Cliches For Sale

by digby

I don’t want to give Tucker Carlson any traffic, so I won’t add a link, but you can find this article by googling, I’m sure.It’s written by a conservative writer named Cupp in Carlson’s new online operation called the Tuckington Post (aka The Daily Caller.) It is a perfect example of the snotty, sophomoric humor in which Carlson has long specialized.

This is yet another in a long line of proudly obnoxious, conservative woman with chips on their shoulders the size of Alaska complaining that everyone hates them because they are so incredibly sexy and special. The main thing you need to know is that she loves God, hates liberals and likes to kill things, which makes her so awesomely cool that only the manliest of manly men will be able to handle her violent, macho, scotch-swilling womanliness:

If you don’t know me, I’m an author, a political columnist, and a conservative television commentator. I live in New York City, I love board games, and my favorite food is macaroni and cheese. I’m also a terrible person.

You should know this about me now, because it will lessen the blow later when I gradually reveal all of my grotesque short-comings over the course of our relationship here at The Daily Caller. I figure, if I’m upfront with you at the beginning, you will come to hate me only slightly less. It’s that modicum of tolerance that I hope I can eventually turn into a shred of acceptance, and then later maybe that will become a snippet of appreciation. But that may just be wishful thinking.

So let’s pretend we’re on our first date, and we’re getting to know each other. You are sitting across the table from me at some trendy, low-lit, beautiful-people lounge that you picked and I probably hate. You’re sipping from a glass of small-batch bourbon that you ordered to prove how “old-school” you are, and I’m sipping from a glass of small-batch bourbon because that’s what I drink. In the first five minutes you’ve been sure to let me know you’re a banker/lawyer/politico and I’m immediately regretting my pledge never to go out with a banker/lawyer/politico, and as you talk I’m imagining myself fishing the salmon run in Alaska (you’re not there).

And then, after your one-of-a-kind story about the time you and your college buddies ran with the bulls in Pamplona, you say, “So tell me about yourself.” And here’s where I get ready to lower the boom.

First of all, I say, I dislike you very much already. Not because you’ve already told me how much money you make, but because I’m a misanthrope. That’s because most of the people I meet fall far short of the examples my mother and father set decades ago. Whereas they are compassionate, hard-working, down-to-earth, unpretentious, God-fearing common folk, you are an entitled, self-important, elitist and condescending snot weasel who wears his empty moral relativism and cheap “Daily Show” pieties like they are Olympic medals.

In addition to being a misanthrope, you should know I don’t care much for other living things either. I don’t really care that polar bears may not live to see the birth of my great-grandkids, or that I just shot a deer with my 12-gauge, since it will make for really tasty jerky, and I probably just prevented 14 future car accidents. I would fish every trout out of the Housatonic River if they let me, and grill them up with some lemon and dill. Catch-and-release is for wimps, and nature’s bounty is mine for the taking.

The so-called “environment” doesn’t really tug at my heart-strings either. I will use as much water as comes out of my faucet, kill enough trees to TP the White House, and burn enough electricity to power the Magic Kingdom, simply because you insist doing so will make me a “bad person.” I recycle because, in Manhattan, I’m required to, and if I had a car, I’d get the one that left the biggest carbon footprint, because the flatulent cows in Australia and your pampered dog Fluffy are worse for the planet than my Hummer would be. The ice caps may be melting in the Arctic, but I’ve got more pressing concerns — like my letter campaign to bring back the British “Office,” and pretty much everything else.

I must confess I’m also a bit of a warmonger. Because unlike you I believe in good and evil and protecting my way of life sometimes requires inflicting blunt trauma. If you’re going to tell me that Islamo-fascist, communist and socialist dictatorships around the world aren’t worse than we are–they’re just “different”–I’m going to tell you that you’re a colossal idiot, and we should probably part company here. American exceptionalism isn’t a theory, it’s a fact. Sorry, France. (Your music sucks anyway.)

Lastly, and probably worst of all, I’m a conservative, which means, of course, that I don’t deserve to live. Valuing the sanctity of life, the traditional family, the 2nd Amendment, personal responsibility, low taxes and a limited government puts me at odds with the esteemed cultural taste arbiters of our great nation–like Alec Baldwin and Rosie O’Donnell. I know this, and accept this. It’s a lonely road sometimes, but as a misanthrope, it works out well.

Poor sad little girl. I hope she doesn’t find that man of her dreams —you know, the one who will beat the shit out of her for breathing wrong one morning?

Meanwhile, Ann Coulter called and wants her persona back.

H/t to Susan of Texas