Dyspeptic camel or lonely, heartbroken man? You tell me. Remember that he works for Bill Buckley’s propaganda mill, if that helps. Mark Steyn flashes the same winning charm that illuminates the National Review. You should see what he thinks of the Summer Olympics. And London. And foreigners, and people everywhere, in general.
In 21st-century London, traffic moves at fewer miles per hour than it did before the internal-combustion engine was invented without the added complication of fleets of Third World thug bureaucrats and the permanent floating crap game of transnationalist freeloaders being dumped on its medieval street plan.
Translation: I hate you.
Nevertheless, having drawn the short straw of hosting the games, Londoners felt it a point of honor that the city be able to demonstrate the ability to ferry minor globalist hangers-on from their favorite whorehouse in Mayfair to the Olympic Village in the unfashionable East End in time for the quarter-finals of the flatwater taekwondo.
Roughly speaking: You suck.
The psychology of the traffic cop enters into the opening ceremony, too. One becomes inordinately fearful that the giant Middle Earth trash compactor will not arise on cue, or the dry-ice machine will fail to blow smoke up Voldemort’s skirt, or one of the massed ranks of top-hatted mutton-whiskered extras recreating the Industrial Revolution in hip-hop will miss a stomp.
Also, again: I can’t stand you. Why? Mark won’t say. He’s shy. Hell, Mark, piss in your own mouth and get it over with. Think of the primo bits and bytes we’ll save.