| "This (( "to simply forward a fundraising solicitation from Sen. Scott Brown" )) has been one of our most successful fundraising emails to date because Elizabeth’s supporters are sick of all Scott Brown’s negative attacks," said a Warren adviser. "It’s really a shame that he’s chosen to take the low road like this." |
Paddy McTammany, who admittedly have a tendency to prefer my AstroTurf™ literary-side-up, would be better pleased if Comrade Operative had gone whole-hog with the ¡Qué lástima! _shtyk_. She, Operative, manages already to sound like Florence Nightingale trapped as invilgilator of an idiot school as it is, trying, pathetically, to embarrass Scottie from Southie into givin’ little Miss Muffet (a gentleperson of 02493) back that pencil out of which he just entrepeneured her.
So, then: ¿Why does she, Operative, not ‘simply’ pronounce it "a shame" that the Funders of Frratboy, along with all their dupes an’ all their marks, have not yet seen The Light an’ tasted the Sweetness an’, in a word, come out for St. Elizabeth of H*rv*rdy, as all genuinely rational creatures inevitably must?
Comradess Operative was, I fear, almost certainly not funning on purpose when she gave the impression that over at Light and Sweetness (® ™ ©) G. H.Q., the upper echelons, at least, are a little shocked and disconcerted that the Fratboy Funders an’ their hired hands have not come up with a more positive line of attackwear this season.
To forestall possible objection, I put it to you, Dr. Bones, that "positive attacks" only *sounds* like oxymoron. The trick, not a very mysterious one, is that the positivity of the attack must be detached from its main thrust. The F. F. could, for example, solemnly inform everybody that Warren, Esq., "would make a good Dame Mayor of Birmingham in a lean year." [1] Meanin’, of course, backhandedly that Her Beatitude would probably not perform so well as a warmer of The People’s Seat up here in blizzard-prone New Iceland.
The F.F. might even--nam fas est et ab hoste doceri-- borrow the ¡Qué lástima! insincerity itself, to bark out boldly with somethin’ affirmative, sorta, ’bout how splendid it would be not to have to deprive the greatest university in the county of Her Beatitude’s radiant presence, an’ steel-claptrap intellectual fundamentalism, an’ . . . an’ so on in that vein. The Muses and you, sir, and Eye would see in a flash that we are dealing with a crew of crocodiles, but then we are poor statistical samples of New Iceland Televisionland or the Mass. electorate taken at large. I betcha your middle-class devotee of the MacL@@han Tube would start to think that little Scottie Crocodile must be a nice critter, really, because, golly, ¡just look how he keeps askin’ his Funders’ hired hands to whisper sweet nothin’s ’bout Perfesser Warren! ¡¡Even when her hirelings gets a bit testy about him!!
Comradess Operative is quight whight to think that Team Crocodile are not takin’ that road. She cites only "‘the Hollywood Crowd’ and the ‘Far Left Juggernaut’," but Eye like the Urtext so well I think Sam should replay us more of it, with maybe a scorecard added to help keep track:
| Dear Friends, I want you to know exactly what we are up against. Thanks to you and thousands of others, our campaign raised $3.4 million in the last quarter, but Professor Elizabeth Warren raised twice that amount: $6.9 million. How in the world could she raise so much? She is (0) a far-left ideologue and her liberal friends from across the country are helping her: She has the (1) Harry Reid Democrats, (2) the Hollywood Crowd, (3) the Far Left Juggernaut, (4) the Occupy Wall Street Bunch, and (5) the Massachusetts Machine raising money (6) hand-over-clenched fist. (( &c. &c. )) |
Item (6) should perhaps be labelled (4a), as being a slur not sufficiently distinct. [3]
In any case, whatever the Team Fratboy crocs may be up to at the moment, it sure does not involve killin’ off Warren, Esq., with kindness.
As I wrote to you yesterday, sir, sudden deployment of a whole McGilla of cheapjack [4] vituperation suggest that the crocs must have been rattled a little by the latest pollin’. Their freelordships over at the WhightGuard Officers Mess appear to have resolved on ¡No more Mr. Nice Guy!, a decision which Paddy and Eye are puzzled by. We find the switch premature: ¿Why not leave it alone till the polls look so extremely unwhighteous that there is nothin’ left for Master Nicebo to lose, should nastiness perchance misfire?
Happy days.
--JHM
_______
[1] ¿Do Eye recycle my own silly stuff? Very well, then: ¡Eye recycles my own silly stuff! Multitudinous is my middle name.
[2] Paddy is at a loss to know for sure what the Fratboy Funders’ crocs have in mind when they sneer at clenched fists. I myself think first of Homage to Catalonia, but that is hopelessly far afield, _¿no es verdad?_, for the Plain People of Ire Land.
[3] Literary-side-up means that the cheapjackery of it concerns Paddy and Eye more than any inaccuracy, real or alleged. Actually, we would like Her Beatitude rather better than we can manage to if She and Her devotees were guilty as charged.
The audience targeted with such impious viennasausage by Fratboy’s Funders have heard it all before, of course: that is what the cheapjackery consists in. Kard-karryin’ Kiddie Selfservatives can get more of that product any day of the week from the Three Weird Sisters or the ever indispensable Herald of Louisedayhicksville. The goodvolks whom Fratboy’s agitprop crocs ought to be targetin’ first an’ foremost have also heard it all before, in a sense, but only as whight noise in the background that makes them want click to some other channel if they can.
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