Andrew Breitbart was a friend of mine. He and I were pretty close in age, so we related to so many things over the years, and I’m sad to see him go. As you know, he took a great deal of satisfaction in revealing the wickedness inside the sanctimony and the hatred behind the condescension. But I remember him before Twitter; alas, it wasn’t compatible with my occupation so I never had a chance to follow his feed, which I now regret. But that’s okay because I’m sure there is a trove of it out there for me to go find and enjoy later. What the hell, he knew his work—no, their hateful screed—would be around awhile. After all, Technicolor fooled your proletariat eyes and Kodachrome sure beat Polaroid, but digital has staying power! I know it’s easier for me to say than it is for many.
Andrew pointed out the rot behind the fascia and the scrap behind the wainscot before I signed on a house the agent desperately wanted me to buy. He peeled the paper from the wall and told me to feast my eyes on the crumbling decay it concealed. I already suspected these things, and I suspected there might be some mold beneath the carpet, too, but I wanted someone else to confirm it. Andrew didn’t just confirm it, he shouted it in the agent’s ear. I was thankful for his stamp of disapproval, and I was grateful to be rid of that awful agent and decrepit house.
Not too long after I did buy a house out of town, he showed me a picture of my new neighbor, whom I barely met but once when he complained about the noise at the housewarming he couldn’t be bothered to attend. He was caught on film in the dead of night stealing the political signs from my yard and stashing them in the woods between our homes. Andrew hadn’t taken the picture, but he knew I needed to know about it. That’s when I discovered that my neighbor was not just angry but a fraudulent thief, too. Worse, he was a high school teacher. I laughed when he doubled up on his signs. The next time it happened I shot a couple of bullets into the cornfield; handguns are loud but I still speak my mind on my property. I felt bad for his wife when they divorced, but I was glad she kept the house, even though I’ve still never met her all these years later. She doesn’t bother with political signs either way.
Anyhow, Andrew moved on, and as I looked back at that, I couldn’t believe how long it’s been. I learned some other lessons right along with him, and you did too, I suppose, as we watched this Internet thing grow up from Al Gore’s fruitful, wooden loins and consume us. I was glad Andrew was there to remind me of the trash out there littering the landscape and trespassing private property, stealing from neighbors and suppressing their speech.
And so it is that eventually we learn one man’s trash is another man’s gold. And conversely, we’ve been preached, that other man’s global warming is your internal combustion. You know this because the Princeton grad student informed you, although you didn’t ask, that any kindergartener can tell you that. You also know this because you paid for gas money in college babysitting your kindergartener’s teacher and she often accosted you with a picture of an aged transvestite smoking his cigarette through a hole in her throat—his name was Stephanie. You also noticed on her the marked absence of the handprint across the temple that you received when you accosted your mom with a picture of an aged transvestite smoking her cigarette through a hole in his throat—her name was Steve. They only shared hair styles and clothes when you were younger, but your children know them as Aunt Steve and Uncle Stephanie. Before they married, Aunt Steve and Uncle Stephanie quit smoking and decided everyone else will too, and now you’re all going to watch them kiss. At your dinner table. They won't help you clean up afterward, although they will happily discard your children’s prayers for you and fondle them to bed.
Into the fire
The professor indoctrinates the class with constructive criticism of your work. “Take off your shoes for your speech, be at ease with the supple rug beneath your toes!” she invites you. It’s up to you to discover the pit she’s used it to conceal. The benefit to you is not having to peel away the wound with your sock. She casts a pall over her Seventies guilt as she tells them that’s why they’ve come to Georgetown Law after all, and while she personally quite loathes your opinion, she respects your “courage” to stand before the whole diverse, multicultural, gender-neutral, above-quota class! and actually admit it! It’s rather like a twelve step classroom and the person seated beside you passed the floor to you—she discovered she forgot her speech homework as her trembling hands hide away the erstwhile clump of useless, fleshy, watermarked bond tissue it was written on. And while the good liberal children can have the fancy letters after their names when they leave, you’ll get your single letter in the mail—an F. It’s the page behind your mandatory, state-sponsored contraception insurance contribution and private tuition bill. That’s the one stapled onto your tithe statement. “We know how hectic life can be and we’ve all misplaced a bill in the shuffle.” They know this because they’re so busy looking out for the children! and it’s tantamount to rape!—no, then assault! You know this because you’re late for your other job, but you don’t dare miss what the selfless, caring, ACORN-salaried volunteer just said to that white trash hooker and her cartoonish, furred pimp. “Why not sign up for electronic funds transfer today! We’ll rush a portion of all proceeds to a hungry child desperately in need of your help.” They’ll have their pick of the litter of imported children you pay to house when they’re sold into slave prostitution on the floor above. Your bill for that is on your 1040A, and I hope you’ve already paid it because the penalties for waiving your natural rights are much, much higher, although you won’t need to send us a 1099 for that! Not yet.
A childless woman implores the grieving mother in pink to stop protesting the commander on her behalf. Only the grief is but a drop in a pink sea of naked, ugly women who wash her grief into spite as they turn their venomous gaze on you. They’re thrown forcibly before your eyes, like a snowball approaching your periphery as you look away, only to meet the barrage over there where instinct told your bloody, conservative eyes they’d find safety—you might have closed them but they already cut away your eyelids. You nearly forgot that because their razor found other pleasure centers on your hateful, mean-spirited body, and they keep reminding you of that with a bullhorn to your ear. And besides, you were just driving home from work and suddenly your car was being rocked and keyed because you’re obviously rich if you can afford that car. Pay no mind to the miles of sloganeered, leather-appointed minivans you just passed—my husband spent sixteen years in college to be able to afford that car and neither of us bought one until he was tenured three years later! You'll be paying for your tenner while you remember that the imploring, childless woman’s son gave his life for your son’s in Iraq. What they won’t let you forget is that the grieving mother’s naïve child was conscripted against his Peace Corps dreams and sent away to die, by an oilman from Texas, an imperialist who lied! Oilmen lied! her son died! But it wasn’t the commander, they tell you now, it was his polluting Halliburton pal who had them killed. It wasn’t Banking Barney Frank, it was those Wall Street Jews! And those ecorapist Republicans! And Joe Leiberman, too! You saw Obama refuse to send them off a dead vet. The part you missed was greedy Halliburton sending down Daddy to plug the leak yet.
This mindset drops by your house unannounced at midnight for breakfast, moves in the extended family as you shop for a bigger Family Size, impresses a pregnancy upon your impressionable young daughter when you leave for your second job, and punches your wife for not leaving cash in her purse when they drive off in her car. They didn't notice the part where they taught your son how to properly use a credit card; they didn’t see him through the lines they used it to scrape on your mirror or the fog they smoked up while you were out.
Fret not, though, for all is well in case my metaphors heretofore made you and your useless clump of fleshy tissue ill. Soon you’ll be able to wait for a doctor just as long as they’ll make you wait and not a second before you learn your pre-existing fetus isn’t covered after all by the Patient Protected Sex and Deferred-Care Act of Christmas Eve in District of Columbia!, 2009, as amended by Waivers for Liberal Donors and Exemptions for Congresskirts of Every Day Since Boxing Day!, 2009. In the meantime, chew on this stimulus bar and drink this smooth super jazz committee for awhile. Dr. President still has some apologies to hand out, among all the other of your things you believed were not his to give, and he’ll be delayed raising funds on his trip back from Iran.
In any case, we’ve got this Internet that keeps growing up and it’s already off to school. All the while, unsung champs like Andrew Breitbart were posting the class pictures and movies out there for all of us to see, and now we’ve seen first hand our neighbors traipse across our lawns to steal our property and quell our speech. Not many people dared to confront them for it. But thanks to guys like Andrew, that’s changed quite a bit now. The only bullets they’re used to are the ones they’ve ascribed to us from a madman, so real bullets into the cornfield scare them off and the air freshens up soon enough after they’ve run away.
While Leftist liberals smeared his reputation to spare themselves legitimate shame, Andrew articulated their crimes and gave modern testimony to their storied infamy. He saw an outrage when I did, and we came of age at exactly the same moment. It was Dong Silver, Long, his Netherland play ranch, a can of Coke and our loquacious vice president fawning over a conveniently black crisis-in-manufacture. Of course it helped that she was desperately female. But her utter blackness nearly saved the day! You didn’t hear her rebounding from Berkeley to Boston when Brandeis beckoned her home? Beirut on the Charles is never far away for Leftist Professor Anita Hill. She might have stopped briefly and preached the feminist gospel to Juanita Broaddrick and Kathleen Willey along the way, had it not been for the evil White Right ascribed upon those miserable, indefensible souls.
Andrew was a friend I never met, but he gave his friends like me a strong and powerful voice we didn’t have. I’m thankful Matt Drudge gave him a start and that he was close with those other friends I haven’t met, because they’re not likely to forget him with his torch and sword. Nor am I. And when I tire from time to time of the politics of the day, I’ll dig up his old Twitter feed and laugh at the frauds he exposed. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind still being around to remind us of the vicious, Leftist hatred he pulled up from the filthy graves they dug for themselves.
I’m going to allow comments on this post, for obvious reasons.
Enjoy.
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