Ayn Rand may have been a hypocrite, but at least she didn’t wet herself very oftenPosted: March 21, 2011
I have recently been entering into discussion with the boys and girls at Balloon Juice. Although they all seem to be sinners, liberals and sodomites (but I repeat myself), and they swear far too much, some of them seem to have their hearts in the right place.
One day a few weeks ago, someone there asked whether I had read the first serving of tripe that David Brooks had flung at the long suffering readers of the New York Times. I simply noted that I’m an old woman, and therefore don’t have the time to read turgid prose written by monkeys.
However, I was reminded of the fact that that I did once meet Mr Brooks at a party in Chicago.
It was in the very early 80s when he was still at university. Ayn Rand had bailed him up in a corner and had stolen his drink. She was in the last stages of terminal cancer at that point, but was still as horrid as ever. She kept calling him “Davey Davey Pissy Pants” until he actually did wet himself and had to leave.
It just goes to show that even evil old women with the literary talent of a milk bottle cap can have true insight into people’s character every now and then*.
* The first time I told the anecdote to the Juicers, I was a little cruel, in that I omitted to mention that as he was scampering off, urine squirting down his leg and onto the floor of Hutchinson Hall with every step, Mr Brooks did manage to stammer back that Ms Rand was a bitch.
Of course, the hypocritical old harridan didn’t hear him because she was elbow deep in the shrimp buffet by that point. However, it seemed only fair to note that little Davey did get the last word. Sort of.
As I said then, none of that means that Ayn Rand wasn’t a dried up old snake with the morals of a bandicoot on crystal meth**.
** Someone called me on this, noting that bandicoots are perfectly fine upstanding marsupials.
Of course, this is very true. They are cute and fluffy, and I would certainly rather have a bandicoot living in my bedroom than either Ayn Rand or David Brooks.
The worst the bandicoot would do is poo on the rug, which is more than I can say for those other two. Certainly, no bandicoot every expected anyone to pay for the privilege of reading its loathsome scribblings.
However, I would submit that if one in fact procured a bandicoot, and if one was then to give said bandicoot a soupçon or seven of crystal meth, the result would be a spitting, hissing, biting, yowling ball of fur that engaged in scads of frenetic pleasureless humping interspersed with much sullen moping in corners.
Very much like having Ayn Rand or David Brooks living in your bedroom, I suspect.