Knocked Up In Wasilla With The Juneau Blues Again

OKAY, first, it turns out Peggy Noonan may possess half a brain. Fittingly, we learn this only by accident.  With apologies to Tom Lehrer, if I hadn't already lived through Heinz Kissinger's Nobel Peace Prize the news might'a killed me.

The Noonan, Murphy, Todd ménage demonstrates, once and forever, that at least some of these people are in possession of something approaching normal intelligence, which is precisely the point, and that the major requirement for a teevee/wingnut sinecure pundit, after hair and cosmetics in the former case, is the ability to shoehorn it into a single dimension. You don't hear anybody, not a single cable noisemaker, certainly not Tom Fucking Why Are You Here Again? Brokaw, talk like this on the air. You hear discussions of The Experience Question, speculation about the vetting process or the political strategy behind it, and all of that in a sort of Neverland version. What I doubt anyone has heard, really, is an honest What Th' Fuck Is That? regarding Councilwoman Palin.

It's vertiginous. The more people proclaim they Love Uh Murrica, the more willing, even eager, they are to see her in the hands of witlings. The Republican party apparently now sees as its mission the igniting of bags of dogshit on liberalism's door (let's rephrase that; it now embraces that as its mission, the current generation having tired of pretending to read the Cliff's Notes to Reflections on the Revolution in France and The Wealth of Nations).

And people like Chuck Todd, who are supposed to be in a position to, uh, note it, now see as their mission the touting of cartoon horse races, which, above all else, requires convincing the rubes to bet up the losers. Noonan, Murphy, and Todd, behind the scenes, discuss how "bummed out" "everybody" is about the choice--has that been reflected in any of the coverage? None that I've seen, though I restricted myself to PBS, on the grounds that I can do so without hurling very often, which is more of a personal thing than a tribute to their coverage. Still, the Democratic convention was forty-eight hours of Clinton v. Obama, followed by twenty-four of creeping disappointment when it didn't materialize in person like it materialized in the Press.

Look, I'm realistic enough to realize these people will not tell the truth on air, not if they hope ever to return, but if you're going to avoid the obvious, couldn't you at least try to be fair about it, and not compensate by making shit up and treating that as obvious?

By the way, Noonan's mea culpa is a hoot, in that she apologizes--twice!--for using "a barnyard epithet"! Peggy, Peggy: you said "bullshit". In fact, you excused yourself and said "bullshit". Sheesh, it's probably the one thing in your professional life you shouldn't apologize for.

(Was it David Steinberg in his prime who had the bit about finding "bullshit" in the dictionary? "There it is--bullshit, noun,  and it's defined as 'Nonsense'.  How'd they find the only guy who doesn't know what 'bullshit' means?")

My tape of last night's Festival of Patriotic Fart Lighting cut out after only one hour (and two African-Americans), so I had to catch Councilwoman Palin on the YouTube. And, y'know, I understand that the thing got away from McCain a little bit, but they asked for it. Having been buoyed by a month of good polling numbers they finally found themselves with the obligation to do something beyond hope Obama continued to come to them, and they shored up the fucking base. You'd think if there was one Republican out there who wouldn't allow the Convention to become a replay of 1992, except dumbed down two grade levels in reading comprehension, it would be Maverick McCain. It was redolent of that pathetic Joint Session speech of Junior Bush's in Spring 2001, when the Republicans were jumping up to applaud his finishing sentences like he'd just revealed Phryne in all her glory. I know, I know: we're at the Republican National Convention. Hard to miss when there're more black faces at the podium than in the audience. It was either that or a tape of a suburban megachurch during National Brotherhood Week.

But, c'mon, somebody gave Commander Palin that speech to read. Were they really unaware it was being televised, meaning it was going out to people who aren't just killing time and wildlife before The Rapture? Good Lord, you're the party responsible for the mess people Out There--the people you claim Grandma Palin is One Of--find themselves neck deep in. Cheering throngs of yahoos would seem to be the last thing you'd want to show, but then, maybe you're down to your Last Thing. We can only hope.

By the way: spare me any more fucking lectures about how Liberals, or The Angry Left, or however it is you refer to sane people these days, "just don't get" evangelicals. Yes, yes, yes, you publicly excuse your own if your fat gets anywhere near the fire. This does not come as a shock to anyone who's been paying attention. If Young Miss Palin had denounced the war in Iraq and claimed Jesus was the Prince of Peace we'd've seen how quick you are with the shunning. And, yes, you hate sex and love reproduction. Also not new. Sin is only really a sin if people you consider sinners are doing it, though you'll never put it that way, because Jesus puts a premium on artificial humility. At least His sales reps do.  We get it. Now, you get this: we see through it. If you really think it's still 1992, at least quit trying to pretend you aren't the same bunch who thought Murphy Brown was a real person.

And if it's really a private matter then shut th' fuck up. Quit parading that "she chose Life", excuse me, bullshit; none of us has any insight into the real dynamic at work here. We do know two things: that her mother was willing to sacrifice her on the altar of an ambition most sane people believe she had no claim on, and, two, that there is apparently no real hurry on the matrimony thing, which I would imagine would knock the props out from under the immorality/rising illegitimacy rate argument. That is, I would, if I didn't understand evangelicals.