Cover image for The [un]documented Mark Steyn : don't say you weren't warned
The [un]documented Mark Steyn : don't say you weren't warned
Steyn, Mark, author.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
Washington, DC : Regnery Publishing, [2014]
Physical Description:
442 pages ; 24 cm
"He's brash, brilliant, and drawn to controversy like a moth to a flame. Mark Steyn is America's most brutally honest columnist, ready to sound off on every hot issue in the news-and always ready to ruffle feathers. Prepare to be shocked and entertained by this curated compendium of Steyn's most provocative, hilarious, and thought-provoking columns"--
General Note:
Includes index.
Format :


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PN4913.S766 A25 2014 Adult Non-Fiction Non-Fiction Area
PN4913.S766 A25 2014 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
PN4913.S766 A25 2014 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
PN4913.S766 A25 2014 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf

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He's brash, brilliant, and drawn to controversy like a moth to a flame. For decades, Mark Steyn has dazzled readers around the world with his raucous wit and brutal honesty. Whether he's sounding off on the tyranny of political correctness, the existential threat of Islamic extremism, the "nationalization" of the family, or the "near suicidal stupidity" of America's immigration regime, Steyn is always provocative—and often laugh-out-loud hilarious. The Undocumented Mark Steyn gathers Steyn's best columns in a timeless and indispensable guide to the end of the world as we know it.

Author Notes

Mark Steyn was born in Toronto, Canada on December 8, 1959. He worked as a disc-jockey before becoming musical theatre critic for The Independent in 1986. He became a film critic for The Spectator in 1992. After writing predominantly about the arts, he shifted his focus to political commentary. He has written for numerous publications including the Chicago Sun-Times, National Review, The New York Sun, The Australian, Maclean's, The Atlantic Monthly, Western Standard and New Criterion. He received the Eric Breindel Award for Excellence in Opinion Journalism in 2006 and the Sappho Award from the International Free Press Society in 2010.

Steyn has written several books including; The Undocumented Mark Steyn: Don't Say You Weren't Warned, Broadway Babies Say Goodnight: Musicals Then and Now, America Alone: The End of the World As We Know It, and After America: Get Ready for Armageddon.

(Bowker Author Biography)



Signs of the Times Whenever I write about the corrosive effect of Big Government upon the citizenry in Britain, Canada, Europe, and elsewhere, and note that this republic is fairly well advanced upon the same grim trajectory, I get a fair few letters on the lines of: "You still don't get it, Steyn. Americans aren't Euro-pansies. Or Canadians. We're not gonna take it." I would like to believe it. It's certainly the case that Americans have more attitude than anybody else--or, at any rate, attitudinal slogans. I saw a fellow in a "Don't Tread on Me" T-shirt the other day. He was at LaGuardia, and he was being trod all over, by the obergropinfu¨hrers of the TSA, who had decided to subject him to one of their enhanced pat-downs. There are few sights more dismal than that of a law-abiding citizen having his genitalia pawed by state commissars, but having them pawed while wearing a "Don't Tread on Me" T-shirt is certainly one of them. Don't get me wrong. I like "Don't Tread on Me." Also, "Don't Mess with Texas"--although the fact that 70 percent of births in Dallas's largest hospital are Hispanic suggests that someone has messed with Texas in recent years, and fairly comprehensively. In my own state, the Department of Whatever paid some fancypants advertising agency a couple of million bucks to devise a new tourism slogan. They came up with "You're Going to Love It Here!," mailed it in, and cashed the check. The state put it up on the big "Bienvenue au New Hampshire" sign on I-93 on the Massachusetts border, and ten minutes later outraged Granite Staters were demanding it be removed and replaced with "Live Free or Die." So it was. Americans are still prepared to get in-your-face about their in-your- face slogans. No other nation has license-plate mottos like "Live Free or Die." No other nation has songs about how "I'm proud to be a Canadian" or "Australian" or "Slovenian"--or at least no songs written in the last twenty years in a contemporary pop vernacular. And yet, underneath the attitudinal swagger, Americans are--to a degree visiting Continentals often remark upon--an extremely compliant people. For example, if you tootle along sleepy two-lane rural blacktops, the breaks in the solid yellow line are ever farther apart. One can drive for miles and miles without an opportunity to pass. Motoring around Britain and Europe, I quickly appreciate being on a country lane and able to see the country, as opposed to admiring rural America's unending procession of bend signs, pedestrian- approaching signs, stop signs, stop-sign-ahead signs, stop-sign-ahead-signs-ahead signs, pedestrian-approaching-a-stop-sign signs, designated-scenic-view-ahead signs, parking-restrictions-at-the-designated-scenic-view signs, etc. It takes me a little longer to get used to the idea that I'm free to pass other cars pretty much whenever I want to, as opposed to settling in behind Granny for the rest of the day as the unbroken yellow lines stretch lazily down broad, straight, empty rural blacktop, across the horizon and into infinity. Want to pass on a blind bend in beautiful County Down or the Dordogne? Hey, it's your call. Your decision. Fancy that. Italian tanks may have five gears for reverse and only one for forward, but in a Fiat the size of your cupholder it's a different story. The French may plant trees on the Champs-E´lyse´es because the Germans like to march in the shade, but they'll still pass you at 120 on the Grande Corniche. When you've done your last cheese-eating surrender-monkey crack, that cloud in your windshield is a dinged deux chevaux leaving your fully loaded SUV for dust. Continentals would never for a moment tolerate the restrictive driving conditions of the United States, and they don't understand why Americans do. Mon dieu, is not America the land of the car chase? Gitcha motor running Head out on the highway Looking for adventure. . . . Actually, America is the land of the car-chase movie. Off-screen, it's a more sedate affair. Gitcha motor running, head out on the highway, shift down to third gear as there's a stop-sign-ahead sign ahead. At dinner in Paris, I listened to a Frenchman and an Italian while away the entre´e chortling at how docile and deferential Americans are. Most of all they were amused by the constant refrain from the American right that if the nation doesn't change course it will end up as mired in statism as Europe. "Americans love Big Government as much as Europeans," one chap told me. "The only difference is that Americans refuse to admit it." He attributed this to our national myth-making--"I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free." Yet, on that two-lane blacktop, unlike the despised French surrender monkeys, Americans are not to be trusted to reach their own judgment on when it's safe to pull out and leave Gran'ma eating dust. Odd. But these days what can Americans be trusted with? The U.S. has more highway signs than almost any other country: not just mile markers but fifth- of-a-mile markers; not just "Stop" signs, but four-way "Stop" signs. America also has the worst automobile fatality rate in the developed world, in part because there's so much fascinating reading material on the shoulder. Our automobile fatality rate is three times that of the Netherlands, about the same as Albania's, down at sixty-second in the global rankings, just ahead of Tajiki- stan and Papua New Guinea. President Obama warns that unless we "invest" more in roads, we risk becoming "a nation of potholes"--just like Albania. Except that there'll be federally mandated "Pothole Ahead" signs in front of each one. You may have noticed those new lime green pedestrian signs sprouting across the fruited plain, in many cases where no pedestrian has been glimpsed in years. Some new federal regulation requires them to be posted wherever pedestrians are to be found, or might potentially be found in the years ahead. I just drove through Barre, Vermont, which used to be the granite capital of the state but, as is the way, now offers the usual sad Main Street of vacant storefronts and non-profit community-assistance joints. For some reason, it has faded pedestrian crossings painted across the street every few yards. So, in full compliance with the Bureau of Compliance, those new signs have been stuck in front of each one, warning the motorist of looming pedestrians, spring- ing from curb to pavement like Alpine chamois. The oncoming army of lurid lime signs uglies up an already decrepit Main Street. They dominate the scene, lining up in one's windshield with the math- ematical precision of Busby Berkeley's chorines in Gold Diggers of 1935. And they make America look ridiculous. They are, in fact, double signs: One lime green diamond with the silhouette of a pedestrian, and then below it a lime rectangle with a diagonal arrow, pointing to the ground on which the hypo- thetical pedestrian is likely to be hypothetically perambulating. The lower sign is an exquisitely condescending touch. A nation whose citizenry is as stupid as those markers suggest they are cannot survive. But, if we're not that stupid, why aren't we outraged? What's the cost of those double signs--three hundred bucks per? That's the best part of four grand wasted on one little strip of one little street in one small town. It's not hard to see why we're the Brokest Nation in History: You can stand at almost any four-way across the land, look in any direction, and see that level of statist waste staring you in the face. Doesn't that count as being trod on? They're certainly treading on your kids. In fact, they've stomped whatever future they might have had into the asphalt. A variant of my readers' traditional protestation runs like this: "Americans aren't Europeans, Steyn. We have the Second Amendment, and they don't." Very true. And Vermont has one of the highest rates of firearms ownership in the nation. And Howard Dean has a better record on gun rights than Rudy Giuliani. Or Chris Christie. But one would be reluctant to proffer the Green Mountain State as evidence of any correlation between gun rights and small government. And Continentals don't see a gun rack in your pickup as much consolation for not being able to pass for the next twenty-eight miles. If I've sounded a wee bit overwrought in recent columns, it's because America is seizing up before our eyes. And I'm a little bewildered by how many Americans can't see it. I think about that chap at LaGuardia with "Don't Tread on Me" on his chest, and government bureaucrats in his pants. And I wonder if America's exceptional attitudinal swagger isn't providing a discreet cover for the withering of liberty. Sometimes an in-your-face attitude blinds you to what's going on under your nose. Excerpted from The Undocumented Mark Steyn by Mark Steyn All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Table of Contents

Introduction: Me and My Little Black Dressp. ix
I Up, Down, Over and Out
Viagra Nationp. 1
Decaffeinatedp. 6
Unsung Songsp. 9
Oh, Say, Can You See?p. 14
II Spirits of the Age
Life Classp. 23
E Pluribus Compositep. 26
Sheet Musicp. 32
Did the Earth Summit Move for You?p. 36
The Media's Maternal Instinctsp. 40
Living Largep. 44
III The Republic of Manners
Potpourri Roasting on an Open Firep. 51
Last Dancep. 55
We've Figured It Outp. 58
The Audacity of Gropep. 62
In the Absence of Gunsp. 67
Arms Are for Diningp. 73
IV The Bureau of Compliance
Signs of the Timesp. 79
Carried to Extremesp. 84
Illegally Admiring the King's Deerp. 87
Ninjas vs. Turtlesp. 91
The Butt Stops Herep. 99
V Homeland Security
Prioritiesp. 105
Choc and Awep. 109
The All-Seeing Nannyp. 112
The Paramilitarized Bureaucracyp. 117
VI The Stories we Tell
Meeting Mr. Bondp. 123
Boy, Meats, Girlp. 128
Look Where Your Stories Have Landed Youp. 134
Cover Storyp. 141
When Harry Met Hillaryp. 145
VII Imperial Echoes
Keeping Itp. 151
Queer Theoryp. 156
Son of Empirep. 160
The People's Queenp. 166
Celebrity Caesarp. 170
The Footstools of Camelotp. 174
VIII September 12
History's Calling Cardp. 179
The Brutal Afghan Winterp. 181
The Brutal Cuban Winterp. 186
The Limitsp. 191
Too Big to Winp. 194
Drone Alonep. 202
A National Disgracep. 205
The Man at the Borderp. 209
IX The War on Women
My Sharia Amourp. 217
Barbie in a Burqap. 223
How Unclean Was My Valleyp. 228
X Mystic Chords
Sounds of the Rude Worldp. 235
Decoration Dayp. 240
Say, It Ain't So Joep. 244
Happy Birthday, Mister Bobp. 249
We Aren't the Worldp. 253
The Parliament of Euro-Manp. 258
Changing His Tunep. 263
Changing His Wordsp. 267
Moon River and Mep. 270
XI After Work
The Aristorockracyp. 279
The Waste of Peoplep. 282
A Town with Pityp. 285
The Post-Work Economyp. 290
Tribal Americap. 294
XII Birth of Tomorrow
Post-Modern Familyp. 301
Only the Clonelyp. 305
Stork Reportp. 309
The Right to Choosep. 314
How Weird How Soon?p. 317
XIII Curtains
Double Actp. 323
Croc of Goldp. 328
Every Dog Should Have His Dayp. 333
The Seventy-Year Itchp. 339
XIV Last Laughs
Joking Asidep. 347
The Pinkshirtsp. 351
Little Stasi-on-Avonp. 357
"There Is No More Molly"p. 362
The Unsafe Spacep. 369
XV Lengthened Shadows
Footsteps in the Desertp. 377
Sex at Sunsetp. 381
A Stroll at Twilightp. 384
XVI Against the Grain
Dutch Couragep. 389
The Uncowardly Lionessp. 393
The Reformation of Mannersp. 397
Postscript: Everyone's a Critic
Throwaway Linep. 403
My Favorite Wahhabip. 405
Of All the Gin Joints in All the Towns in All the Worldp. 409
Laying It on the Linep. 411
Acknowledgmentsp. 417
Indexp. 419