Web Envy We, the crack

Web Envy

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” couldn’t help but notice the hoopla surrounding the 2004 Weblog Awards. In fact, if we didn’t detest the horrendous rock band Starship so much, we’d say that we are knee deep in the hoopla.

It seems as if many of the “websites” that we, the crack young staff, read each day, are becoming bigwigs in the land o’ “weblogs.” Our pals the Llama Butchers, the Cranky Neocon, and Dr. Rusty are among those nominated in various impressive categories.

Now, we love all of the aforementioned “websites”; we read them all religiously. But we couldn’t help but notice that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” didn’t get nominated for jack-bone anything. Not a thing. You can count all our nominations on no fingers.

We’re like Tony Danza on Oscar night; we didn’t even get an invitation to the big party. As the clipboard Nazis would say: Sorry, you’re not on the list. Pretty soon, people will be making comparisons between our humble “weblog” and the vapid, illiterate hokum offered by Mr. Sullywatch. Well, it may not get that bad, but we should always prepare for the worst.

Now, donÂ’t get us wrong, dear reader: WeÂ’re not crying over spilled milk. WeÂ’re crying over the fact that we are about as popular as a Ford Taurus in Amish country. WeÂ’re about as desirable as genital warts. WeÂ’re as loveable as Mark FurhmanÂ’s and GeraldoÂ’s love-child.

And what, you may be asking yourself, does the crack young staff intend to do about this? Well, first we intend on voting for our pals. And then we hope that the ultimate triumph of our “weblog” friends will bring us some residual hits. Kind of like Internet shrapnel.

Until then, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” intend to whine like a bunch of stuck-up thirteen-year-olds whose parents wouldn’t let them purchase thongs at Abercrombie & Fitch. It’s, like, so, like, unfair.

Whilst we are busy kvetching, dear reader, we humbly exhort you to vote for your favorite “weblogs.” And check out the Llamas, Gordo, and Rusty; they deserve to be a part of your daily routine. We remember them way back when they were insignificant “webloggers”—like we are.

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A Well Kept Secret We,

A Well Kept Secret

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” hope you are sitting down, because we’re about to lay some astounding news on you. Frankly, given the fact that you are currently at your computer, in all likelihood you are seated. Those of you who are not, however, we urgently implore to pull up a chair and ease yourself into it.

Recently, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have had reason to suspect that some professional baseball players…take steroids.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: ThatÂ’s really farfetched. And we certainly would have agreed with you a few weeks ago. Sammy Sosa may have no neck and Barry Bonds may currently be eating a baseball bat, but thatÂ’s no reason to think that this is the result of some sort of medicinal contraband.

Yet the new testimony of slugger-cum-humanitarian Jason Giambi appears to have solved a question that has vexed sports journalists for decades. As was widely reported in the press, Mr. Giambi, living up to the standards of another paragon of morals in the world of sports, Pete Rose, has finally admitted what he has long denied: He has taken steroids.

Stop the presses! Stop the presses! Jason Giambi is doped up! Who would have guessed that a fellow with his girlish good looks is actually on the juice? Not us.

Sure, when Major League Baseball stars aren’t smashing homerun records they are out howling at the moon and punching in car windows; but don’t we all do that kind of stuff? We here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” don’t want to speak for anyone else, but we think we all do. Every last one of us.

Now that this whole steroids issue has been sufficiently addressed, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” wonder what ingenious investigative reporters will discover next. Perhaps they’ll find out that college basketball players at universities with fancy teams aren’t really the “scholar-athletes” they are advertised as.

Maybe they’ll find out that such “scholar-athletes” would be more appropriately named “rapist-athletes”? Perhaps they will discover that these “rapist-athletes” actually don’t do much in the way of studying? Or, if an enterprising young journalist works hard enough, he may even find evidence of big-time college sports stars receiving all kinds of hidden perquisites. Boy, that would really be newsworthy.

For now, however, we shall all have to be sated by the steroids story, and wait a little bit longer for another installment in the journalistic series “Profiles in the Obvious.”

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Lawful Entries Well, dear reader,

Lawful Entries

Well, dear reader, it’s the weekend, and normally we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are off gallivanting and cavorting. Or taking out the trash. But not this week, friends. For, as we discussed in a recent post, we eagerly await more entries to our humble contest: Our Official First Annual “Worst Academic Paper Title” Competition.

In order to tease more entries out of our enormous readership, we decided to offer you yet more examples of the kinds of marvelously ridiculous items we hope to receive.

For instance, dear reader, you may not be aware of the publication Psychoanalytic Dialogues. If so, allow us to get you up to speed with a scholarly lucubration from this journal’s eleventh volume: D. Evans’ “Unlawful Entry: Male Fears of Psychic Penetration.”

As an Irishman drinking his first swig of bourbon would say: That’s the stuff! Indeed it is: Dr. Evans’ title offers just the right amount of outré sex-talk to titillate a bunch of sexless radicals who inhabit the purlieus of academe. We might like it to offer a little more academic jargon, but that’s a rather niggling criticism.

Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” hope that you, dear reader, can offer us some lawful entries to our contest. Even the female members of the crack young staff hope that you send in some titles that don’t lead to fears of “psychic penetration”—whatever the heck that is. We much prefer the old fashioned kind.

If Dr. Evans’ piece didn’t get you sufficiently hot and bothered about our contest, how about Jane Gallop’s wonderful article “Phallus/Penis: Same Difference,” which appeared in the collection intriguingly titled Men by Women? The distinguished Dr. Gallup, for those of you blissfully unaware of her, received a gorgeous excoriation from the pen of The New Criterion’s Roger Kimball, after she published her learned tome Feminist Accused of Sexual Harassment.

So, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” again urge you to click the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen, and send us a hideously wonderful submission. If you don’t, you may have fears of psychic penetration for the rest of your life.

Probably not, but maybe.

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Enya Have you, dear reader,

Enya

Have you, dear reader, ever been to a department store? If so, you have probably been bombarded by the repulsive sounds of Enya.

And who—or what—is Enya? Why Enya, along with Xerxes and Attila, is surely one of the most fear-inspiring one-word names in the history of civilization. In addition, she appears to be a “New Age” musician.

Devotees of yuppie comfort music canÂ’t get enough of the saccharine, over-produced garbage Enya offers. SheÂ’s plays music for those who admire James Taylor, but find his tunes a little too edgy. Her noxiously silky music is the aesthetic equivalent of drinking three entire jugs of maple syrup.

Why, you may ask, is Enya so popular? Good question. The most obvious answer, of course, is that people are outrageously stupid. But that doesnÂ’t appear to get to the heart of the execrable EnyaÂ’s vogue.

It seems to us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” that Enya presents her listeners with a suitable patina of pseudo-respectability that fools the dimwitted thirty-something neophyte into believing that her music is somehow deeply sophisticated. After all, think her mindless fans, Enya often features a ‘cello or two. What could be more high-toned than that?

As such, dear reader, Enya markets herself as essentially Bach for morons—the brand of music that know-nothings can enjoy once they get a bit too old for MTV. Enya offers all the worldly intellectualism that people associate with classical music, without any of that irritating competence. Her music is, in essence, a simpleton’s version of classical music.

Naturally, as a “New Age” artiste, Enya must present herself as deeply concerned about one’s “inner child,” the “spirit bear,” and all that other adult-contemporary hokum. Her “website,” as a result, offers fans a discussion of lyrics supposedly “inspired by a Hokku, or Haiku, written by the Japanese poet Basho, while he was traveling to Otsu.”

To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Oh, come on! This is pathetic! It’s as if the chuckleheads who love Enya will be deeply impressed by the fact that she knows a fancier way of spelling haiku.

In fact, Enya’s “website” has inspired us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” to compose a haiku about her music:

A Hokku, or Haiku, about Enya by the Crack Young Staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”

This sounds like garbage.
We canÂ’t fathom anyone
Who would like such crap.

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The Clif Garboden Fan Club

The Clif Garboden Fan Club

A little while ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” discussed a pathetic rant penned by one Clif Garboden that appeared in The Boston Phoenix. Mr. Garboden, who was mighty peeved at John Kerry’s electoral defeat and who apparently hadn’t taken his medication for a few weeks, let off some steam in his piece, delicately titled “Screw You, America.”

In said article, the delightful Mr. Garboden hurled nasty epithets at those Americans who have the audacity to disagree with Clif Garboden. He memorably labeled those who hale from so-called red states as a passel of “slack-jawed inbred flatlanders.”

Well, it appears as if the good Mr. Garboden’s piece has ruffled a few feathers. It seems as if some of the “slack-jawed inbred flatlanders” are actually literate, and decided to take issue with Mr. Garboden’s miasmic ravings.

Still, not all of those who troubled themselves to read Mr. GarbodenÂ’s piffle reacted with scorn. One Vana Prewitt of Chatham County (NC) had this to say:

I loved the article by Clif Garboden. I can’t remember a time when I saw something in print that sounded like it came out of the mouths of my best friends. We have this crazy idea that the written word needs to be more formal than spoken language and for the most part, written language is sterile. Not the case with “Screw You, America.” Thanks for making me laugh at our pathetic political situation.

Oh, dear. Where do we begin? We wonder if Mr. Garboden, who snubbed his nose at the hoi polloi, had an audience as learned as Ms. Prewitt in mind. After all, sheÂ’s no slack-jawed inbred flatlander: SheÂ’s from North Carolina.

The second sentence of this pathetic missive is gorgeous: “I can’t remember a time when I saw something in print that sounded like it came out of the mouths of my best friends.” May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that’s because Ms. Prewitt isn’t much of a reader? Or, alternatively, perhaps all of her pals are slack-jawed inbred flatlanders?

As bizarre as all this is, Ms. Prewitt’s letter becomes even more unhinged. She considers the notion that the written word should be more formal than colloquial conversations “crazy.” Due to this pernicious idea, she posits, “written language is sterile.”

To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: No, Ms. Prewitt; language isn’t sterile—that’s your boyfriend you’re discussing.

Mr. Garboden should be proud to have such an eloquent defender in her corner. Sure, she’s about as educated as the average block of wood. And she ain’t exactly a master prose stylist. But, given the fact that she would happily don a “Clif Garboden sounds like he came out of the mouths of my best friends” T-shirt, we suppose that Mr. Garboden shouldn’t be so picky.

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“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual

“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual “Worst Academic Paper Title” Competition

If you, dear reader, are anything like us, you can’t get enough of academic articles. They’ve got everything you want—if you’re a chronic insomniac who has a weak spot for such phrases as “the dyadic mirror phase.”

As a result, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” decided to offer an Official First Annual “Worst Academic Paper Title” Competition. We figured that our manifold readers could come up with prime examples of the most gloriously inane titles in the history of the ivory tower.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: This competition is riding on the coattails of Philosophy & Literature magazine’s annual contest that gives a prize for the worst crafted academic sentence. To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Yeah, that’s pretty much true.

But frankly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” figured that hardly anything would rile up our tenured friends like an Official First Annual “Worst Academic Paper Title” Competition. After all, as we noted here, our pals in humanities departments can’t stand it when lowly journalists poke fun at the titles of their recondite studies.

In order to give you a sense of the kind of thing we are hoping to receive, dear reader, allow us to present an example.

Perhaps, like us, you are a subscriber to the Journal of Lesbian Studies. If not, you probably missed a recent article by one Debra Roth, which bears the jaw-droppingly wonderful title “Engorging the Lesbian Clitoris: Opposing the Phallic Cultural Unconscious.”

Aha! ThatÂ’s the stuff weÂ’re looking for. Not only is this moniker unintentionally porno-humorous, itÂ’s utter gibberish.

In fact, the paper is so rebarbative that even the first sentence of its summary sounds stupid:

This paper argues that colloquial language that casually refers to the male genitals as signifcations of power and authority (i.e., “having balls,” “getting it up,” “strapping it on,” etc.) has a particularly injurious effect upon lesbian subjectivity because of the critical ways in which lesbians must reject the hegemony of the phallus in order to experience themselves as richly embodied.

We don’t want to have a particularly injurious effect upon lesbian subjectivity, but may we humbly suggest that Ms. Roth, the author of this fine piece, has some balls? After all, we’ve never heard anyone utter the colloquial phrase “strapping it on.” Perhaps we aren’t traveling in the right circles.

Naturally, dear reader, Ms. RothÂ’s piece is replete with jargon-laden piffle:

A phallogocentric (Derrida, in Evans, 1996) ideational framework works to severely circumscribe the ways in which lesbians can grapple with the experiences of embodiment and otherness because it asks us to reach too far outside our own intrapsychic experience of self as subject or object in order to engage and more fully know our own sexual potency and aliveness.

Savor, dear reader, the sublimely clunky phrase “ideational framework works to severely circumscribe.” Perhaps Ms. Roth should put down her Derrida for a second and pick up a grade school grammar textbook; she ought to check out its “split infinitives” section.

But we digress. We hope that you get some sense of the magnificently ridiculous titles we want you to send us. As such, we are pleased as peacocks to announce:

“The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Official First Annual “Worst Academic Paper Title” Competition

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” exhort you, dear reader, to send us an inane title from an academic article (i.e., a piece penned by an academic and/or published in an academic journal).

As we do not, alas, have the resources to track down each article, entrants are required to submit e-documentation of this article’s title. Simply click the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen and offer us your entry, complete with an e-citation of the article in question.

Entries must be submitted by 5:00 pm EST on December 20th, 2004 in order to be considered. Our Official Contest Judges will pour through the entries, and the lucky winner will have his/her title published on this humble “website,” along with copious praise for his/her genius.

Naturally, dear reader, the winner will be the envy of all and sundry. So find a ridiculous article and enter today!

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