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Tom Coburn is a Big Fat Jerk


Home of the Barking Moonbat


Sunday, February 13, 2005

Speaking of Substance: The New Minnie Pearl

I don't quite understand the zeal with which some women (and men, for that matter) clothe themselves in desperation, especially when that woman is Maureen Dowd. I mean, can you imagine? She gets to write --- okay, in my case, it would be has to write --- op-eds for the New York Times. She lives in a huge and exciting city, and likely has plenty left over from her paycheck to enjoy that city in every way imaginable. She's cute enough and a redhead, and she gets paid to be snarky. Who doesn't she know and who hasn't she met?

Sure, it's not for me --- I get much more excited about seeing a groundhog in the shed than I would, say, Santorum. Jesus, can you imagine having to actually talk to that whackjob, much less look at him?

Still. The world handed to you on a platter and it's just not enough. The hunger of not enough, never enough.

And not particularly enlightening commentary on the subject, either.

Desperation should be reserved for mothers with hungry children. Husbands with dying wives. Citizens of countries being taken over by fascists and warmongers. Elderly women with banks and developers shoving them out of their homes. Wounded and broken veterans left to die in the rain under bridges and stairwells.

I never would have even read this column, were it not for this post at Steve Gilliard's blog. Sure, I suppose it could be argued it's merely a lighthearted piece in celebration of Valentine's Day.

But it's a waste of precious time and space, as both Gilliard and James Wolcott point out.

It's an Op Ed in The New York Times, for crying out loud, not the Oprah show.

Jeeez. And meanwhile, Rome continues burning ....


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