Saturday, June 6, 2009

They’re Not Even Funny

What the hell is this all about? Did the National Review hold a contest at a local middle school to see who could come up with this week’s cover? I mean, regardless of whether you think this racist and offensive or not, it’s worst sin is that it’s just flat out fucking dumb. Honestly, this is just juvenile, mean and stupid. This is something Biff and Skip thought up in the locker room after practice.

Then again, the National Review is run by adolescents. Let’s not forget editor Rich Lowry’s immortal words from last October:

I’m sure I’m not the only male in America who, when Palin dropped her first wink, sat up a little straighter on the couch and said, “Hey, I think she just winked at me.” And her smile. By the end, when she clearly knew she was doing well, it was so sparkling it was almost mesmerizing. It sent little starbursts through the screen and ricocheting around the living rooms of America. This is a quality that can’t be learned; it’s either something you have or you don’t, and man, she’s got it.

As for the racism, the wee lads are just following Daddy Buckley’s example, who in a 1957 article entitled, “Why The South Must Prevail,” wrote the following:

The central question that emerges . . . is whether the White community in the South is entitled to take such measures as are necessary to prevail, politically and culturally, in areas in which it does not prevail numerically? The sobering answer is Yes–the White community is so entitled because, for the time being, it is the advanced race. It is not easy, and it is unpleasant, to adduce statistics evidencing the cultural superiority of White over Negro: but it is a fact that obtrudes, one that cannot be hidden by ever-so-busy egalitarians and anthropologists.”

National Review believes that the South’s premises are correct. . . . It is more important for the community, anywhere in the world, to affirm and live by civilized standards, than to bow to the demands of the numerical majority.

Boys will be boys.

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