Apr 9, 2012

I am she




An honest libertarian writer serves best when moved by hatred, despair, and bile.  His highest moral function in a statist society is to scream at  the looters, Attila and The Witch Doctor. His every essay should be a simple, logical, variation on the theme of "supercalaphuckyoustatistscuzuareobnoxious."

Any day when he fails to verbally horsewhip a pewling collectivist tyrant is a wasted day.

But this one is just not feeling it.  For reasons he can not fathom life has lately been a series of warm fuzzies. Nothing moves him to take up arms and unfurl the black and yellow flag. Maybe too many spoons full of sugar have deballed him, created a literary diabetic.

He hasn't noted that Zimmermann is probably an idiot but not a racist murderer -- nor its corollary, that Sharpton rates an eternity in that hottest Hell reserved for  the most fraudulent journalists. He has savaged neither Obama nor Romney. He has failed to document recent justifications for rebuilding the Tyburn gallows to honor the Weimarites Bernanke and Geithner.

He can only hope that the sense of mission will return. Perhaps soon. Perhaps this weeks struggles with the income tax forms will stoke the fires of rage. They usually do.

Meanwhile:


'Ave you ever seen  The grass so green? Or a bluer sky?

Screw you, Bert. This crap has got to stop.

3 comments:

Tam said...

"supercalaphuckyoustatistscuzuareobnoxious."

I really, really wish I'd written that.

Lisa said...

"If a journalist shows a facility for praise he's liable to be offered a job in public relations or advertising and the next thing you know he's got a big office, a huge salary and is living in a fine home with a lovely wife and swell kids - another career blown to hell." ~ P.J O'Rourke

Jim said...

The debbil made me do it, Tam. Weaseling the f-word sometimes helps me restore the the reserve of necessary hatred. :)

Sometimes, Lisa, but the best it ever did for me was the Washington gig. Not bad, but I still don't have an elevator for my Cadillacs.