April 07, 2004
“Hatemonger’s Quarterly” News Special: Duke’s
As is now well known throughout the “blogosphere,” the Duke Conservative Union (DCU) caused a national brouhaha by printing an advertisement in The Chronicle, Duke University’s student newspaper, demonstrating a massive discrepancy in registered Democrats and Republicans in eight departments at Duke, along with the Deans of the University. As The Weekly Standard rightly noted, this massive disparity—of an 18 to 1 order—“right away created quite a lot of ‘Oh, dear, how gauche!’ tongue-clucking down in Durham.” Among other findings, the DCU reported that Duke’s History Department contained 32 Democrats, 4 unaffiliated, and 0 Republican faculty members.
That is, it seems, until now. A local television report offers this recent news story, that John French, associate professor of History at Duke, has been arrested along with his wife for masterminding an out-of-home drug-selling operation. It appears as if Dr. French, when not writing on the evil role of the United States in Latin American history, was doing his best to help out the Latin American economy the “Manuel Noriega way.”
Need we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” now suggest that the DCU offer a formal retraction of its advertisement? After all, there shall probably soon be only 31 Democrats in Duke’s History Department. That is, of course, unless Duke would like to offer Dr. French the “Peter Tosh Chair of History,” or some such impressive endowed professorship.
Need we suggest, moreover, that a Republican professor of History at Duke—if such a creature existed—would be far less likely to moonlight as a drug dealer? Perhaps, given the brand of vitriolic, left-wing partisanship emanating from much of Duke’s History Department, it is hard to tell who actually isn’t under the influence.
“Hatemonger’s Quarterly” News Special: Duke’s History Department Down to 31 Dems
As is now well known throughout the “blogosphere,” the Duke Conservative Union (DCU) caused a national brouhaha by printing an advertisement in The Chronicle, Duke University’s student newspaper, demonstrating a massive discrepancy in registered Democrats and Republicans in eight departments at Duke, along with the Deans of the University. As The Weekly Standard rightly noted, this massive disparity—of an 18 to 1 order—“right away created quite a lot of ‘Oh, dear, how gauche!’ tongue-clucking down in Durham.” Among other findings, the DCU reported that Duke’s History Department contained 32 Democrats, 4 unaffiliated, and 0 Republican faculty members.
That is, it seems, until now. A local television report offers this recent news story, that John French, associate professor of History at Duke, has been arrested along with his wife for masterminding an out-of-home drug-selling operation. It appears as if Dr. French, when not writing on the evil role of the United States in Latin American history, was doing his best to help out the Latin American economy the “Manuel Noriega way.”
Need we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” now suggest that the DCU offer a formal retraction of its advertisement? After all, there shall probably soon be only 31 Democrats in Duke’s History Department. That is, of course, unless Duke would like to offer Dr. French the “Peter Tosh Chair of History,” or some such impressive endowed professorship.
Need we suggest, moreover, that a Republican professor of History at Duke—if such a creature existed—would be far less likely to moonlight as a drug dealer? Perhaps, given the brand of vitriolic, left-wing partisanship emanating from much of Duke’s History Department, it is hard to tell who actually isn’t under the influence.
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Week of Loathing (Day the
A few superannuated members of our crack young staff here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” remember the tumult that surrounded the original publication of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. Appearing in 1963, this book, by the Den Mother of so-called Second-Wave Feminism, argued, among other things, that American culture was quashing the constructive impulses of females. Friedan disparaged male-run operations like Ladies' Home Journal, which spent much of its editorial acumen on such trivialities as cake recipes and vacuuming tips.
As Hal Colebatch discussed in the Autumn 2000 number of The Salisbury Review, however, womenÂ’s more prominent role in the promotion of American culture has hardly raised standards. On the contrary: It appears as if women were not, contra Friedan, frothing at the mouth to peruse magazines containing lengthy disquisitions by the likes of Jean-Paul Sartre and Kate Millet. Rather, with women long ensconced at the editorships of such lofty publications as Ladies' Home Journal, it seems as if these magazines still confine themselves mostly to, well, cake recipes and vacuuming tips. So much for the intellectual firepower of the weaker sex!
But we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that Friedan’s complaints regarding the deleterious effects of aspects of American society have some intrinsic merit. And this brings us to Gillette, the American company hawking a line of shaving accessories that bills its products in myriad television commercials as “The Best a Man Can Get.”
You’ve seen the advertisements before: A strapping, thirtysomething hunk wearing nothing but a towel and a smile stares into his bathroom mirror with smug satisfaction, marveling at the high quality of his tonsorial tools. His wife and (presumably) his little daughter look on with sheer (or is that shear?) bliss: Daddy sure is a handsome fellow, isn’t he? The charming familial scene closes with a dime-store jingle: A handful of C-List singers croon blithely about “Gillette, The Best a Man Can Get.”
We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have no quibble with Gillette products. Almost 47 percent of our staff is male, and informal polling around the office water-cooler has found that many of us use Gillette products. In fact, 3 out of 5 male employees of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” believe that 5 out of 6 doctors recommend Gillette products over the other leading brand. Which, we suppose, is Bic—a beacon of hygienic mediocrity, if you ask us.
We take umbrage, however, with the lofty catch-phrase Gillette offers the American public; after all, it touts itself as “The Best a Man Can Get.” Although countless Americans have endured the formulaic chanting of this advertising hook time and time again, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t believe that the phrase has received an adequate parsing.
This, dear reader, is where the intrepid staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” steps in. As we see it, the jingle “Gillette, The Best a Man Can Get” could mean approximately two things, which may or may not be mutually compatible:
1) Gillette offers males the highest quality shaving products.
2) The use of Gillette products shall amount to the apex of any and every manÂ’s life.
We don’t have any problems with claim number 1; sure, it may be a bit of an immodest—even faintly incredible—statement, but television advertising has long been known for its blatant braggadocio. We, however, have colossal problems with claim number 2.
And this leads us back to Betty Friedan and her feminist caterwauling. How dare Gillette champion itself as the pinnacle of male achievement! Yes, Gillette offers a razor that has three blades; but certainly some aspects of the male experience make this seem niggling. Why, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can easily name an assortment of people and items that mean far more to the quality of our lives. To pick a few at random: Henry Winkler, Formica, and suppositories. Okay, our selections weren’t totally chosen at random. Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” utterly detest the vile—nay, misandrist—claims of the Gillette company. Without today’s addition to the First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th-10th, 2004) miring in the depths of a male self-help session, let us suggest that, in sooth, men can do far, far better than Gillette.
In fact, if this weren’t the case, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” know what we would do with our razors.
Week of Loathing (Day the Fourth): Gillette, Self-Championed as “The Best a Man Can Get”
A few superannuated members of our crack young staff here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” remember the tumult that surrounded the original publication of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. Appearing in 1963, this book, by the Den Mother of so-called Second-Wave Feminism, argued, among other things, that American culture was quashing the constructive impulses of females. Friedan disparaged male-run operations like Ladies' Home Journal, which spent much of its editorial acumen on such trivialities as cake recipes and vacuuming tips.
As Hal Colebatch discussed in the Autumn 2000 number of The Salisbury Review, however, womenÂ’s more prominent role in the promotion of American culture has hardly raised standards. On the contrary: It appears as if women were not, contra Friedan, frothing at the mouth to peruse magazines containing lengthy disquisitions by the likes of Jean-Paul Sartre and Kate Millet. Rather, with women long ensconced at the editorships of such lofty publications as Ladies' Home Journal, it seems as if these magazines still confine themselves mostly to, well, cake recipes and vacuuming tips. So much for the intellectual firepower of the weaker sex!
But we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that Friedan’s complaints regarding the deleterious effects of aspects of American society have some intrinsic merit. And this brings us to Gillette, the American company hawking a line of shaving accessories that bills its products in myriad television commercials as “The Best a Man Can Get.”
You’ve seen the advertisements before: A strapping, thirtysomething hunk wearing nothing but a towel and a smile stares into his bathroom mirror with smug satisfaction, marveling at the high quality of his tonsorial tools. His wife and (presumably) his little daughter look on with sheer (or is that shear?) bliss: Daddy sure is a handsome fellow, isn’t he? The charming familial scene closes with a dime-store jingle: A handful of C-List singers croon blithely about “Gillette, The Best a Man Can Get.”
We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have no quibble with Gillette products. Almost 47 percent of our staff is male, and informal polling around the office water-cooler has found that many of us use Gillette products. In fact, 3 out of 5 male employees of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” believe that 5 out of 6 doctors recommend Gillette products over the other leading brand. Which, we suppose, is Bic—a beacon of hygienic mediocrity, if you ask us.
We take umbrage, however, with the lofty catch-phrase Gillette offers the American public; after all, it touts itself as “The Best a Man Can Get.” Although countless Americans have endured the formulaic chanting of this advertising hook time and time again, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” don’t believe that the phrase has received an adequate parsing.
This, dear reader, is where the intrepid staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” steps in. As we see it, the jingle “Gillette, The Best a Man Can Get” could mean approximately two things, which may or may not be mutually compatible:
1) Gillette offers males the highest quality shaving products.
2) The use of Gillette products shall amount to the apex of any and every manÂ’s life.
We don’t have any problems with claim number 1; sure, it may be a bit of an immodest—even faintly incredible—statement, but television advertising has long been known for its blatant braggadocio. We, however, have colossal problems with claim number 2.
And this leads us back to Betty Friedan and her feminist caterwauling. How dare Gillette champion itself as the pinnacle of male achievement! Yes, Gillette offers a razor that has three blades; but certainly some aspects of the male experience make this seem niggling. Why, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” can easily name an assortment of people and items that mean far more to the quality of our lives. To pick a few at random: Henry Winkler, Formica, and suppositories. Okay, our selections weren’t totally chosen at random. Still, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” utterly detest the vile—nay, misandrist—claims of the Gillette company. Without today’s addition to the First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th-10th, 2004) miring in the depths of a male self-help session, let us suggest that, in sooth, men can do far, far better than Gillette.
In fact, if this weren’t the case, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” know what we would do with our razors.
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April 06, 2004
Week of Loathing (Day the
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are lucky enough to be finished with our college educations. After a collective four years dabbling in the hubbub one normally associates with a Liberal Arts education—“Take Back the Mid-Afternoon” rallies, “White People Are Evil” teach-ins, &c.—we have all blithely moved on to greener pastures, sliding down the razor blade of life, as Tom Lehrer memorably put it.
All, that is, but one of us. One of our young staff members—let’s call him “Chip”—is toiling away at a Master’s at Bates College. It is largely thanks to the acumen of “Chip,” then, that we offer this, our third installment of the First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th-10th, 2004), which is directed at a particularly noxious irritant, the Comparative Literature graduate student.
Dear reader, you know the type: Shaved head; miniscule octagonal glasses; dangly earrings; all-black wardrobe provided by Banana Republic; clunky footwear; a tattoo of Judith Butler; a leather pouch chock-a-block with tomes by such authors as Antonio Gramsci, Homi Bhabha, and Fredric Jameson.
A rather repellent visage, n’est pas? But wait, it gets worse. One can always catch the Comparative Literature graduate student smoking clove cigarettes outside the campus library, prattling on about the “fetishizing of anti-consumerist pedagogy” in an ostentatiously stentorian voice.
Naturally, the Comparative Literature graduate student deserves as much obloquy as we can muster. After all, he is busy attempting to help the impoverished while being blessed enough to be far away from anyone who is, well, impoverished. And what help he offers! Surely our country’s underfed benefits greatly from such recondite articles as “W(h)ither the (Dis)course: Toward a (Post)colonial Parsing of (Glut)tony”! Why, look at all the delectable parentheses that our nation’s starving can savor! It is, naturally, the merest coincidence that such articles not only greatly ameliorate world poverty, but also land the Comparative Literature graduate student an enviable tenure-track gig at Princeton, where he can really get in touch with the poor.
What perhaps most offends us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” about the Comparative Literature graduate student is the nauseatingly safe way in which he touts his radical credentials: He “subverts the dominant paradigm” amidst a faculty that is busy “subverting the dominant paradigm.” How gutsy!
The art critic Harold Rosenberg once excoriated such pseudo-radicals with the delicious phrase “the herd of independent minds.” Given the countenance of many of the female Comparative Literature graduate students, this description appears a propos in more ways than one.
Week of Loathing (Day the Third): The Comparative Literature Graduate Student
We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are lucky enough to be finished with our college educations. After a collective four years dabbling in the hubbub one normally associates with a Liberal Arts education—“Take Back the Mid-Afternoon” rallies, “White People Are Evil” teach-ins, &c.—we have all blithely moved on to greener pastures, sliding down the razor blade of life, as Tom Lehrer memorably put it.
All, that is, but one of us. One of our young staff members—let’s call him “Chip”—is toiling away at a Master’s at Bates College. It is largely thanks to the acumen of “Chip,” then, that we offer this, our third installment of the First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th-10th, 2004), which is directed at a particularly noxious irritant, the Comparative Literature graduate student.
Dear reader, you know the type: Shaved head; miniscule octagonal glasses; dangly earrings; all-black wardrobe provided by Banana Republic; clunky footwear; a tattoo of Judith Butler; a leather pouch chock-a-block with tomes by such authors as Antonio Gramsci, Homi Bhabha, and Fredric Jameson.
A rather repellent visage, n’est pas? But wait, it gets worse. One can always catch the Comparative Literature graduate student smoking clove cigarettes outside the campus library, prattling on about the “fetishizing of anti-consumerist pedagogy” in an ostentatiously stentorian voice.
Naturally, the Comparative Literature graduate student deserves as much obloquy as we can muster. After all, he is busy attempting to help the impoverished while being blessed enough to be far away from anyone who is, well, impoverished. And what help he offers! Surely our country’s underfed benefits greatly from such recondite articles as “W(h)ither the (Dis)course: Toward a (Post)colonial Parsing of (Glut)tony”! Why, look at all the delectable parentheses that our nation’s starving can savor! It is, naturally, the merest coincidence that such articles not only greatly ameliorate world poverty, but also land the Comparative Literature graduate student an enviable tenure-track gig at Princeton, where he can really get in touch with the poor.
What perhaps most offends us, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” about the Comparative Literature graduate student is the nauseatingly safe way in which he touts his radical credentials: He “subverts the dominant paradigm” amidst a faculty that is busy “subverting the dominant paradigm.” How gutsy!
The art critic Harold Rosenberg once excoriated such pseudo-radicals with the delicious phrase “the herd of independent minds.” Given the countenance of many of the female Comparative Literature graduate students, this description appears a propos in more ways than one.
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April 05, 2004
Week of Loathing (Day the
We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” regularly make a collective trek to the local gymnasium to get some exercise (or, as common parlance has it, “to work out”). Although this keeps our crack young staff in tip-top shape, it subjects it to various indignities. First, naturally, we must endure the “music” played in the weight room: A species of noxious, repetitive garbage so repellent that, if played for a monkey, the primate would surely start hurling feces.
But this is only one of sundry vexations that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must endure. Surely a key irritant is a rebarbative trend in women’s exercise-wear. As you, dear reader, may have noticed, many women—or girls, as they prefer to be called—take great pride in donning shorts and sweatpants with writing emblazoned on their posteriors.
Oftentimes, it seems, the writing in question is the name of the college these ladies attend: Austin Peay, Beaver College, the Eugene Lang New School for Social Research (for our more steatopygic friends), &c. In their clouded little minds, these ladies must be thinking: Forsooth, there is no better way to advertise for my college than fashion a billboard out of my rump! Or some sentiment of that nature.
To which we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Au contraire, ladies; this species of hindquarters advertising is neither clever nor attractive. And it’s about as classy as a Cheech and Chong movie.
There is only one exception to this rule: One of our young staff members received his Master’s Degree in Animal Husbandry at the State University of New York at Buffalo. At said institution of higher learning, girls were wont to wear shorts with the word “Buffalo” displayed on the bum. This, as you might imagine, dear reader, was unintentionally hilarious.
What, you ask, can we, the many readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” do about this irritating eyesore? We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” suggest some covert sabotage: While a gal wearing shorts that read “U Mass” on her fanny is busy on the tread mill, why not surreptitiously remove the “M” from her pants? We think that this would make quite a statement. After all, there’s nothing like truth in advertising.
Week of Loathing (Day the Second): Posterior Penmanship
We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” regularly make a collective trek to the local gymnasium to get some exercise (or, as common parlance has it, “to work out”). Although this keeps our crack young staff in tip-top shape, it subjects it to various indignities. First, naturally, we must endure the “music” played in the weight room: A species of noxious, repetitive garbage so repellent that, if played for a monkey, the primate would surely start hurling feces.
But this is only one of sundry vexations that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must endure. Surely a key irritant is a rebarbative trend in women’s exercise-wear. As you, dear reader, may have noticed, many women—or girls, as they prefer to be called—take great pride in donning shorts and sweatpants with writing emblazoned on their posteriors.
Oftentimes, it seems, the writing in question is the name of the college these ladies attend: Austin Peay, Beaver College, the Eugene Lang New School for Social Research (for our more steatopygic friends), &c. In their clouded little minds, these ladies must be thinking: Forsooth, there is no better way to advertise for my college than fashion a billboard out of my rump! Or some sentiment of that nature.
To which we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: Au contraire, ladies; this species of hindquarters advertising is neither clever nor attractive. And it’s about as classy as a Cheech and Chong movie.
There is only one exception to this rule: One of our young staff members received his Master’s Degree in Animal Husbandry at the State University of New York at Buffalo. At said institution of higher learning, girls were wont to wear shorts with the word “Buffalo” displayed on the bum. This, as you might imagine, dear reader, was unintentionally hilarious.
What, you ask, can we, the many readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” do about this irritating eyesore? We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” suggest some covert sabotage: While a gal wearing shorts that read “U Mass” on her fanny is busy on the tread mill, why not surreptitiously remove the “M” from her pants? We think that this would make quite a statement. After all, there’s nothing like truth in advertising.
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April 04, 2004
Week of Loathing (Day the
In future posts, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” shall make it clear as day that we have many bones to pick with the Public Broadcasting System (PBS). It’s not that we abhor public funding for the arts; on the contrary, we think it’s a splendid idea. But we can’t seem to understand how public funding of John Tesh is valuable, unless, say, he were paid to be mercilessly flogged with copies of his own CDs. We at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” would gladly pay extra tax money for that.
But John Tesh concerts and kindred exercises in middlebrowalia don’t get our dander up quite as much as Charlie Rose, the meretricious panjandrum who hosts his own nightly talk show on PBS. As a result, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to inaugurate the First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th-10th, 2004) with a thorough drubbing of this insanely irritating character.
What, you may be asking yourself, makes Charlie Rose so repellent? Well, dear reader, there is hardly enough time in a day to explain. First, the self-important Mr. Rose enjoys offering his viewing audiences guests of an uniquely high caliber: Michael Ignatieff, Richard Perle, John Updike, Ed Harris, et al. Sure, Mr. RoseÂ’s show proffers the same kind of noxious liberal tilt omnipresent at PBS: Debates on the liberation of Iraq, for instance, are cast as The World vs. David Brooks. But this is not the kind of irritant we are driving at.
So, you say, Mr. Rose has a fairly interesting array of guests; whatÂ’s so offensive about that? Just wait: We havenÂ’t gotten to the horrid part. After booking this intellectually hefty array of speakers, Mr. Rose churns out the worldÂ’s worst interviews with them.
How so, you ask? (You are awfully full of rhetorical questions today, aren’t you?) Well, Mr. Rose appears to be blissfully unaware that he is merely the interviewer; he does not realize that his job is to ask a few clever questions and shut up. Instead, Mr. Rose is under the unfortunate—and sublimely irritating—presumption that he has the same intellectual standing as his interviewees.
Thus the viewer of Mr. Rose’s program must suffer through the torturous attention-grabbing techniques of its host. Long-winded questions, incessant interruptions, systematic missings-of-the-point—such is the arsenal that Mr. Rose carries with him for every interview. In his deluded little mind, Mr. Rose must be thinking: “My audience doesn’t want to hear what Henry Kissinger has to say about statecraft; it wants my learned opinion. The public doesn’t want to hear Saul Bellow’s take on the Jewish-American novel; it craves my thoughts.”
To which we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” reply: No, Mr. Rose, we never want your insipid opinion—on anything. You make us wish that you will be replaced by Pete Rose. At least he has some integrity.
Week of Loathing (Day the First): Charlie Rose
In future posts, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” shall make it clear as day that we have many bones to pick with the Public Broadcasting System (PBS). It’s not that we abhor public funding for the arts; on the contrary, we think it’s a splendid idea. But we can’t seem to understand how public funding of John Tesh is valuable, unless, say, he were paid to be mercilessly flogged with copies of his own CDs. We at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” would gladly pay extra tax money for that.
But John Tesh concerts and kindred exercises in middlebrowalia don’t get our dander up quite as much as Charlie Rose, the meretricious panjandrum who hosts his own nightly talk show on PBS. As a result, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to inaugurate the First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th-10th, 2004) with a thorough drubbing of this insanely irritating character.
What, you may be asking yourself, makes Charlie Rose so repellent? Well, dear reader, there is hardly enough time in a day to explain. First, the self-important Mr. Rose enjoys offering his viewing audiences guests of an uniquely high caliber: Michael Ignatieff, Richard Perle, John Updike, Ed Harris, et al. Sure, Mr. RoseÂ’s show proffers the same kind of noxious liberal tilt omnipresent at PBS: Debates on the liberation of Iraq, for instance, are cast as The World vs. David Brooks. But this is not the kind of irritant we are driving at.
So, you say, Mr. Rose has a fairly interesting array of guests; whatÂ’s so offensive about that? Just wait: We havenÂ’t gotten to the horrid part. After booking this intellectually hefty array of speakers, Mr. Rose churns out the worldÂ’s worst interviews with them.
How so, you ask? (You are awfully full of rhetorical questions today, aren’t you?) Well, Mr. Rose appears to be blissfully unaware that he is merely the interviewer; he does not realize that his job is to ask a few clever questions and shut up. Instead, Mr. Rose is under the unfortunate—and sublimely irritating—presumption that he has the same intellectual standing as his interviewees.
Thus the viewer of Mr. Rose’s program must suffer through the torturous attention-grabbing techniques of its host. Long-winded questions, incessant interruptions, systematic missings-of-the-point—such is the arsenal that Mr. Rose carries with him for every interview. In his deluded little mind, Mr. Rose must be thinking: “My audience doesn’t want to hear what Henry Kissinger has to say about statecraft; it wants my learned opinion. The public doesn’t want to hear Saul Bellow’s take on the Jewish-American novel; it craves my thoughts.”
To which we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” reply: No, Mr. Rose, we never want your insipid opinion—on anything. You make us wish that you will be replaced by Pete Rose. At least he has some integrity.
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April 03, 2004
Let the Hating Begin! In
In our last post, dear reader, we offered a truncated history of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—a “weblog” that we hope shall become a must-read for the thinking man. Our crack staff believed that this summary discussion of our journal’s storied past would limit the number of inquires we have received from national and international media. After all, it appeared that the mere title of our publication has generated what Tina Brown, editor-cum-lowbrow, would call some “buzz.”
Yet our potted history of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has not reduced the many ‘phone calls we have received from the media to a handful. On the contrary. The queries regarding the origins of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” have only been replaced with those regarding another topic: Namely, when is the hating going to begin?
We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that our first week of Internet publication has been so concerned with getting our “web-bearings” straight that we have yet to begin to upbraid, to chastise, to scorn. In short, the many readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” may be asking themselves this very question: “Where’s the hate?” (Wasn’t that one of Walter Mondale’s presidential campaign slogans? Or perhaps a Taco Bell advertising hook? But we digress.)
To which we respond, “Let the Hating Begin!” In fact, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to introduce our First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th to April 10th, 2004), which shall begin in earnest tomorrow. Our young staff hopes that it shall become the most rancorous, bile-filled period of contumely since Howard Dean made his infamous “I Have a YAAARRRHHH” speech.
So fear not, dear reader! In the days to come, our crack young staff shall treat numerous worthy targets to a veritable cornucopia of abuse. Plenty of cows—sacred and secular alike—shall be slaughtered; plenty of oxen—holy and profane alike—shall be gored.
As our founder, Mr. Eliot McPhee once opined, “There is so much to hate, and so little time.”
Let the Hating Begin!
In our last post, dear reader, we offered a truncated history of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—a “weblog” that we hope shall become a must-read for the thinking man. Our crack staff believed that this summary discussion of our journal’s storied past would limit the number of inquires we have received from national and international media. After all, it appeared that the mere title of our publication has generated what Tina Brown, editor-cum-lowbrow, would call some “buzz.”
Yet our potted history of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has not reduced the many ‘phone calls we have received from the media to a handful. On the contrary. The queries regarding the origins of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” have only been replaced with those regarding another topic: Namely, when is the hating going to begin?
We, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” must admit that our first week of Internet publication has been so concerned with getting our “web-bearings” straight that we have yet to begin to upbraid, to chastise, to scorn. In short, the many readers of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” may be asking themselves this very question: “Where’s the hate?” (Wasn’t that one of Walter Mondale’s presidential campaign slogans? Or perhaps a Taco Bell advertising hook? But we digress.)
To which we respond, “Let the Hating Begin!” In fact, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pleased to introduce our First Annual Week of Loathing (April 4th to April 10th, 2004), which shall begin in earnest tomorrow. Our young staff hopes that it shall become the most rancorous, bile-filled period of contumely since Howard Dean made his infamous “I Have a YAAARRRHHH” speech.
So fear not, dear reader! In the days to come, our crack young staff shall treat numerous worthy targets to a veritable cornucopia of abuse. Plenty of cows—sacred and secular alike—shall be slaughtered; plenty of oxen—holy and profane alike—shall be gored.
As our founder, Mr. Eliot McPhee once opined, “There is so much to hate, and so little time.”
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April 02, 2004
What's in a Name? Although
Although “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has only been up and running for a few short days, there has already been massive confusion about its title. Our crack staff has been answering a congeries of ‘phone calls from countless media sources—The Denver Daily Woodchuck, The Berkeley Snorter, &c.—about the origin of our publication's name. One young staff member even reported that The New York Times gave us a call—but we refused to answer it: Frankly, ever since the whole Jayson Blair brouhaha, we don’t trust the Gray Lady anymore.
We at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” figured, dear reader, that we might as well let you in on the history of our storied publication. In 1920, a 42-year-old schoolteacher named Eliot McPhee undertook the publication a new journal, which he entitled “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” It seems as if Mr. McPhee, who taught science to adolescents, desired to use his new quarterly as a means to get out some of his abundant anger. As a result, for the three short years of its publication, the print edition of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” was dedicated to a thorough trouncing of sundry 8th-graders.
Unfortunately for Mr. McPhee, a particularly vitriolic attack on a student named Mary Adkins landed “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” in a spot of trouble. Ms. Adkins’ concerned parents informed the local authorities about Mr. McPhee’s screed, and the police shut down his operation.
Thus ended the uneventful history of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—until now. Last year, a member of our young staff-to-be found a copy of Mr. McPhee’s publication in the main library on the campus of Salem State University (also known as the State University of Massachusetts at Salem). Immediately impressed with the high quality of the rancor contained in the journal, our young staff member got in touch with Mr. McPhee’s widow’s daughter, who was more than happy to grant us sole use of the title of her late step-father’s journal.
As such, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are proud to offer the Internet edition of Mr. McPhee’s storied publication. We hope that it lives up to the grand tradition of the print edition of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” It is a little-known fact, actually, that the original version of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” in addition to publishing Mr. McPhee’s screeds, actually printed the first piece of poetry ever penned by President Jimmy Carter. In an installment of our “weblog” to follow, in fact, we shall publish this tantalizing bit of verse from poetaster-cum-President Carter.
So fear not, dear reader! “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is only in name a quarterly. We hope to offer routine animadversions on a plethora of topics. We think it would make the late Mr. McPhee proud.
What's in a Name?
Although “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” has only been up and running for a few short days, there has already been massive confusion about its title. Our crack staff has been answering a congeries of ‘phone calls from countless media sources—The Denver Daily Woodchuck, The Berkeley Snorter, &c.—about the origin of our publication's name. One young staff member even reported that The New York Times gave us a call—but we refused to answer it: Frankly, ever since the whole Jayson Blair brouhaha, we don’t trust the Gray Lady anymore.
We at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” figured, dear reader, that we might as well let you in on the history of our storied publication. In 1920, a 42-year-old schoolteacher named Eliot McPhee undertook the publication a new journal, which he entitled “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” It seems as if Mr. McPhee, who taught science to adolescents, desired to use his new quarterly as a means to get out some of his abundant anger. As a result, for the three short years of its publication, the print edition of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” was dedicated to a thorough trouncing of sundry 8th-graders.
Unfortunately for Mr. McPhee, a particularly vitriolic attack on a student named Mary Adkins landed “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” in a spot of trouble. Ms. Adkins’ concerned parents informed the local authorities about Mr. McPhee’s screed, and the police shut down his operation.
Thus ended the uneventful history of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—until now. Last year, a member of our young staff-to-be found a copy of Mr. McPhee’s publication in the main library on the campus of Salem State University (also known as the State University of Massachusetts at Salem). Immediately impressed with the high quality of the rancor contained in the journal, our young staff member got in touch with Mr. McPhee’s widow’s daughter, who was more than happy to grant us sole use of the title of her late step-father’s journal.
As such, we, the crack staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are proud to offer the Internet edition of Mr. McPhee’s storied publication. We hope that it lives up to the grand tradition of the print edition of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly.” It is a little-known fact, actually, that the original version of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” in addition to publishing Mr. McPhee’s screeds, actually printed the first piece of poetry ever penned by President Jimmy Carter. In an installment of our “weblog” to follow, in fact, we shall publish this tantalizing bit of verse from poetaster-cum-President Carter.
So fear not, dear reader! “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” is only in name a quarterly. We hope to offer routine animadversions on a plethora of topics. We think it would make the late Mr. McPhee proud.
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April 01, 2004
The Department of Political Grievance-mongering
We here at "The Hatemonger's Quarterly" were lucky (if that is the mot juste) to intercept a homework assignment from the Public Health Program at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. A long-time confidante of "The Hatemonger's Quarterly" is unfortunate enough to attend this program, whose classes, she says, often degenerate into mindless political cheerleading.
The assignement in question stems from a session the Public Health students were compelled to attend on the topic of Public Health and Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender issues. This could certainly be a fine topic for such a session: After all, lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgendered peoples could certainly have an assortment of health-related issues that would be important for any Public Health program to discuss.
The homework assignment that accompanied the session, however, makes it crystal clear what the session was really designed to offer its students: A partisan take on political and moral issues that would allow of no heterodoxy. For example, one of the potential assignments is the following: "Write a letter to your senator/legislator about an LGBT issue you support (for example equal rights for same sex unions, or healthcare benefits for same sex partners)." Clearly, the leaders of this LGBT session are touting a party-line on these issues: It is assumed (if not enforced) that everyone has the exact same views on LGBT issues. What a shocking use of funds on the part of a public university!
This is mere political grievance-mongering masquerading as education. The powers-that-be at UNC's Public Health Program want to compel students to parrot their own party-line on LGBT matters. What if a traditionalist Christian, an Orthodox Jew, or a traditionalist Muslim were a part of the Public Health Program? Would their views be acceptable to the "educators" at the Public Health Program, or would they be shunned as an example of "homophobic" hate speech?
We here at "The Hatemonger's Quarterly" have no qualms with LGBT partisans: Our staff favors offering many of the benefits given to married couples in America to same-sex partners. But the homework assignment of UNC's Public Health Program speaks to a fundamental educational issue: Is the goal of the Program to preach to students about "acceptable" and "unacceptable" political views, or is it earnestly concerned with educating its students?
Sally Satel demonstrated the disgraceful take-over of American Public Health departments by left-wing political proselytizers in her wonderful book PC MD. Satel chronicles the shift in these departments from an earnest concern for the public's health to the more dubious goal of left-wing political cheerleading. It is disgraceful to see that UNC's Public Health Program is following this sordid tradition of ideological demagoguery.
The Department of Political Grievance-mongering
We here at "The Hatemonger's Quarterly" were lucky (if that is the mot juste) to intercept a homework assignment from the Public Health Program at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. A long-time confidante of "The Hatemonger's Quarterly" is unfortunate enough to attend this program, whose classes, she says, often degenerate into mindless political cheerleading.
The assignement in question stems from a session the Public Health students were compelled to attend on the topic of Public Health and Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender issues. This could certainly be a fine topic for such a session: After all, lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgendered peoples could certainly have an assortment of health-related issues that would be important for any Public Health program to discuss.
The homework assignment that accompanied the session, however, makes it crystal clear what the session was really designed to offer its students: A partisan take on political and moral issues that would allow of no heterodoxy. For example, one of the potential assignments is the following: "Write a letter to your senator/legislator about an LGBT issue you support (for example equal rights for same sex unions, or healthcare benefits for same sex partners)." Clearly, the leaders of this LGBT session are touting a party-line on these issues: It is assumed (if not enforced) that everyone has the exact same views on LGBT issues. What a shocking use of funds on the part of a public university!
This is mere political grievance-mongering masquerading as education. The powers-that-be at UNC's Public Health Program want to compel students to parrot their own party-line on LGBT matters. What if a traditionalist Christian, an Orthodox Jew, or a traditionalist Muslim were a part of the Public Health Program? Would their views be acceptable to the "educators" at the Public Health Program, or would they be shunned as an example of "homophobic" hate speech?
We here at "The Hatemonger's Quarterly" have no qualms with LGBT partisans: Our staff favors offering many of the benefits given to married couples in America to same-sex partners. But the homework assignment of UNC's Public Health Program speaks to a fundamental educational issue: Is the goal of the Program to preach to students about "acceptable" and "unacceptable" political views, or is it earnestly concerned with educating its students?
Sally Satel demonstrated the disgraceful take-over of American Public Health departments by left-wing political proselytizers in her wonderful book PC MD. Satel chronicles the shift in these departments from an earnest concern for the public's health to the more dubious goal of left-wing political cheerleading. It is disgraceful to see that UNC's Public Health Program is following this sordid tradition of ideological demagoguery.
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