Babbling Brooks

Just finished reading the latest pathogenic fulminations of David Brooks, the famed pseudo-liberal (pseudo-moderate, and pseudo-human) "Master of the Editorial Universe," who is, for reasons known only to the Satanic monsters at whose pleasure he serves, allowed and encouraged to vomit forth his sick, atrabilious sarcasm on the opinion page of the NYT with regularity sufficient to sicken half the hemisphere. Brooks seethes in indignation on behalf of the most wretched and oppressed people on all the Earth: multibillionnaire CEO's -- comparing their plight to that of France under Nazi Germany, or to the victims of Stalinist pogroms. Imagine the gall of President Obama, seeking to induce them to part with a few pennies to help 270 million acutely suffering Americans who *don't* own fleets of 200-foot yachts. What could such pathetic peons, oblivious to their feudal obligations to "die and decrease the surplus population," possibly be worth? Not so much as the fingernail clipping of a corporate CEO. It is to them (the afflicted super-rich) that Brooks' non-existent heart goes out. Oh, for their potentially lost toenail clippings! The horror of it! The inhumanity! Half of America dying for want of health care is nothing by contrast with their grievous suffering, brought on via draconian methods (political persuasion) that Brooks compares unfavorably to waterboarding.

The sick, indefatigable snottiness of his snark-ridden prose (rivalling the mucosal production of all the sinuses on earth) is almost impossible to read without experiencing apoplexy followed by projectile regurgitation. So excuse my absence. (I have to go and empty my stomach.) Back soon with another post.

On Denial

"L'hôpital existe à Hiroshima. Comment aurais-je pu éviter de le voir?"

Facebook...

always presents one with a box preceded by a seriously annoying prompt:

What's on your mind?

There are so many things wrong with this question, existentially, ontologically, epistemologically, and neurochemically, that even to proclaim the obvious answer that it has to be cerebrospinal fluid combined with vague and traumatic memories of cereal commercials from early childhood, and possibly a diversity of amyloid plaques, fails tragically to divert attention from my inability to enumerate them.