Furthest Right

Cuck BBQ At The Atlantic

Kevin Williamson was the bright and burning star of the Never Trump Movement. He showed his true commitment to conservative principles when he wrote on Trump’s campaign announcement in 2015, producing an article about the Conservative principle of knifing anyone too far to your right in the ribs to curry favor with lefties. This strategy had seemed to pay off as he was recently hired as the Castrati Conservative over at The Atlantic Magazine. Here’s an example of this brand of “Conservatism.”

Donald Trump, being Donald Trump, announced his candidacy at Trump Tower, making a weird grand entrance via escalator — going down, of course, the symbolism of which is lost on that witless ape. But who could witness that scene — the self-made man who started with nothing but a modest portfolio of 27,000 New York City properties acquired by his millionaire slumlord father, barely out of his latest bankruptcy and possibly headed for another one as the casino/jiggle-joint bearing his name sinks into the filthy mire of the one U.S. city that makes Las Vegas look respectable, a reality-television grotesque with his plastic-surgery-disaster wife, grunting like a baboon about our country’s “brand” and his own vast wealth — and not see the peerless sign of our times?

And it wasn’t just Candidate Trump that Kevie-Kev held in acidic contempt. It was those who supported Candidate Trump and all the vile Orc-Holes in which these Denisovian Cons lived and smoked their meth.

The truth about these dysfunctional, downscale communities is that they deserve to die. Economically, they are negative assets. Morally, they are indefensible. Forget all your cheap theatrical Bruce Springsteen crap. Forget your sanctimony about struggling Rust Belt factory towns and your conspiracy theories about the wily Orientals stealing our jobs. Forget your goddamned gypsum, and, if he has a problem with that, forget Ed Burke, too. The white American underclass is in thrall to a vicious, selfish culture whose main products are misery and used heroin needles. Donald Trump’s speeches make them feel good. So does OxyContin. What they need isn’t analgesics, literal or political. They need real opportunity, which means that they need real change, which means that they need U-Haul.

This inspired hatred for anyone too radically far from the politics and social morays of Bill (((Kristol))) or David Frum, made Kevie-Kev seem like the perfect Cuckie-Poo Butt-Boy a leftist publication looks for when they hire their token “Conservative Voice.” Why even Te-Hang-A-White-Boy Coates admired Kevin Williamson’s writing. When Kevie-Kev published his whinging screed about the death of Libertarian Conservatism in The Atlantic, we had every reason to believe the latest Cuck-gasm was disgustingly nigh.

Then it came out that Kevie-Kev talked about abortions as if they were a bad thing. This sent Jessica Valenti into her predictable SJW-Mode period worthy of a bloody Noah’s Flood. So Atlantic Editor Jeffrey Goldberg cranked out an apologetic memo for having ever hired the ideological heretic and made the typical directly counterfactual statements that we can expect from an SJW.

In the memo, Goldberg stated that Williamson — who had been hired late last month to be a columnist for the magazine’s Ideas section — had initially explained his “hanging” comments as an “intemperate tweet” that was sent in the heat of the moment. The unearthed podcast, however, represented Williamson’s “carefully considered views.” Beyond that, Goldberg described Williamson’s language in the podcast as “callous and violent.” The editor pointed out in the memo that Williamson wasn’t being let go over his pro-life views, adding that they understood his views on abortion when the publication hired him.

Now I could decry the tragic de-platforming of the lovable and brilliant Kevie-Kev, but I grew up in a place like Gorbutt. I could thoughtfully nod along and say “Yeah, man!” when David French tells us how awful life is without Kevi-Kev’s coruscating brilliance.

The Atlantic has caved to the intolerant mob and fired Kevin Williamson, and in so doing has contributed to a slanderous fiction — that Kevin is so beyond the pale that he has no place at one of the nation’s premiere mainstream publications. His millions of words, his countless interviews, and his personal character were reduced to nothing — inconsequential in the face of deleted tweets and a five-minute podcast dialogue.

Well, instead I’ll respond to this with a wee bit of poetry. Just because I feel creative, or something. Here goes!

When the NRO Cucks came for John Derbyshire, they claimed he was a racist.
I haven’t run a road race in years so I said nothing.
When The NRO Cucks came for Mark Steyn, they claimed he was too provocative.
I don’t like being provoked unless I have a 30.06 handy. I said nothing.
When the NRO Cucks came for Sam Francis, I really don’t care what they claimed.
I was still a cuck asshole myself at that point, so I did nothing.
When the NRO cucks came for Ayn Rand and The Birchers, I wasn’t born yet.
Hell, I don’t blog on Cuck sites anymore because the stupid, rancid Cucks finally came for me!

You get the point. Kevie-Kev could have a plethora of allies here. I could still be inclined to write this piece from a diametrically opposite point of view. The NRO Editor-In-Chief could yell “Avengers Assemble!” and have Based Stick-Man lead a charge on whatever dump of a building The Atlantic publishes its leftarded propaganda from. But no, the “Respectable Conservatives” nuked several people they could use as allies right now and have been killed by their own modus operandi. I’m not feeling particuraly charitable towards the hypocritical, cuckservative, Never Trump bastard.

In fact, I consider this a condign Cuck BBQ. The only thing missing as Kevie-Kev’s duplicitous career gets the smoke and the tangy sauce is the apple in his mouth and spit where he likes it. Right up his pompous, overrated ass. Pack your U-Haul Kevin Williamson. Gorbutt just went bye-bye. As Whitaker Chambers once said to Ayn Rand in the pages of National Review Magazine: “To the gas chambers, go!”

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