“If you sit quietly at the edge of a river, eventually you will see the bodies of your enemies float by.”
—Mark “Chopper” Read
Last autumn, Andrew Breitbart picked a fight with me. Breitbart bragged to the world about how he was going to destroy me. Breitbart went after me on behalf of the Koch oligarchy, who’d launched a multimillion-dollar PR counter-offensive to smear journalists who investigated them, including Jane Mayer of the New Yorker. Breitbart got the contract on me, and he had no doubt in his little pea brained mind he was going to destroy me. Breitbart was so sure he was going to ruin me, he bragged about it to everyone. He even told a journalist to tell Taibbi, “Breitbart is about to destroy your former eXile partner Mark Ames.” He was gloating in-advance. Then the very morning he attacked me, I hit back. And he tucked tail and fled like a bitch.
Now Andrew Breitbart is dead. Gee, whod’ya think won that little war?
Tough question: Maybe we should ask Breitbart what he thinks. Oh shit, dang, turns out I can’t ask Breitbart. He’s, well—he’s not doing well, dealing with those “natural causes” and all.
Ah-HAH-HAH-HAH-HA! “I feeeeel good/ nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah/I knew that I would! So good! So fine!” Sh’mona!
You know, in the days before bloated West Hollywood trolls like Breitbart could claim macho warrior status merely by carrying someone else’s water and publishing someone else’s PR packages—back in the rugged old days, if a fascist pig picked a fight with a rival, the way they decided who won and who lost was pretty simple: The guy who died lost. The guy who lives, wins.
Gosh, I guess that means… I won.
Sucks to be you, Andrew. Not that the subject “you” or the verb “to be” in the present active tense applies to the decomposing lump of jelly formerly known as Breitbart or anything.
“Hey Mark Ames, Andrew Breitbart just got his sorry dead ass handed to him! Where’re you gonna go to celebrate?”
For some reason, my fellow Americans are too squeamish, too hooked on false pieties, to openly, honestly gloat about Breitbart’s hilarious death-by-driveway, and stomp joyfully on that rat-fucker’s warm grave. Even the few edgy mavericks willing to admit they’re happy to see Breitbart dead, including my old partner Taibbi, for some reason ruin their gloats by interjecting paragraph after paragraph, tweet after tweet publicly justifying their death-gloat with “He would want it this way” or “He did the same thing”—um, who really gives a fuck about what Breitbart would want? He’s dead. His feelers aren’t hurt. He’s dead and done. And good riddance.
Let’s be honest: Even when it comes to right-wing hit-men, Breitbart was never that good. Or even interesting. He was a desperate self-pitying hack, a second-rate McCarthyite, his spite fueled by thwarted celebrity ambition. Like Dennis Miller, another failure who found a second life as a Murdoch monkey after getting run out of the Monday Night Football booth as the worst failure in sports announcing history. Now Dennis Miller will never have to face the rigors of free-market comedy competition again; he’s now protected by the right-wing, so long as he carries their water.
Breitbart never even rated with a hack like Dennis Miller. He couldn’t act; he couldn’t write. He could only peddle pro-oligarchy hate with a convincing bloated-faced froth. He performed public executions, ordered by the oligarchs; in his Salieri-like little mind, he convinced himself his PR hit-jobs were performance art. I remember when the right-wing used to produce some really formidable hate-mongers, but Breitbart was a Little Leaguer who lucked into a decadent period on the Right. He only stood out in our time because the American Right is so degenerate and feeble. Breitbart knew it too. An old friend of mine who works in one of the NewsCorp outlets told me that just a few months ago, Breitbart was at the NewsCorp pub across from their mid-town New York headquarters, holding a beer, drunk and sweaty, loudly boasting, “The thing people don’t understand about me is—I’m a performance artist. You see? But people don’t get that about me, they totally misunderstand me. I’m a performance artist, everything I do is performance art.” My friend said it was painfully embarrassing to listen to, typical pampered pretentious Los Angeles male bimbo talk…but coming from Breitbart, you’d expect something more formidable.
So did I, frankly, when I knew he was coming after me. I expected a healthy, long, drag-em-down war with the fat fuck. But as soon as I responded to Breitbart’s attack on me, using his goggle-eyed waffengeek Joel B. Pollak (Harvard Law, ’99) as his mercenary–as soon as Breitbart saw I hit back, he snagglepussed away, exit stage left. The guys from Media Bistro were as surprised and disappointed as I was that Breitbart pussed out and fled at the first whiff of gunpowder.
Breitbart was not used to people fighting back. A classic coward. A bitch who couldn’t handle his drugs, or much of anything as it turns out. And a moron: His attack against me relied on a bitter anti-Semitic felon named Jim Goad, who was jailed for beating up his girlfriend, breaking her eye socket, and biting her thumb. Goad attacked her because she exposed online that Goad had a hair transplant, a nose job… and she threatened to reveal “every secret in his past: his sexual history [which would explain the homophobia]…and that he wasn’t white trash at all.” See, Goad, like Breitbart, is also a performance artist, only he pretends he’s a Confederate hick. Goad fed Breitbart all of his hilarious smear-material about Johnny Chen, then for weeks trolled me by email and on the site bragging that my life was about to be destroyed.
The ex-girlfriend of Breitbart researcher Jim Goad
Yes folks, it’s really that pathetic and lowball comedy—so sad too, so much rank degeneracy in this late, dark stage of the once-impressive American Empire.
It’s as Gene Wolfe wrote: “The armies of this age are weak.”
But Breitbart wasn’t even an army. He was a malevolent troll, a blathering water balloon who popped at the first poke. He went down easier and quicker than Saddam’s army.
It is fitting that Breitbart’s father-in-law, Orson Bean, got the news first. Orson Bean was a victim of a Breitbart-like smear attack in the 1950s—a right-wing pro-corporate smear machine called AWARE, Inc! (a sort of Big Government of its day) smeared Breitbart’s father-in-law when he was elected to a top post in a union, the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. Yes, Breitbart’s father-in-law was a union man. Was, anyway—then he was smeared as a “Communist” and was blacklisted from Hollywood, his career destroyed. It must have pained him to know that his daughter married the same sort of vermin that ruined his life. Maybe that’s why Orson Bean, late in life, became an anti-gay supporter of Prop 8. He must have enjoyed the news about the corpse on the sidewalk as much as the rest of us.
Andrew Breitbart went to war with me. I won. Breitbart lost.
Game over, Breitbart.
Excuse me while I take a victory dump on Andrew Breitbart’s memory.
Would you like to know more? Read Mark Ames’ account of the late Andrew Breitbart’s initial attack: “Andrew Breitbart Attacks Exiled Editor Mark Ames!…Hires Failed Teabag Republican To Investigate The Great ‘Who Is Johnny Chen?’ Conspiracy” and the follow-up: “Breitbart Hijinx Update! Ace Reporter Joel B. Pollak Knows What A Proxy Is!”. Also, read about Breitbart ace researchers and libertarian sleuths in “Jim Goad and Gavin McInnes Beg Mark Ames: ‘Answer Me, Please?'”
Mark Ames is the author of Going Postal: Rage, Murder and Rebellion from Reagan’s Workplaces to Clinton’s Columbine and co-author with Matt Taibbi of The eXile: Sex, Drugs and Libel in the New Russia.
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