Finally, Lisa tells Homer, "It's a joke, Dad!"
"Oh! A JOKE! I get JOKES! Ha ha ha ha ha!"
We confess feeling a bit on the Homeresque side this afternoon after reading an op-ed piece in the National Review Online
penned by Kevin D. Williamson, deputy managing editor of this once-respected conservative collection of cartoonish clownery that William F. Buckley, Jr., must be rolling in his grave over.
to be a joke. Seriously. Nobody could write these things and mean them!
Titled "Like a Boss," the central conceit of the piece is that Mitt Romney should not run from his wealth. He should own it. It should be part of his outward persona.
OK, we say to ourselves. Nothing wrong with being rich. Being ashamed of your wealth would indicate shame in how your wealth was acquired.
But let's continue. First, put on some boots -- hip waders if you've got 'em. You'll thank us later.
Williamson begins his piece with the question as old as time itself. "What do women want?"
Then he answers himself.
The conventional biological wisdom is that men select mates for fertility, while women select for status — thus the commonness of younger women’s pairing with well-established older men but the rarity of the converse. The Demi Moore–Ashton Kutcher model is an exception — the only 40-year-old woman Jack Nicholson has ever seen naked is Kathy Bates in that horrific hot-tub scene. Age is cruel to women, and subordination is cruel to men.
Huh? Oh. A joke. We get jokes. It is a joke, right?
We thought so, until Williamson went on to describe the status women require in their mates as held by a certain Willard Mitt Romney that makes women ovulate that the mention of their name. If fact, we may be allowed to wonder if Williamson was ovulating as he wrote this funny, funny op-ed.
He goes on to define Romney's manliness:
The offspring of rich families are statistically biased in favor of sons — the children of the general population are 51 percent male and 49 percent female, but the children of the Forbes billionaire list are 60 percent male. Have a gander at that Romney family picture: five sons, zero daughters. Romney has 18 grandchildren, and they exceed a 2:1 ratio of grandsons to granddaughters (13:5). When they go to church at their summer-vacation home, the Romney clan makes up a third of the congregation. He is basically a tribal chieftain.
Goodness. Is it getting warm in here? But what about President Obama's status?
Professor Obama? Two daughters. May as well give the guy a cardigan. And fallopian tubes.
Ah. A joke. We get jokes. The deputy managing editor of a once-respectable right wing publication is not calling the President of the United States "unmanly" because he has daughters, right? Hah! What a funny joke. We still think it's a joke.
From an evolutionary point of view, Mitt Romney should get 100 percent of the female vote. All of it. He should get Michelle Obama’s vote. You can insert your own Mormon polygamy joke here, but the ladies do tend to flock to successful executives and entrepreneurs.
OK, now we know it's a joke. Right wingers don't believe in evolution. But Williamson's attitude toward women? If it weren't a joke, it would be detestable.
He is joking, right?
Romney should quit pretending that he’s an ordinary schmo with ordinary schmo problems and start living a little larger. He should not be ashamed of being loaded; instead, he should have some fun with it. He will discover something that the Obama campaign has not quite figured out yet: Americans do not hate rich people. Americans love rich people. Americans will sit on their couches and watch billionaire Donald Trump fire people on television — for fun.
Oh, yes! We LOVE
rich people. Ask anyone who just got his pink slip or was told his unemployment insurance had run out and nobody's hiring. We just LOVE rich people who buy up the companies we worked for, sold off the pieces and sent our jobs to India, China and Mexico. We want to KISS them. On their LIPS!
See? We can joke, TOO!
The hilarious stroking of Romney continues:
He was the guy who fired you. He was a boss, like his dad, and like his sons probably will be. Barack Obama was never in charge of anything of any significance until the delicate geniuses who make up the electorate of this fine republic handed him the keys to the Treasury and the nuclear football because we were tired of Frenchmen sneering at us when we went on vacation.
Oh. I get jokes. I was only in France for a few days in the Navy. And nobody sneered at me. But even if they did, that would be a horrible reason to choose a president.
Does Williamson really think that little of the average American voter? That we're delicate? That we're afraid of being sneered at by the French, and that's why we elected Obama?
But we should... like... Romney... because... he's the guy... who fired us?
Elections are not about public policy. They aren’t even about the economy. Elections are tribal, and tribes are — Occupy types, cover your delicate ears — ruthlessly hierarchical. Somebody has to be the top dog.
That would explain Seamus on the roof of the car... but is this guy saying we vote for people we hate because we fear them, because they leak testosterone from every pore?
Seems that way...
Look at that mess of sons and grandchildren. Look at a picture of Ann Romney on her wedding day and that cocky smirk on his face. What exactly has Mitt Romney got to be insecure about? That he’s not as prodigious a patriarch as Ramses II ... I bet he sleeps at night and never worries about that. He has done everything right in life, and he should own it.
Because... for some reason... that's what we want?
They guy who fired
us? The Boss
? The guy who will do what's best for HIM and if it means someone has to be canned... or killed... that's the cost of business?
Oh, wait. It's a Joke. It HAS to be a joke. Nobody REALLY thinks that? Do they?
Because this column reads like it was written by a guy who likes being put into a tight-fitting leather harness with a mask that has zippers over the eyes and a ball gag in his mouth and a feather duster up his butt, wearing a spiked collar (with the spikes on the inside) being led around on a leash crawling on broken glass on all fours, led by some guy with a deep, masculine voice who gives him a sharp swat on the hiney with a leather paddle every few seconds.
They don't let guys like that be managing deputy editors...
Whoops. Uh-oh. Mr. Williamson finished his column and made a little mess.
We're going to need a mop over here. Good thing he wasn't wearing anything under the chaps. Leather is a pain to get clean.