The Joy of Hate

by Greg Gutfeld

  At the heart of all of this is a deliberate dismissal of exceptionalism, in favor of tolerance. Remember when President Obama was asked if he believed in American exceptionalism, he said, sure—just as Greeks would believe in Greek exceptionalism and so on. So really what he said was: Everyone believes in exceptionalism, which means there is no such thing as exceptionalism. What has replaced the belief that America is the greatest country in the world? Well, that America is the most “tolerant” country in the world. After Bush, being liked meant so much more than being feared. Hence the push for Muslims in space. Hey, maybe a functioning Islamic Earth program would be a good idea first.

  In Obama’s mind, tolerance is far more valuable and wonderful than superiority. It’s better to be liked, and to like everyone, than to be number one. In the end, that’s the real crime of tolerance: it’s used as a ceiling on achievement relegating the U.S. to being just another country. And you see the aftereffects of that in the Middle East revolutions of early 2011. What most Americans might expect from their leader is more than a mildly worded statement condemning certain behaviors. But we barely got that. Instead of leading the world, we gawked. We are now exactly what Obama envisioned: not a leader of the free world but just another inhabitant on a planet—observing the wrath of assholes in Syria with a dispassionate distaste one might have for a loud party happening across the street. The fact is, Obama got more upset about the cop who arrested Henry Louis Gates than he did about the shit going down in Iran. Maybe he should have asked Ahmadinejad to a beer summit. I bet the little ingrate wouldn’t even bring a bag of pretzels.

  TO OBAMA, BORDERS WAS NOTHING BUT A BOOKSTORE

  THE FIRST THING THEY DO WHEN anyone starts a country is draw lines on a map. Guess what? We did it, too. But thanks to tolerance, America is the only nation in human history not allowed to have one of those border thingies. Mexico gets one. Several, in fact. Can we have just one? When do we get to call bullshit on the rest of the world and get to have a border? But that would place citizens over noncitizens in the American pecking order—which is utterly intolerant.

  And so you have an exercise in revulsion, directed at the state of Arizona, which was only trying to figure out this crap for itself. By simply trying to enforce the laws that the feds are too scared to enforce (God forbid they appear racist or even judgmental), they’ve become painted as intolerant bigots. And this is fueled by our own government, waving their spindly, cowardly finger at the governor and her fed-up constituents. It gets so bad that even when tragedy strikes (the Tucson shooting), the media sees fit to blame Arizona for it, not a crazed maniac. That’s because if you actually believe in something as simple as borders, you must be intolerant—and in the eyes of opportunistic leftists, it was that climate of hate over immigration that made the shooting possible.

  This logic extends to the most ridiculous of places, and I say that as I pop an extra-strength Mucinex, which requires a form of ID to purchase. It’s true. When I go and buy cough or cold medicine, I have to do what everyone else does: present some sort of picture ID so everyone can make sure I’m actually me. Thankfully, I still have my club card from Teddy Bear Village (“the best place for hugs”), and it still gets me into various places with minimal effort. But I don’t make a fuss about rummaging for the card, even though I know the process is, on the whole, pointless when it’s directed at me. Presenting ID for Mucinex or Sudafed or whatever is based on the fact that a lot of people buy the stuff to make crystal meth—a drug I’ve never tried, but I’ve heard it does wonders for your teeth. Frankly, having to buy tons of over-the-counter remedies to make one under-the-counter drug seems like a lot of work. I stick to simple processes, like lying to my doctor about my unbearable back pain.

  But among the many other mundane things in life I’ve learned to do without thinking too much is to always have my ID. To me, it’s like changing my sheets—something I do at least every two weeks. At forty-seven, I still get carded once in a while in bars, mainly because it’s customary for a bouncer to card everyone in order to keep his job, and that includes a middle-aged man in leather cutoffs.

  So we live in a world where it’s completely tolerated, and acceptable, that you have photo identification for some Kabuki-style “everyone is the same” crowd control. It’s the post-9/11 world—and it’s the least you can do to offer some peace of mind to everyone else who has to put up with your shifty demeanor and furtive manner in public.

  Well, what if you want to do something that’s pretty important, like vote? Shouldn’t you have an ID? Isn’t that what one would call a reasonable request? You need an ID to buy cigarettes, why not to cast a ballot—which is every bit as important as inhaling a Salem while riding on the back of a lawnmower you’ve nicknamed Squatdevil.

  Not if you’re Eric Holder, or the administration he works for. In 2011, the Justice Department determined that the provisions of South Carolina’s Act R54, which would require voters to show photo identification to vote, is unconstitutional—for the state. In Holder’s angry muddled mind, South Carolina has not proven the law will not have “a discriminatory effect on minority voters.” Never mind that in a few other states where IDs are required, voting participation went up. That’s not the issue, of course. You are a racist—case closed. Holder has also done the same thing with Texas, again ignoring the fact that voting participation skyrocketed among blacks and Hispanics in Georgia once IDs were made available.

  Talk about the soft bigotry of low expectations. Does Holder really believe minorities are incapable of getting a voter ID? The underlying notion is insidious, for it says you can’t depend on minorities to get photo identification. You’re just asking too much of them. You get a photo ID from Costco, for chrissake. Not that I really noticed, but thinking about it now, I’m pretty sure I see plenty of minorities in plenty of places where you need an ID.

  And while Holder finds the idea of presenting IDs to vote a violation of your rights, he seems okay with the idea when you want to pay him a visit. As Robert Bluey pointed out in a harmless, modest stunt, you need a photo ID to visit the Department of Justice (which he did, without an appointment). He also pointed out, during this mini-exposé, that the groups supporting the crusade against voter ID laws (Center for American Progress and the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law) require IDs to enter the building. At the LCCRUL (great acronym, guys), there’s even a sign, Bluey notes, that reads ALL VISITORS MUST SHOW ID.

  As always, if the tolerati doesn’t like what you’re doing—even if they’re not sure why—they are convinced it’s got to be racist. And yep, simply by requiring a photo identification so someone might vote means you are prejudiced against nonwhite people. Or even dead people, for that matter, who seem to be emerging as a valuable constituency for the Democratic Party. In fact, it’s gotten nauseating how the left panders to the dead. This special interest stuff has got to stop.

  So why does this reasoning only apply to voting and not to any other kind of process that requires flashing an ID? If a liquor store owner asks a Mexican for his ID when he’s buying a beer, is that racist, too? If a Mexican family is going to see a PG-17 film, would requiring the kids to show ID cross the line? What if I just went on Mexican TV and cooked myself naked into a burrito? That makes about the same sense.

  One of the primary arguments against IDs is that they cost money, and that’s, in effect, a poll tax. I’m no expert, but I’ve read up on this stuff, and I’ve found that IDs are becoming free, if they’re not free already. What costs money is the stuff you need to do to get the ID—like a copy of a birth certificate, which may set you back 25 bucks (less than half of a monthly cell phone bill, I reckon). The other stuff—your Social Security card and proof of residence—is free. But these are just “untenable burdens” in the long line of “untenable burdens” that the tolerati find unacceptable. ID cards are just like birth control: liberals have no sense of modulation, so everything is grossly unfair or a hardship. But something tells me if you c
an’t scrounge up 25 bucks for a copy of your birth certificate, you’re probably two years old and ineligible to vote—or you’re dead. And if you’re dead, again, you can’t vote, unless you’re a Democrat and “live” in a swing state.

  This kerfuffle (which sounds like an adorable marsupial baked into a flaky turnover) is actually emblematic of a bigger idea—an idea that says a commonsense concern over strong borders and legal immigration is emblematic of a sinister form of racism. That if you believe everyone should follow the same laws, you are actually singling out a group perceived to be incapable of following those rules. Like illegal immigrants—who, by virtue of being illegal (and to some it is a virtue), do not have an authentic ID. So asking them for an ID is evil, mean-spirited, and intolerant. And it’s a sort of behavior that shall not be tolerated by the tolerant Democrats. Imagine if a flight attendant had to ask you if you were capable of handling the responsibilities that accompany sitting in the emergency exit row, and you couldn’t. Is that the flight attendant’s fault? According to Holder, it would be. And how weird is it that leftists call a law requiring IDs for voting illegal, but then claim you can’t call illegals illegal?

  Here’s one irony I enjoy breaking to liberals: Your favorite country, France, enforces its borders like you wouldn’t believe. Ever go through a French border crossing? Dressed as a woman, and you’re late for dinner? It makes the TSA look like the welcome wagon. (Note: What the hell is a welcome wagon, anyway? Has anyone ever actually seen one? Should that be the new name for our immigration policy?) The Gallic socialist paradise is about as interested in taking in undocumented people as it is in scarfing down hot dogs or creating tolerable pop music. But because they “support their artists” through a rapacious tax rate, the French get a pass and are allowed to have a border. (Strangely, it’s a right they waive as soon as someone shows up with a couple of tanks. I kid the French.) Why is America then the Great Satan? Because we try to make the place just slightly harder to get into than your average Mets–Astros game?

  Tolerance is an amazing thing, for it allows all sorts of behavior, except those that seem innocuous. How is presenting a photo ID so evil? No one can actually explain it, which is why they prefer the race card over your basic library card. If someone has an ID, then that means they’re a citizen, and can vote. If you don’t have an ID, you should probably get one. If you don’t want to get one—because you’re a criminal or here illegally—that’s not our problem, that’s yours. You can still rip us off left and right, and we know you probably will. Or you may work your ass off for wages that should be significantly higher. Those are other issues. But either way, tough noogies. You can’t vote. And if you’re scared of getting an ID, then that says something about your motives, and not mine. Although, on the whole, I wish I never had to use an ID. It’s from six years ago, and, in retrospect, the braids I got at Club Med seem like a bad idea.

  WORKING AT THE DEATH STAR

  “YOU SHOULD PROBABLY TAKE THAT DOWN.”

  Those were the words of my adorable Realtor, in my bedroom, after I gestured toward a framed newspaper featuring yours truly on the cover. The article inside The Observer covered my new, highly improbable career as a talk show host on a network reviled by the basic lefty Manhattanite. The headline was something like “Watch Out, Jon Stewart,” and it featured a delightful drawing of my sweaty face.

  It had to go. Quickly.

  It was like a swastika, a Confederate flag, or a corpse nailed to the wall—offensive, smelly, and a threat to property values.

  See, the Mrs. and I were selling our apartment, in New York, and it had occurred to all of us that there were more than a few things on the walls, coffee tables, and bookshelves that might upset a potential buyer. That newspaper was one, but there were other things, too.

  Books, mainly. Books by Ann Coulter. Books by Mark Steyn. Books on unicorn dressage. A few books by me. (I keep them around as gifts, because I’m cheap.) Essentially, all of these things had to go, because they expressed one scary idea: a right-winger lives here. He sleeps on that bed, where he probably does horrible things. To kids, to puppies, to kids with puppies.

  Yep. A conservative. Not a liberal. An evil, baby-eating fascist Bu$$$Hitler fanatic who probably is secretly gay while bullying gay teens on the way to school. Better fumigate this place before we sell it. It’s got KKKooties.

  Although it’s an almost accurate description of me (minus the secretly-gay-bullying-gay-teen thing), this fact might hinder our goal of selling our Hell’s Kitchen pad and moving to some place quieter—a neighborhood not littered with people I propositioned at four a.m.

  Normally, I don’t care if anyone sees what I read, or what I’ve written (which is a great benefit to me when I receive my royalty check). Over time, as I worked among libs for most of my life, my skin has become thicker than a high school yearbook.

  But when you parade New Yorkers into your house, and you want them to shell out a pile of dough on a tiny plot of land in a grimy block surrounded by methadone-heads, you will do whatever it takes to close the deal. Even if that means removing every offending book, magazine, or three-headed vibrator with my name on it. God forbid one of these potential buyers, in their $800 Oliver Peoples glasses, should spy something that isn’t in lockstep with their worldview (which is why the vibrators stayed).

  The hallucinating “street poet” on our corner who feels his nuclear spittle is universally accepted currency? No effect on property values. One issue of Reason on an end table? Could be a problem!

  Now, since it is New York, it’s not that I expect people to know who I am. It’s not like I’m Rachel Maddow, the patron saint of the smirking left. But we couldn’t take that chance. Because it really isn’t “me” anyway that upsets people. It’s who I work for. Yep, I work at the Death Star, the fair and balanced joint that’s beating the crap out of its competitors. For a liberal, my network symbolizes everything they hate, even if they couldn’t find it on their channel guide to save their life. It’s a handy reference point whenever they get angry but can’t think of anything to say. When flummoxed at a protest, they realize condemning the network will get them out of any jam, without ever having to say anything that might require actual intelligence.

  My theory on why my employer has become the go-to device when griping about the right: it’s better than saying “my parents.” Because the network is wildly popular among their parents—your parents too—and even their parents (otherwise known as grandparents). I’ve noticed when someone rails on the network to me it takes about ten minutes before they confess, “It’s on all the time at my mom’s place.” One time I had asked a young dude to do my show, and he informed me, instantly, that he “fucking hates it.” A week later, a friendlier response dropped into my e-mail inbox. Turns out his “teabagging mom” loves what I do. And now he wanted in, because it made her so damn happy. But time had passed, and I was now trying to book a man who could juggle cats. Cats who play the piano. You ever see one of those videos? You think they’re real? That’s a really talented family!

  So when you see someone who hates my place of work, bear in mind not to condemn his or her family. Chances are he really means he hates his mom and dad for something (they never let him win at KerPlunk), and that same mom and dad dig the “fair and balanced” way of things.

  It’s really no wonder they hate the network. So much so, some want to shut the place down. Which is the beauty of modern tolerance. Freedom of expression and tolerating points of view are their expressed desires … unless you, um, disagree with them on something. Then it’s sooo over, you Nazi!

  You remember the Fairness Doctrine? This harebrained notion percolates up every now and then from the deeper reaches of the left’s fever swamps. The idea is to “balance” the right’s presence on talk radio with more radio networks from the left. Or something like that. Never mind that every liberal radio network that’s tried to compete in the open market has gone over like a Manson family reunion. So what does t
he tolerant left propose? What they always propose: legislation. Let’s force the country to listen to cloying liberal chat hosts in the name of “equal” time.

  I practically say it in my sleep these days: For decades the left owned the playing field, the ball, the audience, and the refs. They owned the game we call media. All major networks. All entertainment options came saddled with their approved assumptions: Movies, theater, the art world, magazine publishing, newspapers, comedians, poetry readings in coffeehouses, hopscotch tournaments, the world knitting conference, the Pencak Silat World Invitational (which I won last year)—you name it—they all uniformly turn left as if they’re participating in an ideological NASCAR event. The media was the big boys; we were just incidental characters, satiated by cheese puffs and fluffernutters. Until one monster entered the picture, like the Creature emerging from the Black Lagoon. Yep, just one single company refused to go lockstep with them—an unafraid horde with its chin out and every bit as much intellectual heft as its adversaries, and they couldn’t take it. Even the president can’t resist griping about it. It’s just not as “real” as those Entourage reruns he loves to DVR.

  Back to my inane sports metaphor: When this new media entity showed up, the left wanted to take their ball and go home. Tolerance for others stopped at 1211 Avenue of the Americas, where this weirdo whose book you’re currently reading abides and steals its toilet paper.

  So what is the argument for not tolerating another voice? Well, it’s all in the spirit of tolerance. See, because the left identifies me as evil (or rather, different), it’s okay not to tolerate me. Tolerating me would be like tolerating murder, bestiality, or soft jazz—but worse, because, you know, I’m a right-winger. Which again is really shorthand for “Daddy, who never gave me the hug or an adult allowance.”