Poor Rudyard Kipling. How many great authors are more reviled for their politics than beloved for their writings? Not even Ezra Pound, we think: Although he was a disgraceful fascist, people still have a soft spot for him. And Jean-Paul Sartre? Sure, he was an unrepentant apologist for Communism, but heÂ’s ever so chic.

Yet the unabashed imperialist Mr. Kipling, regardless of his great verse, will forever be remembered for his line about “the white man’s burden”—bringing Western civilization to the benighted barbarians. The same folks who think The Jungle Book was composed by Walt Disney detest the ethnocentric Mr. Kipling. He’s as unfashionable as a pair of spats.

We, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” were reflecting on Mr. Kipling anew upon coming up with a name for what we consider a relatively new phenomenon. We call it by two titles: “The White Woman’s Burden” and “Dating as Social Work.”

What, you may or may not be asking yourself, are we talking about? WeÂ’re glad we made you ask, dear reader.

Darn near everyone knew a few white girls in college whose past and present boyfriends, if brought together for a photograph, would resemble the United Nations, minus the Western countries. Their dating past is like a Bennetton ad—without all that preachy anti-death-penalty stuff. Unlike most co-eds, who are content to shack up with some milquetoast frat boy with a white baseball cap surgically stapled to his head, these gals seem only to fancy young men whose backgrounds are suitably Third World.

ItÂ’s as if they have some sort of points system: Five for an Indian; eight for an Arab; 10 for a Latino; 14 for a Native American; and a full 20 for an African. The more the homeland of this fellow represents hell on earth, the more these gals savor them. In short, failed states make them horny.

Now, before we continue with our rant, allow us to inform you that, at heart, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are integrationists. We think that anyone from any ethnic group should be able to date a partner from any other ethnic group—and opponents of this are bigots.

Still, we would be remiss if we failed to mention that this “Dating as Social Work” often rankles. For one, there seems to be something rather pandering about it—as if some upper-middle class WASP named Gwendolyn can lay claim to “understanding oppression” merely by going to a movie with a guy named Juan. Yeah: You know all about slavery now, Ms. I-Went-To-Choate.

Further, most of these gals wind up marrying some rich white lawyer and chalk up their time with Achmed and Tito to their delightfully anti-racist past. As such, the time they spend on dinner with the oppressed irks their parents, pleases their womenÂ’s studies professors, and allows them to feel even more high and mighty. These chicks are just the straight versions of what is known at womenÂ’s colleges as the LUG: Lesbian Until Graduation.

That’s why we call this phenomenon “Dating as Social Work” and “The White Woman’s Burden”: Though its perpetrators like to think their dating habits are helping society, they’re merely serving as an opportunity for self-congratulation. It’s the multicultural version of scalping.

But maybe what particularly troubles us, dear reader, is how unfair all this is to our white male brethren. We know, we know: They’re white and male—they’re responsible for all the world’s ills, and, accordingly, they deserve all the knocks they get. We went to college too. Still, we can’t help but feel a bit sorry for the inequity of it all.

After all, every minority this side of Timbuktu wants to date white women. From Bangkok to Bengal, Caucasian women are where itÂ’s at.

But white men? Are you kidding? Who the heck wants to spend time with those infantile oppressors?

So step aside, Rudyard Kipling. Old-school imperialism is out and social imperialism is in. “Take up the white woman’s burden--/Send forth the best ye breed.”

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Our pals at The Huffington Post are in a huff. A large number of the columns on display there call for the heads of anyone related to the Mark Foley page-gate brouhaha—no matter how tangentially.

Fire Tony Snow, shrieks the peculiarly named Erin Kotecki Vest. Remove Dennis Hastert, bellow others. Hang Matt Druge!

Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” happen to agree that former Congressman Foley’s actions were deplorable and people are right to probe into the conduct of those who may have known of his shenanigans and allowed them to pass unnoticed.

Yet we couldn’t help but conclude that, in getting in a lather about the Foley business, our pals at the Huffington Post are demonstrating—once again—their passionate attachment to hypocrisy.

We donÂ’t mean to cast any aspersions, but it seems rather clear that erstwhile Congressman Foley is a gay man. This doesnÂ’t mean that, qua homosexual, heÂ’s entitled to the support of the Huffington Post; our radical pals have every right to dislike politicians regardless of their sexual orientation. But the perfervid denunciation of homosexual pedophilia (or, if you prefer, ephebophilia), rings a bit hollow, coming as it does from the Huffsters.

Allow us to explain what we mean. Surely one of the most successful and popular examples of left-wing agitprop in this country is Eve Ensler’s feculent radical feminist play The Vagina Monologues. This horridly written anti-male tract has become all the rage on college campuses—hardly any school fails to perform this dimwitted show on Valentines Day (or V-Day, as Ms. Ensler prefers).

And what, dear reader, does the much-heralded radical feminist play The Vagina Monolgues champion? Well, among other things an older lesbian’s sexual encounter with an underage girl. In the original version of the play, the gal was 13; her age was since changed to 16. Delightfully, the mature woman in the scene exclaims about the encounter: “If it was rape, it was good rape.”

Wow: How charming. And how suitable: The revised version of the much-lauded Vagina Monologues touts lesbian pedophilia with a 16-year-old gal—the very age of the boys whilom Congressman Foley harassed. Except, of course, Congressman Foley didn’t rape any boys.

So, our feminist pals are off celebrating V-Day and The Vagina Monologues in February and are calling for Congressman FoleyÂ’s (and any other RepublicanÂ’s) head in October. But surely the folks at the Huffington Post are even more egregiously hypocritical: They boast Eve Ensler as one of their beloved columnists.

Could our buddies at the Huffington Post explain whatÂ’s going on here? Do they dislike Congressman FoleyÂ’s actions because he isnÂ’t a lesbian or because heÂ’s a Republican? Obviously, they have no problem with pedophilia per se.

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Less than two days—fewer than 48 hours. Less than the amount of time it feels like when you sit through the movie Waterworld. This, dear reader, is how long it took the crack young staff to force Glenn Reynolds’ hand.

As e-strollers all round the Internet well know, yesterday afternoon Mr. Reynolds, under what we can only describe as feverish pressure, caved into our hunger strike’s demands and gave us our Instalanche. For the price of a Yom Kippur-and-a-half, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” got our much-sought-after “link.” And darn it if it doesn’t feel really good.

Naturally, our brazen display of Internet power will have other “weblogs” nervous. We don’t blame them: A successful hunger strike in less than two days?

How long did it take GandhiÂ’s hunger strike to compel the British to leave India? WeÂ’re not sure, but we bet it was longer than two days. Accordingly, we feel fully justified in asserting that weÂ’re currently more powerful than Gandhi.

And just as magnanimous. Sure, we could have stooped to some World-Wide Web violence in order to secure our goals; we could have been the Internet version of the Tamil Tigers. But no: We took the morally laudable route, employing creative non-violence to get Mr. Reynolds to cave.

At this time of vindication, dear reader, we would feel remiss if we did not heartily thank Mr. Reynolds. It must have been a difficult decision for him: Does he let the crack young staff starve or does he send us a “pointless link”? The campaign from our boosters such as Dan Riehl, Dr. Rusty, the Llamas, and others couldn’t have made his work easy for him. But we think he made the right call.

In fact, in order to thank Mr. Reynolds for his kindness, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” want to repay the favor. It’s the least that we can do.

So, Mr. Reynolds, here you go: A “link” from the crack young staff. Around the office, we like to call it a “Hate-lanche.”

Man, he’ll watch his “hits” just roll on in.

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