A glimpse into a disturbing psyche

Lona Manning
There used to be rules. Rules about what a gentlemen would say about a lady. Even when we stopped being gentlemen and ladies, emancipated feminists would condemn any man who publicly threatened violence to women, who spoke of them in degrading and offensive terms. So when Matt Taibbia journalist of the Left, makes a gratuitous and obscene remark about Michelle Malkin and teabagging, who do we complain to?  To his employer, Rolling Stone Magazine?  

Taibbi’s personal profile -- a brief paragraph -- is at True/Slant blog. Beside his photo, which displays a piercing stare and a sardonic smile which would not be out of place on a Most Wanted poster, he shares an explicit, violent fantasy – his desire to kill a young actress whose work irritates him. Strangling her, he writes, is his “main ambition in life.”  Taibbi jokes, “[a]nyone who has suggestions for how to dump her body without being caught is welcome to write to me. I already have plenty of plastic and a staple-gun.

This is supposed to be humor, but it makes my skin crawl.
There used to be rules. Rules about what a gentlemen would say about a lady. Even when we stopped being gentlemen and ladies, emancipated feminists would condemn any man who publicly threatened violence to women, who spoke of them in degrading and offensive terms. So when Matt Taibbia journalist of the Left, makes a gratuitous and obscene remark about Michelle Malkin and teabagging, who do we complain to?  To his employer, Rolling Stone Magazine?  

Taibbi’s personal profile -- a brief paragraph -- is at True/Slant blog. Beside his photo, which displays a piercing stare and a sardonic smile which would not be out of place on a Most Wanted poster, he shares an explicit, violent fantasy – his desire to kill a young actress whose work irritates him. Strangling her, he writes, is his “main ambition in life.”  Taibbi jokes, “[a]nyone who has suggestions for how to dump her body without being caught is welcome to write to me. I already have plenty of plastic and a staple-gun.

This is supposed to be humor, but it makes my skin crawl.