Brent Bozell: Soulless geek

I guess BeeBee wasn't invited to the party.

How perfect this event was to demonstrate how Hollywood and much of modern popular culture has been devoted not to lifting men up but dragging them down into a fuzzy world of addiction and self-absorption, and ultimately self-pity. The libertine elite at Woody Creek came to celebrate a man whose creed wasn't about loving or giving or helping or holiness: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."

All of Bozell's insecurities are on display. His lack of talent. His fear of being irrelevant. His fear of dying alone, forgotten as little more than a creepy little nerd (I mean, what is with that beard?) who hates to see others enjoying life and celebrating the raucous, innate weirdness of the last parts of America not paved over for a Wal*Mart.

It is said of liberals, that we are too PC for anyone to like us; we nag America; we don't want to see others have a little fun with their guns and NASCAR.

Well, this liberal says, "America, have at it with the guns, the cars, the gawking at the buildings when you visit New York City."

But turnabout's fair play.

It's not liberals who want the world to conform to some weird utopia Beaver Cleaver wouldn't even recognize. It's types like Brent Bozell who see every celebration of difference as an attack on their moral purity which must be stamped out. In his view, Hunter S. Thompson should have been buried in Potters Field, a suicide who should be cast out of the community like a plague-carrier, his books burned.

It makes him gag with indignation that Hollywood had the moral turpitude to dedicate two, count 'em, two movies about this drug endorsing "writer."

In other words -- and I've thought long and hard about this, studying the problem from a variety of angles -- Brent Bozell is a diiiiiiick.

Via Amanda Marcotte.