The Reviews Are In


Charles Pierce:

I think I saw it Tuesday night. The deepest circle of Pundit Hell. It was on MSNBC. They were all on the beach, grooving on Arnold, their eyeballs moving in swoony arcs parabolic and anabolic at the very thought of the electoral pectorals then flexing across town. Chris Matthews was there, caught in an awful psychological conflict between the tattered threads of his vestigial conscience and the obviously painful nipple erections that this whole thing had been giving him for a month. Next to him was the lovely and batsh*t Peggy Noonan, less blonde than she was when she was fondling the feet of President Dutch, thoughtfully laying a finger upside her head while pondering how far a good Catholic girl would have to go to get from May Processionals to melting like the dew over a lubricious chucklehead who had not yet asked her if he could put his tongue in her more interesting Near Occasions of Sin.


Jesse:

I have no idea why, but I'm watching MSNBC. Chris Matthews is jumping on Jesse Ventura for saying that Arnold's a Republican and is therefore pretty much in thrall, in a lot of ways to the party, and that Arnold took special interest money, neither of which is particularly offensive.

From Matthews' reaction, you'd think that Ventura just dug up the corpse of Matthews' grandmother and started dry-humping it on a channel that people actually watch.


The farmer:

Chris lurches rightward toward Peggy who sits quivering, pitter-patter, like a fledgling bird in a spring wind, excited with expectations which challenge her cognitive dissonance. His large marauding paws grope for her pert heaving breasts and she welcomes his advances, submits, two hungry searching tongues quarry each others hot breath in the glimmering lambent light of the theater of the absurd - fireworks explode, the surf crashes and roars through the piles and pillars beneath the Santa Monica pier. Arnold Schwarzenegger is declared the Governor of California. Somewhere in America a predator falls upon its prey.


What is it about Chris Matthews' show that evokes images of bodice-ripping, drooling (and necrophiliac) ravishment?