I am big. It’s the brains that got small.


 Andrew Breitbart celebrates the launch of his Big Hollywood blog by giving himself a congratulatory blow job:

What an exhilarating week. Big Hollywood is finally up. Traffic is way better than expected.

Greg Gutfeld is posting his wondrous inanities and many pointed yet not vitriolic salvos have been launched against the intransigent Hollywood left and vital ones aimed at the right — for forfeiting culture to the opposition.

Leading off with the accomplishments of Greg Gutfeld is like introducing your fleshlight* at your cousin’s wedding as your date. People might not be quite as impressed as you think.

Nonetheless, Andrew goes forth:

Bill Whittle showed off his effortless brilliant writing skills. (I’ll challenge anyone at the Huffington Post to a writer’s duel: Bill versus the best you got. The winner gets $1000 in carbon credits.)

Oh dear.

Instead of sampling Whittle’s wares from his old blog (Tribes  makes Kim duToit’s Pussification of the Western Male seem almost…. pussified) we’ll stick with Whittle’s Big Hollywood debut:

And from your perch on the frozen, bone-dry lunar sand you would see the same pattern, the same pulse, the same heartbeat: a slow, steady rise, followed by a precipitous, shockingly quick fall… and then centuries, or even millennia of darkness, fear, superstition, disease and ignorance before the spark took hold again elsewhere.

One thing in common these patterns bear: the rise slow, the fall seemingly precipitous, and in every case we find the loss of nerve and strength and will comes not from the bottom, not from the common people at all, but from the rulers, the philosophers, the most affluent and educated who, in their comfort and Narcissism, abandon duty for self-absorption and self-gratification and who in boredom or self-loathing decide to fling open the gates of the city to the barbarians beyond, while the common man still stands at the walls prepared to die for the people in his charge.

[...]

There was a time when America broadcast its virtues to the world. Films like It’s a Wonderful Life and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, even Star Wars and Spider-man, were films about common, decent people – Americans, obviously, for we all know that even Luke Skywalker was an Iowa farm boy – who find themselves in dangerous and evil places and whose fundamental decency corrected this wrong in the world and restored a sense of hope and optimism, a sense that we are masters of our own destiny. It is an idea so powerful that even French intellectuals, who seemed then and seem today to be incapable of a single positive or upbeat thought, could watch in wonder and contempt as legions of their countrymen flocked to see them.

Those days have gone. No longer does Hollywood broadcast America’s mythic virtues to the world. No, the flow is reversed now. Now the great creative driving force of Hollywood is to present to America the anti-American hatred of the intellectuals watching in impotent fury out in the rest of the world.

Of the six or seven war movies made during the last few years, all – save one – were spectacular failures. Many were the reasons given for this, but perhaps, someday, while sitting in a hammock in the Cayman Islands, even a studio executive might be just intellectually aware enough to catch a flash of what is obvious to a pharmacist in Des Moines: that maybe, just perhaps, these films failed not because of war weariness or denial or rank stupidity on the part of the American people, but rather – are you sitting down? – that most of the country, unlike Hollywood, has sons and daughters and fathers and brothers in the military and know for first-hand fact that they are not rapists or murderers, hicks, dullards, losers, or broken and victimized children but rather the bravest, the most capable, the most decent and honorable and just plain competent people we have.

And perhaps, just perhaps, it might enter that navel-gazing, self-centered, dim little brain to reflect that the one war movie that did out-of-the-park business was the one that showed the Marines as the good guys, winning on the battlefield, defending their people and their culture against long odds and full of the heroism and sacrifice that used to be so commonplace in this city… even if the Marines in question wore loincloths and funny helmets and advanced with spears and round shields.

Rollover Bulwer-Lytton and tell Tom Clancy the news.

Until this moment I never knew that it was possible to write in ham. Slabs and slabs of awful  word-ham slathered in the mustard of pomposity with a side of crap chips. And a Mr. Pibb.

Beyond that, I assume  that the movie  Whittle is referring to is (speaking of ham)  300 , and, if I remember correctly… they all die,  which is a funny way to go about "winning on the battlefield". 

But then I ‘m not a pharmacist in Des Moines, so what the hell do I know?

* You really don’t want to know. Trust me.