Maureen Dowd: 'Obsessed? Me? Just Because I Haven't Written Anyhing Except Anti-Palin Columns Since Sept. 2008?'

Which, as Mark Finkelstein points out, might as well be the headline on MoDo's latest Rorshach test:

At the moment, what [Palin] wants to do is tap into her visceral talent for aerial-shooting her favorite human prey: cerebral Ivy League Democrats.
Just as she was able to stir up the mob against Barack Obama on the trail, now she is fanning the flames against another Harvard smarty-pants -- Dr. Zeke Emanuel, a White House health care adviser and the older brother of Rahmbo.
She took a forum, Facebook, more commonly used by kids hooking up and cyberstalking, and with one catchy phrase, several footnotes and a zesty disregard for facts, managed to hijack the health care debate from Mr. Obama.
Sarahcuda knows, from her brush with Barry on the campaign trail, that he is vulnerable on matters that demand a visceral and muscular response rather than a logical and book-learned one. Mr. Obama was charming and informed at his town hall in Montana on Friday, but he’s going to need some sustained passion, a clear plan and a narrative as gripping as Palin’s I-see-dead-people scenario. . . .

Read the whole thing, especially if you are a psychologist who might render some sort of learned opinion about whatever has caused Dowd to devote her dotage to this quest to destroy Palin, like mad Ahab hunting Moby Dick.

It's insane -- and trust me, I have more direct experience in the field of insanity than most psychologists. However, when I engage in lunatic self-parody, at least I understand that I am making myself the subject of the story. MoDo shows no such self-awareness, apparently believing that she can devote column after column to her idee fixe without calling into question whether she is revealing more about herself than about her putative subject.

There, but for the grace of God . . .

DIAGNOSTIC UPDATE: Weasel Zippers suggests, "When you look up bitter, elitist, jealous douchebags in the dictionary Maureen Dowd's decrepit mug should be front and center." And our esteemed colleague Dr. Kill, recalling the recent medical analysis of Ms. Dowd's condition, somberly observes:

Oh oh, sounds like someone's out of peanut butter.

Either that or her German shepherd ran away -- an altogether understandable Pavlovian response to Ms. Dowd's particular stimuli. Research by epidemiologists (commisioned under an NIH grant managed by the McCain Institute For Advanced Vaginology) suggests that exposure to Ms. Dowd's gaping, arid, malodorous vajayjay produces a 37 percent increased likelihood of victims developing an acute case of Raging Faggotosis. NTTAWWT.

Remember, folks: Bad Nookie Is No Laughing Matter.

DIAGNOSTIC UPDATE II: Thanks to Sister Toldjah for bringing to the attention of Institute researchers the latest commentary on another tragic case study:

"I don't know exactly what about me threatens them (Michelle Malkin, Ann Coulter and Co.) so much, other than that people are listening to me," she writes in her latest cranium-inflating missive to the kids on the Internets. She brags that she has twice as many followers on Twitter as Malkin. "And trust me, Twitter is more of an indication of where young people are than books published." Books are so for old people!
Meghan is building a "look at me, I'm such a hip badass" platform, lobbing insults at pundits to prove she's just as edgy as her father. . .

Obviously, this further confirms the numerous reports in the Institute's archives (including one submitted by a Columbia University sophomore who was the last Teke pledge in line at a November 2003 all-night kegger) that the patient we call "Meaghan M." was already showing clear symptoms of intermediate-stage BNS in the first semester of her freshman year.