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 »

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]

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 »

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 »

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 »

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 »