It’s all there: the leaden sarcasm that passes for Switfitan wit; the seething resentment at other people’s hard earned accomplishments; the twisted, toxic victimhood; the hypochondriacal litany of minor physical ailments and other half-assed hardships.
It’s a hallmark of the blogosphere, and it carries over into print:
It must have taken years of seasoned investigative know-how to push me off my lofty perch. It takes a dogged, intrepid journalist to expose the alleged wrongdoings of a 44-year-old college dropout who drifted from one lousy media job to another for 20 years; it takes courage to debase someone with a mouthful of cut-rate dentures who, up until 2007, lived in his parents’ home for seven years due to near-fatal bouts of clinical depression; it takes a journalist of a certain caliber to torpedo a pathetic hack who has barely squeezed out a living for nearly a decade at seven cents a word.
Don’t you just want to crush this guy with your hardcover copy of The Fountainhead?
