Saturday July 21, 2012
I GIVE IT FOUR FARTS. I just found this thing on the internet, a promo from something called Young America's Foundation -- which sounds like a cheap knock-off of Young Americans for Freedom, but turns out to be partners with YAF, as well as longtime custodial service at the Reagan Ranch. It promotes a DVD doc called The Conservatives, which from the trailer looks like the dystopian opening sequence of Atlas Shrugged Part I followed by scenes from corporate image advertising, accompanied by rightwing pundits telling you how great capitalism is. Perfect for your next Romney G&T/servant-horsewhipping fundraiser!
The trailer's not much, but I just love the splash page image:
It reminds me of the posters for Mystery Men, except repulsive. (Superheroes from left to right: Li'l Reagan, Braygirl, Drunky Fart, The Wad, The Black Stossel, Screechy, and The Yacht Broker.) As with all wingnut welfare projects, the necessity to attract audiences has been obviated, so no one at YAF/YAF cares what the world thinks, but didn't the pundits get a look at the ad before it went up? I should think Mark Levin would at least have demanded they airbrush into his portrait a Nehru jacket and Mr. Bigglesworth.
As to Goldberg, I can't tell whether they simply couldn't get a better picture, or whether he has purposefully opted to transition his public image from Cheeky Conservative Bad-Boy to Professor of Liberal Fascism. The smart-guy glasses, the Van Dyke, the slightly askew forelock, the capture in mid-hector -- maybe he thinks all this makes him look intellectual. But I am put more in mind of a midwestern high school principal in the big city for a convention, back at the hotel after several drinks at the T.G.I. Friday's down the street, attempting to intimidate a desk clerk into removing in-room snack charges from his bill. "Now listen to me, Renaldo, I am not some bumpkin who doesn't know what's going on. See this card? Read what it says. Read it. It says I am a Marriott Elite Membership Member. Now whenever I stay at a Marriott, I show them this card and my Cheetos are comped. Always, Renaldo. You call the main office. Go ahead, I'll wait. I'll wait right here. Because you know what they'll say? They'll say, 'Mister Goldberg gets his Cheetos comped because Mister Goldberg is an Elite Membership Member.' And this is in fact central to my point that I am not paying twenty-one dollars for seven little tiny bags of Cheetos that were open when I got there and not even Crunchy. Farrrt. Now I suppose you'll accuse me of incivil-ilitism. Well, allow me to remind you that you started it, and that he who smelt it dealt it. Q.E.D. I rest my case, right here on this couch. Ooof. Go ahead, I'll wait. Call the head office, Renaldo. Call Mr. Marriott. Three dollars for a bag of Cheetos. Fuck. [snores]"
