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									                   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

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

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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