What’s Behind David Frum’s Attack on Dinesh d’Souza and Mr. Newt? (Hatred perhaps?)

Big Journalism ^ | September 16, 2010 | Jeff Dunetz

[grey_whiskers]

David Frum, David Brock, David Brooks, David Stockman... Anybody else sense a pattern here?

Not so loud, Lancey, you'll break Glenn Reynold's (Instapundit's) heart...

Cheers!

[littleharbour]

David Frum is a scum-sucking piece of liberal trash who assisted in the transformation of the Canadian “Conservative” Party into an entity which is politically to the left of the US Democratic Party. I’m glad he’s your problem now.

[opentalk]

Their coordinated over reaction to the article and smearing of the messengers -—helps validate there is some truth to it.

[Servant of the Cross]

It's hard to put too much stock in 'Dreams'. Any article about 0bama and 'Pop' should contain 0bama's poem (referenced here):

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken

In, sprinkled with ashes

Pop switches channels, takes another

Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man

Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since

Things have been easy for me;

 I stare hard at his face, a stare

That deflects off his brow; 

I’m sure he’s unaware of his

Dark, watery eyes, that

Glance in different directions,

And his slow, unwelcome twitches,

Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,

Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,

 Beige T-shirt, yelling,

Yelling in his ears, that hang

With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…

But I don’t care anymore, cause

He took too damn long, and from

Under my seat, I pull out the

Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing, 

Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face

To mine, as he grows small,

A spot in my brain, something

That may be squeezed out, like a 

Watermelon seed between

Two fingers.

Pop takes another shot, neat,

Points out the same amber

Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and

Makes me smell his smell, coming

From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem

He wrote before his mother died,

Stands, shouts, and asks

For a hug, as I shrink, my 

Arms barely reaching around

His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause

I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses

And know he’s laughing too.