Worst American Birthdays, vol. 48

One of few humans to become less coherent with the acquisition of language, the anthropological marvel known as “Camille Paglia” has spent most of the past six decades being paid by Salon to complain, in a carousel of mixed and incompatible metaphors, about the cruelty of a universe that would preside over the fellating of Bill Clinton — a crime against humanity for which his wife (and vaginas more broadly) are presumed to bear responsibility. When not overheard blaming the Clenis for 9/11 and the death of Vince Foster, Paglia can be found blaming feminists for nearly everything else — including the Virginia Tech massacre (no, really) — while heralding the rise of Sarah Palin as some sort of divine revelation, a Jungian archetype of the sort that fuels Paglia’s unreadable, self-parodying academic work. No, really:

Conservative though she may be, I felt that Palin represented an explosion of a brand new style of muscular American feminism. At her startling debut on that day, she was combining male and female qualities in ways that I have never seen before. And she was somehow able to seem simultaneously reassuringly traditional and gung-ho futurist. In terms of redefining the persona for female authority and leadership, Palin has made the biggest step forward in feminism since Madonna channeled the dominatrix persona of high-glam Marlene Dietrich and rammed pro-sex, pro-beauty feminism down the throats of the prissy, victim-mongering, philistine feminist establishment.

Paglia — an over-employed, anthropomorphized prank upon the English language — turned 62 today.