Bad Rachel, the Internet ID whose raging rhetoric makes Cotton Mather’s feel like nylon, offers a new piece of invective called “Dickens on the Potomac” on the follies of liberal presidencies so biting and ferocious you’d never guess she is her own family’s superego (she’s my sister). Sample:
There was no trace of Shakespeare, or Boston ward-heeling, or bootlegging, or vote-stealing, or Las Vegas crime-syndicating in the Clinton orbit, but Dickensian crudity there was in ample supply. That, if it occasionally seemed at odds with Bill’s rockin’-rollin’ technocraticism and Hillary’s holier-than-thou sexual-revolution priggishness—and their joint 1960s-born sense of entitlement—shimmered in the sub-tropical oleaginous Little Rock air, permeating their skins for nearly two decades before they arrived in Washington and unpacked the first generation of draft-dodging baby-boomers onto the White House lawn to grow there like Topsy.
