For Now: The Old Sockeroo

If I ever get over this cold, I’m going to devote my life to a scholarly study of the clinchers, the nail-it-right-on-down sockeroos that left-wing commentators use to finish their columns. Wicker, Hamill, Van Horne, all of them have discovered a great truth: You can file eight hundred words of the utterest twilp, just so long as you wind up with a Good Line.

Pete Hamill, for instance, filled his spot in the New York Post the other day with a rambling, paranoid account of the searching of his luggage by some surly U.S. Customs officers—in all of which, needless to say, he detected that old Stench of Fascism. Free at last, he decides to run up to Yankee Stadium to see Felipe Alou while there’s still time, because: “It’s getting dark around here.” End of column, whammy!

CS

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C. H. Simonds

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If I ever get over this cold, I’m going to devote my life to a scholarly study of the clinchers, the nail-it-right-on-down sockeroos that left-wing commentators use to finish their columns. Wicker, Hamill, Van Horne, all of them have discovered a great truth: You can file eight hundred words of the utterest twilp, just so long as you wind up with a Good Line.

Pete Hamill, for instance, filled his spot in the New York Post the other day with a rambling, paranoid account of the searching of his luggage by some surly U.S. Customs officers—in all of which, needless to say, he detected that old Stench of Fascism. Free at last, he decides to run up to Yankee Stadium to see Felipe Alou while there’s still time, because: “It’s getting dark around here.” End of column, whammy!