I'm old. I may have blogged about that before, but, hey, I'm old. I forget.
Another round of World O'Crap's Wingnut Island, another loss for The Team That Name-Checks Edmund Burke. Not that it wasn't deserved; the loser, Armstrong "Your Message Here" Williams was a foregone conclusion of a loser when he was called in as a last-minute replacement for David Brooks, who probably would have gotten tossed if he had shown up.
Even so, I was a bitter, bitter man. It was obvious from the comments--and this time it wasn't a bunch of people following a link from Atrios, it was the very cream of a very creamy collection of commenters. And it's obvious they refuse to do my bidding.
I'm old, and I'm concerned about incontinent nostalgia. Maybe I've blogged about that before. But in my day, a wingnut wasn't prized for his nuttiness. He wasn't prized at all, come to think of it. Now those were good times. But if he had been it wouldn't have been for his nuttiness, but his wingy goodness. They had faces then, and they were all screwed up like they'd just eaten something sour. In a Grant Wood painting.
So, okay, it's a young man's game. To be popular, today's wingnut has to have a fire in his belly and nothing in his head, and that fire must be fueled by improper potty training and a lifelong grudge against everyone who had sex in high school, or even a date. Railing about "the 18th Century Enlightenment" is so 19th Century. I suspect that even knowing there was an 18th Century is horribly passé.
On the other hand, it's not as if Bobo Brooks or George Will were getting more tail than Burt Ward, back in the day. So they're a little more graceful, okay, a lot more graceful, about not revealing the depths of their psychosexual issues with every utterance than, say, the Corner Kids. Does it make them any less wingnutty? But then again, maybe I'm the one who's got the wrong end of the telescope here. Maybe the public is right, and the finest wingnuttery is the stuff that looks like the picture on the wrapper and not the pathetic, real candy bar underneath.
Then I thought, "Hey, what's that throbbing just above my left eye?" And it occurred to me, I have a blog! And while popular culture is not exactly my strong suit, it seems to me that all the people who get voted off reality shows get their own shows, or guest-star shots on WB sitcoms, or they get to do panel on the late night show with the guy who replaced the guy who Jon Stewart replaced. And is there a blog anywhere more equipped to welcome Z-list celebrities? Probably. But I called dibs.
So why not invite the losers over, let 'em sit on the couch, lie on the couch, whatever's comfortable, and see what we can do to shake up the old image, bring out that inner 3rd chair violist, and whip this team into shape, whaddya say? Are you with me? Yeah!
Aw, well, this is probably gonna wind up in the garage with all my other half-finished projects.