Andrew Sullivan is a half-used packet of mayonnaise recovered from between the cushions of a bus seat.
Andrew Sullivan is a piece of Wonderbread without the wonder.
Andrew Sullivan is a bottle of milk forgotten in a window on a summer day and only remembered when it explodes, leaving a smell that nothing will get out except burning down the house.
Andrew Sullivan is a remaindered dime-store cotton ball.
Andrew Sullivan is a piece of wet latex in a community college parking lot.
Andrew Sullivan is the dandruff combed from a hobbit’s foot hair.
Andrew Sullivan is the creepy baby doll advertised in magazines only sad grandparents read. And even they skip that page.
Andrew Sullivan is the fanfiction dot net of racists.
Andrew Sullivan has the nuanced cultural critique of a capsized sailboat and the rhetorical skills of a $2 ukulele.
