Posted on June 20th, 2006 by Gavin M.
Knock knock. Who’s there? It’s Bill Whittle again, and this time he’s writing a book about how people like Bill Whittle are saving civilization from the slavering barbarians who comprise the rest of us — including Katrina-Negroes, ‘appeasers,’ Democrats, the French, and all who don’t delight primarily in owning real estate (which they can rent to serfs, etc., reducing America to a Gogol novel). Randroid, basically. But one who imagines he thought up the whole scheme himself.

L-R: Whittle, some bozo, Hugh Hewitt, some other nimrod.
His idea? Clap for Tinkerbell. No, literally. No, I’m not kidding. That’s what he says.
Now the other thing I remember is that moment in Peter Pan where Tinkerbell lies dying…dying from a lack of belief. It is at this point that Peter Pan would walk to the front of the stage, and implore us in the most desperate terms to clap as loudly as we could to show how much we believed in her, believed in magic, believed in redemption, believed in the power of our own belief. We would clap till our hands were raw, clap and stomp our feet until the foundations shook, parents and children alike, while Peter would shake his head sadly and tell us it wasn’t belief enough. Then we would clap like furies, scream like Viking berserkers, mom and dad beside us, hollering and shouting and stomping their feet, a wall of sound, a rhythmic, pulsating tsunami of emotion…and then, just then, the slightest stirring of a delicate hand…
(Read the rest if you like to see things get worse.)
Because, you know, world history is a series of conflicts between good and evil, determined by ‘us’ stamping our feet, whooping, and waving torches to defeat ‘them.’
It’s striking to realize that millennia of human inquiry can circle neatly back to the ring of stones in the Afar where a proto-Bill-Whittle leaned into the fire gnawing a gazelle bone, and yawped that the clan who lived across the mountain were bwaa-ha-haa! nasty, dirty bad people, unlike us good people, ho-ho. And we should get them! Because they are bad, and not good!
Historical tides of operatic stupidity, of course, followed, thanks to the eternal Bill Whittles who fall for any old dumb thing, who lack context and don’t understand any motivations besides their own, who have a field of reference spanning a few years at the most, et cetera and so forth. And so now the present Bill Whittle is like, “No wait, I’ve got it all figured out. Bwaa-ha-haa! stupid, dirty bad people, unlike us good people, ho-ho. And we should get them! [Insert cites from Victor Davis Hanson, Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, possibly Thucydides, Gandhi, and/or the Infant Gospel of Thomas, and who the hell else knows what.] Bwahahaa.”
We have Jeff Goldstein’s cock here in a Mason jar, Bill. Thwack! Thlop! Thwack! Oh, you like that? Thlop! Thwack, Schlonk! Want more? Thlonk, Schwap (etc).
Bradrocket adds: This about sums it up, doesn’t it?

I got nothin’ to add to that astonishing backhanded compliment. What say you, Mr. Prototypical Nerd?

“Ha ha! These guys sound like they sit on the couch all day eating brownie mix and listening to Klingon-English translation tapes!”
So say we all.
Gavin adds: Would it be in questionable taste to have Dafydd ab Hugh as Scotty and, um, you-know-who as Sulu?
Or is ‘questionable taste’ a lost notion at this point?