Chris Buckley on Rush Limbaugh at the Daily Beast.
As these words were going out over the Excellence in Broadcasting network, my father’s corpse was still warm. It was a day of passions, I know, and things get said in the heat of passion. But reading these words, in the cooler air of October—not that this October has been devoid of passion—well, as me old mater might say, I found them a bit…de trop.
That’s French for “a bit much,” and I’m putting it that way by way of stipulating that I am a card-carrying member of the Eastern seaboard, proletarian-despising media elite. My idea of roughage is arugula. I have not to date tasted moose meat and hope never to, unless it is served to me at La Grenouille, by Charles Masson, personally and under glass. As for politics, we elites have always inclined toward the black candidate who grew up with a single mother on food stamps, as opposed to the third-generation Annapolis cadet.
I am having these pensées (more French, learned at an elite New England boarding school) about el Rushbo because a few days ago, following my J’accuse! (okay, okay, I’ll cut it out)—following my “I’m voting for Barack” teachable moment in this space, I received, amidst other howls of outrage and a pink slip from NR, formal notification that I had arrived, career-wise. It took the form of a headline:
LIMBAUGH MOCKS BUCKLEY OVER OBAMA.
Well, you can mock Christopher Buckley, but reap your whirlwind, sir.