by Maniza Naqvi
“Books do make a room.” Or something like that, from a play—can’t recall which one—– a satirical jibe at the mindless tyranny of the self serving anti intellectual in society. Serving to this type of thinking with this type of laziness is hitched to a fine pitch for the American audience, in the packaging and selling of opinion, in my opinion, by a slimy toad: the blow hard, alcoholic—poser, social climber, wannabe—the unoriginal mediocre cheerleader of war and mass murder who made a career of being draped in mounds of other peoples’ books and supposedly having been himself well read and writing well, all the while being a fraud—and an Iago to America’s Othello. As if being surrounded by columns and piles of books, and having an ability to parrot quotes, and insults in a British accent—with a cigarette and a glass of whisky in hand somehow made him an intellectual. It did not. From all that has been written about him and what he wrote himself he was nothing more than a weak, trend following, power worshipping, fraud: third rate at school and third rate in life.
That toad’s words hitch him to being part of the language, literature and actions that define the racist, supremacist and fascist ethos of mass murderers who are obsessed with God all the while denying their real obsession as if to say: I don’t deny —my orientation—because I have a greater obsession than that which I need to hide: I actually do believe in a God—in a God for the right people–a white God.
The toad, an inebriated toxic decay wrapped inside the blubber of mid life crisis, appeared to himself, a legend, from a bar stool's smoky view of the mirror. So he hitched his sense of self to some confusion with Dorian Gray.
The event on September 11, 2001 allowed a gleeful toad such as him to unleash his proclivities of hatred unvarnished down the welcoming throat of an era of bloodletting.
Hitch, apparently to his equally narcissistic friends. Indeed. Hitch, he did, his wagon to power—first to that of the bullies at public school— no doubt to shield his inadequacies and then to that of War and God, for more of the same.
Hitched, his rhetoric, to applaud, the crusading murderous criminal gang, which continues to rule Washington.
Hitch, he did his first of three party tricks—his quaint vocabulary delivered in an English accent aimed to feed the fetish of Americans who buy anything, snake oil or poison, if it is sold to them in a British accent.
Hitch he did, his second trick, the ability to pitch his pedantic barbs at easy targets of dead victims and God. This, to much admiration by those in need of freeing their consciences of any sense of moral or ethical responsibility for their actions.
Hitch he did, his third trick, to hold down so much drink and remain hate filled, and still be considered admirable and cool to legions of frat boys—and people anesthetizing themselves against any remorse, those nostalgic for the good old days of Empire, refusing to face their complicity in the war crimes committed in the name of Freedom and Liberty.
He must have honed his craft in the shower room of his public school—offering himself up—whilst escaping by being entertaining and witty for those bullies whom he must’ve perceived, in his classist mind, to be his superiors—so that he, would himself, survive and gang up with them, on inflicting maximum harm, on those whom he considered unworthy of kindness—guileless victims, those who were not able to fight back.
Hitched, he is forever in the records of history, to being complicit in the murders of hundreds and thousands of Iraqis and Afghans.
Hitched, he is to a blood soaked history, in which forever indelibly soaked will be his hands for the ink he has spilled for hate and war mongering and distortion of facts.
Also by Maniza Naqvi (here)