A well-placed poisoner inside the castle is worth 10,000 troops outside the castle.
As I'm sure you nerds know, in the Lord of the Rings, Gríma Wormtongue was the chief counsel to King Théoden of Rohan and a spy for Saruman the wizard. The horsemen of Rohan were a direct threat to Saurman's plans to conquer Middle Earth on behalf of his boss, Lord Sauron, so Wormtongue's task was to cripple the kingdom of Rohan and by keeping its king under a spell of confusion and impotence. Under the thrall of Wormtongue, the king sat decaying, blind and cobwebbed on his throne issuing orders which broke alliances, impoverished his people, exiled his most capable commanders and nearly destroyed his family.
Which brings us to Mr. David Brooks, who The New York Times has employed at considerable expense to whisper slight variations of the same, honeyed lie into the ears of its 500K daily readers twice a week, every week, for the last 14 years.
The same lie.
The same goddamn lie.
The same goddamn ludicrous lie.
The same goddamn toxic treason-enabling lie.
Over and over again.
Week after week. For decades. With the Sulzberger family not just happily footing the bill for the all of it, but bolstering the ranks of these liars with the likes of Ross Douthat, Bari Weiss and Bret Stephens.
But to use Lamb’s victory as a club against “identity politics” or “cultural issues”—which, in this context, means people of color and other groups fighting against a kind of re-marginalization that seems somewhat popular among the economically insecure—is to end up in the intellectual junkyard in which we find our old pal David Brooks on Friday morning. Brooks is flailing so desperately to avoid the responsibility he and the rest of movement conservatism have for foisting a vulgar talking yam on the Republic that he drafts Lamb into his Church of the Poisoned Mind.
There may be a different scaffolding from time to time -- a different Christmas on which Mr. Brooks can hang his shitty Both Siderist trinkets -- but the ornaments themselves never change. The tenor and target of his lies never change. They are lies calculated to convince the Good Guys to never stand up and fight back against the metastasizing monster that his Republican Party has devolved into. To never raise our voices.
From Mr. Brooks today:
...Trump asked for the party’s soul, and he got it. That was the story of 2016 and 2017.The question of 2018 is whether the Democrats will follow suit. The temptation will be strong. In any conflict the tendency is to become the mirror image of your opponent. And the Democrats are just as capable of tribalism as the Republicans, just as capable of dividing the world in self-righteous Manichaean binaries: us enlightened few against those racist many; us modern citizens against those backward gun-toting troglodytes. Listen to how Hillary Clinton spoke in Mumbai last weekend.
No, the question of 2018 is the same as the question or 2017 and 2015 and 2012 and 2009 and 2007 and 2004: Why the wide world of sports are men like Mr. David Brooks paid astronomical salaries by once-respectable national media institutions to repeat these particular lies over and over again.
Lies that are so manifestly ridiculous. Lies that are so easily debunked. For example, the now-universally agreed upon Beltway lie about the origins of the disaster we are all living through. The lie which proclaims that there is nothing fundamentally wrong with Mr. Brooks' Republican Party. That until two years ago, his party was just fine. and then somehow single, depraved person sprang fully-formed out of nowhere to seized control of all it.
From Mr. Brooks today:
In the decades before Trump, the Republican Party stood for an idea: character before policy. To Mitt Romney, John McCain, the Bushes and Ronald Reagan, personal character and moral integrity were paramount. They stood for the idea that you can’t be a good leader or a good nation unless you are a good person and a good people.
They are lies to lull Mr. Brooks' colleagues and fellow influencers in the media into never calling out the fucking troglodyte Right for who and what they truly are in blunt, clear language --
Putting a higher love, like nation, over a lower love, like party. Going against yourself — feeling that urge to lash out with the low angry insult, and instead rising upward with the loving and understanding response.
-- as if the Obama Administration had never fucking happened. As if we had not all just lived through an eight-year real-time beta test of what happens when the unending, unhinged seditious sabotage and slanders from the racist Birther/Death Panel Republican Party is countered with a bottomless well of nearly-superhuman patience, civility, and open-handedness.
What happened -- over the increasingly hysterical denials of Mr. David Brooks -- is that the Republican Party nominated, elected and stands firmly and giddily behind the anti-Obama. A racist, pig-ignorant fire demon who, in every way, reflects exactly who and what Mr. Brooks' Republican Party always has been.
Ah, but that's the trick, isn't it? The fact that no one but a few of us dirty hippie outcasts dares to remember that as recently as two years ago Mr, David Brooks of the New York Times was confidently writing shit like this: the most perfectly Brooksian denialist title -- "Donald Trump Isn’t Real" -- that any of us had seen in a long time:
The amazing surge for Marco Rubio shows that the Republican electorate has not gone collectively insane.
But of course Trump was real. Because Trump is the Republican Party and the Republican Party
is Donald Trump. And no matter how loudly Mr. Brooks may thunder his Centrist sermons from the pulpit of the High and Holy Church of Both Side Do It, there no parity whatsoever for this on the Left.
The disease that is killing this country is David Brooks' Republican Party. Period. Full stop. And nothing on Earth scares the shit out of squirmy little Quislings like David Brooks more than the thought of this plain truth being spoken everywhere, out loud and unafraid.
To save the country the spell of Bobo Wormtongue must be broken.
Please do what you can to break it.
Behold, a Tip Jar!