I was planning on writing an entertaining yet profoundly wise post that would solve one of society’s most pressing problems (perhaps “Is Wearing White Before Labor Day Responsible for the Moral Decline of Our Nation?” or “Which Candidate Will Tap Suri Cruise for VP?”). However, after 2 trips to the vet, three visits to Pet Smart, and caring for the latest foster cat (a 4-week old kitten who apparently ran away from home to show his mother that she wasn’t the boss of him), I’m really, really tired.
So, let me just share one exciting discovery with you: after havinng exchanged the sordid world of NRO for the more womanly sphere of church, kitchen and children, Meghan Cox Gurdon has once again left the kids to fend for themselves and is writing weekly opinion columns for the SF Examiner.
Her most recent columns are about how liberals are really not our sort of people, and how Obama and Hillary Clinton are big poopie heads. Thus, we have to go back a few weeks to find out what we REALLY want to know: what happened to the kids? Let us now peruse Moving on schedule to minivan martyrdom to see what we can learn about what the adorable tikes have been up to since we saw them last.
Jump in, or we’ll be late!” Three girls fling in their school backpacks and we zoom off to another school. Two girls leap out, calling for their brother.
From this we can conclude that middle girls Jujube and Rhythm Method are still alive, attend some sort of school, and are searching for their sainted brother Apotheosis, who presumably doesn’t ride with the rest of the family, as he takes the Popemobile to school. The third girl is probably the eldest child, Mimosa, who wisely claims to be adopted.
The toddler, strapped in her car seat, keeps repeating “Whacka Bamba,” which is the hard-to-pronounce name of some fellow she keeps hearing about on the car radio.
Aw, little Turnip has learned to talk! And she has developed such a delightful lisp! (Wait for the copyright infringement suit by Gnat Lileks.) And note that Turnip’s childish prattle, like that of the other Gurdon children before her, is not just endearing, but also reveals deep truths about how the liberals are just not our sort of people, and how the Democrats are all poopie heads.
The rest of us return home, where a neighborhood girl is waiting to play.
That would be Jonah Goldberg, who is always hanging around the youngest Gurdon kids, trying to steal material for his next column. (It’s an open secret in conservative circles that 6-year-old Creme Brulee Gurdon is the uncredited ghost writer of Liberal Fascists.)
At hyper-speed, I saute vegetables, load a rice cooker, sear chicken and pop into the oven two unbaked loaves that I assembled in the morning,
Uh oh! Is Meghan trying to tell us that in the midst of preparing the children’s nutritious and wholesome gruel, she conceived twins???
conscious all the time of a dozen approaching deadlines.
Yeah, it’s tough being a conservative columnist mother these days with only one full-time foreign nanny to your name.
Anyway, as the piece continues, Meghan has to chauffeur little Paisley to her ballet class, so that the girl can learn such cherished conservative virtues as tutu fluffing, chain smoking, and masochism. Her older sister Grenada signs up for art class, heroin addiction, and a trendy form of bisexuality. Meghan then has to take Brother Apotheosis and sister Reagana to martial arts class, where the kids learn tai kwando, self discipline, and how to get assassination gigs via blind ads in Soldier of Fortune magazine. But by the time Meghan gets everyone home, she’s frazzled, the kids are in violation of child welfare laws, and Meghan’s loaves of bread are hard and stale (which presumably means that her newly conceived twins are going to be Fox News weather bimbos when they grow up).
So, having learning a valuable lesson about how busy Meghan is, how much she does for her children, and how her kids are way better than yours, let us bid a fond farewell to the Gurdons. Pleasant dreams, everyone!
Okay, I hate to take away from larger issues, such as “what sort of shenanigans are involved in someone hiring Meghan Cox Gurdon as a writer?” or “who is it imagines there’s an endless market for the sort of self-absorbed blatherings you can’t escape at a family gathering?”, and I’m not even going to mention that May 1 column where she asks why, if black people are flocking to Obama it isn’t the most natural thing in the world for white people to hope one of their own finally makes it to the Oval Office, except she frames it as the sort of question no obviously well-mannered white suburban columnist would dare ask, since, y’know, they all have the good sense to pretend not to be racist anymore. I’d just like to know how one “assembles” loaves of bread in the morning for baking in the evening, and who it is thinks a baguette should be soft. But I’m easily distracted.
Left by Doghouse Riley on May 6th, 2008