Dear James Wolcott: Blow me

Perhaps "blow me" is not the kind of commentary that would make me popular with Vanity Fair readers, who are used to such lofty intellectual matter as Gisele Bundchen nude. But dig the cluelessness of the world's most pretentious dropout from Frostburg (Md.) State University:

Nobody nowhere no way no how is going to buy a "book" by defeated tea bagger Doug Hoffman, who will now recede into the woodwork of irrelevancy to spend more time with his hanging ferns. . . .
If Sarah Palin's emancipation proclamation is being shoveled out to the rabid faithful as a loss leader, a cheap giveaway, how much additional landfill would be needed to accommodate the return copies of the political testament of an obscure guy whose loss handed the Congressional seat to a Democrat for the first time since dinosaurs walked with Jesus? . . .

Wolcott is recycling second-hand memes poached from the liberal blogosphere. He has nothing original to say, and throws less traffic than Sadly No or Crooks and Liars. He is a has-been pop-culture critic whose employment by Graydon Carter seems to be chiefly due to Wolcott's marriage to a Vanity Fair contributing editor.

Wolcott knows as much about politics as such a person might be expected to know. Wolcott seems incapable of doing any actual reporting. There was never any chance of him trundling his obese corpus up to the Adirondacks to cover this election. He will, however, sneer at any journalist who actually works for a living.

So while I've logged thousands of miles and hundreds of hours covering NY23 -- and have spent a few years studying the conservative book market from a perspective of economic self-interest -- I know nothing about nothing, and James Wolcott knows everything.

Excuse me for wasting more than two words on Wolcott. I'm on deadline, and the distraction was annoying.