Mark Steyn really busts some chops with heavy sarcasm weaponry!
Whatever the head of the IMF did or didn’t do, the reaction of the French elites is most instructive.
“We and the Americans do not belong to the same civilization,” sniffed Jean Daniel, editor of Le Nouvel Observateur, insisting that the police should have known that Strauss-Kahn was “not like other men” and wondering why “this chambermaid was regarded as worthy and beyond any suspicion.”
Bernard-Henri Lévy, the open-shirted, hairy-chested Gallic intellectual who talked Sarkozy into talking Obama into launching the Libyan war, is furious at the lèse-majesté of this impertinent serving girl and the jackanapes of America’s “absurd” justice system, not to mention this ghastly “American judge who, by delivering him to the crowd of photo hounds, pretended to take him for a subject of justice like any other.”
Neither Geithner nor Strauss-Kahn have ever created a dime of wealth in their lives. They have devoted their careers to “public service,” and thus are in the happy position of rarely if ever having to write a personal check. At the Sofitel in New York, DSK was in a $3,000-per-night suite. Was the IMF picking up the tab? If so, you the plucky U.S. taxpayer paid around 550 bucks of that, whereas Strauss-Kahn’s fellow Frenchmen put up less than $150.
Especially when he’s presiding over an IMF with a budget deficit of some $400 million. But perhaps it would be unreasonable to ask so famously unzippered a man to tighten his belt.
After all, according to Ben Stein, my former colleague at The American Spectator, DSK is “one of the most recognizable people on the planet.” Many’s the time I’ve seen him exiting a swank restaurant with Justin Bieber and Lindsay Lohan and said, “Hey, there’s Dominique Strauss-Kahn with Wossname and Thingummy!”
Fortunately, when the burdens of recognizability get too great, M Strauss-Kahn is able to retreat to his house in Washington, or his apartment in Paris, or his second apartment in Paris, or his riad in Marrakesh. Oh, c’mon, you provincial bozos: A “riad” is a palatial Moorish residence built around an interior courtyard. Everyone knows that. A lifetime of devoted “public service” in “socialist” France isn’t yet as remunerative as in Mubarak’s Egypt or Saddam’s Iraq, but we’re getting there. As the developed world drowns under the weight of Big Government, the gilded princelings of statism will hunker down in their interior courtyards and guard their privileges ever more zealously.
…it will be understood that the Great Men of the Permanent Governing Class cannot be bound by the rules they impose on the rest of you schmucks.
As Ace says:
Once you assert the right to rape the occasional peasant, you’ve basically declared yourself to be a member of an independent sovereign nation — the nation of elites, which deigns to visit other nations and boss them around — with full diplomatic immunity, as any important dignitary from a foreign land might have.
The New Aristocracy isn’t made by blood but by credentials. The aristocracy is “born” in each countries two or three most elite schools, and the formal induction into the class occurs in key international/financial government bureaucracies.
Then you can stop paying taxes with no fear of the consequences the commoners face, and you can forcibly rape (or, actually, sodomize) the help and know that an entire nation’s aristocrats will defend you and criticize those lowly prosecutors who charge you.
…it’s this network of new aristocrats and its credentials serving as patents of nobility that pay for our $3000 per night rape-suites in New York City.
And further from Ace:
But Bill Maher thinks that the Strauss-Kahn archsocialist-forcible-sodomy-on-the-world’s-taxpayers’-dime should teach “Teabaggers” some lessons about socialism, and, I sh*t you not, that lesson is that… socialism is good.
His point seems to be that the $3000 a night hotels and sodomy-rape of chambermaids proves to us teabaggers that socialism is all about “profit” (both pecuniary and in non-pecuniary License to Rape form, I suppose), which we should appreciate.
That’s right, Teabaggers, this is a teachable moment for you. The fact that this guy was living like a king, and raping like a king, on the taxpayers’ dime is proof that socialism is not scary, and yes, that s what he says.
UPDATE: Ace is on a roll! Excerpts:
My Good Friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn Has Forcibly Sodomized Me On Any Number Of Occasions And I Never Got All Crankypants About It
I speak in defense of my good friend and esteemed sodomaniac Dominque Strauss-Kahn.
The charge levied is preposterous: That talented overseer of the world financial system Dominque Strauss-Kahn raped a immigrant woman in a hotel room.
The defense is simple: Dominique Strauss-Kahn rapes everybody. Literally, everybody.
We live in a gray age, of weak shadows and indistinct reflections, of washed-out colors and blurry lines. Striding boldly across this dreary landscape of diminished ambitions and counterfeited intent is the vital power of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, a man who lives life to the fullest, a true bon vivant ne plus ultra, and when I say bon vivant ne plus ultra, I mean he rapes strangers.
And colleagues. And loyal friends. Essentially he’s just a one-man rape machine, an indefatigable Terminator, except instead of being a futuristic war machine built upon a polyalloy battle-chasis, he rapes people.
My very good friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn will not take “No” for an answer from our colorless prison of a world.
He will also not take “You’re hurting me,” for an answer, nor “Stop or I will call the police,” nor even “Rape! Violeur!”
What can be said of a man who refuses to accept anything less than life’s full measure of passion, of a man who lives boldly and outrageously, of a man who has diligently built up a tolerance to pepper-spray and chemical mace, as well as to blows to his genitals, so that he simply cannot be deterred from rape?
I first met this affable cyclone of aggravated sexual assault at a book party hosted by the always ebullient Mme. Simplesse-Callie, in her delightful Alice In Wonderland themed topiary garden. He was resplendent in a closely-tailored suit by Vivienne Westwood, which was all the rage that wine-soaked summer, and carrying an elegant rape-kit, especially designed for him by Louis Vitton, which, as I would find out later, was not merely an affectation, because he had handcuffs and a cattle prod in there, in the handcuff compartment and cattle-prod convenience pouch.
From almost the moment I saw him, I was arrested by his eyes, his manner, his undeniable intellect; I was also arrested by his brutish arms and iron grip, because within moments, I was up against the March Hare, being raped.
So, he raped me. Film at eleven! LOL. No big deal.
It happens. Let us have some perspective here. I have been raped numerous times in my life. Granted, these rapes were all at the hands of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, but I’m sure if he didn’t rape me someone else would have, because, frankly, I’m asking for it.
As a philosopher, I live life by several dicta. Carpe diem is not just some cheap doggerel to be found on a poster in the room of a college freshman, who, according to the statistics, is probably being raped by my good friend Dominique Strauss-Kahn.
…It’s no big deal. Seriously. After eight or nine times you barely even notice anymore.
Tags: Dominique Strauss-Kahn