THE BARD OF BRENT WOOD TO SAY I MISS ANDREW BREITBART is an understatement. It’s like saying I miss my left arm, if I’d actually lost it. Breitbart took great joy in tying the tentacles of phony tolerance into knots. Whereas tolerance demanded that you accept everything, including crap that could destroy you, one thing the tolerance patrol could not tolerate was this wonderful thing called Andrew Breitbart. He confused them. He was a cross between a Sudoku puzzle and anthrax—complicated and deadly—and all wrapped in a lazy California accent and projected from a set of eyes that anyone could see would not be intimidated. He was ﬁercely conservative and ﬁercely funny—which, for the left, is simply unacceptable. He was highly moral but deeply twisted—a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup that proved poisonous to adversaries. He was a patriot and a prankster—and according to mainstream “wisdom,” only people like Michael Moore or Abbie Hoffman could be like that. He was dead serious about his mis- sion, but funnier than most comedians who’ve worked decades on their “craft.” It was why, with such zeal, the left tried to silence Andrew through harassment and threats. Andrew ﬁrst and foremost un- derstood the Internet, and the power of the social media, having worked on Drudge, helped launch the Hufﬁngton Post (where we GR E G GU T F E L D met), and then created his own media empire, Big Hollywood, Big Government, Big Journalism, and so on. (He came up with the “big” idea as a play on the left’s constant demonization of things they did not understand or like by calling them Big this or that.) When Andrew came to Twitter, he was hammered by thousands of sordid threats, and he would often retweet them with glee, an exercise designed to show how intolerant the so-called tolerant progressives are. Breitbart found the whole thing hilarious, even if his Twitter followers didn’t. They didn’t get Andrew’s mission, which was to drive the left batty and watch the battiness express itself through sheer, bloodcurdling intolerance. For some, the anger and vitriol were sickening. For Andrew, it was pure comedy gold. Even the death threats he found delightful. Andrew, like me, was one of the few regular targets of liberal bile who would receive two contradictory insults. Andrew could be labeled a “faggot” and a “homophobe,” sometimes by the same red-faced progressive, who could get away with such slurs because leftists excuse homophobia as long as you’re pro-gay! The reason for this dizzying slur also happened to be a high compliment: An- drew was straight and pro-gay—but more than anything he hated identity politics. For the left-wing gay activist, it undermined their reason for existing. If someone went up to Andrew and declared that he/she was proud to be a transgendered sex worker activist with dyslexia, he would say, “So?” As Gavin McInnes has pointed out, “So” was Andrew’s sim- plest and most cogent retort to the angry tolerance merchant. And one that usually left the ranters in sputtering silence. The homophobic attacks on Andrew (oftentimes from gays) proved how intolerant the left could be when faced with argu- ments it could not handle. Calling him a “fag” was their white ﬂag. T H E JOY OF H AT E When he worked at the Hufﬁngton Post, and I was writing my progressive-mocking blogs there, I had created a ﬁctitious room- mate named Scott, who was a ﬂight attendant, and I would allude to our relationship in a way that often devolved into the mysteri- ously perverse. I performed this exercise to see how the armies of tolerance would deal with me, when, predictably, they didn’t like my ideas. Since many of them were clueless enough not to see that Scott was a fake, they would resort to calling me a homosexual (in varying degrees of intensity). Andrew and I loved it, for it exposed how phony their acceptance really was. If you didn’t accept that America was at the root of all that was wrong in the world, then you must be a stupid, fat faggot (their words). At the time I was fat. Andrew was a professional at exposing hypocrisy on the left, delighting in peeling back their manufactured compassion to re- veal the angry, envious types that lurked beneath. He didn’t hate them, he just found them fascinating—the way a child turns over a rock in a creek bed. In the battle against manufactured rage, An- drew was the tip of the spear. And in his death, that spear prob- ably got sharper. Because Andrew, by inspiring so many people during his life, is all around us in his death. In a peculiar way, Andrew’s death was like the Big Bang. Through his own spec- tacularly sudden demise, he sent particles of life in every single direction, creating new pockets of Andrews everywhere. After Breitbart died, there was the predictable lefty dancing on his grave—in blog posts, on Twitter, in well-paid magazine articles. These crass exercises were condemned by the right, but something tells me Breitbart would have loved it. Their loath- some behavior was exactly how a beaten foe responds when their enemy exits. Their tackiness reﬂected how deeply Breitbart had wounded them with his insightful humor and invective. When GR E G GU T F E L D that douchebag Matt Yglesias tweeted that the “world outlook is slightly improved with @andrewbreitbart dead,” he only meant it was better for Matt Yglesias. Because there was one less person on the earth who could point out what a douchebag Matt Yglesias is. Anyway, I wanted Breitbart to write a blurb for this book, and I’m still waiting to hear back. I’m still not sure he’s dead.
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