Category Archives: Culture

UPDATET (4/2/019): NEW COLUMN: TV Tarts: Cringe Factor Ad Infinitum (Part 2)

Critique, Culture, Feminism, Gender, Ilana Mercer, Media

NEW COLUMN is “TV Tarts: Cringe Factor Ad Infinitum (Part 2).” It’s on WND.COM and The Unz Review.

Excerpt:

It takes a foreign correspondent planted amid our White House Press Corps to highlight the latter’s dysfunction. During a presser with “Trump of the Tropics”—Brazil’s visiting prime minister, Jair Bolsonaro—a Brazilian lass distinguished herself by focusing exclusively on … hefty matters. When this foreign correspondent asked President Trump about the “OECD,” the furrows on the sloping brows who make up the American press scrum deepened.

To these presstitutes, it mattered not whether America was going to put in a good word for Brazil at the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, when there was one overriding, life-or-death matter to tackle:

Trump’s irredeemable, unrelenting, absolute awfulness, which not even an exoneration by the sainted Mr. Mueller has ameliorated.

Yes, Grand Inquisitor Robert Mueller found no evidence that the Trump campaign conspired with Russia in the 2016 election. This has altered not a bit the hyperventilating done by the harridans on the ubiquitous television panels.

Let me be clear. When I allude to the women of TV, I include those with the Y Chromosome.

However, other than a few “men”—Don Lemon and his CNN sideshow, Chris Cuomo, come to mind—the housebroken boys on the typical TV panel are tamer than the tarts. Some of the “men” might even be pretending to be temperamentally unhinged in order to hook-up with good-looking girls in the Green Room.

Brooke Baldwin of CNN and Stephanie Ruhle of MSNBC continue to spit out Trump news in CAPS, just so you know HOW EACH ONE FEELS DEEP DOWN INSIDE, AND WHO ARE THE ANGELS AND THE DEMONS IN THE STORY. (Donald and his Deplorables are never angels, if you get the drift.)

Not coincidentally, the asphyxiating hysteria matches the vapid vocabulary. TV’s women rob the English language blind, deploying breathy figures of speech to fit a simpleton’s febrile, emotionally overwrought state-of-mind: “Unbelievable, incredibly embarrassing, amazing, OMG!”

This piss-poor, teenybopper English comes with sound effects. TV’s tarts all speak in insufferable, grating, staccato, tart tones. At least, that’s how I’ve always described the gravelly voice of the tele-ditz. Believe it or not, such a depiction is no longer politically proper. The voices from hell have been dignified. Explains the Economist,

Two vocal features are associated with young women: vocal fry and uptalk. Uptalk, as the name suggests, is the rising intonation that makes statements sound like questions? And vocal fry—often said to be typical of Kim Kardashian, an American celebrity—happens at the ends of words and phrases when a speaker’s vocal chords relax, giving the voice a kind of creaky quality.

Mandatory elocution lessons might ease the viewer’s pain.

Bad English and bad thinking are intertwined. By logical extension, the “ladies” resort reflexively to ad hominen attack. If Trump expresses an opinion, it’s not because he sincerely thinks it or believes it, but because he’s narcissistic, isn’t nice, makes them sad.

As befits the pedestrian minds described, our pig-ignorant panelists (with apologies to pigs) are incapable of grasping the role of government.

TV’s tele-tarts focus not on the role of government, but on the tone of government. …

… READ THE REST. NEW COLUMN, “TV Tarts: Cringe Factor Ad Infinitum (Part 2),” is on WND.COM and The Unz Review.

Previously: “The TV Tarts’ Reign Of Terror, Part 1.”

LETTERS:

Is MERCER a man?

I read both ‘Tart’ articles and assumed a man wrote them,” writes an Unz Review reader: “It did not occur to me that a woman would write so cogently, albeit negatively, about other women.”

This is not an uncommon reaction to what my friend, Dr. Chris Sciabarra, called “muscular writing.” See Raves and Reviews.

Writes Blenda Richter:

Next time don’t hold anything back and let it go, Mercer. Great column. I was happy to see the insufferable Marie Harf (‘barf’ lol!) and the irrational Jessica Tarlov lead your long list. Invective and caustic wit at its best. A modern Mencken. “Bomb China with American bimbos.

Related: “MERCER’S Like A Man …”

Writes Kerry Crowel: “That’s an insult, the modern man doesn’t have near the guts that you do Ilana.”

UPDATE (4/2/019):

Beto The Boor

Barack Obama, Culture, Democrats, English, Intelligence, Left-Liberalism And Progressivisim, Pop-Culture

Stream-of-consciousness Beto O’Rourke is so embarrassing to watch and to listen to; he makes one almost miss Barack Obama, whose prose was aimed, at least, at an eighth-grade level. (See: “Obama’s Very Elementary Thinking—Eighth-Grade Elementary.”)

Are we getting dumber as a people or what!

Here is Beto dressed as a bunny, “playing” in a band called “The Sheeps.” (Sic: “sheep” in the plural is … sheep.)

Beto’s animal fetishism (or abuse) and penchant for the English language have surfaced in the form of a poem:

“Wax My Ass”: A Poem By Beto O’Rourke is brutish, disgusting, impoverished, bovine erotica by Beto, ?your next president, if the Fourth Estate (media) has its way. The dramatic reenactment is delicious; the lyrics, if you can believe it, are authentic. Dung-brain Beto wrote ’em. ??

Writing under the now-exposed pseudonym “Psychedelic Warlord,” a teen-aged O’Rourke appears to be the author of a poem titled “The Song of the Cow,” published in 1988 by “cDc (Cult of the Dead Cow) communications.” “I need a butt-shine,” the poem begins … and it really all just goes downhill from there

“The Song of the Cow” By Beto O’Rourke 

I need a butt-shine,

Right now

You are holy,

Oh, sacred Cow

I thirst for you,

Provide Milk.

Buff my balls,

Love the Cow,

Good fortune for those that do.

Love me, breathe my feet,

The Cow has risen.

Wax my ass,

Scrub my balls.

The Cow has risen,

Provide Milk.

O’Rourke “windmills his arms” and is “your garden-variety demagogue,” who “stands in the shallow end of the Democratic pool.” And that’s how a friendly liberal describes dung-boy. (“The Semigoguery of Beto O’Rourke.“)

Rashida Tlaib Violates (Cohen) Hearing Rules, Suggests Republican Mark Meadows Is Racist

Culture, Democrats, Donald Trump, Etiquette, Race, Racism, Republicans

Congress is increasingly occupied by rubbish—the kind of representative who is constitutionally incapable of honoring timeworn rules of etiquette.

At the Michael Cohen testimony before Congress, a smug and smarmy attack dog, Rashida Tlaib, alighted on Rep. Mark Meadows.

With no warning, rabid Rashida accused him of the possibility of racism. Why so? Because the Republican had brought HUD official Lynne Patton along to the hearing earlier on Wednesday:

“Just to make a note, Mr. Chairman, just because someone has a person of color, a black person working for them, doesn’t mean they aren’t racist. And it is insensitive that some would even say — the fact that someone would actually use a prop, a black woman, in this chamber, in this committee, is alone racist in itself,” Tlaib said.

Meek Meadows, being a Republicans, folded, instead of rubbing Rashida’s nose it in.

Comments Off on Rashida Tlaib Violates (Cohen) Hearing Rules, Suggests Republican Mark Meadows Is Racist

Written by on

61st Grammy Awards: Another Great Porn Show. Music It Was NOT

Aesthetics, Art, Celebrity, Culture, Music, Sex

Other than the gorgeous Alicia Keys, host of the 61st Grammy Awards, who has talent and is certainly charming, and Dolly Parton, a total pro—the show showcased the gutter culture that is the American music scene. We are now truly in the musical sewer.

The petulant female artists, so proud of their seized power, showcased nothing much but hip movements, pelvic thrusts and tush twerking. Not one inspiring beautiful dance did these crass stompers execute on the elaborate stage.

Janelle Monáe? Sum total of her “talent” is simulating sex on stage.

‘We need a new word to do this justice … vulvic?’ Janelle Monáe’s Pynk.

Screaming? Oh yes. Good voices? Nada. The insipid Kacey Musgraves is a two-chord whiner who makes me miss Sarah McLachlan.

Great melodies? Nothing; other than a few truly great old songs botched by the newbies’ ugly warbling: it’s the custom. Nobody learns to sing properly.  For example, a screaming duo, Chloe x Halle, absolutely mutilated the exquisite, emotional song, “Where Is The Love,” performed in 1972 by Donny Hathaway and the magical Roberta Flack.

Again, not one memorable song did I hear, sporting a decent chord progression and some melodic variety; not one vaguely competent guitarist or instrumentalist: nothing.

Understandable. Why bother to acquire instrumental proficiency, instruction in composition and voice training when the swaying hips, jutting pelvises or just attitude (Dua Lipa) are what’s on sale and  in demand?

I used to have some respect for Lady Gaga. But to watch Gaga, legs permanently splayed like an arthritic hooker, traipsing around clumsily, attempting to head-bang, but getting disoriented (yeah, it takes a metal-head guy to do that), then lugging microphone and mount around like a geriatrics with a walker and Depends: this was not good, to put it mildly.

The tartlets I watched “sing” at this Grammys would have been even more inaudible and tuneless were it not for the Auto-Tune: the “holy grail of recording,” that “corrects intonation problems in vocals or solo instruments, in real time, without distortion or artifacts.”

This T & A line-up would be reduced to even more embarrassing grunts, out-of-tune yelps, and bedroom whispers, if not for the Auto-Tune.

Most of the performers were  G-d-awful as musicians. They sustain one or two pitches and exhibited little proficiency on any of the instruments they belabor.