Lots of folks still seem not to like the term, but for my money there’s never going to be an epithet that cuts more directly to the chase than: cuckservatives.
They hate you because you refuse to honor and respect them, to validate their cheesy status within the Beltway hierarchy, and to acknowledge them as your betters. Your pig-headed uppityness has disrupted their scam. The old paradigm, the model of go-along/get-along and feed the crackers out there in America articles about lib outrages to keep them writing checks, no longer cuts it. You’ve stripped them of their status by holding them accountable for their failure to fight for conservatism, and for us.
And it is such a pathetic status – maybe they are fighting so hard because the stakes are so low. For some, it’s a mention on the masthead of an anorexically thin magazine that now publishes only because some zillionaire keeps handing its boss wads of cash, the actual subscribers to the cruise-shilling brochure having abandoned ship after the seven hundredth “Trump Is Icky!” expose. For others, it’s the chance to be the nominal conservative voice on Morning Joe, ready to pretend that actual conservatives concur with the ideological stylings of the Mick Jagger of flaccid, self-indulgent momrock.
Then there are those lucky few who get the “Here, boy!” to come live inside the house, collared and lying at the feet of their masters by the fire. What’s horrifying is that this is their dream, their sad, sad dream. Take the current occupant of the non-David Brooks prissy poodle position at the New York Times, Bret Stephens. He eagerly accepted the iron discipline of his new job after his first column hinted that the weird weather religion of the ruling class – the one that demands you Normals sacrifice your money and your sovereignty for the sake of the elite’s virtue – might not be, you know, totally a thing. He thank-you-sir-may-I-have-anothered, learned to heel, and pleased his masters by coming out hard against the Second Amendment like a good boy. Having got a taste for biscuits, he is still seeking treats – and gets them – like when he praised the firing of Rosanne and then praised the non-firing of actual racist Sarah Jeong.
Hypocrisy, thy name is True Conservatism™.
Read the rest of it, wherein Schlichter scorches ’em good.
Update! Movement Conservatism=Kabuki Konservatism.
I’ve addressed the programmatic Left in my two most recent books, The Devil’s Pleasure Palace—a study of the eternal battle between good and evil, centered on the moral nihilism of the Frankfurt School of 20th-century Communist philosophers—and The Fiery Angel, a series of interlocking essays regarding some of the touchstones of Western art and culture, from the Greeks through the 20th century, and how they provide the antidote to the spiritual poison injected into Western veins by the Frankfurters and their fellow travelers in academe and now journalism.
Now, does everything from the Oresteia to Wagner’s Ring cycle form a coherent, intellectually and emotionally consistent “conservative” program, by which we can live our lives? Clearly not. The great works of art are and must always be non-didactic. Politicized art is worthless; but art that has political resonance generally stands the test of time.
To my ears, then, the constant harping in some quarters on “movement” conservatism is reminiscent of everything I’ve ever heard from the Left, or experienced in East Germany and the old Soviet Union. I’m not suggesting that “true” conservatism involves replacing one (transient) set of “preenciples” with another one, albeit far older. Rather, my argument is that conservatism isn’t a movement at all. Nor should it be. Rather, it’s a simple acknowledgement of timeless verities and a willingness to defend them against malevolent faddishness masquerading as “progress,” whose object is the destruction of our culture and its replacement with… well, nothing.
In short, it’s a recognition of great cultural peril, and the willingness to do something about it.
And that we did, by rejecting the “movement” phonies in favor of an obstreporous outsider eager to step over the supine Repukes to duke it out with the Deep State swamp-dwellers toe to toe. Now, after Kid MAGA’s having landed some solid haymakers on the Left’s glass jaw, the shattered sissy-marys are flopping around on the canvas in conniptions, their manager belatedly trying to rig the fight by bribing the judges with a few “candid” pics of Nancy Pelosi in the shower. Meanwhile the GOPe Fauntleroys, having been roused from their slumber by heavy administration of buckets of ice water and smelling salts, wander around the arena trying to pick fights with members of the crowd, enraged over being heckled by them.