What’s that—a journalism lesson? From Bret Stephens? Yes, please, my anticipation could not be any more sincere!
Leadership: What is he? Are men born, of mothers, blessed with a cloak of leadership, clerics of a sort, draped not in flags but in the aforementioned cloaks of leadership? Or is leadership a mere will-o-the-wisp that blesses men momentarily before flitting away, a phantom, off on wings, slipping bonds, to the land of…
If you are a racist—or, far more likely, a Very Nice Person who just tolerates and enables racism through inaction—there is absolutely nothing you love more than an opportunity for a good old false equivalence. And today is Bret Stephens’ lucky day!
Frank Bruni, a flailing man who casts about aimlessly for newspaper column ideas in the manner of a blind koala bear slowly waving its paws in hopes of grasping a eucalyptus leaf, is the answer to the question: Can someone without any actual thoughts or ideas still become a prominent New York Times political…
What is your “privilege?” Have you “checked your privilege?” Today, we all get a very special privilege: Helping David Brooks—a designer fleece draped atop a Volvo—do his fucking job.
“I’ve been confused about politics ever since Republican states became red states, which to me, growing up in the era of Red China, suggested commissars and gulags and thought control, which of course Utah and Texas and Georgia do not have... Blue makes me think of Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters, but that’s another…
David Brooks, the sensitive middle-aged man ostentatiously reading a Steven Pinker book in hopes that a beautiful woman will ask him about it, has (as you would expect) a fuzzy and useless analysis of our gun problem. But it hints at a path forward for this lost soul.
Not all of our esteemed Republican newspaper columnists are as bold as Dame Peggy Noonan, who ventured bodily into deepest Brooklyn some years ago and is still talking about that adventure today. But “Mr. Peanut” mascot George Will did the next best thing: He read a book about this wretched place. And learned!
I got a bowl, it is made of marble. The name of the Pope is me-ee-ee.
Recently, a mentally ill man committed a terrible crime in New York City. So I ask you: Why isn’t Black Lives Matter protesting jerks like that?
Becoming a regular columnist at a prestigious newspaper is one of the cushiest and most coveted jobs in journalism. Strangely, almost every newspaper columnist sucks. Maybe the problem is the entire concept.
Would you give your dog a billion dollars to give away as he wished? No. Nor would you allow David Brooks to choose how to give away a billion dollars, for the same reasons.
Hark... what tis upon the horizon there? An angel? No—it doth a piece of shit phoned-in column by a lazy worn-out media guy. Hail!
The crashing sound you hear is not Western democracy falling apart; rather, it is the wave of populism and also nationalism breaking at last on the borders of the land of Napoleon. This week we may finally put down our Freedom Fries and cry: Vive le France.
This week, the New York Times—a paper which has seen subscriptions soar as The Resistance seeks its media savior—hired Bret Stephens, formerly of the Wall Street Journal, as its newest opinion columnist. Allow us to offer you a broad sample of his past work.