Wolcott: “At the risk of sounding impolitic, whose stunningly crass idea was it to invite those awful pigs in a blanket…?”*
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(h/t Blogometer)
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Recent Comments
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Boy that Wolcott… He so witty.
Wow, what do I have to do to get called an “inveterate stirpot”?
I’m sure Charles at LGF and Roger L. Simon would be surprised to learn they are now conservative deadbeats.
Although, isn’t this the same jackass who rooted for hurricanes?
Aw, the widdle fella’s jealous. How cute…
SB: quality
not quantity
Wolcott didn’t care much about PJs, until Corn was invited and Wolcott wasn’t. Now he’s jealous so he puts it down because he wouldn’t want to be in the club anyway. Plain and simple.
Excellent opportunity for Corn to get his message out to people who might not ordinarily be exposed to it.
Jeff, you’re just jealous because you didn’t get creatively insulted. I mean, inveterate stirpot? Who wouldn’t be jealous? In all honesty, I’d be pissed too, that would be a great quote for the top left of your page there.
Wow!!
Inveterate stirpot. How whimsically funny this asshole is…….
You neglected today’s follow-up post, in which Jowls playfully wonders whether Josef Mengele is on PJM’s guest list.
The funny thing is that if he leaves it linked like that, the “Inveterate stirpot” will be whomever is next to be profiled. We can have “Who’s this week’s Inveterate Stirpot” drinking games.
Wolcott wouldn’t acknowledge me if I sauntered into his breakfast nook and began stirring his martinis with an ice dong I’d plucked from Janeane Garafalo’s nethers.
That dude sounds like a real hoot.
I’d say if one is going to haughtily refer to another as an inveterate stirpot, one ought to have the decency to learn how to learn how to link properly.
Else one might be taken for a fucking moron masquerading as an intellectual.
“Janeane Garafalo’s nethers”
There goes lunch.
Here’s the post to which Allah refers. An excerpt:
So. Pajamas Media = Nazism AND McCarthyism.
One wishes that before Mr Wolcott posted this he would have would have “foreseen” a scenario out of “The Cask of Amontillado,” preferably one that ended with his being drunk and inadvertantly cementing himself into a storm cellar with nothing more to keep him company than the hate in his heart and the paisley ascot that keeps his sagging jowls from invading and occupying his neck and chest.
I wonder who would win in a fight, Regis the straight-talking moustache or Wilbur and Phineas the haughty jowls?
I think by “utensil” he means “tool” and that means “dick” and that means “penis”
I’m offended. And more importantly my penis is offended. He demands an apology. These kind of code words may have been commonplace in seventh grade when we used words like “cashew” and “whanger” to describe penises of various sorts, but not any more. We live in a much more sensitive and enlightened age, the words “pecker”, “tube steak”, “willie the one eyed wonder worm” all sent to the ash bin of history with “trouser snake” and “third leg”. A more enlightened person would not have used that type of offensive slang for the love muscle and it proves to my penis that even though Wolcott would never admit it, deep down he’s a penisist.
If he wasn’t he would have used the now accepted term, “COCK-American”
tw:provide as in oh lord provide me with some work to do today, before I melt my cable modem.
You know, these last couple of posts by Walcott are rather entertaining, if one reads them as being spoken by Foster Brooks. Which, come to think of it, may explain quite a lot.
Leave us not forget “heat-seeking moisture missile”…
SB: cold
Oh, Walcott. So much for my typing skills.
Don’t forget the ocicats. He needs to accidentally wall himself up with the ocicats . . . .
TW: fear. Heh. Now that’s fear.
I read Wolcott regularly. For three reasons.
1. He frequently goofs on National Review for their incessant fundraising. Richly deserved.
2. He’s often willing to say things that we suspect leftists believe but are unwilling to cop to publicly. Case in point: his tribute to George Galloway last December, in which he calle Bashar Assad’s favorite cocksucker “a hero for our time.” The leftists in John Cole’s zoo recently got their panties in a twist when Cole accused them of apologizing for Galloway; they demanded he provide them with even one example of a good liberal bestowing moral authority upon Georgie boy. At which point Allah stepped in and slammed the Jowls card down on the table. Well played, if I do say so myself.
The thing to understand about Wolcott is that he’s not so much a “liberal” as a socialist. Granted, the line between the two diminishes by the day, but to the extent that one still exists, Jimbo’s way the hell over on the other side.
3. He’s a cultural stereotype come to life, the apotheosis of the effete intellectual ponce. Lileks has already dealt with this subject, of course, but it bears reminding. Wolcott writes for Vanity Fair; lives on the Upper West Side; has no children but wants the world to know, per his own bio, that he’s the proud owner of three ocicats (purebreds!); and may well be the last heterosexual man on earth to use the word “divine” as an adjective unironically. His blog is like a really broad satire of the intelligentsia’s worldview. If he didn’t exist, David Horowitz would have to invent him.
Anyway, read him. And when you do, tell me that the voice you hear isn’t the Frank Nelson character on The Simpsons. “Did Bush lie to make us go to war? Yeeeeeeeessssssss!”
“I recognize that it is not always easy to be fastidious about the company one keeps.â€Â
Who is James Wolcott, anyways?
“You can find yourself being introduced to the most awful ogre at a party,â€Â
Oh! That guy!
“someone who may regard you with equal disdain,â€Â
Would it be possible to regard Wolcott with the amount of disdain he regularly heaps?
“forced to shake hands and grimace a smile because refusing to do so would provoke a “scene” that could wend its way into Page Six.â€Â
That’s right, Wolcott sucking up to Page Six. About as astonishing a Paris Hilton performing fellatio on video. The difference being that Wolcott is trying to climb up and into the boldface sewer, while Paris fell down and landed in it.
“Or you may find yourself at a dinner party adjacent to someone you vowed you’d never be trapped indoors with again, all because the host or hostess conveniently “forgot” to tell you Satan’s playmate had been invited.â€Â
James, perhaps you need to consider the company you keep. Perhaps you’re Satan, and the host didn’t forget to tell you anything.
I’d go on, but I’m arranging flight manifests for Damascus…
I’m still leaning in the Foster Brooks direction, myself. The shitfaced Anna Nicole Smith voice might be amusing, too, but Jeff does that better than…well, he’s the man.
He may be a liberal, a hack, a cultural steroetype, and a socialist, but above all else this guy is a skeeze.
I am that guy whose flesh crawls when forced into the proximity of an androgynous lump of butterfat like Wolcott. The world is full of us, normal people who can’t stand to be in the presence of flaky mommas boys whose only defence against the awful internal certainty that they are just not “right”, and never have been is to manufacture disdain for each and every human being who has not to-date kissed his ass (or some other bloated and misshapen article of anatomy).
This person is a waste of skin.
“involved” – The process that twisted a child into a piece of shit like Wolcott is very involved.
I once saw Wolcott and Jay Nordlinger on some sort of book chat show. They were both acting the roll of affected ponce. Don’t remember who was moderating.
It was like watching people playing tennis in white shirts and long pants. They did a great job of volleying zingers back and forth while pretending the other person wasn’t in the room.
Quite entertaining.
So what’s wrong with invading Syria, anyway?
I agree with Allah: Wolcott has attained such a degree of pretentious faux-aristocratic New York post-modern sneering effeminacy that he’s far beyond parody. He’s a beacon and bellwether and worth reading occasionally, just to gauge the strength and direction of the elitist liberal wind blowing from Manhattan.
He’s the very definition of ‘delusions of grandeur’ and the fact he’s completely unaware of it make his pronouncements greatly entertaining.
Not to attempt to inflate myself, but I actually spoke to Nordlinger for about 20 minutes at one of NRO’s fundraising gigs in DC about a year ago.
“effete intellectual ponce” sums him up perfectly.
Allah Akbar and durka durka.
All I know is that I got a subscription to that rag that expired a year ago and the cocksuckers won’t quit sending it. And yes, I’m ashamed that I subscribed to a magazine because I dug the articles about homosexuals in show biz.
I can’t get mad at a man whose writing compels me to imagine him in a muu-muu and hair net, mincing about in orthopedic slippers like an obese rabbit, puffing on a bubble-pipe and gigglng vacantly with his cats.
And it doesn’t matter what he’s actually talking about–it’s never more than two sentences in before I can’t seem to hear anything either, except ’Yes, Mr. Tiddywoggles, she’s a vile little stir-pot. Yes she is! Yes she is!‘
I still subscribe to NRODT for one reason: Rob Long’s column.
Sheer, fucking brilliant humor.
BLT:
As you describe, we’ve got thousands of those pretentious, beyond parody types in Manhattan–that Wolcott happens to have a blog is the only reason anyone notices him. But just like not feeding the trolls, pay him no attention or you’ll suffer, not the strength of the wind, but the stench thereof.
To the uninitiated, Wolcott is entertaining as a novelty item, but that impression will tire quickly as most thinking people realize they have more substantive diversions with which to occupy their time.
…such as picking the dirt out from under their toenails.
I can’t find a definition for stirpot anywhere. Is it anything like what we ruffians refer to as a puddin’ stick?
McGhee’s right. I should have said “productive” diversions! You can never set the bar too low when it comes to doing something beside paying attention to Wolcott.
T/W: behind…and I’m not going there!
Jeff, there is of course one fundamental error in this post.
Wolcott is a shrimp puff.
Toldja! The Stirpot is now Malkin!
If I wasn’t already familiar with Wolcott’s work, I’d swear that this post was a parody of effete, effeminate dilettantism. And the ice dong in his martini glass was a dead giveaway.