Planless and mindless scraps from anywhere/ Bunch of used parts from garbage pails everywhere/ Frankenstein became a monster just like you/ Your scars only show when someone talks to you/ You’re so boring boring boring/ Always tape machine recording/ I’ve heard all this before I’ve heard all this before… Dead Kennedys, "Your Emotions"
OK, so the skateboarders don't have that much to do with the song, but it was the only good version I could find on youtube, and its the lyrics that matter. They perfectly express what is wrong with punditry today. From what passes for "left" to right to
really really right batshit fucking insane, it's the same boring cast of boring people spewing the same predictably boring crap day after day, week after week. It has gotten to the point with these jokers that I don't even have to read more than a paragraph or two of their spittle-flecked diatribes and unctuous (there's that word again) rhetorical flourishes before I know exactly where their train of thought is leading. In addition, usually by the end of the first few sentences, there's at least one false premise, and often as not utter lies masquerading as fact (not surprising given the way Drudge-sourced rumors are treated as fact, as Glenn helpfully illustrates).
I happened to glance at Charles Krauthammer's column this past Tuesday. It's syndicated in the piss-poor remains of the Philadelphia Inquirer, now run by Republican hack Brian Tierney, the genius who wants to hire Rick Santorum as a columnist in a city that voted against Senator Dogfuck by a margin of 84%-16%. Here's what Chuckles had to say:
The charming part of this not-to-be-missed article (titled "Heart of Darkness," no less) is that it is framed as an exercise in compassion. Since she knows that the only way for her New Republic readers to understand Cheney is that he is evil – "next time you see Cheney behaving oddly, don't automatically assume that he's a bad man," she advises – surely the generous thing for a liberal to do is write him off as simply nuts. In the wonderland of liberalism, Cottle is trying to make the case for Cheney by offering him the insanity defense. She doesn't seem to understand that showing how circulatory problems can affect the brain proves nothing unless you first show the existence of a psychiatric disorder. Yet Cottle offers nothing in Cheney's presenting symptoms or behavior to justify a psychiatric diagnosis of any kind, let alone dementia.
See what I mean? You're probably rolling your eyes for a number of reasons, not the first of which is that this is a standard Krauthammer column: you know exactly what the rest is going to say. The column is as predictable and bland as the Family Circus, and not even half as clever. But it's more than that: it's as if Charles has forgotten his own record of diagnosing people he doesn't like. Howard Dean? Crazy. Gore? Crazy. Bush opponents? Collectively suffering from "Bush Derangement Syndrome."
Adding insult to injury, I took a look at Kathleen Parker's latest offering, glistening like a turd in the fresh-fallen snow. Before the heartless bitch lobbed an attack on John Edwards the day he announced his wife's cancer had returned (and as Jane pointed out, wasn't that just classy of the Chicago Tribune to run with it anyway? You can reach the Public Editor at 312-222-3348 to let him know what a tactful decision THAT was), she made a BIIIIG DEAL about Hillary's "fake southern accent". You know, the Drudge rumor that was debunked thoroughly Greg Sargent?
Until that moment, it was not known that anyone could sing that badly. To her credit, Hillary has since poked fun at herself, offering to step away from the microphone, for example, when a group was about to sing "Happy Birthday." No one can help the voice she's born with. But she can learn to adjust the volume and take the temperature of a room before speaking. And especially, to avoid faking a local accent, pretending to be something she's not. Southern, for instance. In Selma, Ala., at the recent "Bloody Sunday" commemoration, Hillary auditioned for a dual role – not just Southerner, but Southern preacher in the style of a Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. That dry rustling you hear is the sound of millions of people cringing.
Blah-de-blah-blah-blah. Honestly who gives a fuck? It's not like the current occupant is known for thesoothing tenor and melofluous timbre of his voice: quite the contrary. And the same laziness and attention to the frivolous is true for people like Joke Line, Peter Beinart, Tom Friedman, Richard Cohen, and the rest of the ninnies who claim to represent "liberals". And I'd gladly go and provide examples of their follies, but at this point I'M TOO FUCKING BORED TO BOTHER. Honestly, reading Sour-Kraut's drivel has me falling asleep at the keyboard, and reviewing the poopoo that Richard Cohen squeezes onto the pages of the Post is gonna put me over the edge.
To tell you the truth, none of these columnists are worth the money they're paid, not a single one. When was the last time Peter Beinart and Tom Friedman were right about anything? Not the war. Not Social Security (Peter). So who cares what these guys think? Moreover, and I address this to conservatives as well as lefties, when was the last time David Brooks or Richard Cohen provided food for thought to anyone? When was the last time anyone read one of their columns and thought "Gee, that's surprising! I never would have guessed that would have come out of HIM" or "Gee, I never looked at it that way before"? if you're looking for orignal thught, it sure as hell isn't gonna be found in the op-ed pages of the Times or the Post (Dan Froomkin, Paul Krugman, and Bob Herbert excepted). And yet they remain, like Greek statues that haven't lost their marble heads (it's the stuff inside, the brains, that's gone missing).
By contrast, I find something new and interesting in the blogosphere every day. Maybe it's the resident expert on the housing market at Daily Kos. Maybe it's some super-duper snark from TBogg or Jon Swift. Sometimes it's my brother getting off a good rant. And sometimes it has nothing to do with politics at all. We do it for free, we do it with more passion, and we bring the stories the muckety mucks don't think are so important to light of day.
Is it any wonder then that traditional journalism has had such a hard time dealing with blogs? Is it any wonder they call us dirty hippies, unserious, pajama clad, pick your pejorative?
And today, with the shameless publication of Kathleen Parker's diatribe about John Edwards fucking hair, his fucking hair for Chrissake we see who is truly bankrupt, creatively, intellectually, and morally. Boring. I'd rather sit around with my thumb up my ass watching paint dry. Barney the giant fucking purple fucking dinosaur is more interesting.
No, strike that. I'd rather read blogs.