War has been described something like this: unbearable tedium, punctuated by short bursts of absolute terror. Which is a microcosm of life itself, if you think too hard about it. Both are at once unpredictable and tiresome, and both stir armchair assassins full of empty (laughable) bravado who wave their doughy fists at evils safely on other continents—men whom it would be an unpleasant chore to envision running more than ten feet without gasping like goldfish. All their energy is spent barking, their voices probing hoarsely where their pale, enfeebled bodies dare not. Through this phenomenon, we endured the sleaze, contrivance (and physical threats!) of an effeminate, sneering attack dog for corporate scum, who maintained the personality—and water retention—of an oppressed midwestern woman permanently on the rag. Occasionally, life throws us a bone. Or some bones—in this case, the skeleton of the marshmallow man himself, which will soon be supporting so much melted blubber.
Andrew Breitbart is dead.
Somewhere, a piano is playing a lonesome tune for its missing box, now set aside for our dear sea pig. As the hydraulics labor, and ropes creak, and as his still retched being is committed to wormy earth, the clouds over Southern California will become a little bit fluffier, relieved of one more gross polluter. His protégé, James O’Keefe, the gangly overgrown middle schooler that torpedoed ACORN with his immensely convincing pimp swagger, a floppy hat, and strenuously deceptive editing, can only hope the executor of Drew’s media empire will still have a place for his fuzzy cuffs and rape fantasies. It’s always the lying, twerpy hacks who suffer most.
When I was at Occupy Los Angeles last October, the heated monotony of the general assembly was interrupted by a man claiming to be “from the 1%,” and “here to answer any questions” we may have. He was an old, fat white guy, dressed like a bourgeois Al Bundy, with the naïve smirk of a creature adapted solely to the proper host organism—in other words, his story checked out so far. In tow, he had an entourage: a squat black guy with a handicam, and a squat curly haired white guy (with another handicam), with crossed eyes and a Ghostbusters T-shirt cradling his distended abdomen (the question occurred to me whether he was putting on a degrading act, or if his family tree simply didn’t branch).
The first question hit him like Rick Perry’s proverbial third thing—he seized up. After a few protracted moments, he said his name was “Martin.” Which was a lie about as convincing as his “self-made man” schtick. Taking advantage of the left’s natural curiosity and affinity for communication—an affliction to which conservatives are immune, being filthy, provincial narcissists and all—he began his impromptu Q&A. Another in his entourage, a dude with a portable PA system on his shoulder—Radio Raheem meets Joseph Goebbels—handed him a small silver microphone. He told his Galtian tale, and I wished we had torches and pitchforks (that idle woof was in honor of the recently/overdue deceased). The dummies posed sincere challenges; indignant queries aimed at discerning what an overstuffed tapeworm’s view of a rigged economy might be. Perhaps I was one of those dummies.
An Occupier asked bitterly about income inequality (e.g. CEOs with incomes in excess of 400x that of the average employee). “Martin” pulled the Steve Jobs card. Nobody cites Al “Chainsaw” Dunlap, Jack Welch, or Donald Trump. They go for the specious merit narrative, because Jobs, for all most people know about anything (at all, anywhere), is the perfect tale of a self-made man. Raised by pigs, he wrought computers from sheer will, rising to the top by raw talent alone! “So what,” the coddled old man said, “if he wants to keep a dollar off of every sale?” Of course, that’s not really how anything works. Like, at all. Jobs declined his salary on return to Apple in ’97, save for one dollar a year (with a shit ton of perks and shares, but that’s beside the point). And Jobs didn’t know jack shit, beyond how to lie, and point to a product proposal, screaming, Less stuff! Make it pretty, or I will skull fuck your labrador! Oh, and all the suicidal Chinese slaves assembling all the iShit. And the Apple retail “experience” which makes the job transcend monetary compensation (interesting how typical executives never consider anything such “an experience”). And then there’s secret wage-suppressing anti employee poaching agreement with Google.
I asked how graduates were meant to “live within their means” when being tens of thousands in debt doesn’t jive with “means” at all. He grunted some boilerplate about “responsibility.” He then immediately pivoted away like a Matryoshka doll, clutching the microphone tightly to his knife wound of a mouth, searching for someone—anyone—else to talk to. Seriously—this was an ideologue desperate to avoid rebuttals. It wouldn’t shock me to learn he’s still clinging to that mic as if his worldview depended on it—and it does.
It turned out a video had gone up on Breitbart’s website later. The luminance of “Martin”‘s accomplishments didn’t compensate for the poor lighting, nor did his clarion wisdom make up for the white trash aristocrat’s assistant’s misapprehension of on-camera mics. The benighted conservative rabble had a good chuckle in the comments, at the spontaneous chant of “9-9-9″ (Herman Cain’s tax plan, and demonstration of his mathematical prowess) coming from the “99%.” They didn’t think to question the inconsistency with, well, everything OWS or OLA stood for. Nor did they question why it was so incredibly fucking loud and distorted—that would be because the idiot holding the camera was the only one screaming it, you morons.
Yes, we got punked by a rich asshole. He got punked by his own ineptitude with technology. This was my closest brush with the greatness (in terms of mass) that was Andrew Breitbart.
Was. How I love the past tense sometimes.
Breitbart was ultimately an accidental celebrity whose fame rested squarely on a Democratic Representative’s engorged cock. He was committed, passionate (about photos of dick), perhaps even driven—driven straight up the slack, prolapsed sphincters of his gruesome and startlingly dimwitted patrons, the Koch brothers.
I’ll admit this is bittersweet. Not because this is a loss of a competent sparring partner for the left (don’t flatter your dead self, pussy face). Being environmentally conscious (when convenient), I weep for the topsoil; the majestic fig trees that will helplessly absorb so much fat and salt, after he’s eagerly accepted into the muck in which he once happily wallowed. I imagine he’ll be buried in SoCal. It should be simple enough to spot the gravesite: the tombstone sparkling with uric acid crystals creeping up to the surface from his gout-riddled corpse. And with the right drill bit, I believe a more fitting epitaph can be added to whatever fatuous platitudes adorn the marker.
A glory hole seems appropriate for another in a long procession of suspected neoconservative closet cases, wouldn’t you agree?
Breitbart the corpse doesn’t deserve any more consideration or respect than Breitbart the flailing imbecile. I hope any lefties squeamish about speaking ill of the evil dead choke on their own vile sentiment. He made the world worse, laboring to absolve and protect billionaire scum, so they could continue unabated in haplessly cultivating monetary excesses with no tangible effects on their lives; taking money that’d matter quite a lot to the poor, near poor, and the near near poor. Cash which could make the difference between life and death—and often does. Breitbart provided the grease (which accounted for much of his person) for the Social Darwinist machinery.
But now he’s so very fucking dead, and it’s amusing.
As Jay Sherman would say, “…and nothing of value was lost.”