The Right, currently, is led by an ebonics-butchering “hip hop conservative,” a recovering OxyContin addict, and a fourteen-year-old. This is not a sitcom; instead, it is American Democracy, the best entertainment that $2.9 trillion can buy. Jane’s Law — “The devotees of the party in power are smug and arrogant. The devotees of the party out of power are insane.” — holds just as true as it ever did.
By now, you ought to know the lonesome ballad of Steele and Limbaugh; suffice to say, the Phoenix is still writhing in its ashes, not quite emergent. But Mr. Krohn is something genuinely new — a fourteen year old pundit, a middle schooler fielding radio show interviews from the back of the car on his mom’s cellphone:
Why just that morning, his mother, Marla Krohn, marveled, a staff member for a potential candidate for Georgia governor asked for a meeting with Jonathan. In her gentle drawl, Mrs. Krohn said cautiously, â€œIâ€™m not sure Iâ€™m a supporter of his.â€
â€œNeither am I,â€ Jonathan piped in.
â€œBut Iâ€™m a voter,â€ Mrs. Krohn reminded him firmly.
Jonathan retorted, â€œNow that Iâ€™m a political pundit, I have the ability to influence people. I have to think about it!â€
But first, his mother reminded him, he had some homework to finish.
The first reaction might be “prodigy,” but it checks itself; prodigious at what? What talent has he demonstrated? Mr. Krohn’s meteoric rise to accolades reveals the world of punditry for what it is — an act. Who, after all, is to say that Sean Hannity knows more than Jonathan Krohn? Mr. Krohn happens to be the Shirley Temple of this strange world. Messrs. Hannity, Moore, Limbaugh, and Franken do not speak with the voice of experience; they yell with the fervor of the Initiate. And we have always had Child Gods in our midst, for yea, verily I speak unto you: “Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of Heaven.”
He still has the zeal of a missionary. His voice rising to a wobbly squeak, he grabs any opening to press the cause. â€œBarack Obama is the most left-wing president in my lifetime,â€ he said.
Mr. Krohn buried his face in his hands. â€œOh, Jonathan,â€ he sighed.
What do we say to the Krohns, the parents who are the true saints here? All we can do is hope that they have read their Fitzgerald:
Back at the hospital Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son. “Here’s your clothes,” he snapped out.
The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical eye.
“They look sort of funny to me,” he complained, “I don’t want to be made a monkey ofâ€”â€””
“You’ve made a monkey of me!” retorted Mr. Button fiercely. “Never you mind how funny you look. Put them onâ€”or I’llâ€”or I’ll spank you.” He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.
“All right, father”â€”this with a grotesque simulation of filial respectâ€””you’ve lived longer; you know best. Just as you say.”