Saturday, March 29, 2003

His Fat is His Fortune
Pop by the Sunday Telegraph to read Mark Steyn's profile of the pretentious shitsack himself, Michael Moore:
He was greeted with a few cheers and more boos, but took both as evidence of his popularity. After all, most of the booers were only booing the other booers. As he explained afterwards, "The booing that started was way up in the balcony" - that is the nobodies in the cheap seats - "and then the people supporting what I was saying started booing them." If memory serves, that's what Elena Ceausescu told Nicolae as they came in through the French windows.
Yet somehow the notion persists that an Upper West Sider adored on the Cote d'Azur is the authentic voice of blue-collar America. The vast bulk of his credibility in this regard derives from his vast bulk. Less of Moore would be a career disaster; he would be just another cadaverous limousine liberal nibbling on his curly endive.

Even in Flint, he was never a regular workin' stiff. He lasted one day on the assembly line. Other than that, he worked his way up through alternative radio shows and progressive magazines.
The voice of the working man fer sure.