I have a confession to make: I hate the pseudo-conservative scribblings of David French with the same kind of smoldering loathing I reserve for foot fungus, movies about spunky young women who triumph over the patriarchy, and the music of Maroon 5. With rare exceptions explicable due only to the vagaries of chance, I hate his prose, his premises, his conclusions and his insufferable fussiness. I contend that his writings are fit only to be served up to traitors and terrorists at Gitmo to wring out confessions, and the only thing I enjoy about his terrible, terrible views is that they validate my longstanding negative impression of Army JAGs. But it has never occurred to me that David French should be barred from writing whatever the hell he pleases.
The whole idea that, simply because his opinions make me long for the joyous peace of death, he should be in any way prevented from sharing them with those people who inexplicably wish to endure them, and those unfortunate enough to stumble upon them unawares, is utterly foreign to me and to all actual conservatives. Censorship, to us, is both alien and appalling, like an Oberlin College feminist hot oil twerk-off.
Needless to say, read the whole thing.