We usually avoid the work of Kevin D. Williamson at National Review, partly because every piece is overwritten tripe with a point so far outside of reality we need a wormhole to reach it, and partly because we are creeped out by Williamson, who looks like the dandified love child of Ted Bundy and a deformed penis. He is also probably the most consistent race-baiter at NR since old John Derbyshire took his white sheets to VDARE, and our blood pressure does not need more nudging towards the red line.

Sadly, we could not avoid Williamson’s latest attempt to prop up the vaunted, race-baiting legacy of NR founder William F. Buckley (currently spending eternity stuck in an African-American Studies class at Berkeley taught by Amiri Baraka). Mostly because Williamson isn’t sending out dog whistles here. He’s blasting the emergency klaxon on the firehouse across the town square.

‘Hey, hey craaaaaacka! Cracka!White devil! F*** you, white devil!” The guy looks remarkably like Snoop Dogg: skinny enough for a Vogue advertisement, lean-faced with a wry expression, long braids. He glances slyly from side to side, making sure his audience is taking all this in, before raising his palms to his clavicles, elbows akimbo, in the universal gesture of primate territorial challenge.

Yep, nothing racially problematic about referring to a black kid as making a gesture like a primate. Meanwhile the townspeople are coming out of their houses to find out why that damn siren is blaring.

Luckily for me, he’s more like a three-fifths-scale Snoop Dogg, a few inches shy of four feet high, probably about nine years old,

Three-fifths! Get it? Did ya get it? Huh? Huh? Here, let me nudge you in the ribs so hard that they shatter like matchsticks.

[H]is mom — I assume she’s his mom — is looking at me with an expression that is a complex blend of embarrassment, pity, and amusement, as though to say: “Kids say the darnedest things, do they not, white devil?”


Williamson encountered this “racially aggrieved” nine-year-old – project much, Kevin? – in East St. Louis, at the end of a journey through the state of Illinois to take a gander at just how terribly the Democrats, particularly Governor Pat Quinn, have screwed the state six ways from Sunday. Or as he puts it,

[T]hen onward and downward toward the Mississippi until finally arriving at my terminus in East St. Louis, where instead of meeting my Kurtz I get yelled at by a racially aggrieved tyke with more carefully coiffed hair than your average Miss America contestant.

Ah yes, Kevin Williamson, intrepid reporter, journeying up the river – or in this case, I-55 – into the heart of darkness that is the mostly black city of East St. Louis (Get it? Get it? Here, let me nudge those ribs for you again), where he finds all sorts of poverty he conveniently blames on Democrats while clutching his pearls because some black kid raised in grinding poverty took a look at his white skin and his nice clothes and called him a cracker. And not once does any self-awareness that he might also be part of the problem seem to penetrate his gleaming skull and sink into that lump of Jell-O he calls his brain.

In hell, William F. Buckley tries to smile through the eternal torment of having to listen to yet another lecture on the superiority of Kawaida.

[NRO - There is a paywall]

Follow Gary on Twitter. Yes, he would like back the twenty-five cents he spent to read this entire screed.


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