It’s entirely possible that Sally Quinn no longer understands that what she’s writing is read by America, that the Washington Post is not—despite its primary function—one of those inter-office novelty papers circulated in giant law firms that tell everyone how the softball team is doing. It’s probably impossible to produce something more tone deaf to human beings—short of re-shooting the opening of 48 Hours with Eddie Murphy in the amputee wing of Walter Reed Army Medical Center, wearing headphones and screeching out Country Joe and the Fish’s “Fixin’ to Die Rag.”

It’s entirely possible that Sally Quinn no longer understands that what she’s writing is read by America, that the Washington Post is not—despite its primary function—one of those inter-office novelty papers circulated in giant law firms that tell everyone how the softball team is doing. It’s probably impossible to produce something more tone deaf to human beings—short of re-shooting the opening of 48 Hours with Eddie Murphy in the amputee wing of Walter Reed Army Medical Center, wearing headphones and screeching out Country Joe and the Fish’s “Fixin’ to Die Rag.”—Gawker, on possibly the worst Washington Post column I’ve ever read.