Collins and Petri aren’t swift: The premise never changes.
Gail Collins writes about politics—but she finds politics boring! This must be the ten millionth time she has started a column this way:
COLLINS (11/12/11): Guess What It’s Time For!Who knew? How about anyone alive on the planet in recent decades? In the 1988 primary season, for example, the Democratic candidates engaged in dozens of debates. (Michael Dukakis once put the count at 48.) This year’s series of debates is nothing surprising or new.
It’s the weekend. The air is brisk, the leaves are tumbling, so it’s time for—yes!—another Republican debate!
Who knew there were going to be more of these things than football games?
To Collins, though, it’s borr-ring! She builds column after column around the idea that there are too many debates; too many candidates; too many primaries; too many speeches and issues.
Sometimes, sports writers say there are too many bowl games. But they rarely say they’re bored by football itself. Lady Collins is bored by her subject. Why won’t this high lady do the right thing and stop writing columns about it?
(Mitt Romney’s dog barks in paragraph 6. Does anyone doubt the possibility that Collins is mentally ill?)
More amazing is Alexandra Petri’s column in today’s Post. To see it as it appears in the wild, click here, then click once again.
As people bereft of ideas often do, Petri works from Swift today, though her reference to the over-sampled satirist is edited out of her hard-copy column. (To read her not-too-swift blog post, click this.) All we’re left with is the garbage which follows.
To Petri, straight outta Harvard, the problem isn’t the one percent. The problem is grandma, who doesn’t enjoy eating cat food:
PETRI (11/12/11): Our society has a long-standing predilection for the old. You have to be at least 35 years old to run for president. Forty-six out of 100 senators were born in 1947 or earlier. And our national finances are a textbook example of the sort of system you would throw together under the assumption that you were going to die soon and would not have to worry where the money would be coming from.To this fatuous child, the problem isn’t the one percent. It’s those wrinkly, gamy old people!
But the trouble is that they won’t. That would be too easy. Instead, they are going to linger on well into the triple digits, at excruciating expense, if modern medicine has anything to say about it. And we’ll be stuck footing the bill!
Look, I have no personal ill will against the old. Except Helen Mirren, because she is better preserved than I am.
But they are easier to catch than those who are merely rich and, according to the census, it all shakes out to about the same thing. They have been so busy making sure that their lives will be better than the lives of their parents that they have forgotten to make sure that our lives will be better than theirs. And the longer they linger, the more we’ll notice.
So let’s move out of the streets and into the retirement villages, off Wall Street and into the gated communities.
Eat the elderly! Except Warren Buffett. He knows where they hid the money.
Sure, they’re old. They’re wrinkly and taste sort of gamy, with a hint of talcum powder.
But the alternative is to continue to allow them to devour us. And it’s getting cold outside.
How does the palace elite manage to find these people? More intriguingly, why do they always hire women to write this strain of crap?
In our view, it’s kind of amazing that an editor published this column. We’ll be curious to see if the ombudsman gets dragged into the stew. Petri simply isn’t real swift—but she fits right into a fatuous niche which might be called, “Spawn of Dowd.”
Where the heck do they find these people? And couldn’t they please send them back?