The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

Anatomy of a Tweetstorm

Noonan-in-her-cups

Scarlet O’Noonan was sitting on the porch of Peckerwood, her ancestral in the deep South of Brooklyn, when she got the news that war! War! WAR!!1! had broken out:

Turning to some of the inside help, with a look of pure determination in her eyes, she shouted, “Buellah! Bring me my shotglass, er, shotgun! We must defend Peckerwood from the yankees from the wrong side of Central Park!” Which of course was followed by some yiddish, as one does:

O’Noonan polished off her sweet tea, and refilled the pineapple.

Taking a thoughtful sip, O’Noonan prattled on.

O’Noonan gave a glinty look at her summer gown and wondered if she could ride into battle in anything less than her red coat, jodhpurs, and boots, as one wears for Beagling in the better parts of the shire.

“Nothing like a bracing morning of elevenses to get the ol’ blood pumping,” O’Noonan muttered as she cleaned her shotglass.

“Whoops,” she muttered, I’ve lost track already…

O’Noonan pounded her third shot…

Clarity returned some math skills to O’Noonan as she counted the empty shot glasses.

(And can the country stand half Fox and half free? — h/t Driftglass)

(You know, except for that killing Lincoln thing, and the long, long, long Jim Crow years, poll taxes, tests, and other means of surpressing the minority vote. )

(even though the South continues to agitate for secession, eh Peg?)

(Or recall that the victor gets to write the history, and have the Confederate statues replaced by some real art of real heroes: the slaves and what they endured, the amazing will to live, and the majesty of the contributions all have made to our country. We could try that.)

(Again, except for the fact that most of these Confederate Monuments went up during the civil rights era, and really what are they honoring?)

Surveying the shot glass count:

(We do need more to look up to, so why look up to traitors, insurrectionists, and racists? Put up statues of notable Civil War era african Americans like Harriet Tubman. Is it really that hard to figure this out?)

“oops,” O’Noonan slurred, “lost th’ count again!”

“As Gawd is mah witness, Ah’ll never be thirsty a’gin.”

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10 Responses to The Further Adventures of Peggy Noonan

  1. MADVargr says:

    See kids? This is what happens to you when you drink nothing but 200 proof White Privilege from sun up to sundown.
    The Historian’s epic take down of pt9 was a thing of beauty.

    Like

  2. tommyspoon says:

    I was gonna write something pithy and cutting, but she just makes me sad. I really can’t wait for the like-minded folk of her generation to die off.

    Like

  3. It’s a wonder she even graduated from high school with this shoddy understanding of American history. I couldn’t help mentally substitute Demerol for shot glass while reading this.

    Like

    • tengrain says:

      And remember: she just won the freaking Pulitzer Prize.

      Rgds,

      TG

      Like

      • That was a travesty. If they want to invent a separate Life Time Manure Spreading Achievement Award, it would still reflect poorly on the Pulitzer, but at least there would be some accuracy. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that she has some Kompromat on the selection committee.

        Like

  4. She needs to be strapped down Alex-from-A Clockwork Orange-style, and have Ta Nehisi Coates’ epically righteous and angry essay here read to her, accompanied not by the glorious glorious Ludwig Van, but something more like ‘Holiday in Cambodia’ :

    https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/10/the-first-white-president-ta-nehisi-coates/537909/

    Go read it. This is an excerpt from his new book which is guran-damn-teed to ruffle some feathers (as in some serious force 5 winds ‘ruffle’)

    Everyone should read this. Go do it. Now.

    Like

  5. moeman says:

    MaiTai
    Soaked
    Nooner
    Being
    Cray-cray

    Like

  6. HarpoSnarx says:

    Let’s hope she stumbles and lands facedown in a Cotton Gin. The awesome new cocktail at the Trump International . . . burp.

    Like

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