Friday, October 12, 2007

SEQUEL: As Bad As You Think They Are II: This Time—Like Every Time—It's Cowardice!

Boo! Now pick up your feathers!

It is a lesson as old as time. Taught to us as snot-nosed kids when we took to the playground. And damned if it doesn't still hold true in our adulthood, in the workplace, and in policy/issue debates.

Cue John Cole—who might wanna start taking down the license numbers of odd cars driving by his home, piloted of course, by snarling, cheerleader-skirted nutjobs:

“But like all schoolyard bullies, when punched in the mouth, they back down. Given the chance to debate the policy she clearly feels so strongly about, Michelle wimped out. She turned her tails and fled. One could say she gave the French response.”

What's John talking about? Well, you may recall reading here about Malkin's “1019th Nervous Breakdown” last week, as she spazzed out over a 12-year-old kid's making her beloved Bush look bad, via a trenchant rebuttal of the Presiden't craven vetoing of the S-CHIP children's insurance plan. The kid, 12-year-old Graeme Frost spoke during the Democratic response to Bush's Weekly Radio Address, and so infuriated the dinosaur-riding 27%—led by Malkin, that...well, they went there. No, folks...they literally went THERE.

”Driving around, casing the house of a 12-year-old kid who told the truth and made the president look bad. She tells you, and her mouth-breathing readers/lynch mob what neighborhood the house is in. What kind of car's in front. Even what's on the front-fucking door.


And of course, nary a word from her about her buddies at Free Republic posting the kids' address publicly—just rants about “If you don’t want questions, don’t foist these children onto the public stage.”


And that being untenable, after seeing their boy-king embarrassed, that whackdoodle fringe decided to stake out the kid and his family's house and business, putting the contact info for both places where every nail-bomb loving wingnut could see it and potentially act upon it. Much the way wingnut racists recently sought to “spook” protesters and family members of “The Jena Six” by posting their personal info on the web and threatening them..

The stalker-azi play blew up in her pop-eyed, rictus-contorted face—big time. Especially after her and her co-horts' cheap-fuck, Scooby-Doo grade detective work on the Frosts and their assets was proven as wrong as a NY Post VP prediction headline.

She fumed. She hissed. She jumped around and got stray pom-pom bits all over everybody. And then? Well, mild-mannered Ezra Klein made an offer. A simple one, that could have cleared away much of the crazy, and given Madame Kookyskirts a chance to come back to earth:

“I will debate Michelle Malkin anytime, anywhere, in any forum (save HotAir TV, which she controls), on the particulars of S-CHIP. We can set the debate at a think tank, on BloggingHeads, over IM. Hell, we can set up the podiums in the shrubbery outside my house, since that seems to be the sort of venue she naturally seeks out. And then if Malkin wants an argument, she can have one. We'll talk S-CHIP and nothing but -- nothing of the Frosts, or Congress, or her blog.


...Let's debate health care. Prove to the world that you really want "a good-faith argument." We can talk crowd-out, and cross-subsidization, and whether lower-middle class entrepreneurs are able to procure health care on the individual market. If this is a policy argument you care so deeply about as to travel to the Frost family's house to see if they really deserved S-CHIP benefits, surely you'll want to set up a web cam and talk through the issue.”

And of course, she demurred—which is a nice way of saying “ran like explosive diarrhea”. Realizing as EVERYONE DID, that:

A.) She didn't have the intellectual chops to discuss the issue with someone who actually KNOWS about it.

B.) She couldn't pull off a quickie S-CHIP cram-session that would convince anyone that she was even conversant were she to have accepted his offer.

C.) All she has is rage, spit, and venom—and taking up Klein's challenge would only expose further why she's relegated to her crumb-tossed Fox News guest shots after years of attempts to be break out as a big-time, even semi-respected pundit.

But it's her actual “demurral” itself that shrieks speaks volumes.

“Respectable Liberal Blogger Ezra Klein and his Pavlovian (Yet Respectable) boosters are treating my 2004 post as proof-positive of my utterly flabbergasting HYPOCRISY!
Look! The wingnut complained about the health insurance market! Ergo, she is a HYYYPPPOCRITE. And stupid! And a Nazi bitch!


As I’ve said before, you can’t win with these people.
“Debate” Ezra Klein? What a perverse distraction and a laughable waste of time that would be. And that’s what they really want, isn’t it? To distract and waste time so they can foist their agenda on the country unimpeded.


Good faith, eh? What would Ezra Klein know about it? Now, run along and thump your chest over your “victory” at BloggingHeadsTV or something. I have to get back to work. You know, “stalking.” “Assault.” “Savagings.” “Howling. “Braying.” “Hateful orgies.”

That stuff.

That...sounds distinctly like someone who popped a lot of dumb shit on someone who didn't deserve it, was told to back it up—then got called out on it to her face—“BRING IT!”...

...and then realized she had nothin'. So she backed down, while trying to not look like she was backing down. And while explaining why she wasn't backing down as it became apparent that she was, got angrier, and angrier, and angrier about being unable to duck the double-rubber wetsuit of cowardice she'd encased herself in. knew it would go down like that, didn't you? It was evident. And pre-ordained:

“When you challenge these clowns' awful policies in ways that their talking points cannot just shoot down—i.e., presenting a person to whom the public can easily and directly relate the situation to and have some empathy for...they. Can. Not. Fucking. Handle. It.


...It is NOT about debate with these people.

It's all about fear. Peddling it as a basis for their policies, and then when boldly called on it, nakedly exhibiting it as they run like chickens from a loud noise..

Hey wingnuts!


Now pick up your feathers—if you can find 'em in that fresh pile of scat.