One of my great blogging joys used to be mocking David Brooks.  Now Sir David would have been at home in England a few decades ago.  A rather worthless fellow who was lucky enough to have a title and a stage to to spew nonsense.  An easy target for a desperate blogger.  But all good things must end and David Brooks mocking ended with Charles Pierce.

The applause came from deep in the plush leather armchairs gathered by the fireplace in the clubroom of the Premature Fogies Club. It was warm and sustaining, as was the morning brandy. People touched the patches on his master’s blazer as he walked by. “Good show, old top,” they told him. Moral Hazard, the Irish setter belonging to David Brooks, yawned and stretched his legs all the way down to the tips of his paws. He knew what was going on. His master had brought joy to all the calcined specimens in all the armchairs by telling them the up-from-poverty saga of Willard Romney and his family, the relentless immigrant-ish striving that still drives Willard no matter which of his several luxury homes in which he happened to be doing his striving at the moment. This Friday’s column had made them all feel like pioneers squinting across the Great Plains into the setting western sun. His master, thought Moral Hazard, will never lack for dinner-party invitations after this:

Mitt Romney is a rich man, but is Mitt Romney’s character formed by his wealth? Is Romney a spoiled, cosseted character?

Go to the link to find the answer to these questions. I can’t compete with Mr Pierce.