When, O Maureen, do you intend to cease abusing our patience? How long is that madness of yours still to mock us? When is there to be an end of that unbridled audacity of yours, swaggering about as it does now? Does not the biweekly mockery of the populace—does not the laughter throughout the city—does not the scorn of the people, and the union of all good men and women—does not the precaution of writing behind a firewall—do not the looks and countenances of this venerable body here present, have any effect upon you? Do you not feel that your plans are detected? Do you not see that your conspiracy is already arrested and rendered powerless by the knowledge which every one here possesses of it? What is there that you wrote last night, what the four nights before— where is it that you were—what demented muse that you summoned to meet you—what design was there which was adopted by you, with which you think that any one of us is unacquainted?
Shame on the age and on its principles! We are aware of these things; we see them; and yet this woman lives and writes. Lives! aye, she even appears in public! She takes a part in the public deliberations; she is watching and marking down and checking off for sub-mental analysis every individual among us. And we, gallant men and women that we are, think that we are doing our duty to the republic if we keep out of the way of her frenzied attacks.
You ought, O Maureen, long ago to have been led to retirement by command of the Ochs-Sulzbergers. That destruction which you have been long plotting against us ought to have already fallen on your own head.
What? Did not that most illustrious man, Arthur Sulzberger Jr, the Pontifex Maximus, in his capacity as the newspaper’s publisher, put to death Howell Raines and Gerald M. Boyd, for but slightly undermining its reputation? And shall we, who are the readers, tolerate Maureen, openly desirous to destroy the whole world with bile and snark? There was—there was once such virtue in this republic, that brave men and women would repress mischievous columnists with severer chastisement than the most bitter enemy. For we have a resolution of the people, a formidable and authoritative decree against you, O Maureen; the wisdom of the republic is not at fault, nor the dignity of this body. We, we alone,—I say it openly, —we, the people, are waiting in our duty.
Good one, Boo. And well deserved.
“Booman is now less the name of a man than that of eloquence itself.”
Splendid, absolutely Republican, in the good, old, Roman sense of the word.
Cicero just contacted me. He accepts your apologies. He says that he would like to accept them personally but unfortunately he has a noon date on the links with Barack Obama and Arthur Sulzberger Jr. He included the following latin phrase in the message as advice to you:
Roughly translated, it says “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” I texted him back and said that on the evidence of the ongoing rightward tack of the Democratic Party and this site, saying this to you is like et adducet illum ad Newcastle. (Bringing coals to Newcastle.) He hasn’t answered yet, but that’s understandable. It’s already 10 minutes after tee time. So it goes with the rich and famous. Even the dead ones. So it goes.
Gotta run. Maureen called. She says she desperately needs an infusion of Celtic joy. My speciality. Gotta run. Duty calls, don’tcha know.
Later…
AG
Fore!
When? When the paycheck stops coming.
A simple “Maureen Dowd is a nasty drunk” would have covered it.
It appears as though MoDo’s editors are also drunk. This paragraph:
“Why don’t you play 18 with Mitch McConnell? And John Boehner is a lot better than me, so I don’t want to play with him.”
The point of view changes throughout the piece in this totally incoherent way; this paragraph provides the most jarringly obvious example.
Yes, Dowd’s cynicism and poor set of priorities are very loathsome, but her horrible writing must be recognized as well.
I propose the addition of a new category to the Emmy Awards: Best Use of Shakespeare in a Political Context. And we already have a winner!
Cicero is much less loquacious in Shakespeare than he is here.
As if any of us wouldn’t want to be paid in box wine.
i regret to say i went and read the linked column. yecch. even for modo this is nasty shit.
The nastiness didn’t much surprise me this is MoDo, and to live in her world is to breathe an atmosphere of bile – but the sheer sophomoric-ness of it. I can see a middle school kid (boy, of course; most girls that age are a bit more sophisticated) being very pleased with himself for writing that column. It makes me want to pat Maureen on the head, pinch her flush little cheek, and ask her what she wants to be when she grows up.
Excellent, Booman, congrats!!!
(and I’m sorry – well, really not – I read yours first, then couldn’t get past her “fore” atrocious!, tried skimming but it actually gets worse from there. the last line – horrible. the whole manages to be sacrilegious and an offense against literature simultaneously)