A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon, "I don't believe in Beatles, I just believe in me."

Ah, the joys of family.

During a birthday dinner for Mrs. Wormer last night my new brother-in-law interrupted a fun discussion about donkey basketball of all things to share the following joke:

"You know what they say. You can lead a liberal to water but you can't make them think."

Under the table Mrs. Wormer immediately grabbed my knee in a death grip. No arguments with the family. Across the table out oldest daughter was fuming.

So, instead of a substantive response and a certain argument with this asshole I pulled an Ace Ventura fake "heh, heh, heh" laugh. The kind that communicates pretty derisively that the joke wasn't funny.

If I had spoken my mind it would have come out in some version of following:

That's right, you vacuous, slope-browed neanderthal. It's liberals who don't think. That's why we're the ones that elected not once, but twice, an incurious, lightweight cartoon of a president who proceeded to triple the deficit, brought our great country quaking to it's knees in fear of a bunch of knuckleheads who live in tents in the middle of bumfuck and revel in his ignorance of the very constitution that holds this country together.

Liberals are the ones that refuse to accept the science of climate change or evolution. Liberals were the people who didn't understand the difference between Sunni and Shiite but were certain brown folks had to pay for the 9/11 attacks so invading Iraq was justified.

Liberals engage in the magical, fairytale thinking that posits that if you lower taxes, revenue will increase or if you cut funding for education our people will get smarter. And liberals are known to celebrate intellectual giants like Joe the Plumber and Sarah Palin.

But instead I did the Ace Ventura thing.

La-hoo-sa-her.

Should there be any doubt as to the mental makeup of the typical right-of-center blogger I'd encourage you to run over to firedoglake and read Kevin K's awesome guest post on the subject. The whole thing had me alternating between bits of hysterical laughter and shaking my head at the inanity of the bedwetting little losers. Just a taste:

I didn’t really follow the explosion of bedwetting blogs post-9/11 because I was too busy languishing in my pre-9/11 NYC liberal mindset, but apparently the blogosphere was flush with dorks in crouched-down, defensive positions who pecked away at something they called "warblogs." These, ahem, "warbloggers" (must … stop … tittering) thought they were at war and no amount of fear of Blogger’s registration process and/or HTML interface was going to get in their way to fight the good fight. They were G.I. Jonesin’ for some seriously manly cutting ‘n’ pasting as they bravely stormed the frontlines of HyperText Transfer Protocol. And some of them, primarily "9/11 Republicans" and alleged libertarians, were so addicted to the notion that "everything changed after 9/11" that they discarded large, important chunks of their belief systems because they figured the "everything changed" doctrine applied to their very beings as well. A few of them have circled back to reality and well-earned rounds of raspberries, but a substantial number still cling to what are becoming increasingly razor-thin threads of dignity, and generally when you take it that far, you never come back because, let’s face it, it’s really, really embarrassing to do so. The Roger L. Simons and Charles Johnsons of today are the ex-lefty David Horowitzes and Michael Savages of tomorrow, except, as Pantload Media has proved, we don’t ever have to worry about Rog and Chucky being anywhere near as popular, successful or influential. Or handsome.

It’s been funny watching nutter bloggers cheer on Iraqis for standing up to terrorists when it’s quite evident that guys like John Hinderaker and Hugh Hewitt clearly wouldn’t have the balls to do the same in a similar situation. If you put Hinderaker in a scenario where white supremacists had taken over his perfectly-named hometown of Apple Valley, Minnesota and were setting up IEDs around town and blowing up shit at random, a teary-eyed John would be the first one out of his house waving a white dress shirt and bellowing in desperation, "I’m on your team!" before collapsing on his well-manicured lawn in a puddle of urine. Hewitt, for cripes sake, has to be heavily sedated and diapered before he enters the Empire State Building, which he seems to believe is a bullet-strewn frontline in the war on terror (like Sadr City, but taller!), with its spine-tingling Skyride and elevators stuffed with fanny-packed tourists in ESPN Zone t-shirts. I mean, for all of the chest-thumping-and-puffery these proud patriots do you can’t help but notice through their squeals of store-bought muscular bravado that a majority of them are pinched-up, picked-last-in-dodgeball mega-dweebs. We’re talking central casting material for the remake of Revenge of the Nerds, except in this version they just read Drudge and Instapundit all day and curl into a ball every time they get within 20 yards of an Arab or one of the Satellite Sisters.