She didn't just hit a nerve. Apparently she wielded a ball peen hammer on each and every elbow. I can't find any evidence this morning that anybody in the blog world thinks that Arianna Huffington's entry into the blogworld is anything but a gigantic disaster.
A few years ago this woman was one of the darlings of the political right. It seems that every time I turned on C-SPAN there was her smiling face parroting the party line du jour, whatever the topic happened to be. Well it took some time for this wide-eyed little Greek to see the big picture in this paragon of freedom and prosperity we call America, but the more she read and studied, the more populist she became.
After what turned out to be no more than a honeymoon, she emerged on the other end of the political spectrum as an articulate spokesperson for the enemy. Nobody bothered to tell her that changing your point of view about something will do nothing but marginalize your influence for the rest of your public life. Oh well, some people never learn.
The Huffington Post is only two days old and already it is receiving slings and arrows of outrageous fortune far out of proportion to its novelty. No need to cite any links. They are in wide agreement that we are about to see another lead balloon. The more gentlemanly among them keep their comments to a few quiet, thinly-veiled sneers. She must be doing something right.
Looking over the opening pages I found most of what was there tepid and predictable. High-profile people are typically circumspect, not given to a lot of brimstone and such, so I was not surprised. This piece by Larry David I thought was cute:
I know this may not sound politically correct, but as someone who has abused and tormented employees and underlings for years, I am dismayed by all of this yammering directed at John Bolton. Let's face it, the people who are screaming the loudest at Bolton have never been a boss and have no idea what it’s like to deal with nitwits as dumb as themselves all day long. Why, even this morning my moronic assistant handed me a cup of coffee with way too much milk in it. I was incensed.
"You stupid ignoramus," I screamed, doing all I could to restrain myself from tossing the luke-warm liquid in her face. “There's too much freaking (I didn’t say freaking) milk in here! What the freak is wrong with you?!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered. Like sorry’s going to fix everything. I’m not interested in sorry. Sorry doesn’t cut it with me.
“Look, you idiot,” I continued, “I wouldn’t mind so much if you gave me too little milk. Little can be fixed. We can add to little.”
“Shall I get you another cup?”
“No, I’ll suck on my thumb. Yes, get me another cup, you douche bag! And chew on this -- it’s going to cost you a dollar!”
This, of course, brought on the requisite tears. At which point I'd had enough and began chasing her down the hall where she took refuge in the bathroom. Boo-hoo. Poor thing!
Meanwhile, I’m the one who had to go into the kitchen and make my own coffee! And guess what? I missed a very important phone call from this masseuse whom I’d been trying to get an appointment with forever!!
(Sorry about all the exclamation points, but you can see how worked up I get over this Bolton business!)
There is one thing, though, I’ll guarantee: that will be the last time she puts in too much milk. So get to work, Bolton. Show these other countries who’s the boss.
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