Soggy toilet paper sheet repurposed as a mesh romper for bougie chipmunks David Brooks emerged from his seltzer waterbed today to warn us that the Democrats will definitely lose the Presidential election if we don’t remember to be as damp as he is. He is maybe not wrong—perhaps a can of La Croix might have the best chance of beating Trump—but that’s not the point. It’s that the journey to this “truth” is rooted in an aggressively milquetoast spinelessness. It’s a flinch at a punch that hasn’t even been faked.
Also, I probably should share something with you: I didn’t read his column. I mean, I skimmed the first few paragraphs, but each time I tried reading further, I’d bang my head on my keyboard. Not out of frustration—although that works too—but because I kept falling asleep. Finishing that ode to relentless flaccidity was like watching paint fuck, and I don’t know what happened after graf five, but now my forehead is bleeding.
He has to know how boring he is, right? And not just his words, and his punctuation, and his glasses, but the ecosystem of vapidity behind them, right? And I’m not asking this to try to boring-shame him, because I’m boring as fuck! I spent Saturday night reading two-year-old AV Club recaps of Big Little Lies! (And the comments!) I am thoroughly and inextricably boring! But the sort of boring that plagues David Brooks and much of his white brethren is literally a plague. Can you imagine being so aroused by and impressed with the status quo that you dip your brain and your dick in a vat of milk to appease it? Not only is that weird as fuck, but it’s not fair to the milk!
But these are the people we’ve been told to try to win over if we want to win. These are the milk-dipped dick masses with our fates in their hands, apparently. These are the moth-eaten lames who’ve branded themselves the adults in the room. The grown-ups. We have to meet them where they are, even if that place happens to be a Chico’s fitting room.
I’m already bored with this and him and them, so I’m done! Bye!