Erick Erickson is a lazy parasite

By Amanda Marcotte
Thursday, October 13, 2011 11:26 EDT
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I'm sure you've seen Erick Erickson's response to We Are the 99%, which is a moving Tumblr created to support Occupy Wall St., where people explain exactly what it's like to not be rich in an America where inequality is expanding rapidly. Erickson responded by starting We are the 53%—the reference is to federal income tax, which wingnuts conveniently pretend is the only tax, even as they attack Medicare and Social Security, which have different revenue streams—a Tumblr dedicated to assholes mocking the pain of others, but in that self-pitying wingnut way. To sum up the tone of the Tumblr: imagine a wingnut walking down the street and seeing someone break their ankle so badly that bone is sticking out. In response to the person with a broken leg crying out for help, wingnut says, "Man, I stubbed my toe a couple hours ago and you don't hear me crying," before moving on and laughing about what a wuss that person is as they bleed all over the pavement. It's somewhat startling to see how much the contributors don't realize what monsters they come across as. I suspect it's because they get excited when they hear a complete asshole being a blowhard (see, Rush Limbaugh), and they forget ordinary people don't actually find it attractive when someone struts about how their puppy-kicking abilities make them a badass. This was Erickson's inaugural entry:

Three jobs? Like, he takes off from being a right wing blowhard and goes to work at the Dairy Queen? Well, not quite. Turns out he's counting the same job three times:

And it is not clear to me what Erick's three jobs are: his internet biographies mention (i) right-wing internet community organizer, (ii) CNN commentator, and (iii) radio host. Are these his "three jobs"? Most of us would say that those are three aspects of one occupation–not three jobs. People who work three jobs are people who teach elementary school in the morning and early afternoon, take a shift at the car wash around dinnertime, and work a pre-dawn shift at a 24-hour 7-11. That does not sound like Erick, Son of Erick to me.

Shit, all this time I described myself as a freelance writer/journalist, not thinking I could take each separate job responsibility and count it as a separate job: author, humorist, blogger, podcaster, columnist, op-ed writer, contributing blogger to XX Factor, freelance journalist, reproductive health care expert, social media maven, and media commentator on all things feminist. That's at least eleven jobs, using the Erick Erickson Patented Job-Counting Method®. And I don't have a wife to handle the housework and social calendar organizing for me, unlike this parasite. I can probably add "chef", "housekeeper", and "cat mom" to the list, using his method. 

Erick is also a sad panda because he owns one more home than he'd really like to. You don't understand how this man has suffered!  But you don't see him whining!

Oh wait, you totally do. What was I thinking? He's still ranting about how those broken-leg people don't know what it's like to carry around the fading memory of a stubbed toe. Why doesn't anyone care about Erick Erickson's suffering?!

It's a good thing Erickson is a pampered, spoiled white guy. If he wasn't, he would have starved to death for lack of other people catering to him and keeping him in a bubble so thick he actually thinks this routine of his makes him look like anything but the spoiled child he is. With these levels of stupid, I'm genuinely surprised he was able to figure out the steps to writing out a sign and taking a webcam picture. Just kidding! I know someone else operated the webcam for him, because if he did it himself, he'd add "webcam operator" to his list of jobs, bringing the total to four.

Amanda Marcotte
Amanda Marcotte
Amanda Marcotte is a freelance journalist born and bred in Texas, but now living in the writer reserve of Brooklyn. She focuses on feminism, national politics, and pop culture, with the order shifting depending on her mood and the state of the nation.
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