Must…stop…reading

Roger Cohen is to the English language what Thomas Kinkade is to art or Kenny G is to jazz. Here’s the proof:

So it is important to step back, from the last machinations of this endless campaign, and think again about what America is.

It is renewal, the place where impossible stories get written.

And

He is the providential mestizo whose name — O-Ba-Ma — has the three-syllable universality of some child’s lullaby.

And

Earlier this year, at the end of a road of reddish earth in western Kenya, I found Obama’s half-sister Auma. “He can be trusted,” she said, “to be in dialogue with the world.”

And so on, ad infinitum.

This kind of pabulum, too saccharine to agree with, too vague to refute, is what gives hope a bad name. These sorts of gassy paeans to the meaning of America are enough to make me a communist.

I’d rather be forced to eat my way through the menu at Bob Evans with David Brooks as my dining companion then have to edit this stuff. I’d sooner sit through couples counseling with Maureen Dowd. I think the only reason that Bono is being brought in is to make Roger Cohen seem hard-headed.