Tuesday, March 07, 2006

The Chicken Lays An Egg

likes to pretend he grapples with the big issues of our times. This from the man who spent forty minutes this morning whining about the fact that the elastic had gone out of his Hanes briefs.

"Why does it happen, Bettina? Why?"

Because you're grossly overweight?

Because all that canned cheese and Ritz crackers has to go somewhere?

No, no, he insisted. There was a cosmic reason.

It reminded me of his column last Friday, "The Big Question."

Headlines can be so misleading. But Thomas Friedman likes to believe everything about him is "big." Reality's never born that out.

So wanting to grab some of the attention that and have been getting, Thomas Friedman decides to pen his anti-war statement. Friedman being Friedman, he couldn't pull it off.

He sees war as a more orderly version of a global McDonalds. It's something to get the riff-raff motivated.

So the most he can do is offer a chicken v. egg scenario as he attempted to wonder whether Iraq was the way it was due to Saddam Hussein or whether that's just the way 'those people' are?

He never could figure out his 'riddle.' He lost interest in it as he chased down even more pedistrian phrases. For instance, "This is the season of decision."

Thomas Friedman really does picture himself as the coach in Hoosiers. I'm not sure what, if anything, that has to do with his fondness for hunting down fake nudes online of the male cast members of Saved By The Bell, but he really does see himself as the one who can deliver that inspirational speech right before the fourth quarter and get the 'team' to give it up for God and Glory.

That's why he acts like we're on the verge of seeing the war lose public support. Oh, seer Friedman, tell me next whether the paper arrived yesterday? Did the milk go sour this morning?

If there's anything larger than his ass, it's his sense of self-importance.

And I'm done trying to bring him down to earth. I think I'll just feed into it. Watch him humiliate himself even further. As though praising L. Paul Bremer's book isn't humiliating enough. He's practically Dexter Filkins, so deep is his denial, so self- righteous his finger pointing.

He did it Friday. His big anti-war column turned out to be more half-assed denial from the man who's next book should be called The Brain Is Dead. Till then, he keeps clucking because he just laid another egg.