By Michael Nora

H.L. Mencken on William Jennings Bryant and fundamentalism. A.J. Liebling on Graham Greene and anti-Americanism. Tom Wolfe on Leonard Bernstein and radical chic. Hunter S. Thompson on Nixon and Vietnam. Gore Vidal on Norman Podhoretz and seminal neo-conservatism. Connoisseurs of scathing, witty political prose cherish these brutal one-sided literary bloodlettings the way boxing fans do legendary bouts between the unevenly matched. As armchair sadists go, we’re pretty comfortable with our darker impulses. We’re not looking for a fair fight–or a long one. We want to see someone big take a horrific beating, go down hard and then lie there without moving. We want a sickening thud upon impact–the sense that the victim will somehow never again be quite the same person.

Matt LaBash may soon be capable of delivering that kind of damage. His work with The Weekly Standard has earned him the reputation as a talent worth watching. But whether our boy will actually stay the course and fulfill his dark destiny remains to be seen. Much is at play. For one, the forces of D.C.-shlock chat-show punditry won’t leave him alone. So far he’s managed to resist the siren call of the blowhards, but for how long can any American hold out when constantly offered the chance to appear on television? For another, LaBash hopes to do longer, deeper, more serious work. As admirers of the early Martin Amis will tell you, that could spell trouble for malicious-wit aficionados.

In Boston last week for the Democratic National Convention, LaBash proved a model of graciousness–not a trait invariably associated with high-IQ put-down artists, mind you. Perhaps it was their presence on hostile soil, perhaps it was the continuing horrors in Iraq and the ongoing failure of their president to grip the reins or articulate a strategy, but his fellow Republican males seemed oddly touchy-feely and maudlin as they staggered drunk through the streets of Boston in their blue blazers and khaki pants. LaBash met their solicitations of friendship ("You drink whiskey, right? Next year you got to come to the Preakness with us!") and alcoholic non sequiturs ("My wife, she’s Chinese. She loves The Standard. She’s Chinese, my wife") with masterful patience. That generosity of spirit extended to possible Democrats and the slovenly attired as well. When approached by a potentially belligerent stranger to do a Q&A for an alternative weekly, he smiled and changed the topic. When pressed again he sighed, nodded assent, picked up his drink and submitted to an interview at a nearby table.

What are you here for?

Uh . . . I got convention fever.

That like dance fever?

I’m sort of swimming round the edges. We’ve [The Weekly Standard] got a lot of people up here so I’ve managed to dodge the bullet of having to actually go to the convention each evening and talk to delegates. Instead I have to sit through these endurance tests like the Hip Hop Summit. I just did a piece this morning, "Getting Thrown Out of ‘Emily’s List.’"

What was involved in getting thrown out of ‘Emily’s List’?

Well, having a penis was, actually. I had one, and anyone with one was not permitted entry.

You have a great quote about how you’re fortunate to have been in a profession where you get to be subjective about the failure of others to be objective: "We bring the pain to the liberal media. I say that mockingly, but it's true somewhat. We come with a strong point of view and people like point of view journalism. While all these hand-wringing Freedom Forum types talk about objectivity, the conservative media likes to rap the liberal media on the knuckles for not being objective. We've created this cottage industry in which it pays to be un-objective. It pays to be subjective as much as possible. It's a great way to have your cake and eat it too. Criticize other people for not being objective. Be as subjective as you want. It's a great little racket. I'm glad we found it actually."