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 »

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 »

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]

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 »