Thomas Friedman is a true American success story: a man who without any writing talent or deep understanding of any issue, managed to marry an heiress and now lives in a huge mansion. It’s called “capitalism,” folks.

Peggy Noonan has a dream: a dream of being cradled in Ronald Reagan’s welcoming arms, safe, protected, and embraced. That is not the dream we’re here to discuss, however. There’s another dream.

David Brooks, the Mr. Rogers of the New York Times, has some penetrating thoughts about the “working-class parts of America,” on which he is a well-known expert.

Peggy Noonan, a keen scientist of the political sphere, once predicted Mitt Romney would defeat Barack Obama based on the fact that she saw a bunch of his yard signs. She brings the same eye for meaningless detail to the shores of Olde Englande.

“If we talked as if people had souls, then we’d have a thick view of what is at stake in everyday activities,” writes David Brooks today. At this point he’s basically the nice old man with Alzheimer’s at church that everyone chooses to leave alone as long as he doesn’t hit anyone.

Peggy. Dear Peggy. Peggy—are you okay?

Peggy Noonan’s body may be in Manhattan, and her soul may be in Ronald Reagan’s coffin—but her mind, now and forever, is in Brooklyn, at a street fair she went to a few years back.

Hirsute oracle of the Davos set Thomas Friedman has a question. Thomas Friedman has a lot of questions.

These times we live in—they are troubled, are they not? What hath the commoners wrought upon our noble republic, with this “Trump” whose gaudy habits offendeth the senses? Whose common voice shall explain to one and all the unknowable thoughts of the peasantry?

If you sat Tom Friedman in a chair, gave him a piece of paper, snapped your fingers to get his attention, and told him to write down America’s three greatest sources of strength, what would he do?

Peggy Noonan—white of skin, fair of hair, pure of heart. An American, a care bear, in the state of New Hampshire, alert. Whot doth Peggy espy approaching nigh? Lo—it is those whose skin is brown. Question them, we shall.

Ronald Reagan action figure collector Peggy Noonan has, shall we say, a checkered record of political predictions. Today, she tars one Bernard Sanders with her dastardly Wand of Bad Luck.

When the chips are down, and the transistors are shrinking, and the deadline hour is nigh, Thomas Friedman—a professional—can whip up a newspaper column faster than you can say “It is a shame that you are not writing for Highlights for Kids, sir.”

Dotty Washington Post columnist and cane-waving oldie Richard Cohen still has his memory, thank god. And that memory is full of him hanging out with politicians. Has he told you about it?

Here are the first lines of today’s column by the Washington Post’s Kathleen Parker, the real life version of a white character from The Help, in which she bemoans the present day profusion of “showoffs” who engage in “narcissistic indulgence.”

Frank Bruni, a professional newspaper columnist who—unfortunately, given his chosen profession—has not had a single good idea in the past five years, continues that proud streak today. In spectacular fashion!

Just a couple of years ago, Mohamed El-Erian was one of the most powerful financiers in the world, overseeing nearly $2 trillion as CEO of Pimco. Now, he’s, uh... well, he has a Fitbit?

David Brooks, the sad but harmless sweater-wearing divorced guy who likes to give your kids advice gleaned from inspirational office posters, is—astonishingly—still employed as a prestigious newspaper columnist.

Cutting edge newspaper columnist Peggy Noonan today warns college kids about the danger of “trigger warnings.” Huh. Have you heard of this?

The president. Sitting atop a white rock—America, pure as snow, a monument. Lincoln. The ballot box—a throne of our nation. Shall the free press poop atop it? Undulating, in the wind.