Aw, it's not that fred

Think of all the things at the contemporary National Review that might have old Bill Buckley picking up a little speed as he rolls over in the fine and quiet place that is the grave. He could get a little annoyed that his journal has become the serious grownup face of modern racism. He might shake his head to find that NR offers a welcome to the paranoid style of American politics, rather than gently ridiculing it. But above all, wouldn't he just rip the tonsils out of the editor who left the Donner Party comma out of a hed line this?

Buckley, thou shouldst be living at this hour. Since thou art not, could thee at least send thy zombie self to bring the crew of thy once-respected publication back into line?