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The King is Dead…
Rex Murphy took the dull, simple aria of white male grievance and turned it into operatic psychodrama.
It’s been SO LONG since I posted here—I thought I would take a mental health break, but ultimately decided to run with the crazy—I’m anxious, completely disoriented, and basically behaving like my IQ is in single digits.
I’m hunting and pecking at my laptop like I’m one of the billion monkeys who’s maybe randomly going to produce the works of Shakespeare or is maybe not going to. (When my morning banana break comes up, can I pick through your scalp hair? Feeling extra “snacky.”)
Seriously, it’s been since July 2023, and I can only imagine your mystified response to my alert email. “Oh, him? I thought he was dead!”
Now, don’t mistake me, will you, for the cold, stiff remains of Rex Murphy (Canada’s crushed up, diluted microdose of Tucker Carlson, by way of explanation), who died in Toronto on the 9th of May. And I want to reassure you about my good intentions here, which should last at least to the end of this paragraph.
I know that deep down, Rex, like you and I, was a human being, full of hopes and dreams, entitlement and rage. And I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, to visit calumny on a man’s personal legacy. Heavens to Betsy, that you could think otherwise!
