Our Steyn

I see I'm not the only one with a Steyn Shrine in my office where I make sure to burn a grain of incense every day.

a guy with an accent that is part James Bond villain, part Thurston Howell III and Part William F. Buckley, who dresses like Beau Brummel except when he's in his New Hampshire lair — where he dresses like one of the Darryls from the Newhart show — who seems like an immortal from the Highlander series in that he's been everywhere and met everyone over the last three centuries and yet always looks like he's 34, and who seems to know everything about everything when he's writing for every English language publication in Christendom

I'll bet he can spell too.

Our Steyn,
who art ubiquitous,
widely read be thy words.

Thy predictions are true,
thy warnings be heard,
in government and the MSM,
as they are in the bloggosphere.

Give us this day our daily dark,
hollow mirthless laugh,
forgive us our crankiness,
and lead us not into the demographic apocalypse and jihadist conquest
but deliver us from liberals and appeasers.

(and for the Prots out there)
For thine are the columns,
the airwaves and the bylines,

for ever and ever...

(See? See what happens when I'm left unsupervised?)


H/T to Kathy (again)