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 »

PEGGY NOONAN TRUMPETS BAWDY CONCUPISCENCE TOWARD FELLOW LADYINGTON NANCY PELOSI: Word-writing human Peggington Noonington loveth Ronald Reagan much in today’s edition of her holy word-compilation, “Declarations.” But doth she loveth the visage of Nancington Pelosi the more? “At public events Mrs. Pelosi always tries to look engaged, a pleasant half-smile on her face. This is a courtesy women in their middle years unconsciously give to the world. It is precious and largely unremarked. You see it on the street in small towns.” Yet hath Peggingtonshire ever setteth foot-to-cobblestone in any hamlet smallether than New Amsterdam? [WSJ]

Peggy Noonan warped to MSNBC this morning for a pot of tea and pleasant conversation about the current Politicks, but what didst she see? The Devill-Womman, Mika Brzezinski, clad in vulgarian foot-leathers! “They were an X-rated fantasy walking on Mika’s feet,” our regina declares, and later she compounds that they are “a mortal sin, on her feet.” This demon bull whore Mika was later slaughtered, under Peggington’s watch. You may watch film-tapes of these events at the Arianna Huffington’s Internet Post, which darest not offer Em-Bed Code for its film-tapes. [Huffington Post]

While you hamburger sacks may conceive of Memorial Day as little more than a free 24-hour session of experimental masturbation R&D, it is actually a “memorial” to those Americans, throughout our History, who have laid down their lives in the service of the King. Your Wonkette would like to thank and honor The Troops past and present, in Mexico and Afghanistan, in Vietnam and Cambodia VIETNAM. Because as notable American word-writer Peggington Noonington opines today, the U.S. hasn’t celebrated any brave war heroes since the strife of the Sixties. (She offers no mention of two of the most popular Americans in America right now, Colin Powell and David Petraeus; perhaps she had imbibed too much Alckoholl.) Let us quote her words and hope that one day, George Washington shall be worthy to our hobbits anew. MORE »

What is troubling our Upper East Side princess of wordsmithery on this fine Friday? Health care! Not the lack of it, of course — Peggy could give a crap about the 40 million Americans with no access to basic health care, the kind of wretched untouchables who never see a doctor outside of an emergency room, with a sick child, swollen with some easily preventable illness had only a pediatrician been something within economic reach. Peggy isn’t impressed by this liberal president already delivering government-backed health care for another 3.5m uninsured kids, either. What she wants, this wealthy Wall Street Journal columnist, is some soaring bullshit rhetoric about health care, on her teevee. Worked for Reagan! MORE »

Madame regina St. Peggintonia Noonanshire of the Wall Street Journal banking pamphlet guest-hosted a special version of Mornington Joeington today, and one of the topics was the Death of Newspapers and Journalism. In this snippetington, she interrupts a polite conversation between Mika and Arianna to declare an Official Sadness over how, in the future times, our greatest newspapers will not be able to afford sending a single reporter “undercover” to Newark, New Jersey for five months. “Oh well.” Then she calls everyone who does anything on the Internet an idiot, especially in San Diego. Just a very rude woman sometimes, Peggington is. [MSNBC]

Today is “Oscar Sunday” for newspapers, Pulitzer Day! This is when the various important newspapers vie for the most important prizes in the fields of journalistic news reporting and commentary before returning to their offices to get laid off or fire-sold into slavery. MORE »

Oh fignewtons, someone telephone the slaves at Grey Gardens, it seems a tenant has meandered through the gate during her noontime perambulations and landed on the television set! Here is Ms. Peggy Noonington on the George Stephanopoulos program alongside George Will. George Will! He must have forwarded Peggy e-mails about this torture memo business, and again, THAT IS NOT NICE, you know how she gets. She wants to forget she ever read the wretched things! O, the night terrors! “Some of life has to be mysterious,” she opines, poetically, about this issue of state-ordered torture. But mere crickets in the hedgerows, these lawyers… crickets in the… [Huffington Post]

Friday! Peggy! She has predictions, for you, your dogs, your hair, and especially for your abandoned skyscrapers. Peggy Noonan does not simply sit in her Upper East Side apartment gulping whisky sours while breathlessly watching RedTube clips, her small nervous hands clutching her crucifix, and other things. No! She looks outside, sometimes. She long suspected something was a bit different out there — once, not so many months ago, she ventured out on foot. Things had changed. The bustle was gone, the Mexican was no longer handing out advertisements and then running, in terror, as Peggy Noonan yelled Reagan-esque platitudes and tried to … catch this Mexican. It is hard to catch household slaves. It is a game for the young, really. Peggy remembers when she was young. It was the Seventies. MORE »

Thursday, early evening. She turns the key to her Dungeon of Medicines, an isolated pod floating atop the highest vistas of Park Avenue. It is constructed of the finest Metals and can only be reached by rickshaw. Even after all these years, the scent of myrrh lingers. A glass of scotch is poured and she takes to the shelves. Tonight will be a night of barbiturates. Full bottles of Amytal, Nembutal, Seconal, et. al, are downed within seconds. She takes to her camel fur chair — a special model, in that it is an actual camel — and waits whilst supping on a bowl of cough syrup. The hour becomes 10, then 11, then 12. Midnight. A new day. But still, nothing. She is able to walk; this should not be physically possible. Time to bring out the typing machinery. She is struck, sober, hands on the keys, sitting on a camel, poised, wrought, a wordsmith to the death, honest. Peggy Noonan has written her headline: “There’s No Pill for This Kind of Depression.” MORE »