I’ve been following you.
I mean, how can I not? You’re beautiful. You’re honest. You’re also a Twitterific weekly-ish columnist at The Daily Beast with a newly-released book and have been appearing on all my favorite shows recently.
Please, don’t think I’m, like, a creep or anything. It’s just that I think we connect. I get you and I think, finally, “here’s someone who gets me.” In Dirty Sexy Politics you say, repeatedly, “there are no secrets.” I totally agree. That’s why I’ll be completely honest: I’ve developed a major Jones and was hoping we could meet up sometime.
Hear me out.
For one, I’m not like the others. The haters. They call you a valley girl, an unaccomplished nitwit, and sorry. They call you an opportunistic nepotist. Even other McCains are dissing. If you Google “Meghan + stupid,” there are a lot of entries.
Look, I empathize. Cruel commenters once called me “Gay Fonz.”
The worst recent criticism, however, was from RedState blogger Leon H. Wolf , who spent nine printable pages lambasting your book. Meghan, I know you’re a strong, independent woman who’s not afraid to get emotional (it’s partly why I like you). So don’t let Leon the Peon get you down. Honestly, he sounds like a total dickface. He expends more than 1,000 words correcting your grammar when he could have made his point in about 30.
If Leon were good writer, he might have said something like, “Reading Meghan’s book is like watching the English language shanked with a spork before being hog-tied with its own disemboweled entrails” and left it at that.
Comments from people I know have been equally withering. When I bring you up, you’re immediately dismissed as [see everything above]. When I proceed to defend you, my right-leaning peers say, “I bet you wanna show her your big tent” in the most lascivious manner.
But there’s more to it than that.
First of all, we both love family. Beyond that, both of our families are similar. You describe your mom as a saint; mine was a nun. You have an adopted younger sister; I used to tell my little sis she was adopted. We’re also both, “spawns-of” older, maverick fathers who are brave, opinionated, and don’t take crap from anyone.
It’s in politics and life, though, that I think we really connect, because unlike most of our conservative peers we get culture — and unlike our cultured friends, we get conservatism.
Since “there are no secrets,” I’ll confess: for me, DSP was a bit of a bummer. Honestly, I really like your Daily Beast columns best. They flirt with core conservative values of limited-government politics and individual freedom. DSP, however, was a Judy Blume expose about an election that happened, like, a million Internet memes ago.
I had hoped DSP would be a manifesto on how conservatism can regain authenticity while embracing culture and remaining “relevant.” That is, is there a place at the bar for the (hipster + conservative =) hipstervatives?
Despite all our disagreements, we could be hip conservatives together
Look, no offense: I think you’ve been spot on. Lame-stream conservatives have forgotten about “freedom, the individual and self-reliance” (DSP) and I’m pretty sure a lot of independent voters — especially the painfully young and hip — feel like unappreciated blondes, too.
You’re not alone, Meghan! Sure, Jezebels support you, but conservative hepcat Michael Brendan Dougherty took time out from his work at the American Conservative to write a terrific letter, titled “Dear Conservative Movement: Stop Ruining My Life.” The title says it all, but you should definitely check it out. Because I think his argument is pretty dope.
Not only are you a media-savvy freedom-lover, but you’ve used your soapbox to share the plight of a particularly lonely group: the “culturally relevant” hipstervative. I hate feeling like that guy. You know, the one at a party who agrees with his peers that Tarantino’s post-modern strip-mining of pop art has led directly to the recent revival of classic Motown sounds in hip-hop, but is also the only one who thinks big-government policies kinda suck.
We’re like two Black Eyed Peas in an iPod. No one really gets us as a group.
I don’t want to keep piling on the compliments – I’m hoping to save some for a date – but you have proven to be almost prophetic in your political prognoses. For instance, you constantly and publicly berate conservatives to catch up with liberals on the Internet superhighway. You’ve also lambasted them for their stance on the individual rights of gays.
Finally, two years after your first pronouncements, Republicans have a better grasp of social media than Democrats. And your dad’s running mate has — by bypassing traditional media completely and spreading her message via Facebook — become the hottest thing since moose soup.
Me? I love the gays. Without them, Lady Gaga would just be that weird boy working in a New Jersey bakery. Ann Coulter might have lambasted you in the past, now even she is headlining queer events. My point is, these women owe you back pay. You’ve been proven right and I can’t wait to see what else you have to offer.
From your Daily Beast columns and Twitter feed, I know you have sex, like to drink, love guns and cuss like a Rahm Emanuel. Me? I floated the Daily Caller’s keg, have a filthy mouth and almost blasted off my junk with a 410 once.
I don’t expect any sort of commitment if you accept this date, but I think we’d really hit it off. I know what you want in a man. I can promise you, though, despite all our similarities, we won’t be one of those couples that thinks and looks exactly alike.
We have plenty of differences. For instance, I didn’t vote for your dad primarily because I consider the Beach Boys’ “Barbara Ann” sacrosanct. And while I know you’re a big fan of Andy Warhol, I prefer Egon Schiele.
I’m not sure what your schedule is like but I’m open for anything. I know how you feel about “media” types that cover you. But I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m different. All first dates are interviews so, sure, we’ll both have a lot of questions for each other. Just know, you won’t have to worry about what you can and cannot reveal because I’m a gentleman, Meghan. And a gentleman doesn’t tell, without a book deal.
Waiting with baited breath,