Rather than dumping on Mrs. Munchin for down-punching a peasant on her Instagram feed, maybe we should thank her for her candor, at least in that she doesn't try to conceal her inflated sense of self-regard.
Of the many things I fail to apprehend about Today's Ute (or society at large, for that matter), it is the idea that anyone would "follow" someone like Louise Linton, or any of the Kardashians, etc., in their virtualized adventures. These are people who, as the old joke goes, are famous for being well-known; i.e., no one knows what they do because they don't actually do anything.
It's easy to understand why such useless, charisma-free z-list personalities would indulge the urge to turn every waking moment into a brand-building calisthenic, but it's incomprehensible why a rational, sentient human who presumably has their own life to lead would bother with this sort of nonsense.
Back in the Eighties, when he was still an outrageously funny, envelope-pushing standup, Eddie Murphy had a trifling bit that was mostly designed to showcase Murphy's innate fear of being taken to the cleaners by a gold-digger. The bit had some truth to it nonetheless: Johnny Carson was going through his third divorce at the time, and the wife was intent on Getting Her Share.
So Murphy's joke was twofold -- that Carson's wife knew exactly who he was when she married him (in other words, it was why she married him); and that she would instantly be disincentivized from doing anything of her own. "What's she going to do, go get some part-time job at some Beverly Hills boutique, so she can say she 'earns' money, comes home every week with her seventy bucks or so, puts it in a jar?" Now we have three hundred million and seventy dollars!
That bit instantly sprung to mind on reading Linton's cheap screed about the "sacrifices" she and her goggle-eyed, pelf-grubbing slumlord of a husband have been apparently forced at gunpoint to make. Maybe Mnuchin bankrolled some of the schlockfests Linton had bit roles in, when she wasn't writing her fictionalized memoir. It's the iron road that only the stout of heart manage to travel. Many sacrifices any way you cut that cheese, folks. There but for the grace of Baal and all.
I have made this challenge to butt-hurt greed-heads before, and the offer stands: if your golden cross becomes to heavy for you to bear, there are millions of people out there that will be happy to trade places with you.
Anyway, this whole tempest-in-an-outhouse is a perfect example of how everyone in this administration functions, just on a basic human level. It's why they're there. This is the mistake the media keep making, looking for an "adult" in the room, mostly settling on the generals, Mattis, McMaster, and Kelly. And by way of comparison, sure, they're competent adults. (Although, in a normal administration, there would be concerned murmurs of a military coup; in this case, they're practically welcoming it, just to have some semblance of competence. But none of these guys is remotely "liberal," in the conventional sense.)
But the rest of them, including Mnuchin and his high-maintenance trophy, are there because they have the same empty hyper-consumerist ethos their orange overlord embodies. In her Instagram photo that started this kerfuffle, all the accessories and clothes Louise Linton is wearing and hashtagging -- outfit, scarf, handbag, etc. -- cost more than Jenni Miller makes in an entire year at whatever wage-slave job she's grateful to hold. Yet Linton's sense of entitlement is such that she feels not the slightest bit of sheepishness at the absurdity of that, that she owns purses and scarves that cost as much as an automobile, that she owes it all to her husband's expertise at diddling spreadsheets and picking hit movies, and her own great fortune at chugging the right pole -- an ugly rich guy who's more than happy to pay for the privilege of punching above his own weight.
Linton probably aspires to be a Joanie Clownstick type, sweeping up useless bromides discarded by others, passing the collection off as her own selfless "advice" to women who actually work jobs and pay bills and raise children, and wonder how the fuck they're going to keep doing it all for the next year or twenty. Maybe a clothing or accessory line, produced by underaged Bengali slaves in a collapsing sweatshop for fifty cents a day. Maybe a ghostwritten lifestyle column in a women's mag. These are all natural steps in building that brand. It's important to be multi-dimensional; you have to maximize your potentiality by showing the followers that you can do more than just send snaps of your month on the Dalmatian coast into the teeming ether.
That too is perfectly emblematic of this admin's mindset, the terminal Dunning-Kruger assumption of one's own greatness among mere mortals. It's proving to be their undoing, because of the comic irony that they're too stupid to know how truly stupid they are, and too arrogant to care. And again, precisely because they equate consumption with success and self-actualization, they really have no concept of how empty their scorekeeping really is.
It's a poor fucking substitute for a life, lady, and it's even more off-putting than your pissy peasant-bashing. I'd recite the classic Dorothy Parker adage about people with money, but people like Louise Linton are far too successful to need to know who [pfft] this Dorothy Parker person might be. But Parker had their fucking number, and that is a true fact, not that such a thing matters to these scavenging assholes.
I look forward to seeing Linton in a couple of years on some late-night infomercial, flogging some magical face cream with special ingredients from the Amazon rain forest or some shit, clinging to the remnants of her youth as she approaches the wrong side of forty. After this clusterfuck finally implodes and everyone associated with it is blackballed from civilized society for their perfidy, it's about all she'll be able to get.
Of the many things I fail to apprehend about Today's Ute (or society at large, for that matter), it is the idea that anyone would "follow" someone like Louise Linton, or any of the Kardashians, etc., in their virtualized adventures. These are people who, as the old joke goes, are famous for being well-known; i.e., no one knows what they do because they don't actually do anything.
It's easy to understand why such useless, charisma-free z-list personalities would indulge the urge to turn every waking moment into a brand-building calisthenic, but it's incomprehensible why a rational, sentient human who presumably has their own life to lead would bother with this sort of nonsense.
Back in the Eighties, when he was still an outrageously funny, envelope-pushing standup, Eddie Murphy had a trifling bit that was mostly designed to showcase Murphy's innate fear of being taken to the cleaners by a gold-digger. The bit had some truth to it nonetheless: Johnny Carson was going through his third divorce at the time, and the wife was intent on Getting Her Share.
So Murphy's joke was twofold -- that Carson's wife knew exactly who he was when she married him (in other words, it was why she married him); and that she would instantly be disincentivized from doing anything of her own. "What's she going to do, go get some part-time job at some Beverly Hills boutique, so she can say she 'earns' money, comes home every week with her seventy bucks or so, puts it in a jar?" Now we have three hundred million and seventy dollars!
That bit instantly sprung to mind on reading Linton's cheap screed about the "sacrifices" she and her goggle-eyed, pelf-grubbing slumlord of a husband have been apparently forced at gunpoint to make. Maybe Mnuchin bankrolled some of the schlockfests Linton had bit roles in, when she wasn't writing her fictionalized memoir. It's the iron road that only the stout of heart manage to travel. Many sacrifices any way you cut that cheese, folks. There but for the grace of Baal and all.
I have made this challenge to butt-hurt greed-heads before, and the offer stands: if your golden cross becomes to heavy for you to bear, there are millions of people out there that will be happy to trade places with you.
Anyway, this whole tempest-in-an-outhouse is a perfect example of how everyone in this administration functions, just on a basic human level. It's why they're there. This is the mistake the media keep making, looking for an "adult" in the room, mostly settling on the generals, Mattis, McMaster, and Kelly. And by way of comparison, sure, they're competent adults. (Although, in a normal administration, there would be concerned murmurs of a military coup; in this case, they're practically welcoming it, just to have some semblance of competence. But none of these guys is remotely "liberal," in the conventional sense.)
But the rest of them, including Mnuchin and his high-maintenance trophy, are there because they have the same empty hyper-consumerist ethos their orange overlord embodies. In her Instagram photo that started this kerfuffle, all the accessories and clothes Louise Linton is wearing and hashtagging -- outfit, scarf, handbag, etc. -- cost more than Jenni Miller makes in an entire year at whatever wage-slave job she's grateful to hold. Yet Linton's sense of entitlement is such that she feels not the slightest bit of sheepishness at the absurdity of that, that she owns purses and scarves that cost as much as an automobile, that she owes it all to her husband's expertise at diddling spreadsheets and picking hit movies, and her own great fortune at chugging the right pole -- an ugly rich guy who's more than happy to pay for the privilege of punching above his own weight.
Linton probably aspires to be a Joanie Clownstick type, sweeping up useless bromides discarded by others, passing the collection off as her own selfless "advice" to women who actually work jobs and pay bills and raise children, and wonder how the fuck they're going to keep doing it all for the next year or twenty. Maybe a clothing or accessory line, produced by underaged Bengali slaves in a collapsing sweatshop for fifty cents a day. Maybe a ghostwritten lifestyle column in a women's mag. These are all natural steps in building that brand. It's important to be multi-dimensional; you have to maximize your potentiality by showing the followers that you can do more than just send snaps of your month on the Dalmatian coast into the teeming ether.
That too is perfectly emblematic of this admin's mindset, the terminal Dunning-Kruger assumption of one's own greatness among mere mortals. It's proving to be their undoing, because of the comic irony that they're too stupid to know how truly stupid they are, and too arrogant to care. And again, precisely because they equate consumption with success and self-actualization, they really have no concept of how empty their scorekeeping really is.
It's a poor fucking substitute for a life, lady, and it's even more off-putting than your pissy peasant-bashing. I'd recite the classic Dorothy Parker adage about people with money, but people like Louise Linton are far too successful to need to know who [pfft] this Dorothy Parker person might be. But Parker had their fucking number, and that is a true fact, not that such a thing matters to these scavenging assholes.
I look forward to seeing Linton in a couple of years on some late-night infomercial, flogging some magical face cream with special ingredients from the Amazon rain forest or some shit, clinging to the remnants of her youth as she approaches the wrong side of forty. After this clusterfuck finally implodes and everyone associated with it is blackballed from civilized society for their perfidy, it's about all she'll be able to get.
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