even take credit for your inspired hijinks ourselves.

So, you may be wondering, what do you get out of the arrangement? Well, we suppose there’s always the satisfaction that you’ve helped the crack young staff. That ought to be worth something—albeit not a tax break. And, to make matters better, if you beg us, we’ll promise not to mention your name on our “weblog.”

If you ask us, this is what business types call a win-win situation. So, dear reader, send in those humorous “links” and suggestions today. We’ll be busy drinking mint juleps.

2005-11-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

All Politics Is Yokel

As is generally well known among the three or four percent of Americans who vote, most states in these here United States recently had local elections. These horrid events are surprisingly akin to elections for student politics at the local community college—except even fewer people care.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” would love to say that, as a group of farsighted intellectuals, we have nothing to do with such low-end political matters. After all, the fellow running for your local dogcatcher position isn’t terribly likely to have deeply-held beliefs regarding American foreign policy. He isn’t likely to expatiate on the cardinal import of the Anglo-American alliance. We would love to announce, then, such quotidian politicking is assuredly beneath us.

But, alas, we’d be lying. Recently, one of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—received a telephone call from a family friend. Said friend exhorted “Chip” to do her a solid, and lend a hand with a political campaign. Said friend’s old pal was running for Local Flak, or some such, and required a selfless chucklehead to clutch a sign at the polls, whilst sporting a T-shirt on which was emblazoned the candidate’s name.

In a moment of great weakness, “Chip” agreed. Boy, he’ll never forgive himself for that.

A few days later, “Chip” received another telephone call (at home, of course, since the staff can’t take personal calls at Hatemonger’s Headquarters), this time from the campaign manager of the hopeful Local Flak. After pouring on the whole “We Thank You So Much for Your Selflessness” routine, he informed “Chip” that he was to hold a sign in two shifts: 7:00am to 9:00am, and 5:00pm-7:00pm.

Well, gee, thought “Chip,” this is going to be lots and lots of fun. At least “Chip” won’t have to wake up early. And this isn’t going to ruin the day.

To make matters worse, of course, to this day “Chip” knows absolutely nothing about this candidate’s policies. He could be a Stalinist, for all “Chip” knows. He could favor the forcing of widowers to smack grapefruits over their heads. We doubt it, but it is within the realm of possibility, if your realm of possibility is rather wide.

But then “Chip” figured: It’s only local politics, so what’s the harm done? A couple of grapefruits? Even if this fellow is a Stalinist, he can’t kill that many people in such a small county. If there’s going to be a gulag, it might as well be confined to district eight.

Just to be on the safe side, “Chip” took a gander at one of this guy’s campaign brochures, in order to ensure that he would not waste his day plumping for the world’s next two-bit Benito Mussolini.

This, we must say, was the real shock. Thanks to this politician’s nebulous, bromidic sloganeering, it was downright impossible to determine his views on anything. Apparently, he’s for fiscal responsibility. Well, isn’t that just peachy; “Chip” and the crack young staff are fans of that too.

In addition, it turns out that our candidate likes America. Boy: It’s as if this guy is a perfect match for “Chip’s” politics. “Chip” likes America too! What a coincidence.

As of this writing, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” haven’t a clue whether “Chip’s” man has won the coveted position of Local Flak. Perhaps “Chip’s” miserable tenure at the polls earned his man victory in a squeaker.

But we collectively doubt it. And, quite frankly, we’re not sure it matters: Either way, the A-Train is still running.

2005-11-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

A Wrong Note

To human beings sufficiently fortunate to possess ears, surely one of the most irksome forms of music is college a cappella. You know the kind of aural detritus we mean: Pansy-boy 19-year-old crooners coyly singing “Tainted Love” and Codplay tunes for a gaggle of strangely enraptured female undergrads. Somehow, the specimens of effeteness that churn out this garbage manage to score chicks in the process. So much for the world being fair.

In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” earnestly believe that one of the truly magnificent things about graduating from college is the fact that you will never be bombarded by a college a cappella group in the real world. Unless, of course, you purchase a Billy Joel album. But then, hey, that’s your own darn fault.

Of course, all sentient beings loathe collegiate a cappella. But what happens if a group dedicated to this palaver picks the wrong kind of tune to belt at a concert? What if it eschews Spin Doctors retreads in favor of more gangsta’ creations?

Luckily, dear reader, we shall never have to wonder about this vexing question anymore. Two curious letters to the editor in Duke University’s student-run Chronicle completely answer this brainteaser.

According to said letters, a team of largely lily-white undergrad a cappella vocalists called the Pitchforks performed at Duke University under the auspices of a concert aimed at raising funds for a sexual assault hotline and an anti-domestic violence organization.

If you’re anything like the wizards who run the Pitchforks, you are probably thinking to yourself: Why not sing a number that glories in violence and degradation, and throws in some nasty racial epithets to boot? Why stick with that ho-hum “Music Man” fare when you can up the ante with something a bit more “street”? Word to your mother.

As a result of such careful cogitation, the brilliant Pitchforks took to the stage at this Women’s Center event and sang a tune called “Let’s Go” by some charming entertainers named Li’l Jon and the Eastside Boys.

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” although being rather young and rather crack, had never heard of Li’L Jon and the Eastside Boys. For those of you equally fortunate, let us hit you with some of the lyrics of “Let’s Go,” which the clever Pitchforks saw fit to croon at a domestic violence concert:

I mop up the flo’ wit ‘em / And I kick in the door and let the .44 get ‘em.

Pretty nice, are they not? We exhort those of you greatly enamored of torrents of profanity to enjoy the full lyrics, which feature copious use of an epithet about which Randall Kennedy wrote a book, but which you ought not say.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t big fans of politically-correct collegiate decorum, and we don’t often find ourselves agreeing with flaks who work for such ridiculous enterprises as university Women’s Centers. But, quite frankly, Chris Massenburg of Duke’s Sexual Assault Support Services had a dandy point in her/his letter: Why the heck is a group of silver-spoon chuckleheads singing such violent trash at an anti-domestic violence event, for crying out loud? Haven’t they ever heard of “Sweet Adeline”?

Still, we must admit that the thought of North Face clad guys named Nigel singing about the glories of murder in roguish street patois is a source of endless unintentional comedy. Perhaps next time they’ll stick with “Lida Rose.”

There aren’t any swears in that number, are there?

2005-11-09T00:01:00.000-05:00

“Out of the Mainstream”

Devotees of so-called critical theory believe that language is an imperfect means of communication, since the words used to describe objects and concepts are ultimately arbitrary. As a result, fans of deconstruction claim that they can take any sentence—no matter how simple—and come up with numerous meanings for it. Through this means, of course, Jacques Derrida’s minions have had a figurative field day arguing that works of literature say something very different from what they obviously say.

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are willing to admit that language isn’t a perfect means of communication. All the same, on such matters we tend to agree with George Orwell, who would have seen the postmodernists’ championing of cloudy writing a dramatic illustration of their cloudy, totalitarian thinking.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” bring up this erudite topic for a very specific reason. And no, our specific reason isn’t “showing off a sixth-grader’s understanding of postmodernism.” (Although it is impressive, is it not?) Rather, the recent Supreme Court nominations have highlighted what we believe to be a prime species of linguistic legerdemain that only a card-carrying postmodernist could love.

As the title to this humble “post” suggests, dear reader, we refer to the oft-stated Democratic Party phrase “out of the mainstream.” It appears as if Democratic senators discussing nominations to the high court are more concerned with a justice being “out of the mainstream” than being an axe murderer.

But what is particularly peculiar about this “out of the mainstream” business is that Democrats invoking the phrase do not seem to mean what they are saying at all. Perhaps they are taking a page out of the playbook of poststructuralist gurus, but we doubt it. Rather, we feel as if they are engaged in something far simpler to understand: Duplicity.

For, naturally, these Democrats can’t actually say what they mean: They don’t want a Supreme Court justice who is conservative, or, perhaps most especially, pro-life. The latter, of course, would smack of a litmus test, which appears to be as taboo in American politics as dating a 12-year-old.

As such, every elected official in Washington, when waxing judicial, is compelled to lie like a banshee. Whilst Republicans must claim that they are motivated to support a given potential justice due to his impeccable qualifications alone, Democrats are busy fretting about those supposedly “outside of the mainstream.”

But what the heck can this really mean? If it truly refers to those who are pro-life, then the Democrats ought to realize that their own minority leader in the Senate, Harry Reid, being pro-life, is “out of the mainstream.” Further, Dick Durbin of Illinois ought to realize, as a whilom pro-lifer, that he used to be “out of the mainstream.”

Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We happen to think that opposing conservative judges (or liberal judges, for that matter) is perfectly reasonable. But let’s not lie about it. Let’s not pretend that Judge Alito supports a bloody takeover of the United States by the board members of Viacom. That, we think, would actually be “out of the mainstream.”

Until a potential member of the Supreme Court claims that laws should be decided by three donkeys and a cat, we don’t want to hear the phrase “out of the mainstream” again.

2005-11-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

Bon Mots, Brilliant Observations, and Truncated Jeremiads from the Crack Young Staff

If you expect anything from this humble “weblog”—and, let’s face it, you probably don’t—you expect sundry sagacious sayings and sentiments. (Well, you also may expect alliteration.) Five times weekly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” brighten up your days with a bevy of insightful animadversions.

In fact, we’d like to think of ourselves as philosophers-cum-psychiatrists. Well, except for that fact that, unlike philosophers, we have jobs, and, unlike psychiatrists, we can’t get our hands on any psychotropic drugs. Man: Every time you take a step forward, you take a step back.

In the past few weeks, however, this humble “weblog” has expended an awful lot of energy on rather lowly subject matter—television programs, television commercials, television, &c. This may lead our reader(s) to the mistaken impression that we spend our time mindlessly glued to the boob tube, taking in re-runs of “Welcome Back, Kotter.”

This, we hasten to note, is not true. Or, at least it’s not true of most of us: Ted has a bit of a Vinny Barbarino fascination. To each his own, as we never say.

Frankly, dear reader, this lowbrow foolishness has got to stop. If we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” spend even more time on such trash, we’re likely to be summarily chucked off of The New Criterion’s list of “links.” Such an honest-to-goodness high culture journal can’t earnestly recommend pontifications regarding this sordid, louche subject-matter.

As a result, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have endeavored to use today’s humble “post” as a bit of a mild corrective to our recent slumming. Although we haven’t composed a longwinded essay on, say, dreams in Proust or, say, Socratic irony, we do aim to raise the level of our “weblog”—for at least one day, that is.

To wit, we have devoted today’s post to a portmanteau assortment of bon mots, brilliant observations, and truncated jeremiads. Or, failing that, we’ve cobbled together a few random thoughts that we are offering in lieu of an actual idea. (It sure does ruin the magic when you pull back the curtain, doesn’t it?)

Without much in the way of further adieu, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” sheepishly present the following desultory ramblings, which we hope will lighten up your drab, miserable lives.

“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Desultory Ramblings, Offered in a Vain Attempt To Stop Discussing Television Commercials and Kindred Exempla of Trash Culture

1. Just when you think nothing can get more irritating than Aaron Neville’s feculent soft-rock dud “Everybody Plays the Fool,” you visit your local supermarket and hear the Muzak version. Ah, now that’s worse.

2. Leninists without driver’s licenses should be known as “useless idiots.” At least your average capitalist scum can give you a ride to the coffee shop.

3. Dick Clark proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Oscar Wilde’s dictum, “Youth is wasted on the young,” is a boldfaced lie.

4. The last few days or so have certainly demonstrated that the French have a superior understanding of Islamic civilization. If only we had listened to them, the Muslim world would not be so antagonistic to America.

Well, those are about all the mercilessly clever observations we can muster for today. Nota bene: Not one of these savory morsels of cogitation pertains to television. Or “rap” music. Like Clement Greenberg, we’re highbrows.

2005-11-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

Beer, Straight Up

Perhaps, dear reader, you have watched an hour of television in the past year. If so, you have ineluctably seen two things: 1) around three thousand obnoxious Geico commercials; 2) the new advertising campaign for Milwaukee’s Best Light beer.

You know the ads we mean: At some sort of male gathering, one of the fellows in attendance acts in an “unmanly” fashion—dressing like his girlfriend, taking grease off a pizza slice with a napkin, speaking baby-talk to a puppy, &c.

For such an outlandish offense against those with testosterone, this “unmanly” character is crushed by a gigantic can of Milwaukee’s Best Light. Whilst his friends look on with a striking paucity of concern, a voiceover informs us that guys just don’t do those sorts of things, and then assures us that Milwaukee’s Best Light is for real men. Not, we infer, wusses.

As far as we can intuit (which, to be honest, isn’t terribly far), the entire marketing department at Milwaukee’s Best appears to have cobbled together an ad campaign that roughly boils down to the following message: “Don’t be a fag.” Or, to put it in advertising format: “Don’t be a fag—drink Milwaukee’s Best Light.”

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” tend toward the traditionalist side, and, as a result, nowhere near 47 percent of us are what Gore Vidal calls “homosexualists.” In fact, informal polling around the office water cooler suggests that only Ted is into guys. And as far as the women are concerned, we’re not sure how many of them are lesbians. Frankly, since they are all graduate students, and therefore ugly, the subject’s never come up.

But we digress. Our point is that even we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” find this marketing strategy more than a tad obtuse. You don’t have to be a limp-wristed Peter Allen devotee to determine that there’s something not quite right about this attempt at selling beer.

Surely it is particularly peculiar—if not downright ironical—that the pusher of this “Don’t be a fag” advertising blitzkrieg is Milwaukee’s Best Light. We mean, come on: What kind of manly man drinks light beer? That’s about as masculine as an enema, for crying out loud. Or Tom Cruise.

Nor, we should add, does Milwaukee’s Best Light appear to qualify as a particularly “gay” product, either. Wouldn’t they prefer cosmopolitans? Or at least Zima?

In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” believe that the only people who buy Milwaukee’s Best Light are those with a bit too much cash to buy malt liquor, but who want to watch their waistline.

Frankly, in comparison with dabbing your pizza with a napkin, delighting in a can of Milwaukee’s Best Light is way gay.

2005-11-04T00:01:00.000-05:00

History with a Colon, Part the Second

In yesterday’s humble “post,” dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had some fun offering the titles of some upcoming papers at the all-important annual meeting of the American Historical Association. Naturally, without these weighty academic lucubrations, Western culture will pretty much tank, and we’ll all have to pledge allegiance to our new Islamist overlords.

Given the obvious import of these papers to the course of history, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” figured that we would also devote today’s humble “post” to revealing a few of these ultra-important gifts to humanity. So, sit back, relax, and enjoy the fruits of our federal matching funds at work.

At the crucial “Food and Reform in the Progressive Era” session, one Jill M. Nussel of the University of Toledo is presenting the meaty paper “From Stew Pot to Melting Pot: Progressive Era Reform through Cookery, 1890-1913.” We know what you are thinking, dear reader: Why stop in 1913? Perhaps we’ll have to wait till next year for the sequel.

Devotees of the great evil known as “conservatism” can relish the “Foremothers of Ann Coulter: Right-Wing Women and the Conservative Intellectual Movement in the United States, 1930-80” session. If you ask us, it’s very interesting that the academics in charge of such a panel have chosen this title. Normally, academic types are obsessed with discussing the plurality of things, wary of “essentializing”—hence you get “feminisms” for “feminism,” &c. But somehow these careful professors have no difficulty assuming all conservative females are merely the “Foremothers of Ann Coulter.” Would they argue that all feminists are the “Foremothers of Judith Butler”? Somehow we think not.

Okay, you say, so there’s some interesting stuff at the conference. But do any papers focus on gender and nationalism? Is anyone writing work on such an unfashionable topic these days? Well, dear reader, say hello to the “Gender, National Identities, and World History” panel, which features presentations titled “Gender and Nation in Recent Latin American History,” “The Gendered Nation in Recent European Historiography,” “Gender, Decolonization, and Revolutionary Nationalism in Southeast Asian History,” and “Gender and Nation in World Historiography.”

Wow—so this is the “herd of independent minds” about which art critic Harold Rosenberg spoke. Why doesn’t someone just buck up and write an article called “Gender and the Nation in the Solar System”? After all, aren’t men from Mars and women from Venus, or something?

But let’s not forget such essential papers as Carolyn Thomas de la Pena’s “Mechanized Southern Comfort: Tasting Technology at Krispy Kreme.” She got a job at UC Davis with such pabulum? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding us! The hour(s) of research at the local doughnut hole that such a project must have entailed!

2005-11-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

History with a Colon

Well, dear reader, it’s getting to be that time of year again: Soon the college-goer’s fall semester will be over, and students will take a break from their inebriated fornicating at school, and enjoy some inebriated fornication at home, in the form of winter break. College professors, graduate students, and other ne’er-do-wells don’t get off so easy, however. (Come to think, they almost never get off as easily as undergrads.)

That’s because winter break is also home to most disciplines’ annual professional meeting, a festival of boredom at which the indigent beg for jobs and everyone who’s anyone prattles on endlessly about race, class, and gender in tofu-production.

Naturally, given our lofty position as journalists, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will stay home from these lodestones of professorial horror. And yet this won’t stop our ill-informed commenting on them. After all, that’s what academics hate about journalists: They always discuss what they don’t fully understand.

Recently, we received a charming package from a charming devotee of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” who declined to be named, but whom we shall call Deborah DeLaney. This woman, who is not named Deborah DeLaney, sent us a copy of the American Historical Association’s official program for its upcoming meeting in January.

After a few hours of perusing this document, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had the distinct sensation of vertigo. Every darn paper appeared to be called “Gender, Gender, Gender: Genderizing Gender in the Gender of Gender.” Or “Race, Racism, and Racists: Toward a Genderizing of Race in Western New York, 1804-1805.”

We know, we know: One shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. But these aren’t books; they’re academic talks. (Actually, we’re surprised you didn’t realize that.)

As such, dear reader, we have decided to devote a few humble “posts” to poking fun at the asinine titles we espied in our recently-received program. From what we can determine, academic papers—unlike the late, great Ronald Reagan—require a colon.

All right, you say: Enough with the “weblogging” throat-clearing; let’s get on with the titles. Okay, okay, okay—we’ll start. Stop being so darned pushy.

First, though, we should state that many of the conference papers are entirely inoffensive; they’re just your typical scholarly retreads of minutiae that matter to absolutely no one. May their presenters do well with them. Others, however, are distinctly more dubious.

For example, some are so nugatory as to make the other trifling papers seem positively groundbreaking. Savor Guillaume P. de Syon’s magisterial “How French Is She? Female Pilots and Flight Clothing in Interwar France.” Boy, that’s a must-see. Apparently, its question mark takes the place of the more typical colon. And then there’s Vanessa Taylor’s all-important “‘Smelling of the ale-vat’: Philanthropic London Brewers and the Mid-Victorian Drinking Fountain Movement.” Sponsored by Budweiser, we presume.

Other papers strike us as a bit more bizarre. How about the tellingly-named Anne Hardgrove’s tellingly-named “The Global Erotic: Post-Colonial Translations of the Kama Sutra”? How much do you want to bet that, despite her intellectual lasciviousness, you wouldn’t sleep with Anne Hardgrove?

But things get no better with the tellingly-named Jefferey Cox and his tellingly-named “Missionary Positions: Itinerant Women, Medical Professionals, and the Regulation of Sexuality in Colonial India.” How cheeky. But we still don’t want to hear it.

Or delight in Michele Morales’ “A Queer Explanation for Alcoholism: The Correlation of Homosexuality and Alcoholism in Psychoanalytic and Sexological Discourse, 1880-1935.” We know what you are thinking, dear reader: Why does she stop in 1935? Bring that one up to the present. When you happen upon a finding this crucial to the course of Western culture, you ought to give it the full-scale treatment.

To Be Continued

2005-11-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

Jim Cramer

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” generally don’t like to admit that we watch an occasional spot of television. Frankly, we find that such a confession doesn’t go over well with our hoity-toity pals, who appear to spend their copious free time writing their memoirs with expensive fountain pens and pondering the intricacies of the Norwegian language.

Every once in a great while, however, we happen upon a television program so feculent that we feel the strong urge to excoriate it on our humble “weblog.” To be sure, darn near everything on the boob tube is moronic; accordingly, it remains a bit unfair to pinpoint one particular show or other—say, “Oprah”—and mercilessly rip it to shreds.

All the same, some shows are so horrid that they deserve special (mis)treatment. And such is surely the case with “Mad Money,” a cable television program starring an obstreperous dwarf called Jim Cramer. It is the highest rated show on CNBC, which is probably the strongest evidence of a network’s doom that can be dredged up.

Perhaps you know the program of which we speak. Mr. Cramer, a former Wall Street baron, has spent a few years screaming and screeching in front of the camera, offering stock tips with a passionate intensity that makes him seem like King George III. Previously, the diminutive Cramer shared airtime with a withered fellow named Kudlow, who appears to have all of Chevy Chase’s good looks but none of his humor.

Apparently, Mr. Cramer has moved on to (arguably) bigger and (arguably) better things. He now hosts his own program, in which he seldom appears on the screen in a position other than that of a hunched-over idiot. To the perturbing delight of a small studio audience, he bellows about mutual funds in a horrific tone. In fact, his vocalisms are so loud and abrasive that you’d think he’s Susan Estrich’s love child. If tuning in to this train wreck is the price one must pay in order to be wealthy, we’ll take penury any day of the week.

Now, we know what some our friends on the political Right are going to say: Mr. Cramer is a tried-and-true conservative, and not only in the “I’m So Far to the Right Economically That I Evict Old People for a Living” kind of way. No, Mr. Cramer even appears to favor an aggressive American foreign policy, among other good things.

Point taken. But, come on, ladies and gents: Let’s not be blinded by ideology. We don’t care if Mr. Cramer agrees with us about everything from baseball to interior decorating. He’s atrociously aggravating. He’s more obnoxious than Richard Simmons’ outfits.

And if you don’t believe us, dear reader, take in a few moments of the show (if you can stomach that much). Running around the set like a bear on fire, constantly gesticulating wildly, shouting into the camera, Mr. Cramer is the irritant’s irritant.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” haven’t been this repelled by television since they cancelled “Small Wonder.” Man, that robot Vickie chick was scary.

2005-11-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

Where Have All the “Welboggers” Gone?

Astute readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” undoubtedly recognize that this humble “weblog”—humble as it is—has been offering sub-par yuks for well over a year. Although we’re not exactly like the Energizer Bunny yet (or even the Easter Bunny), we’ve established a pretty impressive regular schedule of “weblogging.”

Sure as the sun will be in the sky everywhere but Buffalo, NY, you can bet that we shall offer a mildly entertaining “post” five-times weekly. We wouldn’t set our clocks by us, but we’re as regular as connoisseurs of Metamucil.

Oft pondering this mildly unimpressive Internet accomplishment, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have then turned to think about our fellow “webloggers” in the “weblogging” community. Naturally, we savor our quotidian reading of sundry “weblogs,” and we fervently hope that they keep producing like Jude Law.

But then it struck us like a girl’s fist: The “weblog” “links” on our “webpage” are a veritable Boulevard of Broken “Blogs.” Though many of these “weblogs” still produce riveting and/or hilarious material on a regular basis, some of them are older than Barbara Bush looks.

There’s nothing like clicking on one of our “weblog” “links” and finding out what life was like back in 1903, when said “weblogger” composed his last “post.” Live “weblogging” of the Civil War sure is interesting.

Now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t intend to criticize some of our fellow “webloggers,” and call them lazy. After all, some of these people probably have what is usually referred to as “a life.” Though we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have only recently heard of such a thing, we imagine that it can really get in the way of one’s “weblogging.”

In the past few weeks or so, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been particularly distraught over a few “weblogging” exits. First, Gordon, the world’s most popular Cranky Neocon, has closed up shop for a while, and joined Preston et al. at Six Meat Buffet.

Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We love Six Meat Buffet, and heartily recommend it to all of our reader(s). Now, of course, it is all the better. But we used to enjoy strolling around the avenues of both Six Meat and Cranky. For the near future, at least, those days are over.

As if this weren’t bad enough, Sadie the Fist recently announced that she is taking a bit of a “weblogging” break. An entirely reasonable thing to do, we think. And Sadie’s luminous “weblog,” the Fortnight Chock-a-Block with Fists, still offers some wonderful quotidian commentary. But, much like spoiled children (or, as the British would say, spoilt Children), we want our Sadie back.

In fact, we wonder if that would be a nice slogan: We Want Our Sadie Back. Perhaps we can get those same fellows who sang the Chile’s Baby-Back Ribs number to croon it.

2005-10-31T00:01:00.000-05:00

Busy as a B Minus

As far as we have gleaned from countless hours of television in our copious hours of leisure, we inhabit a fast-paced world, a world in which darn near everyone is as busy as a bee. Rush, rush, rush—this is the mindset of countless Americans, in addition to being the name of a feculent Canadian power trio.

Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” the only people who have realized that this “I’m so darn busy” business is irksome? We mean, come on: Most people work at jobs so witless that they can be replaced by a heavy paperweight. So why must everyone constantly natter on about the hectic pace of their dull lives?

Although the “I’m so darn busy” routine always rankles, it is particularly nettlesome when coming from the mouth of the college undergraduate. According to most sophomores, it seems, life doesn’t get any harder than the 15 pages they are supposed to read for Wednesday—and invariably don’t read.

Oh, you poor dears: You’re taking four undergraduate classes! Gosh, how will you have time in your busy schedule to miss half the lectures, skip all the reading, and cultivate a rip-roaring case of dipsomania? How will you keep up with your rigorous acquaintance rape schedule? Life is tough, Mr. Tyro.

From all of their carrying on, you’d think that the typical university student were secretary of state, for crying out loud. You’d think that sundry factory workers were thanking their lucky stars that they aren’t college freshmen. Sure, it’s tough putting toothpaste caps on toothpaste tubes for 10-hour shifts, but at least you don’t have to sleep through “Feminism and Pornography” class.

To be sure, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that there is one exception to our We Hate College Students Who Whine About How Busy They Are Rule: College students who work full time. Naturally, those young ones taking in a full load of courses and slaving away at CVS deserve nothing but praise.

But everyone else? They’re a passel of obnoxious crybabies, if you ask us. And don’t have the audacity to play the “What About Athletes” card. As everyone in these here United States of America knows full well, big-time college athletes aren’t students. Unless you count “Screwing Women” as a major.

Scholar-athletes? Please.

2005-10-28T00:01:00.000-04:00

A Gay Star Is Born?

Every once in a while—nay, every day or so—the beloved mainstream media make the most of a story, even though the average American could not care less about it. For some suspicious reason, said story usually pertains to a purportedly grand feminist accomplishment: The first woman golfer to fail in a tournament for male golfers, &c. Whilst the journalists go gaga over the tale, Americans largely ignore it.

Recently a new media-created story has come to the fore. Perhaps, like us, you’ve heard of it. Apparently, some woman named Sheryl Swoopes, an African-American “star” of the Women’s National Basketball Association has “come out” as a lesbian.

The New York Times, which hardly mentioned odious George Galloway’s knavish pocketing of money intended for poor Iraqis, spilt much ink over this fact. Apparently, a prominent British politician getting caught taking bribes from Saddam isn’t as important as the private life of one of the Houston Comets—whoever they are.

Are we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” the only people on God’s green earth who don’t give a hoot about this at all? We mean, come on: A “star” of the WNBA isn’t exactly a star, now is she? According to the Gray Lady, she is the “first high-profile African-American basketball player to come out as gay.”

Um, excuse us, but no one in the WNBA is “high-profile.” The only people who recognize female basketball players are yokels living in Connecticut, who are forced to root for such nonsense, because they inhabit a state without nice cities. That’s what you get for Bridgeport, folks.

In addition, may we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that a lesbian basketball player isn’t exactly a shocking scandal? It’s like a gay interior decorator. Who would have thunk it?

Now, dear reader, don’t get us wrong: We haven’t any problems with Ms. Swoopes’ personal choices. If she’s here, and she’s queer, we’re used to it. After all, it’s not as if the male members of the crack young staff had much of a shot with her to begin with. And the ladies? Please: They are all graduate students, and too ugly to bag Ms. Swoopes. Q.E.D.

So we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” say a hearty, Oprah-esque “You Go, Girl” to Ms. Swoopes. May she be happy for the rest of her days. But don’t feed us this nonsense about her being “prominent.”

There are janitors with higher profiles than Ms. Swoopes—and some of them are straight.

Further, we have reason to doubt the accuracy of the Times’s reporting: Is Ms. Swoopes really the first African-American basketball player to exit the closet? What about “Magic” Johnson? If you ask us—and we know you didn’t—he’s a bit of a switch hitter. If you catch our sports metaphor.

2005-10-27T00:01:00.000-04:00

Conspiracy Theories

For well over a year, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have endeavored to discuss numerous things we detest. The list, as you might imagine, has been long: Sundry politicians, magazines, articles, academic trends, razor blades, &c.

In today’s humble “post,” however, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim at focusing on a more nebulous—though equally nettlesome—topic. For the benefit of those of you strangely incapable of reading the title of this humble “post,” allow us to inform you that we mean conspiracy theories.

Indeed, there is much to detest about conspiracy theories—regardless of the origin of the theory in question and the politics behind it. The very first thing to loathe, of course, is the fact that Oliver Stone likes conspiracy theories. If you ask us, dear reader, anything Oliver Stone likes—Tom Cruise, anti-American nutters, ugly sunglasses—is worthy of opprobrium in civilized circles.

As if Mr. Stone’s fascination with conspiracy theories weren’t enough to prove their lunacy, we must mention the fact that the Muslim world appears positively enraptured by them. Other than oil, conspiracy theories are pretty much the only products that the Islamic world produces these days.

Moreover, these Islamofascist conspiracies are all the same: Each one of them boils down to the notion that America and Israel are secretly behind all bad things. If this isn’t pathological, we collectively don’t know what is.

But we must add that there is a more fundamental reason to distrust any conspiracy theory—even one as superficially plausible as the notion that the cast of “Full House” is responsible for all the world’s evils.

In order to believe in conspiracy theories, one has to believe that people are sufficiently smart to be capable of conspiring. Even more, one has to believe that said smart people were sufficiently smart to get away with their conspiring, and that only the ersatz Oliver Stone types detected the brilliant plot.

Need we even discuss why this is a ridiculous view? Need we even mention the fact that, in general, people are too stupid to get away with massive, secretive conspiracies? We collectively think not.

So, dear reader, the next time someone fills you in on a juicy conspiracy theory, we recommend you hit him with a hammer. When he gets angry—and believe us, he will get angry—just blame Israel. And then ask him: How do you like that conspiracy theory, you dolt?

2005-10-26T00:01:00.000-04:00

Business Associates

Over the course of our wild run on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have occasionally shared some of the heartwarming e-mails we receive from readers who appear to hate our guts. As you might well imagine, dear reader, such uncouth e-missives are greatly outnumbered by charming fan mail. Even so, our Official E-Mail Intern happens upon the occasional nasty letter. It’s all part of an hour’s hard work.

Yet, in sharing such reader mail with you, dear reader, we may have given you the mistaken impression that darn near every one of our correspondents aims at figuratively tearing us a figurative new one. In today’s humble “post,” we want to inform you that this is simply not so.

In fact, curiously enough, a goodly number of the e-mails we receive each day don’t even appear to be specifically addressed to us. Yes, yes—they arrive in our e-mailbox, and thus they clearly were sent to the crack young staff. And yet the contents of these e-mails seem so strange that they simply couldn’t have been sent with us in mind.

After a cursory search around the Internet, our Official Technical Department has discovered that these e-epistles may be what are called “spam.” Either way, they’re supremely irksome.

Sure, every once in a while an example of “spam” winds up being useful. For example, did you know that one can lay one’s hand on all manner of drugs without recourse to a prescription? Sounds odd, but it’s true.

In addition, it appears to have been the result of “spam” messages that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have discovered that we are sufficiently fortunate to have won the Canadian lottery at least a dozen times. This is good news.

Unfortunately, though, Canadian money isn’t worth anything, so we never troubled ourselves to respond to the selfless individuals at Canada Lottery Headquarters in Moose Jaw. We know, we know: We’re a bunch of hosers, eh.

We should also mention the large number of business offers we have received from down-on-their luck types who inhabit sundry failed states. Frankly, we aren’t quite sure what it is about our “weblog” that attracts so many intriguing opportunities: Do we seem like natural born tycoons?

It would appear so. Nary a day goes by, it seems, when some plucky fellow from Dubai doesn’t send us an urgent message. This character has all kinds of cash in his possession, and merely needs our bank account information in order to send it to us.

Sounds like a good deal, eh? But our deep-pocketed financial backers do not allow us access to a bank account. We suppose it’s our loss, and someone else’s gain.

2005-10-25T00:01:00.000-04:00

Fan Mail

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are nothing if not popular. All across this lovely blue orb of ours, fans savor our erudite musings. Nary a day goes by, it seems, in which we don’t receive oodles of rumbustious plaudits from die-hard devotees of our humble “weblog.”

Accordingly, dear reader, you will not be surprised by an e-missive we received from one Pam Kulig. A little while back, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” made some critical comments about Ms. Kulig’s letter to The New York Times. In her letter, Ms. Kulig asserted that taking in a savage murder and failing to cry for help or even tell anyone about the crime was routine behavior for a 14-year-old. We un-respectfully disagreed.

We must add, dear reader, that Ms. Kulig’s missive to the Gray Lady was written in the spirit of contempt for American law-enforcement and American jurisprudence. The larger point of Ms. Kulig’s missive—to the degree that it had a larger point—was that a man was unjustly behind bars thanks to the cruelty and stupidity of the American (in)justice system. As such, in our humble retort to Ms. Kulig’s letter, we proved a mite vehement. If memory serves (and it always seems to), we labeled Ms. Kulig’s letter the work of a dribbling ignoramus, or some such.

If you ask us, most youths in their early teen years are not greatly entertained by gruesome murders; we would label such a response to killing pathological. And thus we took it upon ourselves to cast aspersions on Ms. Kulig’s casting of aspersions on the American judicial system.

A few days ago, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” received Ms. Kulig’s impassioned reply to our criticism:

Hi Hatemongers,

Wow, you people are really mean. Regarding your article “Criminally Stupid” (I guess that would be me), this is about the meanest thing anyone has ever said about me that I know of.

Apparently, my letter was the one you hated the most since you really picked on it. I guess because it was the stupidest one of all. Most of the other drooling writers of the insipid letters had some sort of credentials by their names, but I am just a stupid stay-at-home Mom [sic], which came through clearly to you all. You people are very astute when it comes to knowing who the dumbest and least educated among us are. That hurts. Moronic, dribbling ignoramous [sic], that really hurts. My kids and my husband would not agree with that at all and my two girls would be very hurt by that. I am their mother and they love me and they would think you are pretty evil to act the way that you do. Can your children be proud of what you do? I would hope not. I would hope they would be embarrassed by you. Let’s hope you have no children. I think being as mean as you people are, [sic] must be a living hell. My mouth dropped open when my husband showed me your blog, what a waste of a life.

Mean people suck.

Pam Kulig

To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” sent the following response:

Dear Mrs. Kulig,

We’re terribly sorry that you did not enjoy our discussion of your letter to The New York Times. And we’re glad that you have such an aversion to mean people.

Thankfully, you are not mean yourself: Telling the crack young staff that their life is a “living hell” and hoping they don’t have children is obviously a very pleasant thing to do. And calling folks “evil” is pretty nice as well. No wonder you ended your missive with the shopworn hippie cliché “mean people suck.”

We must only bicker about one point you make. We assure you that we did not discuss your letter as the result of your supposedly lowly credentials as a housewife. Rather, we genuinely found your epistle the stupidest of the bunch.

Cordially,
The Crack Young Staff of THMQ

Now, we know what some of you are thinking: We let Ms. Kulig go a bit too easily. After all, this was a woman who considered the joyful witnessing of a murder to be entirely excusable behavior, but clearly found our criticism of her to be simply beyond the pale.

To be honest, though, we had little interest in responding in kind to an insecure housewife who was drudging up the nastiest things she could envision in her seemingly limited arsenal. So, hey, we treated her with kid gloves. And, quite frankly, she had a point: We were more than a tad overzealous in our original remarks.

Why don’t we learn something from Pam Kulig? Remember this lesson, dear reader: Children who don’t aid murder victims are peachy keen, but the crack young staff is evil. Put that one in your moral compass.

2005-10-24T00:01:00.000-04:00

When Is a Question Not a Question?

If you’re anything like us, dear reader (and there’s a good shot that you aren’t), you attend numerous academic talks each year. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” regularly find ourselves on the campuses of such prestigious colleges as Beaver College, Austin Peay, and sundry other humorously named institutions.

In addition, we often find ourselves at various think-tank colloquies, taking in the latest raving lunacy from the Cato Institute, for example. We consider it all part of our preparation for keeping up with the latest in the intellectual world. And academia.

We mention all of this, dear reader, because it offers the requisite background for the question that serves as the heart of today’s humble “post.” After literally decades of taking in umpteen lectures and sundry question-and-answer periods, we find ourselves obsessing about the same query: When is a question not a question?

Let us explain what we mean. As bad as academic and think-tank talks often are (and they’re mostly plenty bad, believe us), the question-and-answer sessions that follow are almost always more excruciating.

This appears to be the case for a very specific reason, which we have labeled the Irritatingly Ostentatious Question Syndrome, or IOQS for short. Although we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not experts in public health, we have the sneaking suspicion that this particular disease infects graduate students like STDs infect undergraduates. That is to say, a lot.

Accordingly, the questions posed after a dry, impenetrable lecture are ineluctably tangential and moronic—and consciously so. The academic type, having been compelled to listen for an hour, simply must blather on about something, and must show off his unimpressive learning posthaste.

Thus the academic crafts an idiotic question, which is really a thinly veiled attempt at intellectual preening. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long wondered why these questioners don’t simply say “I know a lot of stuff,” instead of troubling us with their insipid pseudo-queries.

2005-10-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

A Half-Assed Maureen Dowd Parody

As some idiot once said, “The more things change, the more things stay the same.” This quizzical formulation—although clearly the thought of a self-indulgent nincompoop—has the benefit of being correct on occasion.

Take, for example, New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, whose unfathomably awful career as an inept journalist appears to be dedicated to demonstrating the evils of Affirmative Action for women. No matter how much things change in the world, you can be darn sure that Ms. Dowd will pen an utterly moronic essay about them.

For a long time now, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have earnestly wondered whether Ms. Dowd is attempting to be a humorist. And we aren’t asking this coyly; we earnestly do not understand if she means to be funny.

We mean, come on: Does she really believe that humor is as simple as changing the names of government officials to ridiculous sobriquets? Ah, so you call Donald Rumsfeld “Rummy.” And you label Harriet Miers “Harry.” Well, gee: Alert the media; we’ve got a new Don Rickles on our hands. She’s a veritable comic genius. We haven’t laughed this time since we read a Paul Krugman column.

In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have become so perplexed by the columns of this un-sassy pseudo-humorist that we have dedicated today’s humble “post” to poking fun at her. If she can mercilessly rip on Republicans in her own pathetic manner twice weekly, we figured that she could handle a couple of rips of our own.

To this end, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have endeavored to write a parody of a typical Maureen Dowd column. If you don’t find it in any way clever, insightful, or funny, then clearly we have done an expert job.

Poor Little Dowdy by the Crack Young Staff of THMQ, Posing as Maureen Dowd in a Brilliant Attempt at Parody

Poor little Dowdy felt all dowdy.

She’d written her column, and turned it in. Normally, she felt wonderfully self-righteous inside. She simply loves seeing her work appear on the same page as heavyweights like Herbie and Kruggles.

But she didn’t feel all good inside today. In fact, she felt downright dowdy.

She had trouble with her forte today: nicknames. Sure, she called Rumsfeld “Rummy,” Condoleezza “Condi” and Bush, well, “Bushy.” But what was she to do with Scooter Libby?

These are the kinds of brainteasers that keep a columnist like Dowdy awake at night. Secretly, she wondered what Friedy would do.

But then it struck her: Why not some random ad hominem attacks at conservatives? That seems to be Dowdy’s only way of writing anyway. So why not stick with it? It wins all kinds of plaudits: Sean Penny, Chris Matthewsy, Tim Russertles, and Barbra Streisandy love that kind of stuff.

And so, after a short crisis, Dowdy didn’t feel so dowdy inside.

She felt as if, again, her moral authority was absolute.

2005-10-20T00:01:00.000-04:00

It Doesn’t Cut Like a Knife

Many educated Americans (that is to say, few Americans) know that their country has been the progenitors of all sorts of technological and scientific wonders. Neil Armstrong’s moon walk; Michael Jackson’s moon walk; Roseanne Barr’s moon—these are just a few examples of the spirit of technology and discovery in these here United States.

It is surprising, then, that a country with such an impressive list of breakthroughs seems utterly incapable of producing a good electric shaver. Yet this is undoubtedly the case. To make matter’s worse, our friends in sundry other countries appear equally unable to inventing such a shaver.

And, given the previous brilliant cultural achievements of the Saudis, we wouldn’t hold our breath for a wondrous Arab electric razor. (Though God knows they could use it.)

We mention this, dear reader, because we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have all tried our hands—and faces—at electric razors. We must report that we have all wasted our money.

And when we say “all,” we mean “all” (no Clinton-esque parsing of words here). The female members of the crack young staff—who make up around 47 percent of our team—are graduate students, and therefore need to shave their faces. Q.E.D.

Accordingly, we can all report that electric razors are completely useless. That is unless you aim to irritate your skin whilst plucking exactly three hairs from your chin.

In fact, electric razors are so awful that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” have long wondered what their respective inventors have been thinking. Have they pondered questions such as “How can I make a razor that will cut off one-third of a man’s beard, so that he looks like some kind of disoriented derelict?”

Naturally, this is all in distinct contrast to the geniuses behind old-fashioned hand-held razors. As we noted long, long ago, the folks at Gillette are ultra-irksome: We don’t want to be told that a plastic razor is “the best a man can get,” no matter how many blades you put on it.

All the same, the hawkers of these old standbys have at least had the decency to augment their razors with more and more blades. This may not be the greatest example of technological progress the world has ever seen, but, hey, it’s better than Yemen.

It is all strikingly superior to the pathetic non-improvements of the electric razor. Whilst hairstyles come and go, whilst Communism came and went, the same old electric razors keep on coming. In electric razor land, the only notable advance of the last three decades has been the addition of some sort of goop to a few models.

Boy, what an advance. Don’t overwhelm us. In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have become so infuriated with electric razors that we aim to alter the quasi-famous slogan of one of their producers: “Shaves as close as the Los Angeles Clippers are to first place, or your money back.”

It’s not particularly catchy, but it has the bonus of being accurate.

2005-10-19T00:01:00.000-04:00

It Isn’t Easy Being Green

A little while ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” kept you abreast of the exercise regimen of one of our junior editors—let’s just call him “Chip.” More specifically, we told you that “Chip,” at the behest of a few female staffers, took up so-called Bikram yoga, a form of physical torture performed in a room hotter than Natalie Portman.

For well over a month, dear reader, “Chip” has been a dutiful practitioner of this “hot yoga,” attending class with astonishing regularity. And he has done so even though the entire undertaking has struck him as more than faintly ridiculous.

After all, Bikram yoga—founded by Bikram Choudray, who has maintained his deep connection to the ancient mysteries of the East by moving to Beverly Hills—compels its followers to assume an assortment of embarrassingly bizarre positions. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can’t quite figure out why any heterosexual male would want to excel at some of these stretches.

As far as can be gleaned from the attendees at “Chip’s” Bikram studio, all heterosexual males are similarly confused. In fact, they are so confused that they don’t show up, leaving “Chip” amongst a sea of women and homosexualists.

Even so, “Chip” has become a mainstay at the local Bikram studio. This hasn’t actually made him any friends: The ladies tend to run out of the building as soon as possible, likely as a result of their fear of men seeing them perspire like pigs. And the men in attendance…well, let’s just say that they don’t strike “Chip” as his kind of fellahs.

A few days ago, however, “Chip” had a particularly interesting conversation with one of the women in his yoga class. Whilst “Chip,” after a challenging class of stretching like a chick, sat on a Bikram yoga bench, a gal came up to him and asked: “Is that your green yoga mat?”

“Chip,” somewhat stunned by the question, answered, “Yes it is. Why do you ask?”

To which this woman replied—and we quote: “Bikram doesn’t like green.”

There was a Harold Pinter-esque pause. And then “Chip” said: “Huh? What do you mean?”

This woman answered: “Well, I used to have a green yoga mat, but one of the instructors told me that Bikram doesn’t like green. He thinks it is a color that should be left to nature. And so I got a new yoga mat.”

“Chip” found himself perturbed. “Well,” he said, “Bikram probably drinks his own urine, so I’d take what he says with a grain of salt. If Bikram hates my yoga mat so much, since he lives it up in Beverly Hills, he can buy me a new one. If not, I will continue to bring my green one.”

How ridiculous! This woman—who at least smiled at “Chip’s” urine line—appears to have fallen hook, line, and sinker for the ridiculous pronouncements of this guru-cum-fraud. We mean, come on: Leaving one color to nature is an entirely arbitrary command. Why not leave blue to the sky, or yellow to the urine that Bikram drinks?

Frankly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” find this all a bit sad. Although Bikram yoga may provide a good opportunity for physical fitness, it strikes us as a bit insufficient as a Guide to Life. Yet many Bikramites seem to latch on to this yoga as if it can cure cancer and solve all moral dilemmas.

This appears to have made Bikram rich—the bastard. If we had lots of cash, we’d send him thousands of green yoga mats.

2005-10-18T00:01:00.000-04:00

We Really Didn’t See This One Coming

As the regular devotee of this humble “weblog” well knows, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are worldly experts in the worldly world of journalism. News, you might say, is our business. And business is good, thank you very much.

Accordingly, dear reader, one has to get up awfully early in the morning (say, around 3:16 am EST) in order to put one past us. We positively live and breathe the news, and very seldom will a report come across our desks that surprises us.

Want proof? We had a collective hunch that President Bush was going to select Harriet Miers for the Supreme Court. Okay, so we didn’t say so before the actual nomination was announced. But we didn’t want to brag. It’s so unbecoming.

As a result, dear reader, we would like to think of ourselves as a passel of media experts who fully understand the ways of the world. Kind of like Judith Miller, only not self-obsessed, lying morons.

Imagine our surprise, then, when we took a gander at sundry news reports that mentioned the lawless chaos breaking out in the newly Palestinian-controlled Gaza Strip. Who would have seen this Palestinian violence coming? Certainly not us.

Ever since we were even younger crack young staffers, we had learned from countless opinion-makers that the so-called Israeli occupation was entirely responsible for Palestinian violence. It was hard to argue with this brand of impeccable logic. Sure, the 1948 and 1967 wars predated the so-called occupation, but, hey, maybe those were just Zionist plots, or something.

Once Israel left the Gaza Strip not so long ago, we, like countless European toadies, fully expected the area to become a paragon of peace and tranquility. After all, the evil Zionist oppressors were now gone.

Sure, they were still responsible for the world’s evils: Hollywood; the WTO; the fifth season of “Full House”; &c. But at least these Zionist dogs had finally left the peaceable Palestinians in Gaza on their own. Democracy, peace, order, and civility were sure to return to the de-Judaized Gaza. May Allah be praised.

Well, what happened? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have determined that those peaceable Palestinians are now busy killing one another. To be sure, this is something of a break from the usual suicide bombings. But it still ain’t great.

Like everyone else, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can’t wait to read Palestinian apologists’ tortured rationales blaming the Israelis for this violence as well.

2005-10-17T00:01:00.000-04:00

The October Academic of the Month

One of the more popular features on this humble “weblog,” dear reader, is our Official Academic of the Month. Inaugurated months ago, this campaign to laud the acumen, drive, and selflessness of sundry professors has become a particular favorite amongst the literally dozens of readers we receive each day.

It is with great aplomb, then, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” announce the winner of our October Academic of the Month: Elizabeth Gorman, an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Virginia.

From an examination of her curriculum vitae, one may think that Ms. Gorman is a fairly ho-hum choice. Her academic work appears chiefly to pertain to gender and the workplace. Not, we daresay, a novel subject, but pretty much par for the course amongst female practitioners of the intellectual slum known as sociology.

Apparently, Ms. Gorman cares a great deal about “the impact of gender stereotypes on hiring.” If such is truly the case, perhaps she may want to examine how she immediately snatched up a tenure-track gig at a fancy university without spending any time in purgatory as a sabbatical replacement. Perhaps that had something to do with this nasty little thing called “Affirmative Action” (a.k.a. Preferential Treatment for Rich White Women)?

To be honest, though, Ms. Gorman’s research may seem banal, but does not appear to be stridently ideological. So why, you may be asking yourself, does this paragon of academic dullness deserve our prestigious title?

The Good Professor’s feculent missive in the October 14 number of The New York Times should answer that question. In response to David Brooks’ critique of Harriet Miers, Ms. Gorman wrote the following:

To the Editor:

David Brooks claims that Harriet E. Miers’s statements as president of the Texas Bar Association presented “no arguments or ideas, except the repetition of the bromide that bad things can be eliminated if people of good will come together to eliminate bad things.” But isn’t this “bromide” the core of conservative philosophy?

According to conservatives, collective problems (health care, environmental degradation, crime) should not be dealt with by collective solutions administered through government. Instead, they should be left to individual action of right-thinking people (corporate executives, gun owners). For this approach to work, government has to ensure that people hold the right views (capitalism, certain forms of Christianity).

Thus, Ms. Miers was actually expressing the central “big idea” of political conservatism.

Oh, dear. Now, we realize that Ms. Gorman does not claim political sociology as one of her specialties, but we were taken aback by this pathetic and snide attempt to misrepresent conservative philosophy. In fact, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” feel as if this moronic professor of sociology (if we may be redundant) has offered us a perfect example of the kind of noxious animus to conservative thought that animates the academy.

First, we should point out that Brook's parsing of Ms. Miers’ sentiments does not speak to government’s role in society at all. The connection between the statement and the basics of American conservatism is, then, Ms. Gorman’s own. Why couldn’t “people of good will come together to eliminate” rape by joining a rape awareness group? We hope that a hatred for rape is not only confined to self-professed conservatives.

But to offer this retort is to treat this Affirmative-Action Baby’s obnoxious rant as if it were actually an argument. Rather, it is a childish taunt.

Just look at how she ridiculously denigrates conservatives. For some reason, Ms. Gorman believes that a concern for individual responsibility puts the world in the hands of “corporate executives,” “gun owners,” and those who believe in—horror of horrors!—“capitalism” and “certain forms of Christianity.” Why she would offer such an argument to David Brooks isn’t entirely clear: Doesn’t she realize that he’s Jewish and not exactly a gun-toting NRA member?

One could easily turn the tables on the producer of such sneering drivel. Does Ms. Gorman believe that the “big idea” of political liberalism is state control of everything, because Americans are too stupid to think for themselves, and require the services of right-thinking people (atheists, Marxists, college professors)? We certainly hope not, but we’re willing to admit that this is a snide caricature of American liberalism.

That this chucklehead does not seem to realize that her portrait of conservatism is equally obtuse demonstrates her self-advertised idiocy, blanketed in intolerance for those with whom she disagrees. Who would have thought that a sociology professor would be such a bad example of “respect for diversity”?

For this reason, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as petulant pigs to name the idiotic, bigoted Elizabeth Gorman our Official October Academic of the Month.

Do you, dear reader, know of a particularly obnoxious professor? If so, send us a tip by clicking on the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen. There are so many academic chuckleheads, and we’re taking them on one month at a time.

2005-10-14T00:01:00.000-04:00

Chick-fil-A

It is only with great regret, dear reader, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” admit that we occasionally eat so-called fast food. These days, pigging out on such unhealthful victuals is one of society’s great sins. You can cheat on your wife or have copious homosexual love trysts, and no one will think anything of it. But eat a Big Mac, and all of your neighbors will be aghast. O, the horror!

Naturally, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are beacons of physical fitness. We don’t take Bikram yoga classes for nothing—other than for picking up chicks, that is. (And then putting them down.) Given our rigorous physical fitness regimen, it should come as no surprise that our unofficial physical fitness regimen motto is “They’re Our Hot Bodies, and We’ll Do What We Want.”

And what we want, dear reader, at least on occasion, is some fast food. To this end, we head down to the local Chick-fil-A establishment. For those of you blissfully unaware of this feculent franchise (likely because it hasn’t invaded your area yet), Chick-fil-A is a slightly less healthful version of Kentucky Fried Chicken. In short, in order to work there, you need to be deep-fried.

For some unknown reason, we have a hankering for this lousy cuisine every once in a great while. We regret it afterwards, of course, but we have a hankering all the same.

Even so, we must admit that the Chick-fil-A franchise is extremely irksome. Even by Taco Bell standards—which as you well know, is saying something.

For instance, the dutiful workers at this eatery ineluctably fill up our drinks with so much ice that there’s essentially no room for any liquid in the cups. It’s as if we cared more about having a cold drink than having a drink, if you catch our collective drift. It’s as if we asked “Can we have some ice with a small splash of root beer?” And we didn’t.

As if this weren’t bothersome enough, we find the drive-thru window at the local Chick-fil-A simply unbearable. Inevitably, we are caught behind a giant SUV, whose driver appears to be ordering nasty fried food for the entire state of Missouri. Or the Russian army. Accordingly, we must wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait whilst the chuckleheads working the ole’ window grab umpteen deep-fried nuggets for this moron.

But nothing should bother us about Chick-fil-A as much as the food itself. A mere glance at the containers in which the food is served should present ample evidence that this food is slightly more dangerous than arsenic. It’d be better to eat a third rail. You’d be better off having sex with “Magic” Johnson.

You might not enjoy it as much, but you’d be better off.

2005-10-13T00:01:00.000-04:00

Computers and the Culture of Victimology

Sundry commentators and public intellectuals of various political ideologies have remarked on the modern American culture of—and obsession with—victimology. Every American citizen, it seems, earnestly prides himself on being an oppressed victim—someone who does not deserve his wretched fate. It often appears as if people would prefer the coveted status of a victim to the luck of a lottery winner.

There seems to be little reason why this should not apply to computers as well; with human beings reveling in their supposed victimhood, why shouldn’t inanimate objects also claim some sort of martyrdom?

Or at least the staff computers at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Headquarters would lead you to believe that these little gadgets are getting in on the victimology sweepstakes.

As you might well imagine, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” possess a treasure trove of computer wizardry. After all, we need to produce one of the World-Wide Web’s least-read “weblogs” in history, and this jolly well takes all kinds of impressive hardware.

Accordingly, dear reader, we own a veritable army of the latest models. In addition, we also have some computers: TRS-80s, Commodore Vic-20s, &c. We’re classy like that.

Pretty much nothing irks us quite as much as the (numerous) times when the computers “freeze.” This occurs with such regularity, in fact, that you would think our laptops were actually Popsicles. Whenever we’re in the midst of typing an important, unsaved document, our computers freeze like Paris Hilton in a Kant seminar.

What’s worse, dear reader, is the fact that our computers—ever hoping to cling to the status of victims—blame us for their sub-par performance. “The computer was not shut down properly,” read their screens after we turn their frozen butts off.

To which, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Um, come on, now; we only shut you down “improperly” because you froze like Sean “Diddy” Combs at a talent competition. We didn’t want to shut you down improperly; we were compelled to do so. Hint, hint: It’s because you froze, you stupid bitch!

Frankly, dear reader, the whole Foisting-the-Blame routine is pathetic. It’s as if we mischievously planned to turn the computers off at inappropriate points because this is such naughty, illicit fun. Boy, oh, boy: Nothing beats the high of switching the ole’ IBM off without authorization! We haven’t had that much fun since they cancelled “Night Court.”

2005-10-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

The Anatomy of a Brilliant Marketing Campaign

The past weekend, dear reader, saw various members of the crack young staff—let’s just call them “Chip”—perambulating in the local mall, hunting for the latest fashions. As you might imagine, the young men and women who toil away at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” are deeply interested in matters sartorial. In fact, they are wont to say such things as: “They’re our hot bodies, and we’ll do what we want.”

Accordingly, in order to look simply splendid in the cubicles at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Headquarters, a sliver of the crack young staff was dutifully playing the part of capitalist pig, engaging in a festive bout of conspicuous consumption.

Naturally, they checked out their favorite clothiers: Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace, Baby Gap, &c. No trip would be complete, however, without the obligatory trip to Saks Fifth Avenue—the upscale version of Neiman Marcus (a.k.a. Needless Mark-Ups). Everyone who’s anyone goes there to peruse the shelves, and, it seems, to prattle on endlessly on a cellular telephone.

The store, for those of you lucky enough to be unacquainted with it, hawks overpriced clothing and furnishings, likely assembled by eight-year-old Indian girls in the course of a delightful 872-hour workweek. The salespersons at Saks are only slightly less snooty than those found at Barney’s. (Frankly, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” always found the uppity staff at Barney’s a mite hilarious: We mean, come on, we’re not the ones who work at Barney’s!)

During the course of the staff’s Saks Fifth Avenue wending and weaving, “Chip” took in something particularly curious. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” have never worked a day in clothing retail. All of the men on staff are colorblind, and the women are graduate students, and therefore too ugly to sell clothes. Q.E.D.

All the same, we feel quite certain that we understand a sufficient amount about the whims of the American shopper to declare without reservation that the most recent marketing decision of Saks Fifth Avenue may not work terribly well.

It seems, dear reader, that the advertising whizzes behind Saks think that a good way to compel people to purchase expensive clothing is through the use of goats. No, you did not read that sentence incorrectly. It did end with the word “goats.”

As shoppers at our local Saks will discover, some of the floor-space at the upscale redoubt has been handed over to plastic and plaster statues of goats. A couple of these odd animal sculptures are even clad in cravats, as if they fully accentuate the wares to be found at Saks.

Are we the only ones who find goat models a bit unsatisfying? What kind of fashion sense does the average billy-goat possess?

Well, given the habits of typical supermodels, maybe goat models aren’t such a bad idea. Surely eating tin-cans is less of a nuisance than snorting tons of cocaine.

2005-10-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

The Stars Play an Away Game, or Matt Damon in Detroit

Like every God-fearing, red-meat-consuming American, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have spent the past few days tuned into baseball. If you ask us—and, technically speaking, you didn’t—nothing beats a good 8 hours watching a bunch of strikingly out-of-shape “athletes” attempt to whack a fastball. After all, as boring as it may be, it’s certainly better than soccer. So take that, Latin America.

Whilst we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” took in some Major League Baseball with slices of apple pie in hand, we had a somewhat interesting thought. Not, we daresay, a great thought, or a life-altering cogitation. We didn’t suddenly realize that we were truly born women, or that we secretly liked Starship. No, this was a more quotidian rumination, but an interesting rumination all the same.

Baseball players, we collectively mused, must spend a goodly part of their careers performing in front of essentially hostile audiences. Not only must they attempt to hit a 95-mile-per-hour fastball, they must do so far from the comforts of their home cities, away from their local hookers.

This strikes us as a mite difficult. To be sure, we won’t waste our emotions crying over the hardships that professional athletes must face. Last we checked, there were some nice perquisites to be had as a pro ball player. It appears as if they make a lot of money, and this may help their chances with women. Or so we’re told.

Still, we noted—and here we get to our vaguely interesting thought—that this was all vastly different from the lives of movie and television actors. Whereas athletes who represent cities must face hostile crowds, film and TV stars never do. Even if they’re on a real clunker show like “Full House.” The television audience doesn’t threaten to beat up Bob Saget for his abysmal career—even though it obviously should.

So, we wondered, why not make life more difficult for those pampered actors? They, like athletes, receive all kinds of perks, and yet they don’t have to put up with the booing and hectoring of hostile crowds. The paparazzi can’t hold a candle to two overweight clods shouting obscenities.

Frankly, dear reader, we’d love to see, say, Susan Sarandon get hissed and jeered by a stadium full of ardent detractors. Let’s see if she can act when they’re throwing beer cans at her. Sue, she can deliver a line under the best of circumstances, but can she deliver it when fans are accusing her of “being Tim Robbins’ bitch”? We collectively think not.

The problem is, dear reader, that Americans are so star-struck with celebrities that it would actually prove difficult to find a stadium full of people to yell at the likes of Tony Danza, Angelina Jolie, and Ben Afleck. As silly as that seems, it’s true.

Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” think we have a good solution for this vexing problem. Send all the actors to Philadelphia. The fans there are mean. And we don’t mean “normal mean.” We mean “boo and hiss little retarded children mean.”

We’re sure that inebriated Philadelphians would have no qualms with heckling Brad Pitt. And we’d love to see them do it.

2005-10-10T00:01:00.000-04:00

Criminally Stupid

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” pride ourselves on offering the world—or that huge part of the world that will listen, at least—uncomfortable truths. We’d like to think of ourselves as impassioned truth-tellers. Well, we’d also like to think of ourselves as debonair lady-killers, but it appears as if the only way that will come true is if we invest in a 44 Magnum.

Anyway, whilst strolling that chuckle-fest known as The New York Times the other day, one of the senior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—came upon another batch of stupid letters to the editor. Since this was the umpteenth time that such missives were appallingly obtuse, an uncomfortable truth hit “Chip” like the knuckles on a pig’s fist: The New York Times is read by idiots. In fact, “Chip” would go so far as to suggest that the majority of the Gray Lady’s audience is imbecilic.

Strong words, those. And, we might add, completely uncorroborated by masses of data. But, hey, if it’s good enough for postmodernist professors, it’s good enough for us. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” on the basis of our perusal of the Times’s op-ed page, herewith declare that the self-proclaimed Paper of Record is read by un-self-proclaimed drooling dipsticks.

Allow us to offer some anecdotal evidence that should prove our point lock, stock, and barrel. On October 2nd, the Times offered a longish piece entitled “To More Inmates, Life Term Means Dying Behind Bars.” In addition to the typical ridiculous musings of an “Oh, You Poor Brute of a Killer Without a Conscience” variety, the piece presented a few interesting arguments.

Given the topic at hand, it should come as no surprise that the Gray Lady’s minions sent oodles of insipid letters to the editor. Take, for instance, the start of an epistle from one Pam Kulig, who resides in St. Charles, Illinois:

To the Editor:
If I read your article correctly, Timothy Kane was given a life sentence for watching a murder happen when he was 14, for not running away with the other kids, for not participating in the murder and for being curious. This sounds like fairly normal 14-year-old behavior.

To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Um, we seem to have met a different caliber of 14-year-olds. Now, disregarding the apparent harshness of the sentence involved—for we certainly wouldn’t put it past Pam Kulig to read an article incorrectly—we must heartily disagree with the notion that eagerly taking in a murder is typical early teen behavior.

In fact, informal polling—and poling—around the office water-cooler suggests that not one of the crack young staff has witnessed a murder at the tender age of 14 without offering a cry for help. Perhaps we’re a passel of good Samaritans whose conduct is utterly at odds with the brutal world that surrounds us. But, quite frankly, we doubt it.

We’re glad, though, that the moronic Ms. Kulig fully expects her own 14-year-olds to enjoy a murder without attempting to aid the victim in any way. That’s the kind of good parenting we expect of dribbling ignoramuses such as herself.

2005-10-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

Teaching Peace or Teaching a Piece of Garbage?

Some time ago, dear reader, a delightful devotee of this humble “weblog” kindly sent along a copy of a book proposal that came to his attention. Upon reviewing the document, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” immediately became violent, shaken by paroxysms of rage.

And this made us collectively wonder: Why do so-called peace advocates get us so darn riled up? Perhaps it’s the fact that said “peace advocates” only want one side to cease and desist: The United States, Israel, the West. For some reason, the pugnacity of an Osama bin Laden or a Hamas doesn’t appear to get their dander up. They can fight all they want; we, on the other hand, must stop our warmongering ways.

Anyway, below we have reproduced the aforementioned book proposal, to which we have affixed our own humble commentary. See if this document bothers you half as much as it irked us.

EDUCATORS AS PEACE MAKERS:
TRANSFORMING EDUCATION FOR GLOBAL PEACE

A Book proposal
By

Jing Lin
Christa Bruhn, Ph. D.

INTRODUCTION
Bringing peace education to the center of our attention is no longer an option but a necessity. The Sept 11, 2001 attack on the United States, and wars and conflicts raging in the world today have critically heightened our awareness to our current global peace crises, and we as educators are called up to take actions and work more intensively than ever as peace makers. As Martin Luther King said:
We have been forced to a point where we’re going to have to grapple with the problems that men have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demands didn’t force them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them. Men, for years now, have been talking about war and peace. But now, no longer can they just talk about it. It is no longer a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world; it’s nonviolence or nonexistence (Martin Luther King, “I see the promised land”, April 3, 1968)
Indeed, we are living in a critical juncture in human history. We have built up massive global misunderstandings and engaged in bloody wars and conflicts. We possess the means to destroy the humanity many times over. It is therefore of vital importance to engage educators in the construction of sustainable global peace. Diverse groups of conscientious teachers and scholars have made efforts to integrate peace education into their teaching. However, in general, peace education is still marginalized in our education system. Individual educators feel powerless in face of tremendous social, political, and educational obstacles to make peace education empowering and inspiring for themselves and for others. A united front is yet to be formed, and powerful paradigms that can empower educators to play a critical role in peace building need to be brought forward; we need to form effective strategies to transform education as a powerful force for global peace.
This book project engages educators to explore ways and strategies to conduct effective peace education in all levels of education, to train educators as peace makers, and to transform social forces, the self and others for the construction of global peace. The book aims to provide a new vision that aims at educating new generations of human beings for peace, and to rally all peace-loving forces to embark on a unified endeavor to build long-lasting peace in our world.

We invite you to send in an abstract of 200-250 words for your chapter. We are looking to have 15-20 chapters ranging from 10-20 pages each.

Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. We have so much to say about this rancid effort at indoctrinating our children into mindless capitulation that we hardly know where to begin.

But we suppose we’ll start with the obvious: Why is it that every jackass who desires the destruction of Western civilization is so quick to proffer a Martin Luther King quotation? We always thought Dr. King’s struggle was a great part of Western civilization, rather than a clarion call for its ruin. Nowadays, it seems any two-bit academic chucklehead uses Dr. King as an opportunity to give his thoughts a sense of moral righteousness. Frankly, we find this disgusting.

But let’s turn to the heart of the matter: These two morons—one of whom, it seems, is a professor at the University of Maryland although without a PhD—earnestly pine to use their classrooms as bully pulpits. As their idiotic book proposal suggests, they want American universities to become propaganda outlets for their own views.

Now, never mind for a moment the fact that these views—cleverly hidden by the rubric of “peace studies”—are foolish and dangerous. This shouldn’t matter much in comparison with the main point: It is destructive to use education as a means to force feed students specific viewpoints, instead of allowing them to think for themselves. In this sense, these two academic buffoons are deeply pernicious characters: They aim at nothing less than the degradation of a liberal arts education.

And then there’s the matter of the specific cause espoused. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly submit that stalwart “peace studies” advocates lack a thoroughgoing knowledge of foreign policy. Our proof? Why, savor Jing Lin’s utterly rebartative description of her contribution to Educators as Peacemakers:

How can we as human beings learn to live together? For decades, with the dominance of a rational positivistic paradigm, we have relegated moral education and peace education to the margin, and have not reflected profoundly on what kind of global ethic we need to develop that would enable us to train future generations to work for and enjoy lasting peace. In this paper, Jing Lin will examine the current discussions on the formation of a global ethic and argue that we need to push the current baseline further. We need a global ethic of universal love, unconditional forgiveness and reconciliation as the basis for honest dialogues and reconnection. Our oneness is an essential concept for envisioning a new world. Peace education, if it is to be exciting and inspiring, needs to elevate us to see what we can become; it has to be an education for wisdom and universal love.

Oh, you have got to be kidding us! A “global ethic of universal love”? We’re sure the thugocracies of North Korea and Iran will really go for that. Gee, world peace sure is simple. Thanks, academia.

2005-10-06T00:01:00.000-04:00

The US Post Office

As the Official Planning Department here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has recently informed us, it has been some time since we offered our mammoth readership a textbook example of obloquy and bile. For some time now, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” in addition to being embarrassingly delinquent about announcing the winner of our Official Worst Bumper Sticker Contest, haven’t served up a traditional drubbing. It seems as if it’s been years since we picked a subject and spent a “post” hectoring it.

Until, that is to say, now. In today’s humble “post,” we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have returned to our roots. It’s kind of like John Cougar Mellencamp going “unplugged,” though hopefully not as irksome.

No effete navel-gazing today. No vapid self-reflection. No sir. On the contrary: We are psyching ourselves up for an old-fashioned beat-down.

To this end, we have picked a perfect subject of contumely—the US Post Office. Well nigh every American citizen has reason to hate this feculent organ of our federal government. It’s enough to make a Communist a tried-and-true free-marketer. Let’s just say that the editorial board at the International Socialist Review, their love for government waste notwithstanding, would prefer to use Fed Ex.

Standing in line at the Post Office must be one of the most vertiginous experiences in modern America. It’s not as bad as listening to rap “music,” but it comes close. Ineluctably the line at the Post Office is suitably long to make a Russian peasant woman despair. And no wonder: It’s tough to get to lots of customers when your one employee is a narcoleptic boob who works in slow motion.

Soon before we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” make our way to the front of the Post Office line, there is always some sort of disaster. Some errant chucklehead wants to mail his pet iguana to Alaska, and this causes great consternation among the Post Office crew. Should he check the “reptile” box on the form, or will “mammal” suffice? These are the quotidian irritants that make a trip to the Post Office unbearable.

And then there’s the little matter of mail delivery. As a staff of over 250 people, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have lived at our fair share of residences. Yet informal polling—and informal poling—around the office water cooler suggests that none of us has ever received his mail earlier than 12:00 pm.

Think about this for a minute: Not one single solitary one of us has ever inhabited an establishment that gets morning mail. Not a one.

What the heck are those lazy mail carriers doing all morning? As far as we can determine, they start sorting the mail at around 5:30 am. So what gives?

At the current headquarters of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” our literacy-challenged mailwoman delivers our packages around 6:00 pm. Since when do government employees work that late? This incompetent dipstick makes Slowpoke Rodriguez seem fast by comparison.

In fact, as a result of her bothersome sluggishness, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” may be the only people in history to go postal on a postman.

2005-10-05T00:01:00.000-04:00

Figure Skating

Before we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” launch into today’s nasty excoriation, we must engage in a bit of politically correct throat clearing. For the topic for today’s drubbing has oft been associated with homosexuality—at least among its male partakers and viewers. You know who you are.

It goes without saying, then, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” utterly detest figure skating, but not for any of the myriad reasons that could be termed “homophobic.” Of course by “homophobic,” we mean “any idea regarding homosexuality not in complete accordance with the views of the radical Left, which aims at the ultimate destruction of the nuclear family.” As far as we can tell, that’s the standard definition these days.

Let it be known, then, that our collective distaste for figure skating has nothing to do with its potential appeal to those whom Gore Vidal calls “homosexualists.” Similarly, let it be known that we bear no animosity or ill will toward the practitioners of figure skating, all of whom strike us as remarkably talented, dedicated individuals.

And we are in no way troubled by the fact that Scott Hamilton appears to be the most masculine amongst the bunch. Good for him, we say. He’s a strappingly straight lad.

No, sir: We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” contemn figure skating for entirely upright reasons—it’s simply ghastly.

It’s as if the creators of figure skating consciously aimed at creating the world’s most horrific sport. Having taken in the boredom that is curling, they realized that they had to fashion something galactically atrocious. And succeed they did.

Every potential athletic irritant is magically wrapped up in the figure skating package. Whiny divas on the ice? Check. Atrocious spandex costumes? Yep. Mawkish soft rock? Oh, yeah. The words “triple sow-cow”? Uh huh. Eerie Russian women with too much makeup and monobrows? But of course.

Yes, figure skating is so abysmal that if you catch yourself watching it on the tube one day, you should realize that your life has gone seriously awry. We don’t know about you, dear reader, but the day we get excited about an ambiguously sexed fellow in a skin-tight flamenco shirt skating to a Gypsy Kings tune is the day we officially put ourselves out of commission.

And don’t get us started on speed skating. At least that particular moronathon comes but once every four years.

We don’t mean to sound gruff, but can’t all these people simply take up a sensible sport, such as hockey?

2005-10-04T00:01:00.000-04:00

Warning: Sexy Female “Webloggers”

As darn near everyone hip to Al Gore’s World-Wide Web undoubtedly recognizes, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have been toiling on our humble “weblog” for well over a year. Thanks to our diligent work, we’ve become extremely dependable. You can assume that we shall provide you with five sub-par attempts at humor every week. Can you say that about your philandering, good-for-nothing husband? We collectively think not.

Throughout our long tenure on Al Gore’s Internet, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have learned a thing or two. Possibly three. For instance, did you know that a goodly number of “websites” are actually devoted to pornography? We know: It sounds strange, but it’s true.

In today’s humble “post,” dear reader, we plan on offering you yet another fun fact, which we collectively happened upon as the result of our abundant e-strolling. It’s a curious datum, but it’s a datum all the same.

A tour of numerous of numerous “weblogs” has left us with the distinct impression that there are striking differences in the manner of self-presentation among the male and female communities of “webloggers.” As far as we can determine, female “webloggers” seem much more taken with the idea of offering sexy, coquettish pictures on their “weblogs,” ostensibly of themselves—or, perchance, cartoon versions of themselves.

Take, for instance, a representative sample of some of our favorite female “webloggers”: Cathy the Cakeeater, Sadie the Fist, Ms. Feisty Repartee, the Common Sense Lady, et al. Overall, male “webloggers” tend to eschew self-portraits. When they offer them, they are often charmingly matter-of-fact: E.g., the Rabbi-Philosopher who is neither a rabbi nor a philosopher, the Point-to-Point Man, et al. Or they favor the over-the-top countenance: Enoch Soames, Esq., Stephen Baldwin, et al.

There are, we hasten to add, exceptions to this rule. Savor, for example, the striking visage of the Maximum Leader. But, quite frankly, when you look that good, you ought to show off. In addition, the Llamas are certainly on the exhibitionist side of the coin.

All the same, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” find this all a bit weird. What does it mean? We would love to offer portraits of the female members of the crack young staff, but, unfortunately, they are all graduate students, and therefore ugly. Q.E.D.

So maybe we’re just jealous. And, as noted above, there are plenty of exceptions to our general rule. For instance, we’ve always wanted to get a peek at Lynn Sislo, but we’ve never been suitably fortunate. Still, we think we have discovered something that our Women’s Studies friends would call a “gendered response.” Or whatever.

We’re not entirely sure, but we believe there’s some kind of a doctoral dissertation in this somewhere.

2005-10-03T00:01:00.000-04:00

This Date in History (According to a College Sophomore)

As part of the United States of America’s unflagging culture wars, experts have been arguing for decades about the problems plaguing this country’s education system. To those infatuated with the student self-esteem, the fact that the average high school kid can’t add two plus two doesn’t mean anything—provided he thinks he can do so, and feels great about himself.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” find ourselves resolutely opposed to the machinations of the self-esteemers. As far as we’re concerned, school children shouldn’t have a great sense of self-worth; after all, they’re stupid.

Some may think that we are overdoing things, being a mite hyperbolic. Sure, they’d say, many American pupils are in fact dumb, but that doesn’t mean they all are. Furthermore, they can’t be that imbecilic.

As American students would say—if they knew any French—au contraire. It appears as if a steady diet of semi-pornographic video games and MTV doesn’t do wondrous things for your intellect. Odd, isn’t it?

In today’s humble “post,” we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to prove our humble point. In short, we shall demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that American students are more moronic than a Cheech & Chong movie. They make a Journey reunion concert seem smart. To put it in the form of an analogy, they are to smart what Steven Hawking is to mobility.

To this end, we have asked a strapping young American college sophomore named Ted Pendergast to present a short essay on this very “website.” Through consultation with Ted, we have compelled him to contribute a product of his scholarly work intriguingly entitled “October 3rd: This Date in History.”

Ted, a fraternity boy at Pennsylvania State University, has assured us that he would spend the better part of the week preparing this essay. We reproduce his impressive lucubration below:

October 3rd: This Date in History by Ted Pendergast, Sophomore at Pennsylvania State University and Product of American Public Schools

Okay, first off, I totally have to apologize for putting less time into this thing than I had originally planned. I wish I had a good excuse, but I really don’t. I just totally spaced. Basically. To be honest, I didn’t even get a chance to study. So I’m gonna have to wing it. Also, I’m a bit hung over from last night, if you know what I mean. Nothing beats Milwaukee’s Beast, baby.

Alright. So, what date am I doing? October 3rd? Okay. Here goes.

October 3rd is like a totally cool day in world history. In the 1500s the Romans beat up on the Chinese in a big battle on October 3rd, leading to the creation of the Great Wall of China. Have you seen that thing, dude? It’s totally sweet. I hear you can even see it from space. My brother went there once.

Also, on October 3rd, 1845 World War I broke out. As everyone knows, it was all the Nazis’ fault. The 3rd of October in 1892 saw the invention of the television. Before that time, people actually had to read.

On a lighter note, on this same date in 1973, Elizabeth Taylor was born. Man, is she old. And to think, people used to call her pretty. I totally wouldn’t do her. Not at all.

We collectively rest our case.

2005-09-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

Introducing “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book Club

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long been irked by the fact that the most important force in American literary and cultural life is most assuredly Oprah Winfrey, the half-wit talk show host. Whereas previously such men of letters as Dwight Macdonald, Lionel Trilling, and Hannah Arendt loomed large in the minds of every American intellectual, nowadays the world of book publishing is run by a feverishly low- to middlebrow television personality. It doesn’t speak well of us, does it?

As everyone knows, Oprah runs a wildly successful Book Club. And this club is wildly successful despite the fact that—to misquote Pauline Kael—we don’t know anyone who’s ever read any of these books. (Well, with the exception of William Faulkner, Leo Tolstoy, and John Steinbeck, of course.) In addition, The New York Times recently reported that Oprah is lending her name and her pocketbook to a Broadway musical version of The Color Purple. If that doesn’t make you The Color Red with anger or The Color Green with nausea, we don’t know what will.

Naturally, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to do our part to revive American intellectual culture, and perforce to de-Oprahfy it, if we may coin a reasonable neologism. As such, we figured we’d use today’s humble “post” as a humble step in that direction.

Although, of course, we don’t have access to big-network television, and thus are at a distinct disadvantage vis-à-vis Oprah, we reasoned that our small readership makes us far, far more powerful than the folks at MSNBC. Accordingly, we aimed to do our part.

To this end, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as petulant, peevish pigs to present: The Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book Club—a cornucopia of books with no shot of making it to Oprah’s feculent—yet surprisingly more popular—Book Club.

No saccharine love stories will make it on our list. No preachy, sentimental palaver will make the cut. No: Our Book Club only features books we absolutely, thoroughly detest. They’ll be a tad more substantial than you would expect from Oprah’s And-Still-I-Rise tastes. (Well, with the exception of William Faulkner, Leo Tolstoy, and John Steinbeck, of course.) All the same, true to this humble “weblog’s” spirit, they’ll be horrid all the same.

Without further ado, then, allow us to present to you, dear reader, our humble first selection for our “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Book Club. We have chosen Orientalism, by the deceased apologist for terrorism, Professor Edward Said.

When not cozying up to the likes of Yasir “She’s My Baby” Arafat, Mr. Said made quite a career out of bitching about his purported oppression. You see, as Orientalism argues, the West incessantly demonizes Easterners such as Said, principally by granting them tenure at Columbia University.

Penned by a man capable of this kind of penetrating argument, Orientalism is a must-read for any hopeful Islamofascist.

2005-09-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

The September Academic of the Month

Surely one of the most popular features here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is our Academic of the Month, which appears, as you may very well have guessed, monthly. By means of this months-old program, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have done the hard work of lauding numerous examples of tenured radicalism.

In this, our September installment of our Academic of the Month, we aim to do something a bit special. Previously, we have expended a great deal of energy lambasting fairly obvious targets—a species of morons so offensive that darn near anyone outside of academe would head for the hills at the mere mention of their names. We’ve taken to task a rogue’s gallery of professorial chuckleheads: A Marxist communications expert; a paleo-feminist sociologist; a radical English teacher without any grasp of grammar.

This month’s Academic of the Month isn’t quite as irksome. In fact, you may want to think of him as something of a Stealth Moron—the kind of fellow who seems humdrum on the surface, and only seems offensive upon careful review.

Who, you may well be asking yourself, is this Stealth Moron? Who is our September Academic of the Month?

Well, we’re glad you asked. It’s one William E. Connolly, who holds the lofty title of Krieger-Eisenhower Professor in the Department of Political Science at Johns Hopkins University.

To the untrained eye, Mr. Connolly is a beacon of academic respectability. A whilom faculty member at the University of Massachusetts, Mr. Connolly headed to Baltimore in the 1980s, to experience that fine city’s exciting cultural life and omnipresent gunfire.

In his rise up the totem pole of American higher education, Mr. Connolly appears to have contributed an assortment of inoffensive, if mildly soporific, books and articles. Political Theory and Modernity, Legitimacy and the State, “Democracy and Territoriality”—these are the ho-hum products of Mr. Connolly’s scholarly lucubrations.

To be sure, Mr. Connolly is a leftist: He’s penned a few pieces here and there for such chi-chi outlets as Raritan and Dissent. All the same, he appears to be a fairly reasonable character, the kind of fellow who may be sufficiently retardataire to forgo political proselytizing in the classroom.

So, what precisely is so offensive about Mr. Connolly? Why does he merit our attention?

Well, one need look no further than a recent piece he penned for The Baltimore Sun, which is entitled “Why Do So Many Americans Remain Quiet About This Disaster in Iraq?” The essay was sufficiently down-to-earth and reasonable to warrant its republication on the Arab News “website”—a sure sign of moderation and carefulness.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found Mr. Connolly’s “thought piece” so rebarbative that its author most assuredly deserves this month’s Academic of the Month crown. If this is the kind of thing that passes for deep thought at Hopkins, you’d be better off sending your kids to Yale—they may have to dodge bullets there, but at least they won’t have to dodge William Connolly.

In essence, the piece asks the specious and rhetorical question “Why aren’t people really, really fuming about the Iraq War like I am?” Naturally, it offers all the typical clichés of this sordid sub-genre: The dubious Vietnam parallel; the willfully obtuse pass offered to Cindy Sheehan; the anti-Bush vitriol; &c.

Yet the article has something special. Take, for example, these wretched sentences:

I am not speaking about that percentage of the populace who defend the hubris of the Bush administration no matter its cost in lives, safety, money and noble American values. I am talking about people who now see that it was a horrible mistake, for which we and others will pay for generations.

Well, gee: It’s nice to know about whom Mr. Connolly is purportedly speaking. From our cursory stroll through these feculent sentences, we get the distinct impression that Mr. Connolly divides the world into two groups:

1) People who are mindless partisans of the Bush administration and will defend its evils
2) People like William Connolly

Notice, dear reader, the fact that the esteemed Mr. Connolly divides the population into two groups, and two groups only: Those who would defend Bush if he started eating babies, and those who feel the exact same way about the Iraq War that William Connolly does. Gee, can’t there be some kind of third group?

We’d love to report that this is a particularly low point—if not the very nadir—of the essay. But we’d be lying. The whole thing is a locus classicus of cant. For instance, Mr. Connolly prattles on and on about the ways in which those who disagree with him supposedly question his patriotism. And he offers the following mind-boggling solution to the “quagmire” of Iraq: “…the United States could admit its mistake, beg forgiveness from the world, ask the United Nations to create a peacekeeping force and pledge a few hundred billion dollars to help fund that effort.” Well, that ought to work! Call in the UN! What have they ever screwed up? We can’t think of a thing.

But surely the end of this pathetic piece offers the most upsetting line: “…we must initiate cross-country citizen dialogues with people of the Muslim faith who find both the state terrorism of the Bush administration and the nonstate terrorism of Al-Qaeda to be abhorrent.”

So, the Krieger-Eisenhower Professor of Political Science sees nary a difference between George W. Bush’s foreign policy and the machinations of Osama bin Laden, save the fact that the former is a “state actor” and the latter is not. May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that this is a tad morally obtuse, if not morally repugnant? And to think people question his patriotism!

As a result of this steaming heap of garbage, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quartelry,” are pleased as punch to name William E. Connolly our official Academic of the Month.

If you know of a professor who deserves our plaudits, feel free to send us a tip by clicking on the “Contact Us” “link” at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen. There are so many tenured radicals, and so little time.

2005-09-28T00:01:00.000-04:00

A Sudden Realization

Oftentimes, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” lament the fact that this humble “weblog” isn’t exactly a paragon of popularity. To be sure, we have a few rabid fans, some of whom are kindly enough to write us with words of encouragement.

Still, we’re not exactly the Internet’s number one “website.” In fact, last we checked, we weren’t even number three.

All the same, dear reader, a trip to our local supermarket made us realize something that had never occurred to us. Actually, it made us feel quite grand about our humble “website’s” complete lack of fans.

As far as we can intuit, dear reader, most Americans are complete idiots. We know, we know: That appears to be a rather strong sentiment. But we actually think it’s true, even though it had never struck us before.

For instance, dear reader, whereas a quality journal such as The New Criterion or The Spectator isn’t a popular choice in our local supermarket, a complete piece of garbage such as People is actually a big favorite. In fact, shocking as it may sound, it appears as if The New Criterion isn’t even available at the local greengrocer’s.

Frankly, this sudden realization—sad as it is—makes us feel quite good about ourselves. Perhaps our “weblog” is as popular as fungus because of its high quality. Maybe we’re “webloggers” who are way before their time. It seems possible that no one reads “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” because they are busy perusing pornographic “websites” and following football.

If this all proves true, the quality of this “weblog” is going to have to decline precipitously in order to wrestle in the readers. In short, we’re pariahs because we’re brilliant.

We’re Van Gogh with ears. We’re Jackson Pollocks without horrid drinking problems and poor vehicular skills. We’re Lord Byron without the club feet. We’re Shakespeare with more hair. We’re…well, you get the idea.

As happy as this has all made us feel, we must admit we have a few pangs of doubt. After all, though darn near everything that Americans like is crap, lots of stuff Americans don’t like is also crap. Hmmm….

2005-09-27T00:01:00.000-04:00

A Fool’s Journey

By now, dear reader, you have most assuredly tired of the onslaught of coverage devoted to hurricanes Katrina and Rita. If you are unfortunate enough to watch the 24-hour news channels, you know that discussions of the storm have well-nigh eclipsed previous ruminations on the disappearance of a young gal from Alabama.

As usual, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are not particularly interested in lending another voice to the post-Katrina, post-Rita juggernaut. Regular readers of this humble “weblog” undoubtedly recognize that we have a habit of bucking trends and focusing on less notable issues. How else would we have managed to leave our unpopularity so unsullied?

It is with a collective heavy heart, then, that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” devote another humble “post”—today’s “post”—to the hurricane blitzkrieg. In our defense, we must say that we received such an interesting e-mail from a reader that we simply had to share her story with you.

A devoted fan from Galveston (TX)—who preferred to remain nameless although possessing a perfectly fine name—recently sent us a very entertaining e-epistle. It is lengthy, however, and thus we have decided to offer our paraphrase of her tale.

This woman was one of the sundry unfortunate characters to be stuck on the highway in her automobile in the ridiculous pre-hurricane traffic. To make matters worse, fearing the possibility of running out of gasoline, she was compelled to cut off her air conditioner—an unpleasant thing to do in the God-forsaken heat that is southern Texas.

Whilst stuck in countless hours of traffic, this lady tuned in to the radio, in order to determine whether the gridlock would ever subside. Most of the stations on the FM dial had converted to news-only formats, in order to offer help to the community. Apparently, only impending natural disasters are sufficient to ward away impending natural disasters such as Elton John and Peter Cetera. Can’t say Mother Nature has never helped us.

Anyway, the announcers on one particular radio station informed their listening audience that the mayor of Houston had just informed the public that he was worried that the traffic would be so bad as to turn the highways into a “death trap.” As you might well imagine, our female traveler was greatly distressed by this thought. Things were looking very grim indeed.

Soon afterward, the announcers took a call from an unidentified male. His question? Something to the effect of: “Hey, I know there’s a hurricane and all, but is the Journey concert scheduled for Friday cancelled?”

That’s right, dear reader, a category five hurricane was traipsing into town, and this chucklehead was chiefly concerned about missing out on the histrionic pseudo-hard rock of Steve Perry and his cronies. Naturally, he was deeply distressed to find out that, yes, indeed the concert was cancelled. “That sucks,” he said. When the DJs informed him that missing a Journey concert was not the biggest problem in the world under the circumstances, he only begrudgingly agreed. “Yeah, I guess so,” he muttered. “But it still sucks.”

As far as we’re concerned, only a natural disaster would compel us to attend a Journey concert. And, if Rick Astley or Hall & Oates were opening up, we still wouldn’t go.

2005-09-26T12:01:00.000-04:00

The Lack of Calm Before the Storm

The sentient among us must realize that a hurricane called Rita has recently caused a great calamity in the Gulf Coast. A few short days ago, a humble correspondent from our Corpus Christi (TX) desk—let’s just call him “Chip”—reported on the pre-hurricane comings and goings in the area.

Soon before the storm actually hit, “Chip” dutifully sent in another report. This time, “Chip” focused on the hubbub directly before the big storm battered the coast. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found this report sufficiently interesting, and thus we have pasted it below.

A Report on the Essential Goodness of Humanity

CORPUS CHRISTI, TX—As Rita makes its way closer to land, citizens in this God-forsaken hellhole must already endure a good deal of hot wind. Well, citizens with a television, that is.

As always seems to be the case, local news reporters—heavy with makeup and hair tonic—attempt to make their big splash (so to speak) by offering histrionic discussions of the storm-to-come. Accordingly, the unsuspecting viewer intent on finding out a few more details about the storm is compelled to endure the dimwitted blather of sundry anchors and anchoresses.

Naturally, these moronic windbags are full of hot air. They pontificate about the essential capriciousness and mercurial character of hurricanes, as if this were some unknown and deeply secret fact. So, it is tough to track a hurricane precisely? Gee, thanks for telling us, you chucklehead. We had no idea.

As if the local news weren’t irksome enough, there’s always the buildup to the storm itself. Nothing brings out the essential goodness of humanity like a natural disaster. Hawking gas informally for $20 a gallon, cutting in line, knocking over the elderly—human beings do it all.

In fact, perhaps it would be great to gather up the editorial staff of The Nation, New Left Review, International Socialist Review, Social Text, and all the other socialist rags, and put them in the path of the hurricane right before it hits. That way, they’ll get a great sense of the uprightness that is humanity.

If that doesn’t make them realize that man is not in fact perfectible, nothing will.

2005-09-23T00:01:00.000-04:00

Blessed Are the Hatemongers

It will not be a surprise to any of our sundry readers to hear that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are dutiful devotees of the Bible. After all, our literary persona—such as it is—naturally demonstrates our great piety and reverence.

As such, it must come as no shock to discover that many amongst us regularly attend our Official Staff Bible Study. Of course, there are a few Godless atheists and semi-Godless agnostics in our midst. A handful of them appear to think that Ayn Rand is God, and one other is betting on Elton John. But we do our best to wake these heathens up to the presence of the Divinity.

In addition, we must add that our Official Staff Bible Study not only ensures our near-saintliness, but also allows us to carry around an irksome heir of saintliness wherever we go. After all, half the fun of Bible study is making those who don’t do it feel bad. Or so we’ve been told.

Anyway, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were sitting down to another rousing Saturday morning of biblical exegesis when we came upon what must be our favorite passage from the Good Book.

As we made our way through our Old Scofield Study Bibles (no non-believing texts for us), our hearts collectively delighted in what must be one of the most beauteous passages in the history of world literature. For those of you sufficiently devout to follow along with us, we refer to II Kings 2:23-24.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy these elegant verses, which we have adapted only slightly from our Old Scofield translation:

And he [Elisha] went up from thence unto Beth-el; and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, Go up, thou baldy; go up, thou baldy.

And he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And there came forth two she bears out of the wood, and tare forty and two children of them.

Simply magical, isn’t it? This passage—which we have cleverly named “Andre Agassi’s Revenge”—brings great delight to the male members of the crack young staff. Informal polling around the office water-cooler suggests that every last one of the male staffers is either bald, balding, or deeply worried about balding. Or all three.

As you might imagine, then, this passage—given all the authority one associates with the Bible—is simply magnificent. The next time anyone makes a crack about our hairlines, we’ll call in the she-bears. We bet about 42 of them won’t be so happy when the tearing asunder is all over.

2005-09-22T00:01:00.000-04:00

A Report from Soon-to-Be Armageddon

As the dutiful reader of this humble “weblog” is undoubtedly aware, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have correspondents in offices across the globe. In fact, it is thanks to our indefatigable network of national and international correspondents that we are able to offer you our product five times weekly. That is to say, without a large team of journalists, we couldn’t produce our tepid yuks each day.

Every once in a great while, however, a correspondent from one of our stately offices sends in a report that we simply must publish posthaste. And surely this was the case regarding our latest dispatch from our Corpus Christi (TX) branch.

Residents of planet earth realize that the gulf coast region of Texas may soon face the wrath of Rita, a hurricane far less lovely than the meter maid about whom the Beatles once crooned. Regarding the situation in Corpus Christi, one of our correspondents—let’s just call him “Chip”—wired us the following report, which we have placed below:

A Wire Report From Soon-to-Be Armageddon

CORPUS CHRISTI, TX—All is boisterous here in this wretchedly hot city in southern Texas, as manifold residents ready themselves for the approaching hurricane. In what experts are calling the “pre-looting phase,” locals are purchasing the necessities they will require if Rita makes its way this far south.

In supermarkets across this small, cheerless Texas locale, residents are demonstrating a heartwarming spirit of selflessness. Men and women blithely knock over the elderly in order to grab the last bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade, and folks engage in fisticuffs over shopping carts.

Overall, citizens in this God forsaken city seem optimistic. Earl Johnson, a 47-year-old trucker who has lived in Corpus Christi for most of his adult life, claims that Rita is no big deal. “To be honest,” he says, “I can’t wait to see what Maureen Dowd writes about the aftermath of this storm. It’s wonderful to see her use a national tragedy as a means to rip on President Bush—whom she detested before the storm.”

Others offered similar sentiments. “Exploiting the deaths and destruction of a natural storm in order to score political points is wonderful,” said Terry McNabb, a 56-year-old insurance salesman. “If Bob Herbert doesn’t rip into Bush for this one, I’ll be mighty upset. I mean, sure, Herbert hated Bush before this, and so he is just going to use the storm to further his preexisting political goals. And he’ll have to pretend that local officials are not to blame. But I say he should have at it.”

2005-09-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

Take Some of Our Genius with You

Every once in a great while, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” receive an e-mail from a fan who isn’t a desperate banker from Nigeria in search of an account in which he can deposit 5 million dollars. Most of the time, these e-missives—unlike those from unknown Nigerians—seem intent on getting something from us. You know: A “link,” a few tips, a stool sample. That sort of thing.

As you might well imagine, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t tend to take such e-epistles seriously. Sure, we always love to “link” to our e-friends. And we’ve sent more stool samples than we can remember. But we’ve never been particularly keen on offering tips.

To be sure, dear reader, a long time ago we had an Official Advice Column, which allowed us help all of three people, if we recall correctly. All the same, we haven’t regularly dispensed with the nuggets of wisdom you naturally associate with the crack young staff.

That is to say, dear reader, until now. Whilst smugly basking in our mammoth e-profits one day, we felt a mite guilty. After all, we have successfully racked up the big bucks (without any Whammies) from our dynamite “website,” and we haven’t given much back to the community. Whilst we rake in the money from our Blogspot adverts, you haven’t got very much in return.

Frankly, dear reader, this made us feel rather ashamed. In fact, it compelled us to use today’s humble “post” as an opportunity to offer assorted words of advice and wisdom from the crack young staff. This way, you can never say you haven’t learned a thing or two from us. And it will allow us to share some of the impressive erudition that we’ve taken in over the course of our short, frivolous lives.

Without too much in the way of further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased as punch to present:

The Official “Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Desultory Bits of Advice:

1. If Comedy Central’s “Daily Show” wants to interview you, don’t accept the interview. They simply want to make fun of you.

2. Never see a movie that features a positive remark from Joel Siegel on its advertisements. This is a telltale sign that the film in question sucks.

3. Never name drop. Robin Williams once told us that it comes across as really arrogant.

4. Automobiles are manufactured with things called “turn signals.” If you learn how to use one, you may be the first person in America to do so.

5. Never trust anyone’s taste if they say they esteem any of the following people: Harry Connick Jr., Jimmy Carter, Kevin Costner, Tom Cruise, Billy Joel, Christian Slater, Andrew Lloyd Weber, any rapper.

6. Even if you think the greatest tragedy regarding hurricane Katrina is the fact that it left Aaron Neville alive, don’t say this in public.

2005-09-20T00:01:00.000-04:00

Imagine the World Without the Iraq War

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are simply sick and tired of the umpteen letters in each day’s New York Times that blame positively anything in the world on the Iraq War. As far as missive-writers to the Gray Lady are concerned, if it weren’t for the liberation of Iraq, the world would be a Valhalla.

To many liberal epistlers, hurricane Katrina would not have ravaged the gulf coast region if President Bush had not decided to attack Iraq. And the ever-docile Muslim community would not be so implacably hostile to the West were it not for the removal of Saddam Hussein. (Apparently, the Muslim community greatly esteems a dictator whose chief claim to fame is killing countless members of the Muslim community.)

Anyway, dear reader, we can’t take any more of this mindless griping. To be sure, not all has gone well in Iraq—though not all has gone badly, either. Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t think we can stomach another ridiculous letter blaming everything—the fecklessness of the UN, bad hair days, Peabo Bryson—on the liberation of Iraq. It’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, and it’s got to stop.

In order to do our part to put a halt to this rebarbative phenomenon, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to take an “If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em” tack. We collectively believe that offering a particularly moronic version of the typical leftist argument may win some It’s-All-the-Iraq-War’s-Fault folks over to our side. Or, at very least, it may allow them to see the errors of their ways.

To this end, dear reader, today’s humble “post” is dedicated to our take on the utopian world that we would supposedly be fortunate to enjoy had the United States and its allies not deposed Saddam Hussein. If we were left-wing dolts with no understanding of foreign policy, this is the world we’d envision without the Iraq War. Without further ado, then, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” happily present:

The World Without the Iraq War—A Semi-Humorous Satirical Take on How Wonderful the World Would Be If We Had Not Decided To Depose Saddam Hussein by the Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”

Man, things sure are great here in 2005. It’s simply wonderful that President Bush decided not to attack Iraq. Although we guess it is even more fortunate for President Al Sharpton, who easily won a landslide victory over Bush, thanks to his rousing “Stay Out the Bushes” stump speech. Now, with Sharpton as president, no one in this country experiences racism, except Jews.

But so much more in the world has turned out wonderful thanks to America’s failure to remove Saddam Hussein. The Arab street has become so cheerful that it recently changed its name to the Arab boulevard. Accordingly, there’s no more terrorism in the world. After all, the terrorists merely wanted Saddam to stay in power; why else would they have attacked on 9/11?

Moreover, there are no longer any natural disasters. And former President Bush’s failure to remove Saddam Hussein has cured our tennis elbow. It also found a cure for cancer, and has ended world poverty.

As if this all weren’t good enough, now that Iraq has not been liberated, Saddam Hussein can continue with his ruthless, tyrannical ways, which will surely mean the deaths of thousands and thousands more Iraqis. If that isn’t good, what is?

2005-09-19T00:01:00.000-04:00

Movies We Hate—A New Series

Recently, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” had one of our unheralded staff meetings. At said colloquy, a few members of the crack young staff—let’s call them “Chip”—groused that we hadn’t been as rancorous of late. As far as “Chip” was concerned, we’d lost all of our spite, all of our contumely.

In order to remedy this unfortunate situation, “Chip” proposed that we inaugurate a new series of “posts.” Like all our other series, this one will amount to nothing more than a few assorted installments, and then will be dropped down George Orwell’s famous Memory Hole.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: Sounds pretty good. And indeed it does. The only thing we needed now was an idea for our fledgling new series. What, we collectively pondered, would get our dander up to such an extent as to compel us to resume our torrents of abuse?

After literally seconds of cogitation, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” gave up. It had been close to a full minute of thought, and this, given the state of American higher education these days, was surely a College Try.

But then we were fortunate enough—if those are the right words—to rent a movie that was so irksome we simply had to complain about it. And hence our new series was born: “Movies We Hate.”

The motion picture in question may be a bit of a letdown, actually, since it was merely bad—not galactically horrid. All the same, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” found Fever Pitch, starring Drew Barrymore and Jimmy Fallon well-nigh un-viewable.

For those of you blissfully unaware of the flick, allow us to inform you that Fever Pitch is a romantic comedy focused on a man’s obsession with the Red Sox. Now, don’t get us wrong, dear reader: We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are most assuredly Red Sox fans, and thus the premise of the film didn’t trouble us.

In addition, we have to admit that the geniuses behind Fever Pitch got a couple of things right. For instance, among Drew Barrymore’s group of female friends in the flick is one fat chick. This, we thought, was spot-on: For some reasons, a collective of pretty girls always knows one fat broad. We’re not sure why this is, but it seems always to be true. And the pretty girls are always at a loss as to why the fat chick is the only one among them who isn’t dating. Gee: Who would have thunk it? Jenny’s got such a nice smile, why is she single? Could it be that she has Shamoo’s body?

Sadly, though, we must report that the husky chick could not save the flick. Although we can think of many reasons to detest this saccharine film, one line particularly sticks in our collective head.

At some point in the picture, Jimmy Fallon’s character is at Fenway Park, and the Sox aren’t faring terribly well. Whilst Fallon and his buddies are upset, one among them has the temerity to bark out a line in a Boston brogue that went something like:

“Hey, I wouldn’t go jumping off the Tobin Bridge.”

That, we feel, is surely one the most wretched lines in cinematic history. If that doesn’t prove the screenplay writer’s tin ear, nothing will.

We mean, come on: How forced is a line like “Hey, I wouldn’t go jumping off the [Insert Famous Boston Landmark Here]”? As far as we’re concerned, the answer is “Very, very forced.” A few among us have lived in the Boston area before, and we have never heard anyone utter such a ridiculous remark.

As the result of our violent reaction to this feculent line, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must inform you that we thoroughly disesteemed Fever Pitch. That movie was so bad that, had we been in Chicago, we would have jumped off the Sears Tower.

2005-09-16T00:01:00.000-04:00

Those Plucky Brits

A quick glance at the British will give a reader the impression of something we have long suspected—that successful American politicians are quite dull. Sure, there are a few outlying nutters in the American political landscape—Maxine Waters comes to mind—but, for the most part, the average senator or congressman is a prosaic character.

How, you may or may not be asking yourself, do we know that? Well, we’re darn glad you asked. A few days ago, one of the junior editors here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—took a gander at The Weekly Telegraph, the ex-pat version of London’s famed Daily Telegraph (a.k.a. The Torygraph, thanks to its fair and balanced coverage).

A couple of stories to be found in the September 7-13 number of that paper made it as clear as day to us that the average American congressman is a real lightweight in comparison with those orthodontically-challenged politicians across the pond.

For example, check out a delightful sentence from an article entitled “‘Respect’ advisor sang binge praises”:

Tony Blair last week placed control of his “respect agenda” in the hands of an advisor who praised binge drinking, threatened to “deck” Downing Street officials and boasted about how she likes to get “hammered.”

Now there’s some color for you. This woman, one Louise Casey, is the Prime Minister’s pick for a task force dedicated to eradicating “anti-social behavior.” Clearly, she is the right woman for the job. Perhaps Mr. Blair was particularly enamored of such wise sayings of Ms. Casey as “Doing things sober is no way to get things done.”

Well, we suppose that Ms. Casey doesn’t sound “anti-social” to us. She probably fancies club hopping quite a bit.

Okay, you say, so the Prime Minister has promoted a drunken lout to a government post seemingly dedicated to ridding the United Kingdom of drunken louts. Big deal. After all, our own country is home to such louche non-teetotalers as Ted Kennedy. And he could probably drink Ms. Casey under the table. And then drown her.

You want something more, in a word, inflammatory? You’ve got it. Check out this little tidbit, culled from a piece titled “Peer started hotel fire after drinking spree”:

The career of a Labour politician was in ruins after he admitted setting fire to a hotel when he was told he could not have more alcohol.

Lord Watson of Invergowrie, 56, is to resign from the Scottish Parliament and as a director of Dundee United and could be sent to prison when he is sentenced this month.

The court was told that he set fire to a curtain after he was refused a drink at the Prestonfield House Hotel in Edinburgh after last November’s Scottish Politician of the Year awards.

We don’t care who you are, dear reader: That is utterly fantastic. It should cause such American also-ran crazies as John Conyers, Patti Murray, and Howard Dean great consternation. Whilst our boring zanies are off blabbing about the goodness of al Qaeda and the evils of America, British nutters are off setting hotels ablaze.

Come on, Howard Dean: Get with the program! Stop frothing at the mouth and start urinating on fire hydrants. Our country needs you.

2005-09-15T00:01:00.000-04:00

Ruminations on the Imperfectability of the Human Person, or Why We Want To Smack That Bitch

As you can well imagine, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” oft sit in our easy chairs and contemplate some of life’s deeper questions. You know the kind of things we mean: Plato’s theory of forms; Kant’s categorical imperative; Don King’s hair; &c.

In the past fortnight or so, however, one particular theme has particularly concerned us (other than redundancy, or course). This is, in a nutshell, the imperfectability of human beings. As is well known, our Communist comrades believe that man is perfectible, provided he lives under the proper system. And, apparently, by “proper system” they mean “bloodthirsty totalitarianism.”

Although our country’s tenured radicals have yet to catch on, there seems to be some proof that this notion isn’t quite right. The proof appears to be something called “the 20th century.”

But, dear reader, imagine you are an American high school student, and thus you don’t know anything about the history of the 20th century. Now imagine you have never heard of Communism. And imagine Che is just a colorful T-shirt design. (Whilst you are at it, imagine there’s no heaven, no hell below us, above us only sky.)

Regardless of the horrible John Lennon gag we just made, we still think that no reasonable person can believe in the perfectibility of humankind. Or, as our women’s studies pals would put it, huwomynkind. If you ask us, there are simply too many instances of human cruelty for a non-nincompoop to believe that homo sapiens is anything but a rather devious creature.

Our evidence? Why, here’s just one of innumerable stories we could tell that would hammer home our collective point.

The other day, one of the senior editors at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—found himself in the 15 Items or Less line at the local grocery store. Now, never mind the fact that said line should really be called 15 Items or Fewer: Your neighborhood Harris Teeter is no place for grammatical niggling.

As you might imagine, “Chip” desperately pined to purchase his two items, and get the heck out of Dodge. This isn’t because he was holding delicate items—he didn’t need toilet paper, and it wasn’t that time of the month. Even so, he wanted to leave posthaste.

Perhaps this was the result of the rancid Muzak that the grocery store persists in playing. As if old Billy Ocean songs weren’t calamitous enough, the demons behind Muzak must add vibraphone.

Anyway, ahead of us in this long line were a woman and her young son. Whilst the young one happily put his mouth on every inanimate object in sight, mommy placed her items on the mini conveyer-belt. And, by “Chip’s” humble count, she had 25 items. O, what a bitch!

The checkout girl—God love her—informed this nasty lady that she was clearly in the wrong line. Undaunted, the woman retorted: “Well, I’ve only got about 14 items here. Perhaps 13.” And the checkout girl gave her a pass.

Horror of horrors! Great Zeus! For crying out loud! Can you believe the nerve of this chucklehead? Obviously, she realized that she was inconveniencing others by getting into the wrong line, but couldn’t care less. To make matters worse, although “Chip” earnestly believes that someone should have called the Feds and had this woman deported, he did absolutely nothing. Yeah, he grumbled a bit, but he kept his stupid trap shut.

So, dear reader, what is the moral of this story? We suppose it could be stated one of two ways. Either: “Man is Utterly Imperfect,” or “We Need a Police State To Shoot Bitches Who Bring 25 Items into the Express Lane.” Take your pick.

2005-09-14T00:01:00.000-04:00

Eleanor Clift, Please Be the Father of Our Children

Every once in a great while, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” learn something novel about our friend the Internet. As we’ve found out, you can take in a few pointers now and again whilst you are busy e-strolling.

Here’s a perfect case in point. A little while ago, we composed a “post” in which we referred to the irksome talking head Eleanor Clift. It was a passing reference, to be sure, but a reference nonetheless.

Well, dear reader, much to our surprise, we soon discovered that some poor flaks at MSNBC are paid to “link” to “weblogs” that mention any NBC, MSNBC, or Newsweek personalities. Accordingly, a few days ago, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were prominently featured on a “webpage” whose title read “Conversations in the blogosphere about Eleanor Clift.” Isn’t that interesting?

Now, we don’t mean to be a bunch of snooty occupational elitists, but we think that “linking” to mentions of Howard Fineman is a pretty horrid job. After all, anyone reasonable will simply say that Mr. Fineman is a self-important twit.

And this got us to thinking: Why not make these poor sods at the MSNBC/NBC/Newsweek “website” do a bit of work? Why shouldn’t they earn their money? After all, it’s not every day that the World-Wide Web lights up with conversation pertaining to Jonathan Alter, is it? (Not if God is merciful, at least.)

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have endeavored to use this humble “post” as a surefire way to get “linked” on the illustrious “Conversations about Eleanor Clift” “webpage.” In order to accomplish this, of course, we needed to write about the fetching Ms. Clift at some length.

To this end, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have composed the following poem, which we have titled:

An Ode to Eleanor Clift by the Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”

O, Gorgeous Eleanor, How We Love Thee!
Somehow, you manage to make Pat Buchanan sound learned! (And that’s quite a feat.)
Your voice is every bit as lovely as Susan Estrich’s.
Your nasal, trap-door delivery is a hearty reminder to all single men that they made the right choice.
And your knee-jerk leftism is an inspiration to all of those who love politics but don’t like thinking.
O, Gorgeous Eleanor, Wilt Thou Be the Father of Our Children?

2005-09-13T00:01:00.000-04:00

Intolerance, Eh

News junkies have been so exercised about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina that they may have missed a story we spied in the September 9 number of The New York Times. That, we think, would be a shame, since this little news item may be our favorite to come across our desks in some time.

Penned by Clifford Kraus, the little snippet, culled from the “World Briefing” section of the Gray Lady, goes a little something like this:

CANADA: SHARIAH PROPOSAL PROTESTED Demonstrators in Toronto, other parts of Canada and a number of European cities marched to oppose a two-year-old proposal being considered by Ontario provincial leaders to allow the use of Shariah, or Islamic law, to settle family disputes. Traditional Muslims argue that they should have the same rights as Jews and Christians to settle issues like divorce and inheritence among themselves. The provincial Liberal government is split on the proposal, which would make Ontario the first jurisdiction in a Western democracy to make Shariah part of its legal system despite criticism that it discriminates against women.

Simply delicious, isn’t it? We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have long despised our faux friends to the north—those snooty Canucks who prattle on and on about the purported evils of America.

In addition, as many undoubtedly recognize, Canada is the epicenter of the multicultural movement. Accordingly, it’s perfectly apt that the grand old 51st state must deal with the niceties of Sharia. Where’s that warm embrace of other cultures about which Canada is so self-righteously proud?

Well, apparently it's nowhere to be found. As was reported in yesterday’s edition of the Times, Ontario officially refused to allow Muslims in the province to solve disputes through recourse to Sharia law. That makes our chilly friends in Canada a bunch of oppressive fascists, if you ask us.

Now, before we are deluged with hate mail from all three non-lupine residents of Northwest Territories, let us make it crystal clear that we don’t despise all Canadians. In our few days on this earth, we have been fortunate enough to meet literally dozens of Canadians, and they are mostly a pleasant bunch, regardless of their political persuasion.

All the same, darn near every American, we’d gather, has stumbled upon the Irksome Canadian (Canadianus incommodus). This peevish fellow harps and harpies on the horrors of the country directly to the south of beloved Canada. Americans, thinks the Irksome Canadian, are boorish barbarians. (This from a country that has given the world Bryan Adams and Loverboy, for crying out loud.)

Well, okay, Captain Canuck: Since you’re so darn cosmopolitan, and have such indefatigable love for all cultures, please explain to the Yanks why Sharia is not kosher in Canada (if we may mix our metaphors). Who are you, o beauteous examples of multiculturalism, to pass judgment on Islamic law? Why can’t Muslims commit honor killings in good ole’ Canada?

Come on, you hosers. How dare you “Other” the Muslims in this way! How chauvinistic! How retrograde! How—in a word—American!

2005-09-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

The Death of a Crush

Many moons ago—as our ancestors used to say—we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” professed our love for a paragon of foreheadless pulchritude. Naturally, dear reader, we are referring to the Yahoo Mail Girl, the gorgeous creature who greeted Yahoo Mail users as they “logged in” to their accounts.

Or, we should say, the gorgeous creature who used to greet Yahoo Mail users as they “logged in” to their accounts. As many users of Al Gore’s World-Wide Web have undoubtedly recognized, the evil corporate fat cats at Yahoo have replaced this fetching vixen with a cavalcade of blasé faces.

As far as we’re concerned, this is a far greater blight on the American business community than Enron. Sure, those greedy bastards blithely ruined lives. But, by taking away the photo of this paragon of beauty, Yahoo has surely destroyed a little part of us all.

It is certainly bad enough that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will forever miss our Yahoo Femme Fatale. To make matters worse, the pictures in place of our favorite are insultingly poor.

At first, of course, the astute may suspect that the powers that be at Yahoo found the Yahoo Mail Girl unsuitably “diverse.” Although you couldn’t see her full face, what was visible was most assuredly white. Maybe she had a black elbow, or a Latina forearm. But we collectively doubt it.

Even so, the removal of this glorious creature does not appear to be the work of Yahoo’s “diversi-crats.” It appears as if the new pictures are of people pretty much equally lily white as our pretty Yahoo Mail Girl.

So, what gives? Frankly, dear reader, we haven’t a clue. And we’re mad as heck.

In fact, we’re suitably cross to get off our collective lazy posterior and do something about it. Taking a page out of Cindy Sheehan’s playbook, we’ve decided to camp out at the doorsteps of Yahoo executives, and demand that they talk to us.

Why, we’ll ask, was such a charming creature removed from our sight? How can the management at Yahoo be so unspeakably cruel? Perhaps we’ll even add a Cindy Sheehan query: Why doesn’t Israel leave those peaceable Palestinians alone?

To be honest, dear reader, we’ll vote for any presidential candidate who promises to bring the Yahoo Mail Girl back.

2005-09-09T00:01:00.000-04:00

Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the Second

In yesterday’s humble “post,” we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” discussed a few of our collective thoughts on the subject of Bikram yoga. To be more specific, we began our description of a yoga class, which one of our senior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—attended.

We left off last time with “Chip” just beginning to start his yoga class in a room so hot that he started to turn golden brown. By the time the session ended, in fact, he was what those in the restaurant business call “medium rare.”

Class began with the instructor turning on the lights in the room and leading the warm-up exercises. As we mentioned in our last “post,” said instructor was a markedly more effeminate and markedly less British version of Elton John.

As this beacon of heterosexuality began the class, “Chip” nervously eyed his fellow yoga participants. Whereas most of the assembled cast was of the feminine persuasion, a few of those present were women. (If you get our drift.)

Throughout the session, our intrepid instructor calmed us with manifold references to Mr. Bikram Choudhury, the Indian guru who invented Bikram yoga. He informed us of sundry clever sayings attributed to this learned fellow, and told us a number of tips that originally came from the master’s mouth.

All of this made “Chip” think: This Bikram character probably drinks his own urine, for crying out loud. Let’s not get too enthralled by this chucklehead’s words of wisdom.

Naturally, dear reader, you are dying to know how “Chip” fared in his first attempt at Bikram yoga. We’d like to say that he did a wonderful job. But we’d be lying.

It appears as if “Chip” isn’t suitably flexible to touch his hands to his waist. Accordingly, he wasn’t exactly the world’s most precocious yoga novice.

In fact, the whole session was a bit disturbing for our editor. Whilst grossly obese women blithely followed all of the exercises with perfect form, “Chip” was feverishly attempting to bend his knees properly. Apparently, “Chip” isn’t in the kind of shape one associates with a morbidly fat sexagenarian female. Who would have thunk it?

As if the class weren’t bad enough, the brochures the Bikram staff threw at “Chip” were simply enraging. These little propaganda leaflets made it appear as if yoga was the answer to any human being’s prayers. Got AIDS? Try yoga. Got cancer? Yoga will fix you all up.

In addition, it was as clear as day that the Bikram staff would do darn near anything to ensure that you continued to spend your hard-earned money at its establishment. Regardless of the negative effects of your yoga experience, the cure for your woes was ineluctably more yoga. Feeling horribly sore and dizzy? Why, just do more yoga. Has your leg gone gangrene? Yoga’s the panacea. It was simply shameless.

At least, “Chip” thought as he departed from class, the naked hucksterism of the Bikramites demonstrated that the East has certainly learned a few things from the West. It may be dressed up with Enya songs and pseudo-spiritualistic garbage, but it’s still a manifestation of what our French pals call Anglo-Saxon capitalism.

2005-09-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

Not-So-Hot Yoga, Part the First

Every once in a while, dear reader, the female members of the crack young staff successfully exhort one of the males into doing something preposterous. Although this doesn’t happen with great frequency, it is suitably often to make many of the male staffers cringe.

Just the other day, in fact, one of the female staffers—let’s just call her “Chip”—compelled one of the senior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—into trying so-called hot yoga. This, the wily feminine temptress opined, would be a wonderful way for “Chip” to relieve some stress.

Naturally, in order to head to an afternoon session of yoga, “Chip” was going to have to forget about numerous opinions he holds on the subject. For instance, “Chip” is generally skeptical of advances coming from India; as far as he can tell, the only reason that country isn’t a complete hellhole is the result of British imperialism (and a smidgen of French imperialism). So, if someone blathers on about the brilliance of Eastern exercise, it makes “Chip” blather on about the brilliance of indoor plumbing, modern medicine, and sundry other Western achievements.

Surprisingly, “Chip” ultimately decided to forget his criticisms and head to the local Bikram yoga establishment. This, he was told, was the epicenter of so-called hot yoga. For those of you blissfully unaware of hot yoga, allow us to inform you that it is pretty much like regular yoga, only performed in a room slightly more uncomfortable than Miami in July.

Having arrived at the yoga session, “Chip” was greeted by the instructor, who was—to put it mildly—gayer than a maypole. Not that there’s anything wrong with that at all. But, man, Richard Simmons looks straight by comparison.

After a bit of discussion over prices, “Chip” headed to the hot yoga room. There, a few fellow patrons were stretching, readying themselves for the horrible pain to come.

Luckily, “Chip” chose to sit next to a man who was clad only in small spandex shorts. This was going to be my kind of thing, “Chip” thought to himself.

Upon glancing at this fellow, “Chip” had a few doubts about the great benefits of yoga. After all, this semi-nudist was clearly a yoga regular: He had his fancy yoga mat, his fancy yoga water, and was involved in fancy yoga stretches.

And yet, he didn’t exactly come across as a beacon of physical fitness. He was wan, pasty, and disheveled. Frankly, he looked like he sat in his apartment all day eating hemp, waiting for the time in the year in which he can vote for the Green Party.

To be honest, thought “Chip,” if I want to sit in my apartment all day and vote for Ralph Nader, I’d go to grad school.

The fellow who sat to “Chip’s” other side was no more inspiring. A bald, middle-aged Indian fellow, this man was rather hirsute and fat. In fact, he was downright portly. Even so, “Chip” could determine that this character was also an experienced yogi. Which made him wonder: Why the heck am I here? Do I really want a body like this overweight guy? Do I really want to look like I wear more hemp than Woody Harrelson?

And then, dear reader, the class began…

To be continued

2005-09-07T00:01:00.000-04:00

Another Stupid Scheme

As we have oft remarked of late, this humble “weblog” isn’t exactly a paragon of e-popularity. Perhaps its lackluster graphics are to blame. Displaying a picture every once in a while wouldn’t kill us, would it? Or maybe our uncanny ability to discuss issues about which no one even remotely cares has had some sort of negative effect on our “traffic.” Who knows?

Yet we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are sick of our self-conscious e-kvetching. Okay, so we’re as popular as Arthur Miller at a John Birch Society meeting; so what?

Instead of our usual witless lamentations and ululations, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have come up with yet another brilliant way to attract manifold new readers. Our Official Hair-Brained Schemes Department, in fact, has been drumming up this strategy for well over an hour.

Perhaps, dear reader, you are familiar with CNN’s humdrum program “Inside Politics.” It’s hosted by Judy Woodruff, the mainstream media’s answer to Martha Stewart. And it also features Candy Crowley, who’s so fat that when she wears black it gains ten pounds. We mean, wow: That dame must be sending the Krispy Kreme family’s kids through college.

Anyway, this typically tepid CNN broadcast offers a pathetic feature called “Inside the Blogs,” or some such thing. In short, this moronic segment allows the viewer to take in the e-strolling of two dimwitted female correspondents, so that blue-haired grannies can become “hip” to Al Gore’s World-Wide Web.

As you can well imagine, dear reader, the “Inside the Blogs” bit is ferociously stupid. All the same, it does offer all kinds of exposure for the aspiring young “weblogger.” Why, these days a mention on CNN is almost half as good as a mention on Fox News—and almost twice as good as a mention on the Food Network.

Naturally, then, it was high time for “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” to appear on “Inside Politics.” Only one question remained: How would we draw in the two journalistic bimbos who shill for the program?

Well, after a few days of taking in “Inside Politics,” we happened upon a perfect solution. In a typically limp-wristed demonstration of objectivity, the chuckleheaded vixens on “Inside the Blogs” offer their viewers examples of both left-wing and right-wing “weblogs.” Unsurprisingly, however, they spend a good deal of their time mentioning conservative “websites” that buck the party line on a given issue. (Strangely, they don’t do the same with the liberal “weblogs.”)

For instance, our old friend Dr. Rusty Shackelford was featured on “Inside Politics” when he argued that Karl Rove should be compelled to leave the White House. (Anyone else remember that story?) Had our esteemed Pet Jawa proffered a vigorous defense of Mr. Rove, we have a hunch that he wouldn’t have made it to “Inside Politics.”

Clearly, then, the thing for a vaguely right-of-center “website” such as “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” to do is to offer an assortment of left-wing platitudes. This way, we are sure to get a mention on the semi-prestigious CNN network.

We can almost see Ted Turner from here. Or maybe that’s John Rocker. But we digress.

Accordingly, dear reader, below you will find our Official List of Left-Wing Platitudes. Although, to be completely honest, we don’t believe even one of them, we shall for the high-minded purpose of whoring ourselves out to basic cable.

“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official Left-Wing Platitudes From the Heartfelt Crack Young Staff:

1. Eleanor Clift is a very attractive young lady.

2. Cindy Sheehan should be the next Secretary of State.

3. Hurricane Katrina is all George W. Bush’s fault.

4. Any literate person can tell that Al Franken is this country’s most intelligent public intellectual.

5. Maureen Dowd is very, very funny, and very, very insightful.

6. If only George W. Bush would listen to Green Day! Think of how much better the country would be!

7. It’s time conservatives admitted it: Michael Moore is sexy.

2005-09-06T00:01:00.000-04:00

A Foolproof Guide to Blaming George W. Bush

As has been reported ad nauseam of late, many of our friends on the political Left have chirpily blamed President Bush for the hurricane named Katrina. It was, the lefties claim, President Bush’s failure to abide by the Kyoto Protocol that has caused this horrible tragedy. In addition, the President has failed to aid those trapped in New Orleans with sufficient vigor, because he hates black people. Q.E.D.

Naturally, dear reader, it’s hard to argue with that logic. But, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” will do our best to argue nonetheless.

It does seem a bit cheap—if not a bit sordid—to blame a natural disaster on our current Commander-in-Chief, doesn’t it? For starters, the US Senate wasn’t such a big Kyoto fan—it considered it draconian and therefore refused to back it.

Far more importantly, however, the whole “Blame George for Katrina” line strikes us as a bit ridiculous. If you ask us, even if George W. did nothing other than spray an aerosol can in the sky all day, it still is a bit farfetched to claim that he is the ghost behind Katrina.

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” hesitantly and reluctantly came to the conclusion that many of our pals of the Left would find a way to blame President Bush for anything. We know, we know—it isn’t a very kind conclusion. But it seems to fit the bill.

Helpful scamps that we are, we decided to aid our friends on the Left with their incessant tarring and feathering of our current war criminal-cum-president. Why not offer the lefties a foolproof guide to blaming Bush? That way, our lefty chums can have more time to sip expensive coffee, buy Saabs, and be hypocrites. What’s not to love?

As such, below you will find our humble contribution to the radical leftists—our guide to blaming W. It is sufficiently detailed to prove useful, and sufficiently terse to fit in a wallet made out of hemp. As a result, our lefty pals can take it wherever they’re going—a Dennis Kucinich fundraiser, an ACLU meeting, a gay orgy, &c.

Horrible Disaster the First: Rising Gas Prices

Of course, our Liar-in-Chief is responsible for the actions of the OPECers. Gas prices are high because our country’s naked imperialist aggression has alienated the decent, peace-loving Muslim world. Had the USA not invaded Iraq, gas would be less than 50 cents a gallon right now.

Horrible Disaster the Second: Falling Gas Prices

Of course, our Liar-in-Chief is responsible for the abundance of cheap oil in America, which gas-guzzling Neanderthals enjoy at the expense of our beautiful Mother Earth. The debacle in Iraq can adequately be explained as an exchange of blood for oil. So, that inexpensive petrol really came at the expense of our brave men and women in the military (may they sheepishly retreat!).

Horrible Disaster the Third: A Fire in Belgium

Had our current President spent less of his time on disgracefully long vacations, he could have personally aided fire crews in the Low Countries, which aimed at stopping this blaze. But he was too selfish, wasn’t he?

Horrible Disaster the Fourth: A Slump in Tom Cruise’s Career

Some may blame Mr. Cruise’s odd fascination with L. Ron Hubbard and Katie Holmes (in that order) for such a slump, but the real reason is George Bush, of course. Our proof? One simple word: Halliburton.

2005-09-02T00:01:00.000-04:00

Meet Our New Friend

Perhaps we have mentioned before that one of the interns here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—spends his entire workday scanning the local newspapers’ personal advertisements, in search of interesting topics of discussion for this humble “weblog.”

Naturally, “Chip” hunts the personals for professional reasons alone: He purchased a Russian mail-order bride months ago. Accordingly, he needs a date as much as Courtney Love requires a drug problem. (Come to think of it, that’s a rather apt analogy.)

Anyway, a few short days ago, “Chip” spotted a particularly interesting advertisement in one of the area’s feculent freebee rags. The man who took out this ad appears to be a rather lonely guy. His compelling personal ad reads as follows:

SHHH…
Married WM, mid-40s, 5’11”, 200lbs, crossdresser, getting no action at home, looking for someone to introduce me.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: This fellow wants an introduction; isn’t that sweet? What a darling! Clearly, as we mentioned above, this is one lonely critter.

Always willing to help a man (or, in this case, a semi-man) down on his luck, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have decided to dedicate this humble “post” to introducing our new friend. Since our bosom buddy (pun intended) hasn’t informed us of his name, we’ll simply refer to him as Mr. Shhh.

So, dear reader, allow us to introduce our pal Mr. Shhh. He’s pretty much a regular guy: He is “getting no action at home”; he’s married; and he’s a cross-dresser. Oh, and did we mention that he’s seeking someone with whom he may have an adulterous affair?

Wouldn’t Mrs. Shhh be upset if she knew her perfidious husband was taking out ad space in the local paper to score with an anonymous pervert? Why don’t you, dear reader, welcome Mr. Shhh into the magical world of adultery? We’re sure this randy devil will make it worth your while, provided you dig 5’11”, 40-something 200-pounders. And we know that you do.

Well, Mr. Shhh, there’s your introduction. Free of charge, no less. We certainly hope that you are successful in finding a lactating she-male, with whom you can finally fulfill your deepest Freudian desires.

2005-09-01T00:01:00.000-04:00

Notes on Camp Casey

Fanatical readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” know that we have remained suspiciously silent about the trials and tribulations of Cindy Sheehan. Whilst the rest of the “weblogosphere” blithely pontificates about this grieving radical, we haven’t so much as typed a word about her.

Until, that is to say, now. We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” originally decided to keep quiet about this grieving radical, and let the likes of Maureen Dowd have their journalistic orgasms over her.

And yet, dear reader, we have simply had enough. A few days ago, we opened the latest number of The New Republic, and found a staff editorial on Ms. Sheehan so fatuous that we simply needed to respond. In the table of contents, the editors at TNR advertised their ruminations about the matter with the query “What do we owe Cindy Sheehan?”

Naturally, the staff of TNR is demonstrating some pronoun problems. By “we,” of course, this moderate left-wing rag means “President Bush.” Marty Peretz and Leon Wieseltier don’t owe Ms. Sheehan a darn thing, of course.

The president most assuredly does, however. As TNR puts it, Sheehan “deserves the opportunity to meet with our commander-in-chief (yes, it would be her second meeting, but a president who has time for a two-hour bike ride with Lance Armstrong during a five-week vacation has time to meet again with the mother of a man he sent to war and, ultimately, death).”

Let’s see if we get this straight: If your son dies in Iraq, you deserve two meetings with the president of the United States. In the first one, you are entitled to be gracious. And, in the second session, you are free to browbeat him with noxious radical palaver about “American imperialism” and “blood for oil.”

As far as we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can determine, this is very much like the deal touted by your local Subway sandwich outfit. At participating stores, for 10 delicious Subway subs, you can get one free. Perhaps you can even berate the cashier about “Zionist aggression” whilst you pick up your freebee grinder.

We don’t mean to sound heartless, but we find this whole media-induced brouhaha rebarbative. Yes, Cindy Sheehan came to prominence during a slow news month. With JFK Jr. in the drink, there’s not much to cover these days.

Even so, we can’t stomach any more of this. Why in the good Lord’s name should President Bush be forced to endure the insane carping of an unhinged radical leftist? Cindy Sheehan claims that she wants to hear President Bush’s rationale for war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Does she really need to meet him in person for this? Why doesn’t she just get a copy of his speeches? Or how about picking up a newspaper, you stupid dolt!

Okay, okay, okay. We need to calm down a bit. After all, this woman—crazy as she is—has recently lost her son. We ought not to get intemperate.

Instead, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are happy to announce our latest stupid idea: Camp Shut the F Up. We plan on camping outside Ms. Sheehan’s house, until this woman has the guts to tell us why she won’t shut the f up.

It’ll be interesting to see whether The New York Times offers fawning profiles about us, as we wave our “Shut the F Up, Cindy” flags outside the Sheehan residence. We won’t hold our collective breath.

2005-08-31T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-26T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-25T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-24T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-23T00:01:00.000-04:00

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?

2005-08-22T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

George Husinger

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.

2005-08-19T12:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-18T00:01:00.000-04:00

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 Quiz

1. 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.

2005-08-17T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-16T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-15T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-12T12:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-10T00:01:00.000-04:00

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?

Lynnae Ruberg

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?

2005-08-09T00:01:00.000-04:00

The Pillow-Biter

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.

2005-08-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-05T08:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Carry on.

2005-08-04T08:00:00.000-04:00

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-financed offices.

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.

Carry on.

2005-08-03T08:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Carry on.

2005-08-02T08:05:00.000-04:00

Water Myths

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.)

Carry on.

2005-08-01T08:27:00.000-04:00

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...

General Manager
Wal-Mart Supercenter #1833
Fredericksburg VA 22401

Dear Sir:

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.

Yours cordially,

Your Maximum Leader

Carry on.