Do I have to start a new blog, "Sweet Jesus I Hate Maureen Dowd"?

MoDo's column yesterday left me too speechless with rage to do much of anything besides wonder if she likes to be beaten to a pulp while wearing a Catholic school uniform. (Oh, wait, that's Michelle Malkin. Sorry.) But still, you have to wonder what kind of psychopathology lumps men into two categories -- bellicose assholes like George W. Bush, or pussies. First she did it with John Edwards, and now she's decided that Barack Obama is just too metrosexual to be president.

I know this is very much like what He Who Must Not Be Named does, but why fuck with perfection? Driftglass says it all:

Like a block of keys stripped from your keyboard, what you are conspicuously absenting from your column stands out in such sharp relief because it is so conspicuously absent from the instrument you are using to create it. From your own emotional lexicon.

Because what Senator Obama appears to be is...a gentleman.

Imagine that? And how spiritually famished you must be, Modo, not to recognize one when he’s standing right there?

Not Slick Willie II. Not Jebus. Not Obambi. None of the tired, cloying, Dowdian archetypes that cobweb you like so much Blanche DuBois-brand Spanish Moss, and not whatever, clever, diminutive you cobble up next week.

Just a gentleman.

Relaxed. Comfortable in his own skin. Articulate. Flawed. Confident. At ease in the company of strong, accomplished women. Courteous, but not one to be shoved around. Casually brilliant, but not frantically “Oh! Oh! Oh! PickMe!PickMe!PickMe!”

And for the record, no, to the extent this gentleman is succeeding it is not because he is running away from “hard-power locker-room tactics to a soft-power sewing circle approach.”

Je-zus, Maureen; do you ever just give your neuroses $20 and send them off to the movies?

Not when there's a schmuck named Bill Keller who's willing to pay her a six-figure salary to play them out in public print she doesn't.