Christopher Hitchens, whose Standard-issue Alcoholic manipulative paranoia and combativeness is often framed by lovers of language as 'iconoclastic' and 'feisty' gets the fetid wind delicately but firmly knocked out of him by Joan Walsh.
If only Hitch wasn't such a drunk ... but he is. His entire take on the world, while sometimes entertaining, is ground in such poor soil that nothing palatable has grown there for some time.
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