January 3, 2007
Bounders of the Blogosphere: The Wolcott Method
Not the President of the Hair Club for Men
[Note: I was going to complain that James ("I'm writing as bad as I can") Wolcott's move to the obscurity of Vanity Fair has hurt my troll traffic wherever he runs out of lame plays to review, or finds his Graydon Carter knee-pads too worn out, and has to somehow RELEASE THE PRESSURE!... but then what's the point? I've said it all before and it doesn't hurt to say it again. Hence, back from the archives is this small tribute to a man who has done more to idolize his pussies than any other cat-blogger on the planet....]
It is a sad thing to watch James Wolcott continue in his hobby of pissing up ropes, but I suppose we all need to pay a bit of attention to this barren man from time to time lest he abandon his wife and their family of cats for Air America.
He's at his hobby again this morning, frothing in an aptly self-referential titled post: James Wolcott: Hard Fascism, Soft Heads. The results are, for those that have examined the physics of "rope, upward, pissing," predictable for James. Still in his "career" as Yet-Another-Minor-Upper-West-Side-Scribbler it won't be his first Golden Shower nor will it be his last. After all, a man's got to earn a living.
One might, if one were wearing a hazmat suit, venture into Wolcott land and take him on in his "comments." Oh, wait, he doesn't have any. I guess he missed the memo entitled: Real Men Enable Comments. Probably at a local meeting of The Testicle Lockbox Society.
What's really going on here is the latest installment in "James Wolcott, Link-Whore." Wolcott's been sinking lower on the NY Scribbler Food Chain for years. To revive his slumping significance, Wolcott has latched onto blogdom -- probably because the initial plan of changing his first name to "Alexander" didn't land him a lot of lunches at Michaels.
And how do you "rise" in blogdom? Pretty much in the same way you rise in the Lit'ry World of New York City -- you get the attention of the Alphas.
Wolcott's an old hand at sucking-up in the magazine canyons. His smarm is so well known, in fact, that it is rumored Graydon Carter dons a wet suit before taking even a phone call from Wolcott. But sucking-up is a mug's game in the blogosphere where men like Lileks save the email for their columns and men like Reynolds are really in the realm of finite posts vs. infinite email stacks. For the Alphas of the Blogosphere, the Suckupathon never stops.
Nope, the best thing to do for the Bounders of the Blogosphere such as Wolcott is the "Reverse Suckupathon." Easier too. All you have to do is to open your posting program, quaff a six-pack, strip to skivvies, roll out the yoga mat, rig up the rope, assume the position, and let nature take its course.
You'll have to shower in the next day, but then again, if you're housebound with three cats on the Upper West Side, maybe not. Who'd notice?
[Should you need even MORE, there's always THIS.]
UPDATE: Essential reading from the master of midwest disaster, iowahawk: The Pussy Always Purrs Twice
"When I unlocked the door, I recoiled from the assault of ammonia. I saw that Ace had tied Slinky up to her own scratching post. Her green eyes glowed in the shaded darkness, and her little furry chest was heaving, her eight erect nipples glistened through the ropes. Even as I began untying she started to show her appreciation, rubbing her taut little extended rear on my Dockers, moaning a little moan that told me - the heat was on."
And there's more HERE!
Posted by Vanderleun at January 3, 2007 7:11 AM
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Can't the ASPCA deputize Laurence Simon (or some other Cat Guy not to be trifled with, perhaps Benedict XVI) to go over to Wolcott's high-rise litter box and rescue those poor cats? They deserve a decent home with real people, not poseurs.
"One might, if one were wearing a hazmat suit, venture into Wolcott land and take him on in his "comments." Oh, wait, he doesn't have any. I guess he missed the memo entitled: Real Men Enable Comments. Probably at a local meeting of The Testicle Lockbox Society."
Apparently, 'real men' enable comments because they must.
I guess Wolcott missed the memo"Real men can handle public criticism; Losers who pretend to be 'real men' whilst really behaving like petulant little girls are pussies." I hope his shrink points this out to that little weasel and that he will sleep better after he comes up with some nice rationalizations for his two-facedness. I can't stand the man, if man he be.
The nice thing for me is the warm feeling of self-reinforcement I get when I write these words of praise.
Well, I can see that while I was away getting myself smashed up on the tennis courts during the holidays and coming home all mellow, sore and pathetically relaxed, you got an AK-47 with a Toyota pickup for Christmas and have been working on keeping that edge of yours all sharp and focused.
I hope Mr. Wolcott and that Jane character are both planning extensive vacations any day now.
Meanwhile, I am trying hard to get mad at something, but as yet am not being successful. I'm sure it won't last too much longer...but until it does, I'm stuck with blogging about black-eyed peas.
Real men can outwrite the kneepadders even on the repost.
There is a further lesson direct from the invisible hand of Adam Smith. Whatever Vanity Fair pays Wolcott is further suckathon waste and inefficiency, drained off in the pockets of the cat therapists and tofu artists of Columbus Circle. Whatever PajamasMedia is paying Gerard is money velocified into the hands of honest merchants. The market, as always, corrects the mistakes of the high and haughty.
Now, if we could only taunt the balding one into a little midlife hanky-panky with Cindy Sheehan. Imagine the coupling of these almost perfectly androgynized humans, too ugly to elicit even a flicker of titillation regardless your desperation. This is a liberal snorefest with more drool than a Gerber baby food shoot, a literary event to rival "Confessions of an Heiress" by Paris Hilton. I can't imagine why the video isn't already at YouTube.
2007. The year of the hazmat suit.
I think the best line I've read about him came from Jonah Goldberg, who said that Wolcott's writing left one with the impression that he was auditioning to become the fifth girl on "Sex and the City."
Don't think evil thoughts, Mom.
Gerard, I daresay that if Wolcott hopes to recharge his elan vital by "getting the attention of the Alphas," he's wasted entirely too much of his time on me. But then, I don't read his stuff -- I have a low tolerance for pixelated venom -- so I don't know who else the twit has recently tried to, uh, twit.
Ma, I didn't need that last mental image. Really.
But he attended Frostburg! Counts for something on the upper west side. Doesn't it?
My God, leave the poor fellow alone! Isn't just looking like that burder enough?
Nice to see you are one of the fascist allegedly christian morons who subscribes to the "War on Christmas" like the stupid bigmouth Hannity and O"Reilly, two "great Americans!"
[Editor: This comment has been brought to you by one of the regular readers of Mr. James ("I'm writing as bad as I can") Wolcott. As you can see, he is trying vainly to outdo the master but getting nowhere.
Jonas, please do not try. Wolcott has out wolcotted you for decades. "christian" take an upper case "C." as in, well, "Christmas." One does not "subscribe to a war." Remember that "bigmouth" is two words, "bi /gmouth," and that the use of a period is your friend. No charge for the lesson.]
"I guess he missed the memo entitled: Real Men Enable Comments. Probably at a local meeting of The Testicle Lockbox Society."
That was the best line in the whole post.
Like the way some men call women "bitches", Wolcott calls Gerard a "hick from the sticks" as if it's a bad thing.
Here's a clue, Wolcott. There's approximately 250 million of us hicks out here in the rural areas, small towns and sparkling little cities that you call the sticks. There's about 50 million of you in the metro-monstrosities. You may have all the urban cool, but we have the guns, petroleum refineries, butter, wheat, the edible kind of green stuff and water in streams we can drink out of.
Not to mention Webutante's great black-eyed pea recipe concept, and the woodstoves to cook on when the power's out.
But hey, if the market for big-ticket Uptown snark ever folds up, you can eat your cats, right? They'll be great raw, and you can wash them down with some yummy East River....mmmm.....sludge. And I'm sure all the hick cops, cleaning people, cab drivers and cooks won't take your smarmy attitude personally. Hicks just live to have you suit-and-tie guys shine light on our wretched little days.
Sure, and your bitches can outfight ours, too. Just keep smacking your gums, James.
My apologies to Eric Blair for the disgusting mental imagery. Have a little tea, Eric, you know it helps you feel better if it's made just right.
Did you address any of Wolcott's criticisms? Why, no.
[Dear Fan, Wolcott doesn't "do" criticisms, he merely seeks attention. Had you read anything he touts as criticisms, you'd know that.]
Did you make incoherent references to rope pissing? Why, yes.
[Why yes I did and you but prove the point that, as the French say, "Dogs don't get jokes."
Wolcott points out that you missed the entire point of Jane's post, that would be the humor part sweetie. That you crassly bashed her for being a breast cancer survivor and demonstrated to most of the bloggosphere that you're an incredible boor. It's pathetic that this sad, sack, little post, with a photo is the best you can come up with for a response.
[Here like the clueless Wolcott, you assume -- incorrectly -- that I have followed Ms. Hamsher closely enough to know of her affliction. Which I did not. The point, if I must spell it out for you, was her rampant phoniness as a person, not any affliction she may have suffered. I shall give you the benefit of the doubt that you are but a tool of the Wolcott and do not spot the tatterdemalion technique of "pleading the belly" when attempting a response. It is an old ploy and a hack like Wolcott knows exactly what he is doing. In sum, since I did not know of Hamsher's affliction and Wolcott did I'd have to say it is a classic case of trying to manipulate reader sentiment. Which, as you prove, has succeeded. Don't be such a patsy in the future]
Do all of us a favor, and stay in your little hamlet. The Upper East Side can do without you.
[Well, you did very well with me in my townhouse place on 86th and York for a number of years. Then there was the carriage house in the Village. Then there was the loft on Duane Street in Soho. Then there was the brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. I'll see whatever time you've spent in the Apple and raise you about 20 years. As for the Upper East Side, nobody goes there any more. Aren't you hip to that? ]
Um, not a big fan of Wolcott, but geez, relax, buddy. It's not like the guy burned down your house or something.
I shall give you the benefit of the doubt that you are but a tool of the Wolcott and do not spot the tatterdemalion technique of "pleading the belly" when attempting a response.
I love that word.
I guess you're one of those Christians who's more interested how you spell or celebrate things to do with our Lord rather than whether or not one actually strives to live by his values.
James 1:26 -
"If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless."
Think on it, please.
A provident Nature gives us a seemingly endless supply of fools. Now that Robert Fisk has sunk into obscurity, J. Wolcott steps up to the plate.
"you assume -- incorrectly -- that I have followed Ms. Hamsher closely enough to know of her affliction. Which I did not. The point, if I must spell it out for you, was her rampant phoniness as a person, not any affliction she may have suffered. "
So, let me get this straight. You don't follow Ms. Hamsher at all, ...
[Nope. Try again. The statement can, with effort, be understood even if English is not your first language.]
Chief, given the less than majestic headshot adorning this little ghetto of malformed pap, if wisdom was your guide it would suggest ixnay on the catty shots at the looks.
Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.
Thanks for clearing that up.