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 »

Oh heavens, Madame Peggy Noonan, princess of the Wall Street Journal banking pamphlet, has journeyed outside her loft again: “A moment last Monday, just after noon, in Manhattan. It’s slightly overcast, not cold, a good day for walking. I’m in the 90s on Fifth heading south, enjoying the broad avenue, the trees, the wide cobblestone walkway that rings Central Park. Suddenly I realize: Something’s odd here.” MORE »

A fortnight or deux hath passed since our last installment of “Fridays with Peggy,” for one must endure days of insomnia and procure a boat-ship’s worth of les stimulati — what they in the Scientific Trade know as Amphet-a-Mines — to pen an adequate Noonington critique, and it hath taken many a seven-day to locate a sufficiently inventoried Medick. Let us not waste Reagan’s dear time today, then, to reach the so-called “heart” of the matter. In today’s Opinion-Editorial for the plutocratic Wall Street Journal banking pamphlet, Mme. Noonanshirehobbit discusses the Africkan who now controls the military, and other less important levers of power, of l’Empire Amerique. Mme. herself flew on a mechanical falcon, or Aer-Plane, to attend the Africkan’s coup. And once she veritably boarded the Aer-Plane, it was as if she had in fact veritably been transmitted by Iehovah to the Ebon Heart of Rhodesia — for she found herself surrounded by even more Africkans! How didst our Princess escape this JUNGLE? MORE »

• ALL IS FORGIVEN, PEGGY: OK so last week she forgot that George Bush was President during the 9/11 attacks, but this week holy crap! Here’s what Peggy Noonan calls Rod Blagojevich in a column titled “Rectitude Chic”: “a lipless, dull-featured, wig-wearing moron with a foul-mouthed harridan of a wife.” HA HA HA HA HA we may return to her column for more “analysis” later in the day, after we have had a few more cups of coffee and an 8-ball. [Wall Street Journal]

Every day is Good Friday in the Wall Street Journal, because Friday is Peggy’s Day, and this week her wonderful Declaration is right there in the headline, “At Least Bush Kept Us Safe.” Wait, what? Let’s just ask the old Internets here and double-check, because it is so hard to remember, say, when TERRORISTS BLEW UP MOTHERFUCKING MANHATTAN, WITH JETS, WHICH RUINED EVERYTHING FOREVER. MORE »

Peggington. We love Peggington so much, and we don’t even care who knows! In this week’s very special Thanksgiving edition of her Wall Street Journal psychodiary, “Declarations,” the Noonanism — an embarrassingly insular worldview in which no personal anecdote is void of world-historical spiritual import — has been cranked deep into the red. Here’s what Peggy’s thankful for this weekend: that the mysterious Negro president has been such a delight so far; that she doesn’t have to see poor people on the street; and that God safely carries her around on airplanes when she needs to travel. We will focus on the second and the third. MORE »

This weird and wonderful year has been packed with implausibilities and impossibilities: the Clintons losing, a black man elected president and Peggy Noonan occassionally making sense. This week’s installment of her serialized first-person novel of Manhattan Madness, Declarations, contains two well-written arguments for the current conventional wisdom — Hillary is an interesting yet troublesome choice for Secretary of State, and Robert Gates should stay on for a while as Secretary of Defense. Which is nice and all, but it doesn’t really leave your Wonkette much to work with. Luckily, Peggy was just coming down from her Dexedrine-Percocet highball when she scrawled her first zany sentence, in Lancome mascara, on the walls of her Upper East Side apartment. MORE »

PEGGY NOONAN WRITES HUMDRUM COLUMN THIS SEVEN-DAY!: Can you even believe it? She just has a bunch of modestly valid points jumping all over the place, but nothing about seeing a Mexican or viewing a “rabbity forest creature darting among the hedgerows” on her television machine. Has our Miss Noonington been reading Wonkette’s weekly scholarly criticism of “Declarations” and decided to tone down the neo-Victorianisms? ‘Twoud be a shame! FREE PEGGY NOONAN! [WSJ]

There’s really only one sentence in Lady Peggy Noonington de Rothschild’s Wall Street Journal column today worth reading, but it is, as les Française would say, un crescendo magnifique. (PSST: WE DON’T KNOW THE FROG WORD FOR “CRESCENDO.”) Allez: “The phrase I often worriedly think of when I see, on television, gross violence, cruelty, a vulgarity of character, erectile dysfunction ads, news reports that reflect a mean and cynical attitude toward America, and still-menacing if increasingly antique rappers is: The children are watching.” It is these problems five that our beloved frau hopes to see vanquished under the princely young president Africanus, whom the children frequently view on the television machine. [WSJ]

In last week’s installment of “Wonkette posts about Peggy Noonan’s Wall Street Journal column,” your editor Ken Layne did 100 kilos of coke and proceeded to comically insult everyone on the face of the Earth for two or seven million words. If Madam Peggington had chanced by Ken’s post, probably via that “Google Alert” on her name that her loyal butler Winston set up for her, the vulgarities would quite veritably indeed have inflamed her rheumatism! But Peggy has survived another week, another seven-day of the political news, so let us study the elegant paragraphery in today’s dramatic episode of “Declarations.” MORE »

Oh, it’s “Peggy Day,” meaning Friday, the blessed weekly occurrence of Peggy Noonan’s myriad declarations on the sepia-toned pages of the Wall Street Journal. Your morning editor took a whack at this earlier today, and gave up — “I am not old enuff to understand Peggy Noonan’s cultural references,” she said, lazily. Your afternoon editor also abstained. “You should write about Peggy Noonan,” he whines. “I can’t handle her. I don’t have any speed.” Oh what’s the matter little diaper babies? Did Peggy’s terrifying schizophrenia blow your little pussy minds? MORE »