FROMAGE Our friend Mark at Fried Green al-Qaedas has alerted us to another of the internet's diabolical evils (besides the promotion of cannibalism, of course): the phenomenon called "blogging," which allows liberals who can't write columns for The Young Conservatives to give free reign to their Joycian stream-of-consciousness inner candy store, and make fun of conservatives. Mark has found that a certain conservative heavyweight, writing at Men's Wear Daily, is amazed to have learned that bloggers have even quoted snippets of her writings, in an effort to poke fun of them! And without even the courtesy of informing her first, so she could enlighten them as to how they're wrong about everything. But the last laugh is on them, of course, since they reveal their every secret motivation and yearning in all they write. For, while they claim to find conservative thought (well, a certain old young conservative's conservative thoughts) amusing, they are actually paying "Homage to the writers they are disparaging, to the ideas they are dismissing, and to the system of thought they secretly admire, but ever remain only on the edge of." What losers they must be! And sadly, by not quoting this conservative thought in its entirety, they attempt to obscure the wisdom which can be found in pieces about the insidious Pod People, and the "alive" feeling (and Botticelli-like beauty) that only firearms can provide. No more Feel Good Carrots of Liberalism for them! So thanks, Mark, for making the internet a more decorous and genteel place, by identifying these nasty "conservative wannabe" bloggers out there, and for contacting the writer of the Men's News Daily piece before "sliming" her, so that she could make comments on your site. P.S. The new issue of Virtual Occoquan is out, featuring the best of the Salon blogs. Read it where you work or bank. 3:38:52 PM  |
A Charmingly Madcap New Year's Eve, Spent en Famille By Mumsy Cox Gorgon Eglantine wanted to stay up until midnight, thinking it would be delightfully grownup to get to watch the ball drop and blow noisemakers. "Don't be such a cretin," I chided. "You know that your father wants to pretend that you children don't exist, and so you have to be in bed before he gets home from work. Which, since today is New Year's Eve and his office is closing at noon, should be relatively soon . . .Although he might have to run some errands on his way home -- the poor man has so many errands lately that some nights he doesn't make it home at all. He works so hard for us that we don't want to annoy him by being around, do we, dear?" Eglantine, a polite and sensitive child whose spirit has been properly broken, agreed that we must all do our best to please Father by keeping out of his sight. She added that she now realized that staying up to see in the New Year was a silly idea, and excused herself to go write in her diary. The sweet poppet says the diary will bring her fame, fortune, and revenge someday. I ask her where ever she got that idea. "Gnat," she replied succinctly. Gnat is her latest imaginary friend. I am pleased, in general, that my daughter has imaginary friends, since it makes her seem so quirky and colorful in all of those amusing stories I recount about her in my weekly column. However, Gnat may not be a good influence on my precious darling; for, from what Eglantine has let slip, Gnat resembles one of those blond tikes in The Children of the Damned -- outwardly placid and polite, but secretly biding her time until the horrifying revolution against the adults can take place. Eglantine says that Gnat is her soul sister. Which should probably concern me, but I don't have the time or energy to worry about Eglantine's screwed-up psyche, because Florence has brought home some of his school chums. There is, for me, a special terror in having other people's children around. What if they cry? What if they won't eat what they're given? What if they report me to Child Protective Services? But I grit my teeth and welcome our young guests, Alistair and Reginald. I offer them a them a healthy snack of liver and onions, but they say they're still full from the last time they were here. The three boys head upstairs to Florence's room to work on their science project. Not many children would do school work on New Year's Eve -- I bet yours didn't. So, I think we all know which of us is the better parent. "What does your project involve?" I inquire of the departing back of my eldest child. I like to keep involved in every aspect of his life, so that when he's grown up, he will feel the kind of warmth and affection for me which Liberace felt for his dear mother. "Raising Satan, Mumsy," he replies. "Well, just don't make a mess. You know that your father can't stand messes, since they remind him that you children exist." "I'll be careful, Mumsy. I'm always careful. I never let the rage burst out in a murderous frenzy of blood and horror." Such a darling boy! I only regret that he's too old for the cotton frocks now that he's fourteen. But loud shrieks interrupted my reverie. "Mother, mother, Hyacinth is bleeding!" a childish voice pipes. I head to the bar for a little something to steady my nerves, then walk briskly to the nursery, where I find my second youngest daughter lying on the floor, apparently felled by the chandelier. Andaluce is crying in the corner. "Young ladies don't bawl like common trailer trash, Andaluce. Go read your book on manners by Mrs. Santorum until you can behave more appropriately." "But Mother, I think Hyacinth is DEAD," the child sobbed. She looked so sweetly tragic, with the tears streaming down her face, that I almost made her the main character in this week's column . . .but then snot started dripping from her nose, and she lost her chance. "Well, if she is dead, then she has learned a valuable lesson about obeying one's parents when they tell one not to run in the house, hasn't she?" "But . . . but we WEREN'T running, mother! We were just sitting on the floor, practicing a Gilbert and Sullivan medley with which to entertain and charm Father when he returns from work." "Andaluce, you know that our home is old and ramshackle, and has been condemned by the city; and yet you children insist on singing, laughing, and playing in it, when I've warned you that the sound waves could cause just such an accident. And anyway, while your father does enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan, trying to earn his love through song is quite pointless, since he doesn't even know your names. Wait until you're 18, and I will introduce you to him, and then maybe you can try to gain his admiration by mirroring his likes and dislikes." By this point, Hyacinth had started to twitch and moan. "See, she's not dead, you silly goose!" I informed Andaluce. "Now go to Eglantine and make her wipe your nose, while I remove the chandelier from your sister and see if it can be repaired." And that's how we spent New Year's Eve at our house. A thoroughly conservative, delightful, well-bred time was had by all. 5:09:12 AM |
President to Serve New Year's Turkey to Gadhafi? White House Doesn't Rule it Out From the Tuesday Press Gaggle, conducted by Trent Duffy at the Crawford Middle School:
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