“A White House press official was certain—the scoop on the poop was a crock. The press office checked with the Air Force One flight crew who said Bo had not desecrated the jet. Other big news beckoned: the health-care overhaul, rising unemployment and a debate over the war in Afghanistan. But we were nagged by a question—was the pile denial a White House cover up?” This is Peggy Noonan’s most prescient column yet. [PULITZER BAIT]

Oh god, thank you to this commenter for directing us to a mole’s account of Peggy Noonan’s class at Harvard. These Noonanisms speak to the heart and soul of a nation: “I wasn’t sure I could wear mascara every day. One should dress. One should wear mascara when one can.” One should. It is Proper. But hey HARVARD MOLES? HELLO? Don’t send this stuff to Gawker. Be a friend to your Wonkette: tips@wonkette.com. We have more “iPhones” to give out to our best operatives. [Gawker]

It is Hell-o-ween come early, children. Gather ’round, for Dame Peggington Noonington, chief word-writer for the notable Wall Street Journal banking pamphlet, hath composed a Second Weekly Article, doubleth her normal output. She worketh harder than most humans. It is her Duty and she shall performeth it, in times of national crisis, such as it was Friday. That was when disastrous monster Barack Obama accepted his Nobel Peace Prize, from the communists! Peggington heard this news item on her radio machine, Ate nine pills, and typed — for Madame was furious at this, “this wicked and ignorant award, this mischievous honor.” MORE »

“Royal wordsmith Peggington Noonington, a columnist famous to children, noticed through her eye-vision powers a faint speckle of Light atop her oaken chiffonier. This perturbed her, for she had been in a trance, considering Modernity. She ordered her house slave, Mister Winston, to deliver her the object aglow at once, for Inspecktion. What was this Object? What magickal powers might it possess! Manyfold powers, to be sure, for ’twas a Capsule of Medicine Drugs, seventy-and-five Milli-Grammes…” MORE »

Peggington Noonington, chief female word-writer for the aristocracy’s private royal banking pamphlet, the Wall Street Journal, careth not for the Africkan dauphin appearething on so many of her Image Machine’s programmes, on Sunday. It is “boorish.” Zero of them, the Americans, wish to see this Human. [Huffington Post]

Today marketh the third consecutive Fri-Day in which Peggington Noonington, chief columnateur of the Wall Street Journal banking pamphlet, has graced her “Declarations” with commentary on the foremost political debate of our time: Health Care. Your Wonkette hath attempted to compose paeans to Her Majesty’s previous two edicts, but was unable to finisheth on both occasions due to Hyper-Tension. Dissecting Madame’s attitudes toward Reform becometh a terrifying Duty. But it must be completed, now, because of God. If this Weblog editor should pass during the composition of this response, stand righteous before the Death Panels, for he that hath seen the depths and spoken, “Nay.” MORE »

• IS NORM COLEMAN DEAD YET? Surprisingly, no! He is alive! And he’s doing the most liberal thing since the French Revolution this fall: being a teaching fellow at Harvard. His course will be called, “How To Litigate A Losing Case For Months, Just For The Fuck Of It.” (This is actually the topic of every corporate law course offered at Harvard.) On a side note, one of Coleman’s fellow fellows at Harvard this fall will be Ms. Peggington Noonington. More on her in a bit… [CNN]

Looks like she figured out where you hid her pills again, son. [Peggy Noonan's Twitter]

BRAGGART! [Peggy Noonan's Twitter]

She owneth it now. It is hers. How very uncouth. [Twitter]

Thursdayington, July Nintheth. Sky Princess Peggington Noonington, famous to children for her sparkling, weekly collection-of-paragraphs in the Wall Street Journal business pamphlet, looks at the Street, 100 miles beneath her Park Avenue Penthouse. She seeth seven Motorcars velocitating through an Intersection of Roads, but no Mexicans. (One time, Peggy Noonan saw a Mexican.) Seven, an odd number: it meaneth, “Tonightington, I disliketh Sarah Palin, the Wolf-Childe, in my Writings of Politick.” Snort ye line of pepper and typeth, Peggington, for those who dareth Read. MORE »